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been used to describe him, but that would have been like calling Michelangelo’s David “adequate.” The fact that watching this man summoned the naked statue of David to mind made her blush. But not enough to look away, or to keep her from smiling.
    Taller than average and of strong build, Mr. Monroe had an ease about him, a sincerity. And he moved with an unassuming confidence that drew a person’s attention, not unlike his smile.
    Monroe picked up a leather satchel, much like the one Uncle Antoine carried for business. “I’ll look for the wagon later tonight, and will help you unload it.” He strode to a waiting carriage. And quite a conveyance it was, for quite a man. . . .
    He climbed inside the carriage, and with two raps of his hand on the door, the driver slapped the reins.
    Not sure why, Claire waited until the carriage was a good distance down the street before she moved from behind the sign and continued on her way. How she wished she could see the contents of that crate! A statuary of some sort, because Mr. Monroe had mentioned an American sculptor. Carved from marble, most likely. But perhaps molded of brass.
    Her imagination sparked, she combed through the American sculptors she was familiar with and quickly settled on one. She giggled aloud.
    What if the crate contained a statue by Randolph Rogers! The very possibility quickened her step. How exciting that would be. And how expensive the statue must have been. Rogers’s fees were handsome enough, she knew, but to ship something of that weight all the way from—
    Hearing the thread of her own thoughts, Claire resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She was getting far too carried away. Oh, but it was good to feel this way. To feel so light inside. Almost . . . carefree.
    Half an hour later, she located Elm Avenue, a quaint street lined with shops, tucked off a busier thoroughfare. But when she reached her destination, she paused to check the address in the written instructions, wondering if she’d misread it.
    She looked down, then up again.
    The address number matched the number on the brass plate over the threshold. While Uncle Antoine hadn’t said what they would be doing in Nashville, she’d assumed his and Papa’s business would be the same. Maybe, hopefully, she’d been wrong. Not that it mattered for her in the long run. She was more determined than ever to break free of their plans for her. Though she had no idea how to go about that yet.
    Taking a deep breath and hoping— trusting —God had a plan, she opened the door.

4

    G ood evening, dear. How may I help you?”
    Closing the door behind her, Claire smiled at the elderly woman seated behind the desk. “Good evening, ma’am.” She set her satchel down, glad to be free of the weight. “I’m here to see a Mr. Samuel Broderick, if he’s available. My name is Claire Laurent. I believe Mr. Broderick is expecting me.”
    The woman frowned, looking a bit lost. “That name doesn’t sound familiar to me, dear. I’m sorry.”
    Claire’s hope plummeted. She glanced back at the stenciling on the store’s front window. “This is Broderick Shipping and Freight Company, is it not?”
    “Yes, it is!” A bright smile replaced the woman’s vagueness. “And I’m Mrs. Broderick!” She reached over and patted Claire’s hand with exuberance. “It’s so nice of you to drop in and say hello, dear. My husband’s not here right now, but I’ll be sure and tell him you stopped by to visit. Saturday afternoons are so very busy for us, you know.” The woman’s smile never dimmed, but clearly, she expected Claire to leave.
    Knowing she shouldn’t stare, Claire was unable not to. She got the distinct impression that sweet Mrs. Broderick wasn’t quite “all in the moment.” And it wasn’t only because this happened to be a Monday. She hated to press the woman for more information, but under the circumstances, she had no other choice. “Do you happen to know when your husband will be back?