“And how are you finding the new place?” Mr. Woodhouse asked. “The Crawfords are good friends of ours, you know.”
Montgomery nodded. “It’s beautiful. Just making some minor adjustments to go with all my things. Well, mostly my art collection. I’m still hanging it all up.”
“Emma loves art. Don’t you, Emma?” Margo announced, beaming. “She was always drawing pictures when she was little and getting lost in the Met.”
“I’m also in graduate school getting my master’s in art history,” Emma added, trying to temper the annoyance in her voice.
Margo didn’t seem to notice. “Yes, that too! I bet she would love to see what you have. We all would.”
“Well, that settles it.” Montgomery rapped his knuckles on the table. “I am going to have a party.”
“Oh yes!” Mrs. Pawloski practically jumped out of her seat. “I love a good party!”
“How about New Year’s Eve?” he asked.
“That’s two weeks away,” Knightley chimed in.
“Which makes it perfect.” Montgomery turned back to Emma. “Unless you all have other plans?”
Like most New Yorkers, Emma never made big New Year’s plans. It was always too crowded and loud in Manhattan and impossible to get a cab. Last year, she and Margo were home in their PJs and asleep by 12:01. Definitely not a party. But this… this was different.
“I think it sounds great,” she found herself replying. Knightley gave her a disapproving look, but she ignored it. “I can even help plan it.”
Margo clapped her hands, a huge grin on her face as if hergreatest wish was finally coming true. “Oh, this is perfect! Emma knows how to throw a party; she’s the ultimate hostess.”
Montgomery’s smile widened. “Well then, I can’t wait.”
More wine flowed and more food was consumed, as most everyone seemed to be enjoying the newest member of their weekly dinner. That is, everyone but Knightley. As soon as dessert was served, he stood and excused himself with barely a goodbye. Emma almost missed it—she had been pulled into a long story about Mrs. Pawloski’s foray into scrapbooking—but extracted herself in time to run downstairs and catch him as he was letting himself out the French doors in the dimly lit kitchen.
“Hey,” she called after him. “You’re leaving without saying goodbye?”
He turned, his hand still on the open door. He stared at her for a moment, as if he was debating what to say next, but in the end he only nodded to her and said, “Goodbye.”
She took another step forward, folding her arms around her body as he started outside. “Wait.”
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Yes?”
She struggled to come up with what to say, if there was anything to say at all. There were words on her tongue that hadn’t formed yet and they sat there, heavy and dumb, while he waited.
“Will you come to the New Year’s party?” she finally asked. It felt like a cop-out, the lowest common denominator to keep his attention, but she didn’t care. “You know… it could be fun.”
He raked a hand through his hair. “Emma…”
It sounded tortured, like a plea.
“Give it a chance? Please?” she continued, suddenly worried he might actually say no.
Even in the dim light, Emma could see a muscle in his jaw twitch. “Is that what you want?”
“Of course that’s what I want,” she answered with a breathy laugh, then added more quietly, “What we all want.”
He nodded. “I see.”
Her wide eyes met his golden ones just as they turned dark, distant.
“Good night,” he said curtly, and closed the door.
Emma watched him trudge through the leftover snow, striding off in the direction of his home until he disappeared into the darkness.
