PROLOGUE
It was eight p.m. on Christmas Eve and in New York City that meant three things were certain: the annual Woodhouse Christmas Party was in full swing, the residents of East 83rd Street had already deemed it a roaring success, and Mr. Woodhouse was staring at the buffet table in his dining room in abject horror.
“My God, Emma,” he murmured. “How could you do this?”
Emma Woodhouse smiled and waved at Mrs. Crawford, who had just arrived and was mingling with the familiar crowd under the archway of fairy lights over the foyer. She didn’t have to follow her father’s gaze down to the carefully curated array of organic canapés and gluten-free desserts to know what he was glaring at.
“Dad, it’s just a cheesecake.”
“It’s an abomination.”
She had anticipated this. It happened last year when he demanded the calorie count for the croquembouche that the caterers had decorated to look like a Christmas tree. The year before that, he had admonished her sister Margo for using real cream on a pavlova. This time, Emma was ready.
“But there’s two different fruit platters, too, see? And a vegetable tray on the other end with whole wheat pita bread and hummus.”
“Hummus?” he asked hopefully, turning to look further down the table. But then his expression deflated. “It’s next to the sugar cookies.”
“Yes, but they’reFran’ssugar cookies.”
He rubbed his temples. “Jesus…”
“They’re in the shape of angels, actually,” she said, biting back a smile.
“This isn’t funny, Emma. Do you know how much butter is in that recipe?”
She was about to tell him that yes, she obviously knew since they had been making them every Christmas since the beginning of time, but before she had the chance, a hand reached between them and grabbed her father’s shoulder.
“Henry, these cookies are amazing! Just amazing!” Mrs. Pawloski exclaimed, waving a decapitated angel in her hand and dusting them with crumbs. “I think this is probably my fifth one! Can you believe it? Of course, it’s Christmas so calories don’t count, at least that’s what I’m telling myself!”
“Helen, please be careful,” her father said, taking the cookie from her hand and passing it to Emma as if she would know what to do with it. “The processed sugar alone is enough to give you diabetes.”
Mrs. Pawloski laughed, a shrill sound that vibrated off Emma’s inner ear. “Good Lord, if that’s true, then don’t you dare look in the kitchen! That pavlova is going to send me to the hospital!”
Mr. Woodhouse turned to his daughter, his pale skin becoming even more pallid. “Not again…”
Emma strained to keep a smile on her face as she motioned them both toward the living room. “Why don’t you sit down by the fire and I’ll get you something to drink?”
“Tea,” Mr. Woodhouse said over his shoulder, as Mrs. Pawloski looped her arm with his and started forward.
“I know,” Emma said.
“The chamomile.”
“I know.”
Emma watched as they disappeared into the crowded room and let out her breath. That was a close call.
She made her way to the foyer, stopping to say hello to guests, to nod and smile and look appropriately humble when they praised the decorations and food. She was good at this. After all, she had years of practice.
That wasn’t to say she didn’t appreciate the compliments. Far from it. Only that after two weeks of intense planning—which really just came down to managing her sister’s vision and her father’s expectations—Emma wasn’t in any doubt that her efforts would be well received. The decorations—a winter wonderland theme this year that saw white and gold garlands draped over every surface of the four-story townhouse—were perfect. The food—despite her father’s concerns—was delicious. There was nothing to do now but accept the praise and see if she couldn’t grab a drink and a moment of silence.
She finally made it to the staircase and started down to the kitchen. Their housekeeper, Fran, was walking toward her just as Emma got to the bottom of the stairs, her brow drawn with a serious line, and a full tea service on the tray balanced in her hands. The woman couldn’t have been over five feet tall, but that look still made Emma feel like she was six and had been caught sneaking Fran’s freshly made blinis to feed the pigeons in Central Park again.
“What’s wrong with the cookies?” she asked, looking down at Emma’s hand.
It was only then that Emma remembered she was still holding Mrs. Pawloski’s cookie.
“Oh, nothing. I just had to run interference between the desserts and Dad.” Emma nodded to the tea on the tray. “Is that for him?”
