Emma Experiments ~ Section V

    By Crysty

    Beginning, Section V, Next Section

    Chapter Twelve

    Posted on Thursday, 7 June 2007

    Date: November 20, 2005
    From: Leigh Otway (lotway@gmail.com)
    To: Isabella R Woodhouse (irw@ckg.org)
    Subject: Completely heartbroken

    I can't believe you're going to have Greg Knightley over for Thanksgiving and you haven't invited me over! I'm as good a friend (and responsible bridesmaid) as Kristen is! And certainly more than your sister!

    All right, so maybe I understand about the sister part.

    But this is totally not fair!

    L.

    "...and then we had tea at this wonderful hotel--John what was the name of that hotel again? Anyway, the sandwiches there were absolutely delicious! Though I wished they had more in terms of tea selection..."

    So...freaking...boring. Emma fought hard to stay focused on Isabella's tea triumphs, but well. She was a bad person. Everybody else was listening, putting in a question or two to show that they'd been noting her remarks. That they even, perchance, cared about what she had to say. Emma tried to come up with a few questions of her own, but really, "Did the tea taste good?" and "How do you consume tapenade without gagging?" didn't seem to cut it.

    Not that she wanted to stun the whole room, but everybody seemed to know what Isabella was talking about; everybody had already been to London, so when Isabella compared the tea to one that they'd all had at Whatchacallit Square, they all nodded.

    Emma wasn't much of a tea drinker. For her, as it was for her mother, it was always coffee. From the age of twelve, she'd had at least a cup a day. These days, it was more like four or five. She could wax poetically on coffee. Blends, preparation methods, coffee genealogy: Emma explored and learned it all. Not that it did much good right now. Such was always the case: whatever she liked, it happened to be that her family just didn't give a crap about. Coffee. Everybody and their mother, brother, sister, and dog drank coffee. Just not her family.

    Perhaps after dessert, she could slip out to Starbucks and pick up a latte. Maybe she could bring that pile of papers she'd been meaning to read. She swept a quick glance over everybody's places, surreptitiously calculating how much longer this would last.

    The antique oak dining table that her great-great-grandmother had shipped from England was littered with paper burger wrappers, empty fry containers, and discarded soda cups. There were some oil spots that would have to be wiped away before the Big Dinner on Thursday, but really, with both Isabella and Emma around that was not going to be an issue. They were drinking tea out of the Tiffany service that Isabella (and she) had gotten their dad and stepmom for their ten-year anniversary, and eating Sara Lee cheesecake off the Woodhouse family "good" china.

    She smiled to herself; this was home.

    Greg was looking at her. Certainly not adoringly or anything out of the ordinary, but still Emma self-consciously looked back down at her tea cup. She hadn't looked in his direction all evening.

    This was dumb. It was hard enough as it was to get through these evenings without completely alienating everyone with irrelevant and unintentionally irreverent observations. Emma got up: most of the cheesecake was consumed, so it was time to collect the dishes.

    "Oh, let me help with that," Greg smiled as he got up.

    Emma shook her head. "I can handle it just fine," she said, annoyed that her voice was so gravelly.

    "Our mother would box our ears if she found out that we weren't gentlemen and didn't help out," Greg said, not relinquishing his dishes.

    "If that was a thinly veiled attempt to make me feel guilty, I'm not at all motivated. I helped get the food," John smiled, settling back in his chair, hands comfortably settled over his stomach.

    "You sat in the car while I ordered," Isabella pointed out, while she handed her plate to Emma.

    "And I was giving it my all, darling."

    Emma laughed as she exited the dining room and entered the kitchen, once more trying not to make eye contact with the mess of the stove. Every muscle ached to start scrubbing. It would be a futile effort, of course. A quick skirmish with the stove might garner a small victory against the entropy and chaos, but Karen still had lots of time and opportunity to massacre the scene before dinner tomorrow night. With gritted teeth, she focused on the sink. Just the dishes. Nothing more.

    Having miraculously found a space on the corner of a counter to set down his pile of dishes, Greg was unbuttoning the cuffs and rolling back the sleeves of his shirt.

    Emma insisted. "I can take care of the dishes on my own. Go back and be social."

    "If I help you, then we can be back in half the time."

    She frowned as she rolled her own sleeves back.

    "Or maybe we can find some time alone," he said.

    Emma flipped on the faucet and added a dollop of the dish soap to the sponge. Melon. It was always melon.

    She checked his expression for a hint of what "time alone" meant.

    "Pervert," he laughed.

    Blushing, Emma started applying soap to a plate.

    The tired glaze was disappearing from her eyes. Her shoulders lost their tension as they sank back from around her ears. (He'd affectionately called it "the turtle".) She attacked the piles of dishes with familiar energy and alacrity. She wasn't ready to speak yet, but she seemed content and almost human again. Happy to feed the monster, he wandered around the kitchen, picking up abandoned spoons, bowls, and plates, putting them in another pile by the sink.

    Task accomplished, he allowed himself the pleasure of watching her. He couldn't resist getting closer.

    Greg tugged on the hem of her sweater, and snuck in a hand to caress the skin at her waist. She inhaled sharply, but didn't glance at him, leaving the touch unacknowledged and the token protest unspoken. How were his hands always so perfectly warm?

