Enright Family Collection (69 page)

“Zoey, forget about the damned eggshell.” Ellen’s voice in her ear broke Zoey’s concentration for a moment.

“Zoey,” the caller was saying, “you know, if you used a larger piece of shell to scoop up that little piece, you could pick it right up.”

“Really?” She had never heard that one. Then again, she hadn’t spent too much time cooking over the years either. She tried it. “Hey, Irene, thanks. That worked really well. I guess you can tell I’m a bit of a fledgling.”

“That’s all right honey, everyone has to learn. You have all of us here to help you.” Irene from Illinois offered maternal assurance.

“Well, thank you for calling in, Irene. And thanks for your help here this morning. . . .”

“Zoey, the frying pan’s starting to smoke. Take it off the burner.” Ellen tried to maintain her calm. “And mix up that damned egg, will you? Sell the pan and keep the show moving!”

“We’re just going to whip up this little cheese omelet.” Zoey glanced at the clock that was keeping time right above her own smiling face on the monitor. It was ten minutes past eleven. Fifty more minutes to go. She dumped the cheese unceremoniously into the frying pan.

“Zoey,” Ellen said with some alarm, “the cheese is supposed to go into the eggs before you dump it into the pan. That cheese is going to—”

“Oops!” Zoey said aloud, realizing that the pan was very hot from having sat empty on a lit burner. “Well, now, here’s a little impromptu test for this nonstick pan. Will it burn? Or will it stick?”

Using a spatula, she stirred the cheese quickly, then lifted out the globby mess.

“Wow. These pans
are
great. It didn’t stick
or
burn.” Zoey held up the pan for the camera, trying to ignore Ellen’s laughter, which was, literally, ringing in her ears.

“Well, thank you, Irene, for calling in this morning.”

“Zoey, can I tell you one thing?”

“Sure, Irene.”

“Keep it short, Zoey,” Ellen admonished her through the earpiece. “You’re running late. You should be on the next size frying pan now.”

“Zoey, you are the absolute image of a friend of my daughter’s from college. The
absolute
image of her.”

“Really?” Zoey said absently, trying to flip the omelet without dropping it onto the stovetop. Or the floor. “Did your daughter go to Villanova? Maybe it was me.”

“No, no. We’d have remembered you! No, they went to school in Maryland, and are older than you are. But you two could be sisters.”

“Well, I hope you will tell her I said hello when you see her. And I hope you enjoy your new frying pans.” Zoey bit her bottom lip, trying to concentrate on getting all of the omelet turned over. “There! And now, let’s look at this bigger frying pan. What were we going to cook in that?” Zoey checked her notes.

“Vegetarian stir-fry?” She groaned. “Is this someone’s idea of a joke?”

She kept up the constant chatter, as only one who truly loved to talk could do, as she discussed the merits of the large frying pan. She spoke with callers about how thick the zucchini should be sliced, how much green pepper to use, and when to add the mushrooms, all the while keeping one eye on the clock.

“That was like doing penance,” she muttered gratefully when the segment had concluded.

Ellen met her in the hallway. “You were terrible.”

“Good. That means they won’t make me do that again. Whose bright idea was it, anyway, to have me cook on the air? Me, the Queen of Take-Out, who has the distinction of being the only person in eastern Pennsylvania with a reserved parking place at Boston Market.”
Not waiting for an answer, Zoey untied the apron she had worn over her black tunic and leggings and headed for the hosts’ lounge and a cold drink.

“Wow,” Genevieve said dreamily as she walked into the room. “Did you see him?”

“See who?” Zoey said absently. Genevieve was always drooling over one member of the opposite sex or another. Visiting celebrities or stockboys, it was all pretty much the same to Gen.

“The hunk who came in with the old man this morning.” Gen sighed and leaned back into the plush cushions of the sofa.

“What old man?” Zoey sorted through the assortment of soft drinks in the small refrigerator, looking for a diet something.

“Delaney O’Connor.”

“He’s a very, very nice man, Gen, but I’d hardly call him a hunk.”

“Not him, Zoey.” Gen giggled. “I mean the hunk that was with him. Tall, broad-shouldered. Dark hair. Gorgeous.” She sighed. “To-die-for gorgeous. Even with the limp and the cane, he could . . .”

Zoey froze, the bottle, almost to her lips, suspended in midair.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. Limp.

