The parade of sharply dressed wedding guests continued down Madison Avenue to 83rd Street until they reached the Woodhouses’ townhouse. Just beside the stairs up to the front door was a short walkway that led to their back garden. One by one the guests walked through its wrought iron gates adorned with lush florals and vines before entering the yard that had been magically transformed for the occasion.
The two long reception tables were covered with flowers—marigolds and hydrangeas, red roses and rust-toned dahlias—and there were dozens of glowing candles in low hurricane lanterns lining the yard. In the center of the space was a small dance floor with a stage for the band, and the caterer’s makeshift bar was over by the French doors leading to the kitchen. All of it was tucked underneath a canopy of sparkling fairy lights that hung from the trees overhead. It was a tight fit, but it was perfect. Everything was.
Well, almost everything. Emma couldn’t help but see some lingering imperfections, proof that this was still the yard where she and Margo had grown up. The path through the far trees where the Knightley boys would sneak over from their house was still there, as was the bald bit of dirt in the opposite corner where the four of them had worn away the grass years ago trying to build a fort. And that rose bush by the French doors had never quite grown back after Ben cut down half of it for a bouquet to give Margo on her tenth birthday. But no one else seemed to notice those details. They gaped at the decorations, smiling and laughing as servers began passing around hors d’oeuvres.
“Poor Margo,” Mr. Woodhouse murmured, his mantra for the night. “You don’t think Ben made one of those extravagant nine-tier wedding cakes?”
“Not nine. Maybe seven,” Knightley replied.
Emma patted her father’s arm. “Ignore him. I’m sure it will be just perfect.”
They were among the last few guests to arrive, and Emma craned her neck to see over the crowd milling about the tables and dance floor. The yard was filled with almost everyone who had been at the church, and Emma frowned in disappointment.
“Looking for someone?” her father asked.
“Ben’s best friend. The one Margo’s always talking about. Montgomery Knox.”
“He’s not here?”
“I don’t think so,” Emma said as she did one last audit of the garden. “I was sure we’d finally meet him tonight. His flight was delayed, so he missed the wedding, but he called Ben and promised to be here for the reception.” Her gaze drifted back to Knightley in time to catch his eye roll. “Have something to say?”
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” he replied. “He missed the engagement party, the bachelor party, the rehearsal dinner—”
“Be nice,” she demanded sweetly. “His plane is just delayed.”
“Right,” Knightley murmured, his doubt palpable. “Well if he shows up, I’ll be at the bar.” And then he turned and retreated into the crowd of guests.
Before Emma could hurl an appropriately scathing retort at his back, a server appeared with a tray of canapés. “Puff pastry and saucisson à l’ail?”
Her father picked one up and inspected it. “You can call it whatever you like, my good man, but these are pigs in a blanket.”
Emma donned a placating smile, as much for her father as for the server. “Dad, don’t you remember? That’s Ben’s whole philosophy for tonight’s menu. He’s reinventing our favorite childhood meals for a modern palate. Comfort food meets gourmet sensibilities.”
Her father stared at her, unimpressed. Then he dropped the offending sausage back on the tray. Emma mouthed a silent “sorry” to the server and was about to grab the hors d’oeuvre for herself but was interrupted by Mrs. Pawloski’s shrill voice.
“Isn’t it all just gorgeous?” she exclaimed, plowing through the small crowd toward them, holding a half-empty glass of champagne in one hand and a canapé in the other. “The flowers and the music and—oh! Have you had one of these yet?” she said, waving what looked like a piece of bread and sending crumbs flying in the process.
“Hello, Mrs. Pawloski.” Emma forced a smile.
Mrs. Pawloski threw the rest of the canapé in her mouth. “They’re these darling little peanut butter and jelly sandwiches! Except Ben just told me they’re strawberry bruschetta with balsamic and almond butter or something. Whatever they are, I love them! Just love them! Margo is so lucky she married a chef! Oh! And these!”
The woman reached out at the tray of another passing server, her armful of bracelets clattering as if to punctuate her point. Emma had hoped that Mrs. Pawloski’s jewelry might be toned down today, along with the bright wardrobe choices that seemed to be perpetually stuck in 1998, but no such luck. Her husband Burt had died a few years ago, and instead of the fortune everyone assumed he had stashed away, he’d left his wife with nothing but a mountain of debt. Emma wasn’t sure if she’d seen the woman in a new piece of clothing since. But at least tonight’s flowing silk dress, a cacophony of pinks and greens and reds faded slightly from years of wear, was a bit more formal. “Oysters! Ben said a chef friend sourced them directly from the Long Island Sound just this morning! There’s caviar on them! Caviar!”
Emma worked hard to maintain her smile. Of course she knew about the oysters; she had helped plan every detail of the wedding.Ben and Margo may have picked what they wanted, but it was Emma who made it all happen, even convincing Ben to swap some of his more experimental menu choices with those more familiar to the families of the Upper East Side.
“Just delicious. Oh!” Mrs. Pawloski’s eyes grew wide as she finished chewing. “And did you hear? Montgomery Knox’s flight was canceled!”
“Canceled?” Emma was stunned. How had Mrs. Pawloski heard about this before she had? The woman had a sixth sense for gossip.
“Yes! One of Ben’s friends told Veronica who just told me. Isn’t it devastating?” the woman exclaimed. “I can’t believe he missed the wedding and the reception, too! Such a tragedy!”
Emma nodded, trying to mask her irritation. Now she would not only have to wait even longer to meet the elusive Montgomery Knox, but she’d have to hear Knightley wax poetic about being right. Again.
Mr. Woodhouse couldn’t feign interest, shaking his head. “Where’s the bar?”
“It’s right over there, Henry. By the cake!” Mrs. Pawloski was all smiles again, looping her arm with Emma’s father’s. “Oh, wait until you see it! It’s gorgeous! Six tiers! Six!”
Mr. Woodhouse’s face blanched. “Dear God.”