    His hand crept towards the small of her back, tracing random shapes along her spine. It felt too good to let go of, though she knew for discretion's sake...

    Forget discretion. It'd been a long afternoon, what with her trying to be helpful and attentive to her family. Longer than normal, considering she'd also been deliberately inattentive to her own longings to touch him, lean closer and say something that only he'd get and laugh at.

    She felt his shoulder behind her and let herself lean against him quietly as she continued to soap up the dishes. His hand crept around to rub against the soft skin of her stomach and she hissed her protest against the tickling sensation.

    He chuckled against her ear and she felt her heart beat faster. Reluctant to give up the embrace but all too aware of their inappropriate timing and setting, Emma sighed heavily and bumped her hip against his, signaling her need for personal space. She turned within his arms. "Now who's the pervert?" She reluctantly and gently stepped out of his embrace to locate a clean dish towel. "At least try to be useful," she said, handing the towel over.

    "I thought I was," he laughed, accepting a plate.

    Emma bit her lip as she scrubbed viciously at a stubborn cheesecake and crust blob.

    "Did anyone get back to you on the spectrum?" he asked conversationally.

    She'd mentioned it in passing earlier this afternoon, the one spectrum she'd been stupid enough not to save to her computer before taking off for Mountain View. She'd e-mailed Elinor about it, recalling that the fourth-year rarely left town for holidays, but was unsure whether or not Elinor was going to bother checking her e-mail on Thanksgiving.

    Upon retrospect, it was a foolish notion; Elinor Dashwood would spontaneously combust if she couldn't and didn't check her e-mail every day. Emma got the digitized version of the spectrum via e-mail within fifteen minutes of her inquiry in three different file types, just in case. Her irritation and worry had been unfounded, but honestly, at the time she'd discovered the dilemma she'd been ready to cling to anything, if only to have an excuse to pout and be less than sparklingly happy for a bit.

    Emma recalled her petulance and discontent with some embarrassment. Nobody had really acknowledged her plight, and perhaps that was just as well. Well, nobody, except Greg. Emma blushed now, as he brought the topic again. "Yes. Things are fine. Elinor sent me it to me over e-mail."

    "Of course. Fantastic. I hope you'll have a chance to look at it later tonight," Greg said as he stacked another clean and dry dish on his gleaming, growing pile.

    "I was planning on doing so, maybe later at Starbucks."

    She just needed some time to herself.

    "That sounds nice," he said, placing another plate on the pile.

    She opened her mouth to invite him along, but bit back her question with an amused and cynical shake of her head. When had "being alone" and "being with Greg" become synonymous? The panic, relief, sadness, and joy she felt at this revelation combined and precipitated in her stomach.

    With a cross between scowl and wry resignation, she turned to him.

    "Good, because I was hoping you'd join me," she said quietly, as she handed him another dish.

    It was a less than ideal situation, but at least she was out of the house, away from Greg, and drinking coffee.

    Not that she despised being at home, or being with Greg. They were just tricky, especially when combined. In many ways, the tender tired frustration she felt for both, that she felt for her emotions regarding both--

    "Ok, guys, time to talk business."

    Emma played with the empty cup, surprised and sorry that she'd not gotten up in the last twenty minutes to refresh her cup when she'd had the chance. Instead, she'd been wondering if Greg and John had managed to find the pho place she'd recommended. It was nice they had the opportunity for dinner; from what he'd said, Greg had not gotten any time alone with his brother for months now. Emma couldn't recall the last time she and Isabella had--

    Taylor cleared her throat again.

    It was late, anyhow. Another cup right now wouldn't have been good for her.

    Leigh and Kristen's intensely consuming debate of the classiness of Vera Bradley bags had to be dropped as Taylor punctuated her request for attention with another tap of her pen against her (undoubtedly designer) note pad. Emma sat up straighter in her chair and tried to look eager and interested. If she could pretend an interesting for Angelique Elton's new nose, then surely she could throw herself into a conversation that was actually relevant to her.

    "So the bridal shower and bachelorette weekend will be in two weekends."

    The stream of expletives was smothered in an eloquent eyebrow raise. Emma gripped the edge of the table tightly. Not yet ready to enunciate her thoughts politely, she waited until Taylor turned to her with an insincere apologetic smile and asked, "You never did get back to us on your availability, Emma. I hope you can make it?"

    Emma couldn't even think of the month of December without her heart starting the cancan and her stomach whining about the ulcer that was pretty much inevitable now. Emma cleared her throat, unsure of where to begin. "Bachelorette weekend?"

    "We were planning on a long weekend, mainly around here; spa on Friday, limo through wine country on Saturday. Shower, Sunday. And of course, clubbing when we can get it in," Taylor outlined efficiently.

    Emma didn't know which distress she felt more, the demand for such an extravagantly long period of time, or her weeping and bleeding bank account. How did she miss all this? And...and all this? Bachelorette weekend? "I'm sorry..."

    The friendly light of Taylor's eyes faded as the assessing, judging glint appeared.

    Judging? When did weddings plans get so elaborate? It's a wedding, not world peace.