Car accident. Broken leg. Limp. Her head began to swim.

“Which way were they going?” She grabbed Gen’s arm.

“Toward Delaney’s office. Say, you think maybe he’s that actor who’s supposed to be coming in to promote that new movie about the dolphins?”

Zoey flew out the door, her feet trying their best not to trip over each other.

“Mrs. Gilbert. . . Pauline.” Zoey was huffing and puffing by the time she reached the CEO’s office on the second floor. “Is Delaney here?”

“Oh, Zoey, you just missed him. He just left the building.” Pauline looked up from sorting through Delaney’s
mail. Zoey appeared somewhat anxious, out of breath, and her hair uncharacteristically askew, as if she’d been, well,
running.
“Is something wrong?”

“No, no, of course not. I just thought, that is, I just heard, and thought that maybe . . .”

“Mrs. Gilbert, would it be possible for me to get a cup of coffee?” A male voice asked over the intercom.

“Of course. How would you like it?” Pauline asked with customary efficiency.

“Cream, no sugar,” was the reply.

Cream, no sugar. Just the way Maureen Pierce used to drink her coffee. Zoey had prepared it for her that way a hundred times, years ago, late in the afternoons when she and Georgia would sit at the big farm table in the kitchen. Maureen would make a fresh pot of coffee and Zoey would fix a cup for her mother—black—and a cup for Maureen, cream, no sugar.

A wave of nostalgia passed over Zoey as she watched Pauline do exactly that for Maureen’s son.

“Delaney’s grandson.” Pauline gestured toward the closed office door with her head. “Just back in the country.” She paused on her way to the door and asked, “Did I hear that he was an old friend of your family’s?”

“Yes.” Zoey found her voice and, holding out a trembling hand toward the cup, asked quietly, “May I?”

The ever protective Pauline hesitated.

“I would love to surprise him,” Zoey said casually, as if it was not the most important thing in her life at that very moment to see him again. “We practically grew up together, you know.”

“I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see you.” Pauline opened the door for Zoey, then stepped aside for her to pass through it.

Zoey stood on the plush carpet and stared at the man who was hopping on one foot toward the desk.

“Thanks, Pauline. I really appreciate it. You’ve no idea how difficult it is to carry a hot cup of anything when you’re—”

He looked up at her and stopped.

“Can I help you?” he asked uncertainly.

“I brought your coffee.” She held up the cup and grinned brightly.

“Oh. Thank you. Here would be fine.” He hopped around to the back of the desk and slid a coaster across the top of the highly polished wood surface. “Are you Pauline’s assistant?”

“No.”

“Are you my new secretary, then?”

“Nope.” She knew she was grinning like an idiot, but she didn’t care.

She walked slowly toward him, unable to take her eyes away. His pictures didn’t do him justice. He was taller, more muscular, more handsome. His presence filled the room, and it filled her. He looked every bit a hero.
Her
hero.

“Is there something else?” he asked uncertainly, as he flopped solidly into the high-backed leather chair.

“No, no. Actually . . .” The awkwardness of the situation slammed into her like a fist. He had no idea who she was.

Happy reunions seem to lose something, somehow, when you have to explain who you are.

He leaned slightly forward to look at her, frowned, and said, “You look familiar.”

“Oh, you recognized me! I knew you would!” Her eyes widened in surprise. She put her hand against her fluttering heart. “I am so glad. I was just starting to feel incredibly stupid. But you recognize me!”

“Of course I recognize you.” He smiled a wonderfully crooked smile and her stomach flipped over a time or two. “You’re the bumbling cook.”

“What?” The one word popped from her mouth.

He pointed to the television. “I watched you this morning. You’re the one who has trouble making eggs. I’m—”

“Ben Pierce.” She said his name aloud.

“How would you know that?”

“I’m Zoey,” she said simply.

For a long moment he did not react, and she thought that perhaps she had not spoken after all, that maybe being this close to him had addled her brain and she had only
thought
that she had spoken her name.

Finally, he said in a quiet voice, “I used to know a girl named Zoey.”

“I used to know a boy named Ben,” she whispered.

The color had seemed to drain from his face and he stared at her for the longest time.

“Zoey Enright.”

“Yes.” She nodded and tried to smile, but it seemed out of place, he appeared so strangely somber.

