Page 43 of The Oscar Escape
The artifact seemed to be composed of a long slab of sanded driftwood, about six or perhaps seven feet long to create the seating portion. Four stubby, weathered legs raised it a few feet into the air. They were ornate in their simplicity, with overlapping curves carved into the wood.
Aria zeroed in on the top of the sun-bleached slab. “The bench is in one piece and looks intact, aside from its carvings.” She leaned forward to take a closer look. “What are those? Names? I didn’t carve my name into that bench, did I?”
The crowd gasped.
“What?” she asked, scanning the spectators. What could be so bad about a little carving? It looked like people had already whittled words into it.
“The bench is a revered piece of island history. It was constructed by the island’s co-founder, Homer Havenmatch. Those who carve their names into it have made a solemn oath.”
Where had Oscar taken her—to some island cult that revered driftwood?
“Why are hearts and musical notes carved into it?” she asked, spyingDelmar and Ettaetched into the weathered wood. It reminded her of how lovers sometimes carved their initials into a tree trunk.
Oscar rested his hand on top of hers and leaned in. “Leave it alone, Aria.”
“Hand me the charges, Del. I’ll take it from here,” the judge said and presented his palm. He eyed the slip of paper, then set it on the table and reclined in his chair. “Let’s back up a bit.” The man peered at Oscar. “You’re Oscar Abrams Elliott, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And this is our little rabble-rouser, Aria Elliott? From what I understand, Aria, your identification was lost in the ocean when you decided to take a swim in Havenmatch Harbor.”
She had to be rocking a full-on blush. “Um . . .”
“That’s correct,” Oscar said, answering for her.
“And this woman is your wife?” the judge questioned.
“Yes,” Oscar answered resolutely.
Aria sat stock-still. They were lying to a judge—a retired judge—but still a judge.
“I understand you’re from Colorado and newly married,” the man continued.
“Yes, we eloped,” Oscar said smoothly. The guy was damned good at maintaining this ruse.
The judge’s expression remained neutral. “Did you elope because your parents didn’t approve of the marriage?”
“No, not exactly, they . . .” Oscar stumbled.
“We’re childhood best friends,” she supplied, jumping in to help him. “I’ve known Oscar since I was seven years old. My parents died when I was five. But I know they’d adore him if they were still with us.”
That was the truth. Her memories of her parents were fuzzy. But she’d been loved. She knew it with every beat of her heart. And there was no doubt in her mind that her mom and dad would have cared for Oscar like her aunt and uncle did.
She felt Oscar’s fingers entwine with hers. Was he simply going along with the lie? Was this hand-holding business for the judge’s eyes?
The Honorable M. Gibson Harpswell glanced at their hands. “Where in Colorado are you kids from?”
“Denver,” Oscar answered, sounding more like himself.
“I know it well,” the judge said with a sly twist to his lips. “I worked in Denver before coming to Havenmatch Island.”
Aria relaxed a fraction. They had something in common. That had to be a positive sign.
The round woman with salt-and-pepper curls and her lips curved into a deep frown seated to the judge’s right crossed her ample arms. “Are you lying about being from Denver?” she asked in a terse New England accent.
“What? No,” Aria exclaimed.
Lying about being married? Yes. But the Denver part was the God’s honest truth.
