Carole Buck - Zoe And The Best Man

“And you…”

“I—I kissed him back.”

“So who’s the guy, Zoe?” Matt’s friendly query jerked her back to the present.

“Wh-what?” she stammered.

“The one who doesn’t remember you.”

Zoe caught her breath and just narrowly managed to prevent herself from slanting a betraying glance toward the dance floor. “Oh, uh…”

“The best man,” came the calm response from her former roommate.

“You know Gabriel Flynn?”

Zoe shot a quelling look at Annie. “I met him once,” she replied in what she hoped was a casual tone. “A long time ago.” She mentioned the small Central American country in which she and Flynn had found sanctuary at the end of their five-day odyssey.

“What in heaven’s name were you doing—” Matt stopped in midquestion, comprehension dawning in his blue-gray eyes. “Oh. Of course. You were there with your parents, right? Annie says they started taking you into the field when you were a baby.”

“Exactly.” Zoe affirmed his less than accurate assumption without hesitation. “I met Flynn with my parents.”

“But he doesn’t remember you, huh?”

“As I said, it was a long time ago.”

“Nearly sixteen years,” Annie contributed, apparently trying to help.

“I was just a—” Zoe darted another sharp look at her friend “-child.”

“Uh-huh.” Matt toyed with the delicate silver chain that encircled his wife’s neck. Zoe could tell he was not persuaded. After a few seconds he asked rather warily, “Is there some kind of, a ‘girl thing’ going on here?”

Annie wrinkled her nose. “Well, actually, yes. Sort of.”

“Do you want me to leave you two ladies alone until you get it squared away?” The tone was wry, but Zoe sensed that the offer was genuine. “I could lumber off and find some guys to bond with. We could guzzle beer. Grunt about babes in swimsuits and last year’s Super Bowl. Indulge in the usual testosterone-crazed activities—”

“Matt!” The laughing admonition was accompanied by a wifely elbow to the ribs.

“There’s no reason for you to go, Matt,” Zoe assured him. “Annie and I are done with the subject of Gabriel Flynn, aren’t we, Annie? To tell the truth, I didn’t even recognize him at first. He came roaring up to the church on the back of a motorcycle—”

“He hitched a ride from some DEA agent who served a couple years in the same Special Forces team as he and Luc,” Matt interpolated.

Zoe blinked, totally thrown by this unexpected tidbit. “A federal drug agent?”

Matt nodded. “Mr. Smythe mentioned that Luc was a tad ticked off the guy didn’t stick around for the wedding. Anyway, you just said you didn’t recognize Flynn at first, right? Maybe that’s his problem with you. Not recognizing rather than not remembering, I mean. People change in—” he glanced at Annie “—what did you say? Nearly sixteen years? Besides, while you probably wouldn’t guess it to look at him, I gather the best man’s not exactly functioning on all cylinders at the moment. He traveled more than forty-eight hours straight from some refugee camp in Asia to get here. Through a monsoon, if you can believe Terry Bellehurst. So—”

“So he’s probably having difficulty not walking into walls, much less identifying old acquaintances,” Annie concluded. “You should definitely make a point of reintroducing yourself to the man, Zoe. It would be rude not to.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Zoe concurred with deliberate ambiguity. It would be rude. But not as rude as a lot of other scenarios she could envision.

That her friend would have pressed the matter, she had no doubt. Fortunately the band chose that moment to segue into a jazz-flavored medley of tunes Zoe instantly associated with Fred Astaire. She made the link because Annie, who had a long-standing passion for the debonair entertainer, had made her watch the movie musical from which the songs came about a dozen times when they’d been roommates.

“’Top Hat,’” Matt said with an assurance that suggested to Zoe that he, too, had more than a passing familiarity with the score of the celluloid classic. He rose to his feet and extended a hand to his wife. “They’re playing our song, Mrs. Powell.”

Annie favored her husband with an intimate smile as she accepted his invitation. “I thought the theme from 2001 was our song, Mr. Powell.”

“That’s our other song. And it’s impossible to dance to.” Matt turned. “Zoe, would you mind?”

She shook her head. “Absolutely not. Please. Go enjoy yourselves.” She gestured toward the dance floor. Just gesturing would have been fine. But something made Zoe shift her gaze as she spoke. And in the same instant she did so, Flynn danced by with Peachy.

Forget about the man not recognizing or remembering her.

From where Zoe sat, frozen like a fawn caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, he didn’t even seem to register her existence.

“Are you okay, Flynn?” Peachy asked.

“Just fine,” Flynn answered automatically. He’d been a fool to look at Zoe again, he berated himself. What did he think? If he stared at her enough times he would arouse some glimmer of recognition? Provoke some spark of response?

She didn’t know him. Didn’t want to know him. She radiated indifference from every pore of her exquisite, ivory-rose skin.

“You must be exhausted,” Peachy said after a moment or two, her voice sympathetic. “I know it was hard for you to get here.”

Flynn shrugged. “It would have been harder if I hadn’t been able to.”

“Because you gave Luc your word.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it means a lot to him, having you for his best man.”

“It’s my honor.”

“I just wish—what’s his name? The man who brought you to the church?”

Flynn smiled fleetingly. “Grizz.”

“Oh. Yes. Well, I just wish Grizz had stayed for the ceremony. Or at least had come to the reception. I know Luc wishes it, too.”

“Grizz didn’t feel he was appropriately attired for the occasion.”

“As if appearance matters with friends,” Peachy scoffed. “I mean, I wouldn’t have minded if the other Wedding Belles had shown up in sneakers and sequins—not that either one of them would, of course—as long as they’d come today.”

Flynn gave himself a few moments to try to sort this last sentence out. He failed.

“What’s a Wedding Belle?” he finally asked.

The question drew a winsome smile. Not for the first time, Flynn thought that Luc Devereaux was a very lucky man.

“I guess you could say we’re like members of a sorority,” the bride declared. “The Wedding Belles—that’s Belles with two e’s, like Scarlett in Gone with the Wind— got their start more than ten years ago, a few days before my older sister Eden’s marriage to Rick Powell. She’s expecting now.”

Flynn feigned surprise. “Oh, really?”

“All right, all right,” Peachy said, laughing. Her red-gold hair shimmered in the illumination from the overhead lighting. “I know her condition is abundantly obvious. I suppose I keep telling people who are perfectly capable of noticing for themselves because it seems like such a miracle to me. Eden getting pregnant, that is. She and Rick had pretty much given up on being able to have a baby.”

“She certainly looks very happy—and healthy.”

Peachy’s green eyes sparked with mischief. “She also looks like she’s going to give birth to the entire state of Rhode Island any minute. Poor Terry nearly passed out when he saw her. I’m sure he had visions of her going into labor and disrupting all his carefully organized wedding arrangements. The truth is, she’s not due until mid-October.”