Emma swallowed, repeating the mantra in her head. It all looked like the same preparation for every Sunday dinner that had ever happened before. That should have felt comforting. But it wasn’t. Nothing was comforting right now as Nadine’s words from last night clanged around clumsily in her head.
I think it’s pretty obvious to everyone that something’s going on.
In less than an hour everyone would be here and they would realize that she was in love with Knightley.
Of course, they hadn’t said it. She told herself that was fine; he’d always cared about her and would never hurt her… not intentionally, anyway.
She swallowed. But that was the crux of it, the reason she was so hesitant to tell everyone about whatever this was. Knightley already told her he liked having no strings; who was to say he would feel differently now? And if that was the case, how could she moveon from that? How could she see him every day and pretend that she didn’t care? And have to placate her family on top of it? She couldn’t even contemplate that.
So they would have to keep it a secret until they could talk about this. And that was fine. Totally fine.
With that resolution, she smoothed her sweater over her short wool skirt and looked over the dining table. It looked gorgeous, as usual. There was a bouquet of peonies in the center, and Fran was setting out the usual blue-and-white plates that were reserved for Sunday nights. Everything looked just as it should, so there was no reason to… wait.
“That’s six plates.” She barely realized that the thought was said aloud.
Fran looked up at her, waiting for her to continue.
Emma stared at her. “Why are there six plates?”
“Because there are six people coming to dinner?” Fran answered as if it were a trick question.
“But Nadine can’t make it tonight.”
“Yes.”
“So that leaves five.”
“No.”
“Yes.” Emma pointed at each plate, doing the math. “Me, Dad, Margo, Ben, and Mrs. Pawloski.”
“And George.”
Emma blinked at her. “Knightley’s not coming.”
“Why isn’t George coming?” Mr. Woodhouse asked, appearing in the doorway, but not looking up from his book.
“He’s in LA,” Emma replied, working to keep her tone even.
“No, no, he got back a few days ago. Where have you been?” He walked over and sat at the kitchen island.
“But… his lights were off,” she replied dumbly.
“I’ll call ConEd.” Then he saw her suddenly pallid complexion. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine.”
Her father didn’t seem convinced. “Well, I ran into him earlier and he said he was looking forward to it.”
She rolled her eyes. “Unbelievable.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Fran looked between them. “Should I keep the sixth plate?”
Mr. Woodhouse said yes as Emma answered no, and Fran remained frozen in place.