    Emma shifted uncomfortably, trying to find the words to eloquently express her undoubtedly sacrilegious thoughts. "It's just that I've got a lot of..." she held herself from discussing the interviews, experiments, and papers that she was pretty sure no one at the table was really interested in. "It's a bit hectic."

    "Well, the holiday is season is always hectic," Leigh said, admonishing undertone weighing heavily on her words.

    "I mean, I talked to my boss months before hand to make sure I'd have both the wedding and bachelorette party free," Kristen said. "We have a really difficult case right now, and my boss is not happy with me. But I'm doing it."

    Emma swallowed the dry ball of tension and tried to speak again, her voice devoid of the nerves she felt, "And I honestly don't have the money for a bachelorette weekend."

    "Dianne is in med school and is still coming..." Taylor remonstrated, alluding to one of the two absent bridesmaids. She took a deep breath. As if Emma was the problem that they all had to deal with.

    And underneath the frustration towards Isabella and her friends with the steady high-paying jobs and idiots who tossed around money they didn't have, Emma could only feel frustration at herself; if she'd bothered reading all the e-mails Taylor had sent in the beginning, maybe she could have stated her position and concerns from the start. She had no right, no grounds to butt in now.

    Leigh sighed. "Look, Emma, we understand you've got things going on in your life. We all do. But this is not about us. This is about Isabella."

    Emma pushed herself back from the table. "I think I need some more coffee," she said abruptly.

    Emma tried to steady her breathing as she approached the counter once more. It was like she was five years old, all over again. She wanted to scream, yell, and punch. "Another large coffee," she clipped tersely to the barista as she handed her empty cup over, "Please," she clipped apologetically, trying to remind herself that this poor girl didn't do anything.

    "Em."

    Emma gripped her change tightly as she assumed a calm expression and turned to Taylor. "Yes?"

    "Can we step outside for a second?"

    Emma glanced back to the table. Leigh and Kristen looked embroiled in another undoubtedly penetrating discussion. Emma accepted her cup from the barista and nodded to Taylor.

    A set of teenagers loitered in the parking lot and someone was playing loud music that made everything, down to the liquid in Emma's cup, undulate with the beat. Emma seated herself at one of the metal tables, hissing when the cold of the uncomfortable chair seeped through her clothes to freeze her butt.

    "Look, I know you don't believe in the institution of marriage and hate men, but do you think you could get off your high horse and try to be happy?"

    Emma opened her mouth to contradict, but Taylor was not done. "We knew from the start this wasn't going to be easy. We've tried so hard to include you in this. And we've been nice. But I can't be quiet about it anymore. Isabella's getting married in less than a month and we have a lot of stuff to do. We need for you to pull your weight. How do you think Isabella feels, knowing her sister's not at all involved, or even interested?"

    Emma stared at her shoes. She supposed she ought to have felt like crying; the guilt stung everywhere. Instead, the heat of frustration kept her posture rigid as she looked ahead, out into the parking lot.

    "I'm sorry," she said rigidly.

    "I'm not the person you should be apologizing to. Do you have any idea how Isabella feels towards you right now?"

    Emma toed the base of the table leg. "I can imagine," she said.

    Taylor rubbed her eyes tiredly. "Look, things are really stressful. For all of us. And we all know Isabella's not an easy bride," Taylor said with a bitter laugh.

    It was too late to be chummy. The wind had Emma shrinking into herself more. She put her fingers against the hot surface of the cup to keep them warm. She couldn't come up with a suitable response. "I'm sorry," Emma said again, still unsure of what else there could be to say.

    The teenagers started yelling at each other. Emma watched the short girl get in between, trying to do damage control.

    At length, Taylor sighed. "Look, do what you want on the bachelorette party. But just remember; your sister put you in this bridal party for a reason. It doesn't matter what you think or want right now. You've got to think of what she wants and needs now too."

    The sink beckoned. Heck, the whole kitchen was sobbing and falling over itself, begging for help in messy misery. All the same, Emma had already promised the suspicious Karen before leaving the living room that she was not going to touch a dish, only get another bottle of beer.

    She wasn't sure if more alcohol was going to actually help, but she needed an excuse to get away for a bit.

    She winced as another explosion of guffaws and "no ways" saturated the cushions, furniture, walls, and insulation before still spilling into the kitchen from the living room. The fact that the women who were shrieking and falling over themselves in their gaiety were the very women who had flogged her last night didn't help. Emma couldn't stay there and pretend away the self-disgust, guilt, frustration, and shame. It was cowardly to hide, but she'd been overwhelmed.

    A break. Maybe just five minutes.

    With one more furtive glance towards the door of the kitchen, she pulled her sleeves back. Just until the dish rack was full. Really.

    Soap.

    And while it was at times interrupted by a startling bark of laughter, the silence was so welcome, so lovely. Uncluttered, her mind was free to wonder and ponder over anything she wanted.

    Rinse. Emma watched the water curl and cling along the curved surface of the heavy yellow stoneware bowl. There was an extra chip, right by the lip. Emma shook her head with a rueful smile; Karen was so rough with the dishes. Emma supposed it was a wonder that the bowl had survived this long.

