“Well, if they’re not sleeping together now, they’re going to. It’s obvious to anyone who watches them for more than five minutes.”
“Then stop watching,” Knightley murmured.
She turned back to him. He was looking at her the way he always looked at her, like she was five and drawing unicorns on his algebra textbook again. Mild amusement that really only masked a thin tolerance she was always testing. It was a look that had stopped bothering her by the time she was six, so now she barely registered it at all.
“You just don’t want to admit that I’m right,” she replied, picking a grape from a nearby platter and popping it into her mouth.
A sharp smile. “Hardly.”
It was at this moment that Margo squealed, drawing their attention to the yard again.
Emma smiled. “You were saying?”
Knightley sighed, the kind of sigh that carried more disappointment than he could possibly put into words. “Woodhouse, listen closely, because this is important. I don’t know what naive fantasies your brain has concocted, but let me assure you: Benjamin Thomas Knightley and Margo Elizabeth Woodhouse will never, ever betogether.”
CHAPTER 1Two years later
Ben and Margo were married on a Saturday. It was a small ceremony, with an exclusive pool of guests that fit neatly into the first three rows of St. Ignatius. It was the same church where Emma and Margo were baptized, the same one their parents had been married in so many years before. The priest was the same, too; Emma remembered him being ancient when she walked up to get her first Communion, his knobbed fingers shaking as he handed her the Eucharist, so how he was still standing before them now was a divine mystery in its own right. Still, he made it through the entire mass, reciting the vows and prayers in a mumbled monotone so the only words Emma could make out were the important ones: “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Margo lifted her simple cage veil and smiled up at her new husband as the setting sunlight streamed through the brightly colored stained glass windows. Ben smiled back, then leaned down to kiss his new wife.
And that was it. Margo Woodhouse was now Mrs. Margo Woodhouse-Knightley.
The reality of the moment hit Emma suddenly, a tightnessgripping her chest, but she kept her rising emotions in check. She knew the tears she choked back must be happy ones.
Right on cue, the sound of the pipe organ filled the sanctuary, vibrating off the vaulted ceilings and echoing throughout the church. The couple reluctantly pulled apart and Margo grabbed the satin length of her wedding dress, practically skipping down the aisle with her hand in Ben’s.
The guests chatted happily, slowly exiting the wooden pews adorned with white roses and ivory ribbon at the end of each row. Emma followed suit, her arm linked with her father’s while they walked behind Knightley, Mrs. Pawloski, and others making their way out of the church and back toward 83rd Street. It was only the first weekend of September, but as the sun disappeared behind the tall buildings along Park Avenue, there was already a chill in the air. Emma’s dark hair was up in a high bun, allowing a shiver to run down her exposed neck. She pulled her silk bomber jacket tighter around her shoulders, thankful for the faux fur lining keeping her warm; her long, mauve-colored slip dress was gorgeous, but its satin material was also incredibly thin.
“Such a sad day,” Mr. Woodhouse said, squeezing Emma’s arm as they followed the guests toward the reception at their home just a few blocks away.
Emma looked over at him. His thick hair had gone gray years ago, and his dark tortoise-frame glasses were as utilitarian as they were modern. But he looked as elegant as he always had in his classic single-breasted tuxedo and burgundy-colored scarf. Even if you weren’t aware that the Woodhouses were one of New York’s oldest—and wealthiest—families, Mr. Woodhouse always exuded a refined edge that subtly let you know.
She wanted to remind him that his older daughter was married and happy and that was worth celebrating, but despite herexcitement for Margo, Emma knew all too well what her father meant. Today signaled more than just the beginning of a marriage. It meant Margo was really leaving them.
While she and Ben had technically rented a place together over on Lexington last year, Margo had still stayed in her childhood bedroom next to Emma’s in the Woodhouse home a few nights a week. But that was over now. The newlyweds had closed on an apartment a few miles downtown. The move felt final, more than even the wedding did. Margo wouldn’t be just down the hall anymore. Emma’s voice of reason would be gone, and she had no idea how to replace it.
Yes, there was so much joy today, but sorrow too. A gentle sorrow that pulled at Emma from somewhere deep in her chest.
“Don’t you dare leave me, Emma,” her father murmured, almost as if he’d heard Emma’s thoughts.
“Never,” she replied, leaning into his tall frame. “I promise.”
Her father sighed. “Thank God.”
“Besides, I have no interest in ever getting married,” she declared. She hadn’t realized how loud her proclamation was until she heard Knightley chuckle just ahead. “Something funny?”
He turned to look at her with a wry grin, his cheeks flushed from the chill. It somehow made his golden-brown eyes look even sharper. “Is that right?”
“Yes.” She lifted her chin. “Why would I? Being single is too much fun.”
“Okay, Woodhouse.”
“Excuse me? Aren’t you the patron saint for eternal bachelorhood?”
He scoffed before turning back around.
“Why does anyone need to get married?” her father pondered to no one in particular.
