Plus One

Chapter Seven

The Getty museum's annual garden barbecue for major donors took place on a warm May evening, just as the sun was beginning to set. Fragrant flowers were decadently scattered over the museum garden's lush grounds, a lush backdrop for the elegant guests. Sophie looked around her in delight as she walked one of the paths, Ian right beside her. She didn't know what was more beautiful—the flowers or the cocktail dresses.

"I love it up here," she said, her eyes lighting on everything around her. She'd been Ian's plus one for two weeks already and had begun to feel more comfortable in his world.

Ian nodded. "Me too. Wait until you check out the view."

The museum was located on a hill above the 405 freeway, a speck of white in the green and brown brush that covered the landscape. Entering it was like putting LA on pause: it was quiet and peaceful.

"You can see all the way out to the ocean," Sophie said, leaning over the railing. "Damn, I wish I'd brought my camera."

"Gorgeous, isn't it? This is one of my favorite places in the city," he said. "The art I could take or leave, but this garden gets me every time."

The travertine walls of the building seemed to soak up the sun so that the walls burned gold. The pond in the garden's center had a simple labyrinth in it along with lotus flowers that floated on its surface. It glimmered in the sun, as though diamonds had been cast along its floor. Several large arbors in the shape of martini glasses held dark pink bougainvillea that spilled out of the top and, closer to the museum, a long reflecting pool lay embedded in the ground, still but for the faint breeze that rustled the water.

"Is that why you're a donor?" she asked.

He nodded. "I like to have some kind of connection to the institutions I support." He turned to her. "Hungry?"

She nodded.

"Let's get some food before it runs out."

Grilled chicken, asparagus, Caesar salad and fresh fruit lined the buffet table along with caviar and oysters.

"Mr. Tate, how wonderful to see you," said a short man with a mustache and thinning hair.

"You as well, Phil." He turned to Sophie. "This is Phil Davidson, the director of the museum." He turned to Phil. "My friend, Sophie Kinsale."

Sophie shook his hand. "It's lovely to meet you," she said.

"Sophie's a photographer," Ian said. "Her work is striking."

"Well I'd love to see it sometime, Ms. Kinsale. Ian here has excellent taste in art, so I have no doubt yours is wonderful."

They talked for a few more minutes and then Ian nodded to a small table where they could eat. The food was light and delicious. As they ate, several people came up to them, each one different from the last. Ian didn't seem to have a specific group of people that he catered to or belonged with. His acquaintances ranged from Hollywood starlets to octogenarian art collectors. No matter who came up, he was sure to politely introduce Sophie and make space for her to engage in the conversation.

An older gentleman wearing a silk scarf around his neck patted Sophie on the arm as he turned to go.

"You picked a real beauty this time, Tate," he said.

Ian grinned at her, his smile widening as Sophie's blush deepened.

After they finished eating, he nodded toward a woman in a gold dress who stood by herself near the pond.

"That's one of my prospective wives," he said. "Let's go talk to her."

"Ian, this is so weird," she said.