    It was as unexpected as it was typical; instead of sorting through the bridesmaids' secret plans or quietly rehearsing her job talk, as she'd set out to do, her thoughts wandered along older, dusty hallways. When she looked up, she blinked at her reflection dumbly, as if just realizing that she was no longer fifteen and lamenting another broken plate, contemplating a homework problem, an essay for English class, or her college choices.

    Soap. Rinse. Put on the rack.

    She looked serene, with her shoulders relaxed, limbs loose, and a contemplative countenance. Not contemplative in the way she'd been at the table. More relaxed. As if the thoughts that were in her at this moment hadn't been spoonfed or forced, but simply moved in and out of her being like air. Natural thoughts.

    A rapt, dreamy expression on her face. Three layers of shirts and sweater, all with a utilitarian, sexless cut. A pair of loose jeans so old they had patches within delightful patches upon her lovely derriere. Two layers of wool socks, the outer one boasting a mortally offending puke green shade, tucked into a pair of blue fuzzy slippers so old the fuzz had been aged off, and her big toes greeted the world through holes. A perky ponytail that bopped while she nodded and spoke gently with herself, instead of her typical haphazard pull-up.

    She looked so very fresh and completely and utterly charming.

    It was enough to make a man fall in love.

    Greg winced.

    It was also not exactly the best moment in which to do it. While in film there was plenty of time to scrap together a montage and allow for watching with a goofy grin or a subdued frown, the true situation was less than perfect: Greg was on the run, and Emma's solitude was about to be invaded.

    "I figured you'd need help."

    Greg scowled darkly at the expected interruption even as he was schooling his expression to one of mere surprise.

    Leigh, Isabella's tragically perky and amiable friend from high school, stood in a somewhat awkward pose that made the best of her figure. Her freshly glossed lips instantly wrinkled into a frown when she realized that they weren't alone.

    Greg turned back to Emma with an apologetic smile. Her own annoyance was quickly masked, but her exhaustion couldn't be pretended away. Emma shrugged, turning back to the sink before she spoke over the running water, "Anything I can do for you, Leigh and Greg?"

    She had such a beautiful, sexy, velvety voice. It slid into the air unobtrusively, quiet, thoughtful, and mellifluous, in contrast to the bursty, gusty bright pulses of words that rattled around the living room. The rich voice soothed him, running gently over ragged, tired nerves.

    Honestly, he couldn't understand why she felt that she was alone in her desire and need for solitude. It was trying enough to deal with hours of family and constant company. Having spent that time also sinking into the argument-for-argument's-sake conversation swamp that the Woodhouse family thrived in, Greg was ready to find a Tibetan monastery, a really really high mountain, or a shack in the woods, and give up society altogether.

    It was disconcerting how quickly she'd rubbed off on him; he didn't recall being half as annoyed or tired last year.

    "You were taking quite a bit of time with your beer," Greg observed lightly.

    Quick to establish property and not give Emma a chance to get any ideas, Leigh moved close and threaded her arm around his. "We're here for more refreshments," she said with a sunny smile.

    Emma's eyes glinted with amusement and she sent a conspiratorial wink Greg's way. Greg felt Leigh's manicured nails pinch around his arm tighter.

    "I thought I'd do a few dishes first," Emma explained. "Beer, soda and whites in the fridge, reds on the counter over there," Emma gestured with a soapy hand. "Water's in the tap," she said.

    "That was four glasses of cab, two MGDs, and one jack and coke, right?" Leigh asked Greg with an intimate air.

    Greg put a hand to Leigh's arm, gently but firmly turning her around and pushing her in the direction of the fridge. "Yes. Why don't you get the wine? I'll take care of the others," Greg gestured vaguely, moving away from Leigh and looking around the kitchen for cups.

    "Do you need any help?" he asked Emma, quietly approaching her.

    He was standing close to her now, reaching for her waist. Emma shook her head, with a nod towards Leigh. "I'm doing all right as is," she said breezily.

    "I need your help, Greg. We need to open the bottle," Leigh said from across the kitchen island. Emma pointed to the drawer where Greg would find the corkscrew. She watched his retreat in the reflection of the window above the sink. She kept the smile and girlish giggle to herself.

    Leigh spent a good five minutes considering the various wine glasses in the cabinet, evaluating with a quick glance every once in a while how much longer Emma would be at the sink. Greg mixed the cocktail at a leisurely pace. Emma gritted her teeth and focused on her task, and nearly swore when she realized she'd almost scratched up the Teflon coating on Karen's new frying pan.

    "What are you doing?"

    Emma unhanded the pan with a loud clang as she jumped at her stepmother's voice.

    "I swear Greg probably thinks that I'm an Evil Stepmother, for all the time you've been scrubbing away in the kitchen," Karen came in the room with a remonstrative look at Emma.

    Emma smiled tiredly as she quickly washed her hands and dried them on a dishtowel. "I already told him that I get one-and-a-half times the California minimum wage," she said with a quiet smile.

    Karen laughed, coming into the kitchen to take her stepdaughter by the shoulders. She turned back to Greg and Leigh. "This is exactly what I was talking about; she doesn't speak up often, but when she does she slays me!"

    Leigh gave a half-hearted smile.

