Abe gestured for Gibson to wait and approached a woman who was probably in her early sixties, but for whom the privilege of money had granted an extended middle age. Gibson knew without having to ask that this was Calista Dauplaise. It wasn’t arrogance that she radiated. It went well beyond arrogance. It was surety—the absolute certitude that the world had been organized precisely to her liking. It lent her an elegant poise that made her companions pale by comparison. Her hair was cut in a stylish blonde bob that swept along a jawline that had clearly enjoyed the attentions of a talented plastic surgeon. Dressed all in white and trimmed in gold, she wore no jewelry whatsoever. Abe bent to whisper in her ear. She glanced past him, in Gibson’s direction, her eyes sharp and piercing.

“Ladies, I apologize. Will you excuse me for a moment?” she said.

Gibson expected her to stand, but it was the rest of the table that gathered up purses and drinks and moved away. One of them, a silver-haired woman in her fifties, leaned over and whispered in Calista’s ear, glancing at Gibson as she did. Calista said something in agreement, and the woman, satisfied, disappeared into the throng.

Abe waved him over. “Calista, this is Gibson Vaughn.”

She smiled and extended a hand for him to shake.

“Please have a seat,” she said. “Not you, George. Get yourself a drink. We’ll just be a minute.”

Abe excused himself, but he caught Gibson’s eyes before he left. Try not to blow this was the unmistakable message.

“It’s good to see you again, Gibson. Do you remember me?”

“I do. It’s nice to see you again.”

“I didn’t take you away from your work, did I?”

“No.”

“So you were not there for the big moment?”

It sounded like an accusation. He took a bite of tenderloin to keep from answering.

“In any event, thank you for coming at such short notice. I do apologize for all the commotion,” she said, gesturing toward the party on the lawn. “I’m sure another day would have been easier, but George feels we need to move with all due speed, and I wanted to speak before things progressed.”

“It’s quite a party,” he said.

“Yes. And such a pretty day. I regret canceling the flyby.”

“The flyby?”

“Yes, the Navy has a team of jet planes that do the most wonderful tricks.”

“The Blue Angels?”

“Just the same,” she said.

Gibson was stunned at the idea that this woman had booked the Blue Angels for an eight-year-old’s party.

“I’m having a bit of fun, of course. Are you easily taken in, Mr. Vaughn?”