Zoe And The Best Man. Carole Buck

       Three

       N ice catch, Goldilocks.

      Those three words were still reverberating in Zoe’s mind late the following Monday afternoon as she sat in the book-lined library of Arietta Martel von Helsing Flynn Ogden’s exquisitely appointed home in Georgetown. The older woman had dubbed the room her “command headquarters” because it was the setting in which she laid out her hostessing strategies. Although intended as a joke, the nickname was very apt.

      Looming most imperatively on Mrs. Ogden’s social horizon: a cocktail-reception scheduled for three days hence. Zoe had spent nearly an hour detailing the arrangements for her. Having finally satisfied herself that what needed to be done had been done and done superlatively, her employer had decreed that it was time for a break.

      Her long-time butler, Hugo, had materialized a minute or two later with a laden tea tray. While tucking into the delicious repast with a relish that belied her slim figure, Mrs. Ogden had asked about Zoe’s weekend in New Orleans.

      Accustomed to the older woman’s inquisitive nature—and to the fact that Mrs. Ogden tended to treat her more like a favorite niece than a paid staffer—Zoe had braced herself for this eventuality. She’d promptly launched into an account of Peachy and Luc’s wedding, putting special emphasis on the role played by Terry Bellehurst. Mrs. Ogden had seemed amused. She’d also nodded knowingly at a description of the MayWinnies and their supposedly scandalous background. And she’d been visibly pleased to hear about the forthcoming marriage of her old acquaintance, Francis Smythe, to Laila Martigny.

      For a variety of reasons, Zoe hadn’t intended to say anything about Flynn. His name had slipped out in response to an offhand comment from Mrs. Ogden. At least she’d thought the comment had been offhand. But as her single reference had expanded into something akin to a full-scale confession, she’d begun to wonder whether it hadn’t been as calculated as the placement of the guests at one of her employer’s famous formal dinners.

      “And that’s when I realized I was wrong about his not remembering me,” she finally concluded, grimacing as she realized that she’d reduced a perfectly good scone to crumbs during the course of her verbal outpouring.

      “Remarkable,” the older woman said, taking a sip of Earl Grey from a blue-and-white Wedgwood teacup. A cabochon sapphire set in platinum flashed on the ring finger of her right hand.

      Zoe sighed. “I know I should have told you about me and Flynn a long time ago.”

      “Oh, no.” Mrs. Ogden shook her perfectly coiffed head. Once raven-haired, she’d gone silver-gray very suddenly in her early fifties and declined to try to reclaim her “natural” color through dye. “Not at all.”

      “Of course, I didn’t realize you had a connection with him when I started to work for you—”

      “I’d hardly call it a connection, dear.” The older woman set her teacup down on its saucer with a genteel clink. “It was a rather distant link by marriage for what cannot, in all honesty, be considered a significant period of time. Which isn’t to say I didn’t develop a fondness for the boy. I did. And I quite sympathized with his situation. Imagine being orphaned at age ten, then packed off to live with a bunch of hidebound rela fives who make no secret of the fact that they don’t consider you worthy to bear their family name. It would be enough to drive anyone wild, much less a youngster of Gabriel’s spirit and sensitivity.”

      Zoe bridled automatically at this last characterization. Then her mind replayed the truly unsettling portion of what’d she’d just heard. The part about being orphaned and unwanted at age ten. How in God’s name could people consider a young, probably grief-stricken boy unworthy of anything? she asked herself, appalled.