    "I was starting to think 'getting a drink' meant 'entering another dimension'. Nobody was coming back!" Karen said. "Now off with you," she said with a maternal cluck at Leigh and Greg.

    Greg gave one last look towards Emma. Stepping away from her stepmother, she nodded her confirmation that she'd join them shortly. He gave a small smile and exited.

    "I know you trust him, but I don't trust her at all," Karen said matter-of-factly, nodding towards the door.

    Emma reached into the fridge and grabbed a bottle of Bass to hide the sudden blush of embarrassment. Denial was on the tip of her tongue, even as she knew how cowardly it was. She closed the door. Karen was still waiting for a response, and watching her with her knowing, reading look; Emma shrugged as she opened a drawer and drew out the bottle opener. "She's not Greg's type."

    Of course Karen had figured it out. Emma didn't say much to her stepmother, but honestly, she never had to. Karen cut a wedge of pecan pie, slapped onto a newly washed plate, and pulled on a scrap of saran wrap. "Leigh's persuasive..."

    Emma took a pull of beer as Karen put the pie in the microwave and set the timer.

    Karen assessed Emma's defensive stance as she licked the pie filling from her finger. "...but I'll bet that it doesn't matter," she completed her thought.

    Emma couldn't resist a smile. "No, it doesn't."

    Karen came closer now and took her stepdaughter, who never did like being touched all that much, in a half-embrace. Karen had nearly exploded keeping the happy discovery to herself for the past few days. With that dreamy, girlish smile on her lips, Emma was so gosh darn cute she wanted to hug the girl until she couldn't breathe. And then pinch her cheeks raw. After she commissioned a shrine to be built in Greg's honor.

    Aware that such sentiments would have Emma not only embarrassed but also frustrated, Karen kept her happiness to an unsatisfying perfunctory shoulder rub. "Good for you."

    Emma was happy when the microwave beeped and beckoned Karen's attention. She took another gulp of beer.

    Karen reached into the dish rack and grabbed a fork. "Now let's go and put Leigh in her place."

    "Sure thing."

    After the Woodhouse feast was long over, the guests kicked out the door, and most people napping on couches, Greg wandered through the house, curious to find Emma, who had disappeared soon after the Cowboys game had finished.

    When he ascertained that she was no longer in the house, he took a chance and went outside.

    There in the backyard, in the twilight. Emma sat under a tree, typing away into her laptop with birds and crickets for company. And as he saw that she hadn't noticed his presence yet, he watched her silently.

    Whenever he thought he understood her, she surprised him. Just when he thought that she must have been very unhappy growing up, he found her here and realized that while hers was not a social childhood, it had not been unhappy. It was not a surprise, as she was such an independent private woman. Of course she must have been an independent, private child.

    It was a shift in the wind that had her looking up and the peaceful expression on her face withdrew immediately. He felt like he had desecrated her spot and willed himself to walk away. His feet didn't seem to agree, though. They held him to the spot as he waited for her to decide whether or not to shoo him away.

    One minute ago, her mind had been mired in a morass of misbehaving data and matrimonial preparations. Feelings, overwhelming emotions had been shoved away and replaced with to-do lists. She'd worry about things later, where and when she was safe.

    Greg's sudden appearance yanked her out of the tasks, and reminded her of the mess. She shifted uncomfortably in her spot on the grass and in her indecision bit her bottom lip. When it appeared that he wasn't going to leave, she sighed and gave into temptation: "Are you looking for company?"

    He settled down on the grass next to her. "Only good company, so if you do not amuse me in the next five minutes I shall move on," he teased.

    "That's putting an awful lot of pressure on me, don't you think?" she smiled tiredly.

    "You do better under pressure," he smiled.

    There could have been tension between them at this moment, Emma supposed. Maybe a snippy jealous comment over his allowing Leigh to drape herself all over him. His own annoyance that she wouldn't stake her own claim.

    There was a temptation to simply explode into cathartic but selfish monologues. To pour it out, regardless of whether or not he, too, would judge her.

    But she was happy right now. She certainly didn't deserve it, but she seized upon the opportunity to just sit back. "I spent a good chunk of my childhood out here," she said, conversationally.

    "No doubt, hard at work." He smiled at the image of a younger, tiny Emma with big glasses, reading books or working on homework in the lawn.

    She nodded simply, smiling as she lay back on the grass, staring up into the branches and leaves which swayed gently in the cool breeze above her. Wisps of hair came loose, framing relaxed features. She reached up and removed the reading glasses, closed her eyes as she rubbed at them tiredly. She smiled at him, and he smiled back gently. "So what else did you do while you lived here? Where else did you find to hide?" he asked.

    Her muscles were tight from being hunched over the keyboard. Now, she slowly stretched each of them, sighing gratefully as the loosened. "Well," she sighed, laying back on the grass. "I didn't do much more. I like being outside, so I ran both track and cross-country."

    "You don't run now," he observed.

    "No. No time," she smiled wistfully. "I do miss it."

    Some time in their slow desultory talk about nothing important, her father woke from his nap and started watching a movie. Most likely A Christmas Story; Karen had long-ago decreed that she could only stand the movie at Christmastime. Dennis was sad to agree, but soon discovered a deep and elevating joy of rediscovering it on Thanksgiving Day. Emma could hear her sister absently chatting to her father and his now chuckling replies. Karen was moving around in the kitchen, reorganizing her many dirty dish piles.