“Zoey. I don’t know what to say. You’ve changed so much since the last time I saw you.” His knuckles clutched the sides of his chair, and had, she could not help but notice, gone completely white.

“I would hope so. That was seventeen years ago. I’d hate to think I still looked like an eleven-year-old.” She tried to make it sound like a wisecrack, but her heart wasn’t in it. He looked, well,
stricken
was the only word that came to mind.

“No. No, you don’t look like a child anymore.” He repositioned his right leg, which was suddenly killing him, and leaned back in the chair, a swirl of thoughts and emotions whirling in his brain.

Why hadn’t Delaney told him that Zoey Enright worked at the HMP?

“How is your mother? And Nick?” he asked, trying to sound cordial, nonchalant. “And your little sister . . .”

“Georgia.”

“Right. Georgia.”
As if I’d forgotten her name. As if I’d forgotten anything.
. . .

“Georgia is a dancer. She’s with a Baltimore troupe.”

“Ah, yes. She always talked about being a dancer someday. And your brother?”

“Nick is a marine biologist. He lives in New Jersey. He’s getting married soon.”

“Is that right?” His throat tightened and it was an effort to keep his air passages open. He was suffocating.
“Does your mother still live . . . in the same . . . in Westboro?”

“Yes. She’s on a book tour right now, but she’ll be back soon. She’s dying to see you, Ben.”

“Is she? Yes, I’d like to see her too.”

“I hope you’ll still be around by the time she gets back.”

“Oh, I’ll be around all right.” Ben slammed the bottom desk drawer closed with a bang. The unexpected noise caused Zoey to jump.

“You will?” Zoey’s eyes brightened at the prospect.

“Didn’t Delaney tell you?”

“Tell me . . . ?”

“That he was bringing me in to give him a hand for a few months or so?”

She stared at him dumbly.

“You’re going to work here?” She wanted to shout, to dance, to sing.

“Until my leg heals.” Ben tapped his fingers on the top of the desk as something seemed to occur to him. “You said Delia was ‘dying to see me,’ but not that she would be ‘surprised.’ And you’re not at all surprised that I’m here. Why weren’t you as surprised to see me as I was to see you, Zoey?”

“I knew that you were coming back.” Even as she spoke, she knew that somehow her words would make him angry.

“You did, did you?” He fought back his temper. “And how did you know that?”

“Delaney told me.” Why was he so angry?

“When?”

When she didn’t immediately answer, he looked up at her with eyes that were growing progressively darker. “When, Zoey?”

“It was a while ago.”

“How long?”

“A month, maybe,” she admitted.

“Interesting,” Ben said dryly, “that you would have known before I did.”

“I wasn’t aware . . . that is, I didn’t know that you would be working here, that you’d be staying.”

“No, I don’t suppose you did. It seems Delaney had a little surprise for everyone.” He looked up and saw the crestfallen expression on her face. “I’m sorry. This has nothing to do with you. This is between my grandfather and me.”

She stood watching him from the opposite side of the desk, watched his face grow darker, his scowl deepen, and watched her dream of a happy reunion evaporate like mist in the morning sun. He barely seemed to notice her at all. There was something bigger on Ben’s mind than a reunion with the Enrights, and it had, as he so bluntly noted, nothing to do with her.

There was a soft knock at the door.

“Yes?” Ben called from between clenched jaws.

“Ben, Peter Bellows is here from the New York office. Delaney set up an appointment for you to meet with him at two o’clock.” Pauline stepped into the room.

“Well, wasn’t that nice of him? And where might my grandfather be right now?”

“I believe he had a meeting of his own at five. In Pittsburgh. He’s already on his way to the airport.”

“I see. Well, then. Please show Mr. Bellows in. And maybe before the day is over, someone will let me in on whatever else my grandfather has arranged that he neglected to tell me about.”

Puzzled by his terse tone, Pauline all but backed out of the office.

“Zoey, I’m sorry. You’ll have to excuse me. It appears that I have a meeting.”

“Of course. I don’t want to take up your time,” she said stiffly. “I just thought I’d stop in and say hello to an old friend.”

“I’m glad you did.” Not looking at all glad, he tried to smile as he took the hand she extended to him across the desk, a hand that was small and soft, but strong. When he looked into her face, the sadness there all but overwhelmed him. “Zoey . . .”