Free Out of the Easy by Ruta Sepetys

Patrick out of the corner of his mouth.
    A circular mahogany table was covered with sterling frames of all shapes and sizes, boasting the legacy that was the Lockwell family. There were photos of babies, teenagers, grandparents, a golden retriever, the family at the shore, at the Eiffel Tower, all with smiling faces advertising how happy and valuable their lives were. There was even a photo of Charlotte in a small oval frame.
    I stared at the pictures. If someone meant something to you, you put their photo in a silver frame and displayed it, like these. I had never seen anything like it. Willie didn’t have any framed photos. Neither did Mother.
    “Josephine!” Charlotte was suddenly at my arm, looking radiant in a mint green cashmere sweater, her auburn hair held neatly in place by a black velvet headband. “I’m so glad you’re here!”
    “Thank you for inviting us.”
    “Well, don’t worry. I won’t leave your side. I know it’s horribly uncomfortable to be at a function where you don’t know anyone.”
    I nodded. Charlotte understood. It was as if she’d heard my thoughts on the way over. Or perhaps my face was splotched again.
    “Hello, Patrick. Did you have any trouble finding the house?” asked Charlotte.
    “Not at all. But then a place like this is hard to miss, isn’t it?” said Patrick.
    “Yes, a quality that my aunt is all too proud of,” whispered Charlotte. “They’re not exactly the understated type, if you know what I mean.”
    “That’s a lovely photo of you,” I said, pointing to the frame.
    “Oh, that’s a couple years old now. I just had a new photograph taken at Smith. Here, let me introduce you.”
    Charlotte pulled both Patrick and me over to an attractive middle-aged couple across the room. “Aunt Lilly, Uncle John, these are my friends Josephine Moraine and Patrick Marlowe.”
    “How do you do?” said Mrs. Lockwell. “Marlowe, I know that name. John,” she said, swatting her husband’s arm, “why do we know the name Marlowe? Is your mother in the Junior League, dear?”
    “No, ma’am,” said Patrick. “My mother lives in the West Indies.”
    “Is your father an attorney?” asked Mr. Lockwell.
    “No, sir, my father is an author and a bookseller. We own a bookshop in the Quarter.”
    “Well, now isn’t that quaint. We just love books, don’t we, John?”
    Mr. Lockwell paid little attention to his wife and instead looked about the room, eyeing all the other women. “And where are you in school, Patrick?” asked Mrs. Lockwell.
    “I just finished up at Loyola,” said Patrick, gratefully accepting a beverage from one of the waiters that was circulating.
    “And you, Josephine? Have I seen you at Sacred Heart with our Elizabeth?” asked Mrs. Lockwell.
    “Josephine lives in the French Quarter, Aunt Lilly. Isn’t that exciting?” said Charlotte.
    “The Quarter. Oh, my,” said Lilly Lockwell, putting an affected hand to her chest. “Yes it is. What did you say your last name was, dear?”
    “Moraine.”
    “John.” She swatted her husband’s arm. “Do we know the Moraines in the Quarter?”
    “I don’t believe we do. What line of business is your family in, Josephine?”
    Mr. Lockwell looked at me. Mrs. Lockwell looked at me. Charlotte looked at me. Their faces felt an inch from mine.
    “Sales,” I said quietly.
    “What a lovely piano,” said Patrick, quickly changing the subject. “A Steinway baby grand, isn’t it?”
    “Why, yes. Do you play?” said Lilly, speaking to Patrick, but with her eyes still fixed on me.
    Patrick nodded.
    “Well, then you certainly appreciate a nice piano.” Mrs. Lockwell smiled, raising her glass in a private toast to her Steinway.
    “Yes, I have a Bösendorfer grand,” said Patrick.
    Aunt Lilly’s eyes snapped off of me and locked onto Patrick.
    “A Bösendorfer? Well, well, now, that’s a piano!” roared Mr. Lockwell.
    “Indeed. You must play for us tonight, Patrick. Don’t be shy, now,” said