    They'd slipped into a comfortable silence as it got cooler, so Greg let her be. When he felt his eye lids getting heavier, he slowly sat up. "I think we ought to go inside..." When he looked over, however, he saw that she'd fallen asleep.

    Her lips had fallen apart and she breathed out of her mouth quietly. She had put her laptop to the side, and was gently clasping her reading glasses to her chest. Her brow was smooth, so it appeared that her dreams were at least restful. He loathed disturbing her but it had to be done. He reached for her shoulder and shook her gently. "Emma."

    She slowly opened her eyes. Confused, she backed against the tree in fear first, but her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Identifying his features in the dim moonlight, she let out a relieved sigh through her lips. The dreaminess settled back in with a slow smile. "You startled me," she reached up a hand at his cheek.

    He smiled into the unexpected gentle touch, reaching for a strand and tucking it behind her ear. "Understandable."

    In the glow of the single yellow light by the kitchen door, her eyes glimmered beautifully. Shadows traced and highlighted that beautiful bone structure, angles, curves, and planes that he'd traced over and over with kisses before. Greg couldn't resist moving closer.

    Things had become disconcertingly nice. The punchiness that'd been building up all afternoon unwound itself and disappeared while she'd been napping, and was replaced with a profound sense of peace and happiness.

    She wrapped her arms around him as he bent close to kiss her.

    Her lips were warm, soft, and happy against his. He sipped at them, luxuriating in their private world here in the dark backyard. He breathed a sigh of his own when he felt her hands in his hair, tracing his skull and then caressing the planes of his face, tracing the line of his eyebrows, soft palms against the growing stubble on his cheek.

    Slowly, she realized her ears were ringing in the cold and her toes were numb. Reluctantly, she groaned her question, "What time is it?"

    "I actually don't know," Greg said, toying with another loose strand of hair.

    Emma groaned. "I was going to finish editing that draft today."

    "It's all right. It will keep until tomorrow," Greg said, bending close to kiss her neck.

    "I said I'd e-mail it tonight..." she sighed, absently tracing circles on his shoulders. She let herself bask in another quiet, comfortable minute. "Looks like it'll be coffee for me..." she said ruefully.

    Greg pushed himself on his elbows and looked down at lovely face. "I would scold disapprovingly, but at least I know you've rested up for it," he teased.

    He pushed himself back, got up, extending a hand to her, but she'd already gotten up as well and was brushing off any loose grass and dirt off the seat of her jeans. "I would offer you company, but coffee would keep me wired all night..." Greg sighed.

    "I make very good cocoa..." she offered quietly.

    He turned to her. Her tone was indifferent, but her shoulders were once more hunched, and she twisted her fingers in on themselves into knots.

    "Well, I did have another script that I told Victor I'd look over this weekend. I supposed I could look it over until I felt sleepy..."

    And even as she inwardly chastised herself for being so dangerously sentimental, she smiled at him as she took his hand. Together, they walked back into the kitchen.

    Chapter Thirteen

    Posted on Monday, 1 October 2007

    Date: December 2, 2005
    From: Donna L. Sheridan (dls@uchicago.edu)
    To: Emma M. Woodhouse (woodhouse@caltech.edu)
    Subject: Good luck!

    Are you excited? I am! Knock 'em dead! I'll be thinking of you.

    Safe travels!

    Love,
    Mom

    Fran looked away, gripping the phone tightly. "Emma's down at the NMR. Can I take a message?"

    Emma turned and stared at her computer screen once more. The words were dancing blobs, but she wasn't going to let Fran see her annoyance and confusion. She decided to align figures: an appropriately mindless task that she couldn't possibly screw up.

    "Same time tomorrow?" Fran asked cheerfully. Emma knew she felt anything but. "All right, take care, Greg!"

    Fran put the phone back in its cradle. After a moment of hesitation, she approached Emma, and sank into the chair beside her.

    Emma defensively shrunk into herself but refused to allow the disquiet to be outwardly reflected.

    "You know, three days ago, when you were 'busy with Jane', it was understandable. And two days ago, when you were 'running a column', I covered for you. Yesterday's 'down at the stockroom' got on my nerves, but I said it nevertheless. But I'm pretty sure by now that he's figured out that all these excuses are the chem-geek's version of 'I'm washing my hair'."

    Emma left the dangling admonishment unacknowledged.

    "What's up with you?"

    Emma swore as her table leaped off the page and onto another slide. "I'm trying to concentrate here, Fran."

    "I'm not going to cover for you anymore."

    "Then stop answering the phone," Emma chewed her lip as she pressed frantically at the up button to reorient things on her slide.

    Fran wanted to shake her. Instead, she stared.

    The figure happily preened in its shiny new position. Slowly, Emma turned to Fran. Taking her glasses off and rubbing her eyes, she sighed. "Telling you that it's none of your business isn't going to do anything, is it?"

    "It would have, had you not made me lie for you for the past few days. My integrity is at stake," Fran glared.

