Isla and the Happily Ever After(72)

I’m taken aback. He sounds sincere, but…is he? It must be that practised politico charm. I hadn’t realized how lucky it is that our first meeting is in public. Josh’s father has to pretend like everything is cool, even if it’s not.

“Sam,” he says to Judge Lederman. “Isla studies abroad.”

“Ah, that’s right,” the judge says to Josh. “I forgot you lived overseas. England?”

“France. Though I’m finishing my schooling here in America.” Josh’s reply is smooth. Anticipated. His parents smile with ease, and it occurs to me that everyone playing this game is a pro. Everyone but me.

“Isla is the top student in her class,” the senator says.

My face pinkens as a surreal conversation occurs in which I am the subject, and Josh’s parents are bragging about my accomplishments. It’s uncomfortable to hear them praise me when they can’t possibly mean what they’re saying. There’s no reason for them to like me. I’m a nobody. A nobody who took their son to Spain for sex and then got him expelled from high school. This situation is so unexpected that I can’t even answer their questions, and Josh is forced to pick up my end of the dialogue. Before I know it, the whole thing is over, and Josh is pulling me away.

“We’re off to find something to eat,” he tells his parents. “It was good seeing you again,” he tells the judge, shaking his outstretched hand while steering me in the opposite direction.

“Nice to meet you,” I call out. Which is the only thing I’ve said to any of them this entire time. Josh’s parents probably think that he’s been lying about my intelligence, too.

“That went well,” Josh says.

“Did it?”

He glances at me. “We’ll talk to them again later – just the four of us – after they’ve had a few more glasses of wine.”

That’s not an answer.

Josh swiftly pushes us through a cluster of uptight partygoers. He heads straight towards the canapés, grabs an uncharacteristically small sampling, and parades us past his parents again. He lifts his plate to them in a toast. His mother raises her glass in return. And then he’s ducking and weaving us into the thickest crush in the room. His plate vanishes somewhere in the mix.

“Excuse me, pardon me,” he says.

I’m scrambling to keep up. “These heels. They weren’t built for this.”

Josh throws me a mischievous smile, and I recognize a plan behind it. He continues threading us through a neighbouring gallery – past stained-glass windows and a Pietà, glazed jugs and earthenware – until we come to an abrupt halt before a closed door.

A closed door and a museum guard.

But the middle-aged guard in the navy suit loses all rigidity the moment he recognizes Josh. He breaks into an unexpected grin. Josh jerks up his chin in the universal guy-nod. The guard returns the nod, whisks open the door, and lets us pass.

The door shuts behind us.

The sound of the party instantly dims. We’re in a very large, very dark, and very empty room. It’s a vast indoor sculpture garden. We’re in the American wing, but it feels as if we’re back in Paris thanks to a gorgeous pair of flickering turn-of-the-century electric street lamps. I wonder if the guard left them on for us.

“What,” I whisper, “was that?”

“We,” Josh says at normal volume, “are taking a break from the soirée.”

My heartbeat accelerates. “We are?”

He takes my hand – the way he did at school, comfortable and relaxed and himself – and strolls me past the street lamps.

My heels click and echo. “Who was that guard? How do you know him?”

“Chuck Nadelhorn. We’ve taken a lot of art classes together over the years.” He sees my furrowed brow and grins. “Don’t be ageist.”

I laugh, caught.

“I was the odd one out. I was the youngest in each class, by far. Chuck was one of the few people who treated me with respect.”

“Then I like him even more than I already did.”

Josh plants a singular kiss on my lips. “This way.”

He moves forward, and I follow. “I assume you set this up – whatever it is – with Chuck in advance?”

“There were a few people involved. I’ve had some time to prepare,” he says slyly. “But we’d better hurry, we only have twenty minutes. Nineteen now.”

“As long as I’m not about to be arrested for trespassing. Or for stealing a nondescript, though no doubt priceless, artefact.”

“Only if we’re caught.”

I stop.

He tugs me forward by our clasped hands. “Come on, come on!”