Zoe And The Best Man. Carole Buck
roomed with your sister at the University of Virginia.”
“That’s right,” Peachy confirmed, clearly startled. “But how did you know?”
Flynn gave himself a savage mental kick. “I, uh, think Eden mentioned something about it. She and I talked a little. Right after the ceremony.”
“Oh.” The new Mrs. Devereaux seemed to accept this mendacious explanation. “Well, then, you probably know that she and Annie are sisters-in-law now.”
“Mmm.”
“Annie married Matt Powell—that’s Eden’s husband’s younger brother—in April in Atlanta.” Peachy smiled suddenly, a soft blush flooding her cheeks. “I caught the bridal bouquet.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
The band transitioned seamlessly from one song to another. Flynn forced himself to wait several moments, then asked, “What about the third Wedding Belle?”
“Zoe Armitage. You met her when you arrived, didn’t you? Outside the church?”
“Briefly.”
“She’s not married, in case you’re interested.”
Flynn was interested, of course. Deeply interested. He couldn’t tell whether his dancing partner had divined this or was simply indulging in a little speculative matchmaking. Either way…
“The only ringless Belle, hmm?” he inquired blandly.
Peachy gave a ripple of laughter. “Exactly. She almost got engaged to some congressman a few years ago. I don’t know what happened beyond the fact that Annie told Eden it was a good thing Zoe turned the guy down. And nowadays I think she’s dating some Harvard-educated lawyer in Washington. The type who charges hundreds of dollars per hour and prowls the corridors of power in polished loafers.”
Flynn knew the type extremely well. They ran in one side of his family. The side that had disowned his father and disdained his mother. The side that had done its collective best to shape him to its mold after his parents’ death.
“Zoe lives in Washington, then?”
“Uh-huh. She’s a really remarkable person. Her parents are internationally famous anthropologists and they raised her all over the world. She speaks something like a dozen languages, including a couple of obscure dialects I’ve never heard of. The State Department’s asked her to lecture to new foreign service officers a bunch of times.”
“She’s a diplomat?” His opinion of the striped pants brigade was decidedly mixed. He knew part of his attitude was a legacy of his years in the military. Trained as he’d been to take action, he had problems dealing with people who seemed dedicated to holding allegedly frank and constructive discussions that accomplished absolutely nothing. While his current profession had connected him with a few Foggy Bottom officials who did a hell of a lot more than jack their jaws and dispense red tape, he was inclined to classify these individuals as exceptions to the rule rather than harbingers of a new approach to the conduct of world affairs.
“She’s a social secretary.”
Flynn couldn’t disguise his disbelief. “What?”
“Her job’s a lot more than calligraphy and canapés,” Peachy advised him. “She works for a woman who’s practically a legend in her own time. Maybe you’ve heard of her. Arietta Ogden? Arietta Martel von Helsing—uh—” Her eyes widened. “Oh my God! I just remembered. Luc once said something about someone he knew in the service being a relative of hers. Mrs. Ogden’s, I mean. Was that—is that you?”
“The connection was through a marriage that’s been over for a lot of years,” Flynn replied after a moment, his mind racing. “And it was a very tenuous one even when the bonds of matrimony were still holding. I doubt that Mrs. Ogden would acknowledge it today.”
“Still.” Peachy paused, seeming to marvel at the situation. “It’s a pretty amazing coincidence. Small world, hmm?”
With a flourish, the band finished the medley it had been playing.
“Small world,” Flynn echoed, speaking as much to himself as to his partner. “And shrinking all the time.”
“Attention!” Terry Bellehurst said about thirty minutes later, speaking into a microphone that had been set up in front of the band. A pink-cheeked Peachy was standing to his right, fidgeting with a beribboned bundle of white flowers. Luc was standing next to her, surveying the scene from beneath partially lowered eyelids. “Attention, please! Before our newlyweds leave, the bride has to throw her bouquet. So, if we can have all the unmarried ladies out on the floor—”
“That’s your cue, Zoe,” Annie declared.
“I think I’ll just watch the festivities, thank you,” Zoe answered. She was feeling reasonably calm again. She hadn’t seen Flynn in some time and she was beginning to think—hope— that he’d decided to slip away from the reception.
“Oh, no, you won’t,” her friend disputed with a laugh. “It’s your duty as a single female wedding guest to get up and fight for the bouquet.”
“Annie, honestly—”
“Up, up, up.” Annie underscored the instruction with a gesture. “Come on. Be a real Wedding Belle.”
“Yeah,” Matt concurred with a grin. “Do your best to dodge the bouquet the way Annie did when Eden got married.”
His wife rolled her eyes but didn’t deny the allegation.
“Ladies…” Terry intoned imperiously, placing his hands on his hips and shifting into his Terree LaBelle persona. “I don’t want to have to drag you out, but I will if you don’t cooperate.”
“I’d get moving if I were you,” Annie counseled.
Zoe rose to her feet with a sigh of resignation. After casting a darkling glance at her former college roommate, she walked out onto the dance floor and joined the small throng of women gathering there. She positioned herself near the back of the high-spirited group, noting with a hint of humor that the MayWinnies were delicately elbowing for advantage up in front.
“Wonderful,” Terry approved, then turned toward the star of the moment. “All right, sweetie. You’re on.”
The color in Peachy’s cheeks intensified. Zoe saw her dart an appealing glance at Luc. He flashed back a roguish grin, then made a gesture that clearly indicated she was on her own where this particular nuptial tradition was concerned.
Peachy took a step forward. She scanned the women gathered before her for a second or two, almost as though she were picking out a target for her toss.
“You have to turn your back, Peachy,” Terry said in a reproving tone. “No fair aiming at somebody specific.”
The bride continued her careful perusal for a moment more, then did as she’d been bidden. The cream chiffon of her vaguely flapperesque wedding gown swirled gracefully around her legs as she pivoted.
Zoe heard several of the women around her suck in their breaths expectantly and saw others shift their stances as though preparing to jump or lunge. In the midst of her amusement at this behavior, she was startled to feel an anticipatory tightening of her own muscles. She forced herself to relax, discreetly twining her fingers into the silk of her skirt.
Peachy flung her bridal flowers up…and back over her head.
The bouquet tumbled over and over, its pale satin ribbons fluttering as it flew through the air.
“I’ve got it!” one of the women in front of Zoe squealed rapturously, leaping up.
But she didn’t. She lost her balance instead, colliding heavily with Zoe. Zoe extended her arms, instinctively trying to keep herself—and