    Emma chuckled tiredly. "Now you're just trying to guilt me. I'm not falling for it."

    It was small consolation that the postdoc did look tired, guilty, and more than a little rough around the edges. Fran reached to tuck an errant strand of hair behind Emma's ear, leaving a hand on the bony shoulder. Emma watched the movement of the hand with half weariness, half curiosity.

    None of my business. But come on, the woman looked beyond miserable. Fran pushed herself out of the chair. "Come on. Let's get some tea."

    Emma gestured to the cold cup of coffee by her laptop.

    "Have you stopped drinking coffee in the past few days? You might have just as well hooked up an IV drip of Mocha Java. Let's go and try something that won't burn a hole in your stomach."

    It was tempting. Emma didn't really want to talk about Greg, but she wanted to just...talk.

    She'd always thought herself quite the independent woman. But she'd now gone three days without speaking more than a hundred words each day total, and it was getting to her. She actually missed talking.

    "And then you'll leave me alone?" she asked.

    Fran shrugged. It was as convincing a lie as the excuses she'd uttered to Greg. No wonder he'd seen through it all.

    Emma sighed. With a quick two clicks, her presentation was saved and she checked the clock. Maybe for only ten minutes. Fifteen. She took her glasses off, tossing them aside onto a pile of papers. As she pushed herself back from her desk, the bones of her ankle cracked, and she felt her vision spin a bit. She hadn't realized she'd spent so long sitting and staring. Carefully, she stretched her arms above her head, arching her back, trying to alleviate the throbbing at the base of her neck. When she confirmed that her body was stretched out, she got up.

    As they passed the door to 329, she considered checking in for Annie and inviting her along. She only felt frustration as she recalled that her roommate had been inaccessible these past few days, making Emma's isolation all the more desolate. Guiltily, she wondered if there'd been missed signals. If this all had to do with Frederick Wentworth.

    "Can you wait up a sec?" she asked.

    Fran nodded and Emma ducked in, grabbing a pair of safety glasses from the tray by the door as she entered.

    The lights in Fran's hood were out and the sash was pulled down. Ten two-dram vials displayed reactions of varying colors, working hard even while their creator was away. Glassware, spatulas, used TLC plates were strewn throughout the space, obviously forgotten about as soon as they were used. Relief flooded through Emma as she took in the familiar telltale signs.

    Annie was known for going on chemming jags when she was flying high; 72 hours on 8 hours of sleep total, when things were going just right. No society, no conversation to take her out of the mode.

    That had to be it. Why had she not thought of this before? Immediately jumping to conclusions just because Fred was around. Emma guilty admonished herself for questioning her faith in her friend. The news didn't make her isolation any less annoying, but it did give her a certain amount of relief. She exited the room and nodded to Fran.

    The sunlight outside was blinding. Emma rubbed her eyes. The trees had been trimmed. Disembodied limbs and dried leaves scattered the sidewalk, awaiting their disposal. Her nose stung with the sharp smell of newly cut branches.

    "You know, even if you do put together a fabulous presentation, you still have to look the part. Try getting some rest," Fran shrugged.

    Emma shook her head. "I've made sure to get five hours every night." Her immature idea to tattle on Annie was abandoned. After a second or two.

    "Sometimes five isn't enough. We're big girls now, not college students," Fran lectured, as she opened the door to the Broad.

    You become a fifth year and suddenly, you're the boss of everybody. Emma bit the inside of her cheek as she stepped into the café and criss-crossed the ends of Greg's shirt tightly around her. Why was the café kept at subzero temperatures? Didn't they know there was an energy crisis?

    Emma opened her mouth to order a caramel latte but Fran quickly commandeered the cashier's attention, ordered two cups of tea, and paid. Emma glared but followed. Fran selected tea bags with some flowery label (herbal tea, ugh), and went back to the counter, where the barista stood with two cups of steaming hot water.

    At Emma's request, they sat outside. Fran unwrapped both tea bags and plopped them into the cups. "So what's up with you and Greg? Are you having problems?" she asked, getting straight to the heart of the matter.

    "No. We're fine," Emma said.

    Fran glared at Emma. It was hard to help a woman out with relationship problems when the said woman refused to acknowledge she was even involved. But Fran was feeling nosy.

    Emma glared back.

    "I don't know, but my basic understanding of how these long distance things go is that you have to keep up the communication."

    "We've been communicating," Emma said, defensively.

    "Right," Fran took the tea bags out. With a snap of the plastic cap to the cup, she handed over the beverage to Emma.

    Emma took a sip, made a face, and put the cup back down on the table.

    "You'll drink it," Fran ordered.

    And Emma was given a small glimpse as to how and why Henry usually followed Fran's advice. She took another sip of her tea.

    "I can't make you tell me anything," Fran began, at length. "But I'm just telling you that I'm here to listen if you want."

    Emma smiled. "Self-sacrificing heroine that you are."

    Fran grinned. "You bet. I'm as generous as they come."

    And so they sat there.

    Emma had always thought herself a private person. Which is why it pissed her off to no end that sitting across the table from Fran made her feel so determined to fess up to something.

    If only Annie wasn't so distracted. If only Greg wasn't being so...

