Kismet (Happy Endings 3)

I hate when he brings up Andrea, like he has any right to pass judgment on my mentor’s choices. She hired me at The Met five years ago, then stepped back a few years later to work in New Haven so she could be closer to her family and her grandkids.

“One is always better,” he finishes.

“I think Andrea would beg to differ.” She’s not here to defend herself, so the task falls to me. And dammit, I will do it.

He waves dismissively. “I’m sure she would,” he says, a little more lightly than I expected. “She’s happy, at least.”

At least? Isn’t that the goal of life? I wonder.

“But is she fulfilled?” he presses on. “Like you’ll be fulfilled at this place. I can tell.” There’s a kind of warmth in his voice that should be reassuring, but I don’t know what to make of it. Or him. “Just don’t forget it’ll take perseverance and dedication.”

“I have both those things,” I insist.

“Good. Then don’t let anything distract you.”

“I won’t,” I say, and this lunch can’t end soon enough.

My bitter mood lingers through the evening and into the next day at work. It follows me like a bad perfume, and I’m not as perky as usual.

The morning meeting with the team isn’t full of my usual fanfare or spirit, and Riya tugs me aside after and asks if I’m okay.

“You don’t seem yourself,” she says. I’m both embarrassed she noticed and grateful she’s so perceptive.

“Weird day yesterday. Saw my dad,” I admit. It’s just easier to be open with people. “It was . . . a day.”

She nods sagely. “I hear you. Family’s rough. My dad and I don’t get on so well either. Let’s do lunch in an hour. I’ll come up with a place.”

With that, my mood starts to shift.

An hour later, Riya raps on my ajar door. “Have you had proper curry yet in London?”

I look up from my laptop. “In theory, it sounds fantastic. In reality, I’m not big on spicy food.”

She clasps her chest dramatically. “Stab me in the heart, woman.”

“I just can’t stand feeling like my mouth is on fire,” I say, laughing at her antics.

She sniffs, so very wounded. “I was going to take you to my favorite curry spot.” A big sigh comes from her. “Fine, then. I’ll take you for burgers, you American,” she teases.

“Hey! I love all kinds of cuisine, just not spicy.”

“We actually have some stunning mild curry here.”

“Then count me in. I will try anything. Correction—anything mild.”

“Brilliant. There’s a fantastic place around the corner. They can make it extra mild for people like you.”

“Sounds perfect.” I grab my purse. “Any chance we can discuss the auction while we eat?”

She beams. “I love a working lunch.”

Over the meal, we talk about her favorite spicy restaurants in London, and after that, the museums here.

“Have you been to the Tate? Everyone goes, but it’s worth it,” she says.

“I keep hearing that. Is it a ruse just to get Americans there? Maybe there’s a portal that sends us back to the States,” I joke.

“My, my, someone has an active imagination,” she says.

“I do. I definitely do,” I say.

About lots of things.

Riya roots around in her purse, grabs something from her wallet, then offers it across the table. “Take my membership card. It opens an hour early on certain days for members,” she says.

“And the portal opens then too?” I ask with a smile.

“Of course. I’m secretly trying to get rid of you,” she says.

I take the membership card and tuck it into my wallet. “Thank you. I can’t wait to pretend I’m you. This is some serious espionage you’re working here, Riya.”

“Exactly. Don’t tell a soul I gave you my card,” she says.

“I’ll add it to my secret file,” I say. I’ll keep it safe and sound, right next to the intel about Heath’s dart skills.

We segue to other things—the food in New York versus here, how her father wanted her to be a doctor rather than an art specialist. I don’t dive into the details of my family story, but I listen to hers, then we talk about work.

“I have a good feeling about this, Jo,” she says. “I have a feeling we can make a splash with this collection. I want it to be a hit in the art world. Is it crazy that I’m so jazzed up about it?” She laughs, a little self-deprecating, but like she needs the validation. “Just want to be great at my job. I don’t want anyone to say I didn’t try hard enough or put in the time or the hours.”

There’s a deeper story there, and I suspect it’s related to her father. That I can understand. Along with her drive.

“We’re going to make it amazing,” I tell her, and I believe that we can.

All of us.