    Emma scowled. It wasn't his fault. It was hers.

    Fran was watching her carefully. Emma calmly reached for her cup, drew it to her lips, blew on the meniscus for a bit, and took another sip. And this time, hid the cringe. "So have you applied for post-docs, yet?" Emma asked.

    Fran glared at her, but played along. "Yes, I FedExed my application to Virginia Woolf yesterday."

    Emma tilted her head in interested acknowledgement as she shifted her cup in her hands. After another considerate sip, she added, "She's an...interesting woman."

    "Tell me about it. Do you know her?"

    "I've met her briefly. She's Will's mom."

    "Will? As in our Will Darcy?"

    Enma immediately regretted letting that bit of information go, and wondered how this had never come up before. "I thought you knew," she shifted uncomfortably in her seat, then sighed, "If you've never heard this, then I'm going to assume that Will doesn't want-"

    "What do you take me for?" Fran questioned, affronted. "My lips are sealed." She brushed a small fallen leaf from her shirt. "Though this does explain some things about Will..."

    Emma never offered up gossip. It wasn't that this was a wife in the attic or anything, but if Will hadn't told the group that his mother was a Nobel Prize-winning chemist, then it was certainly not her prerogative to do so. It was the stress. It was the pressure, and it was everything changing much too quickly.

    Realizing Fran was waiting for her to speak again, she offered another penny to the diversion, "She's really enthusiastic. I think you'll do well with her."

    "I've heard. I think it'll be good for me. I've been stuck on total synthesis for so long...it'd be good to get some heavy methodology work done."

    "Were you planning on going into academia or industry?"

    Fran shrugged. "I'm not sure yet. There are always possibilities out there, of course...but I think I'll use the post-doc to think it through a bit more."

    "I heard that Henry was interviewing this fall."

    "More like you heard Henry whining. I'm not sure how much of an impression he's making," Fran sighed. "His chemistry speaks for itself, though, so he's got a few on-site interviews booked. I'm going to take him shopping," Fran laughed.

    "Good for him," Emma nodded. "And good luck."

    "And you'll be leaving for your interviews soon..."

    Emma nodded. "I'm going to freeze my butt off in Madison," she shook her head. "You'd think they'd want to show me Wisconsin in good weather as a motivating factor."

    "They're just trying to snatch you up early," Fran said. "It's just strategy."

    "I am not looking forward to traveling."

    "You're going to England soon, too, right? Annie said a while back that your sister was getting married..."

    "As if I could forget..." Emma groaned. "Call after call of 'make sure you bring this' and 'can you do that'?"

    The bachelorette weekend had come and passed; she took a perverse delight in sticking it to the bridesmaids by still refusing to attend. Guilt and contrived style still had her spending a beyond impractical amount of money on two magnums of Cristal, which she sent with her regrets. It's still cheaper than participation in the whole thing.

    "So when is it?"

    "In a few weeks. I'll have to be around a bit prior, so that we can run some errands."

    Fran snickered. "Yeah. Good luck with that."

    Emma shook her head ruefully.

    "But it can't be all bad. It's England!"

    Emma shrugged.

    Fran opened her mouth to ask if Emma would be able to get some time with Greg while in England. Whether or not she'd meet his parents, and if she was going to, whether or not she was nervous. The usual gushy girl stuff. The defensive sharp angles in Emma's shoulders had Fran hesitating.

    Emma closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. After a few more cleansing breaths, she tried to open her eyes, but found that it was too bright. Her head ached. "Thanks for coming out with me, Fran," Emma said quietly.

    She could have said more. She certainly wanted to. It would have settled her down a bit. But Fran wasn't going to push. She was used to her perfectly excellent advice being ignored. It was almost enough that Emma was content with her presence. "No problem."

    "So then when I thought it couldn't possibly get any worse-"

    "Let me guess. They asked about the temperature study."

    Emma groaned her affirmative as she threw herself back on the hotel bed. "I'm never going to get a job," she sighed.

    It was all she could think about for the past few hours. Humiliations and mortifications supersaturated her mind until she couldn't do anything else but talk to someone. And in this instance, it was very, very handy that she had a boyfriend in England, who was in a different time zone and hence already awake.

    Who was also very nice to her. Very nice.

    Greg laughed as he tossed some strawberries into his blender. Reaching into the fridge, he grabbed the orange juice. "I'm sure it's not half as bad as you think it is. It just feels odd because it was the first."

    He could see her scowl.

    "I know, I wasn't there," he uttered the disclaimer.

    He wanted to be, though. As Greg poured the juice into the blender and put it away, he reminded himself that it was enough that she at least called him.

    "How did the rest of the day go?"

    "They absolutely hated the niobium proposal."

    "The ni-"

    "The pinacol coupling," she yawned. The comforter cover was too slippery. She pushed herself up and pulled the sheets back.

    "Ah. Well you said that was just something that you'd put out if your organocatalytic prop doesn't work."

    "The pinocol coupling doesn't get enough credit. The world already has enough labs studying organocatalysis," Emma sighed as she found herself waving her right hand, emphasizing her points to...her absent audience. "Ugh. Stop me now. I called for a distraction, not to give you a play-by\-play of the visit and start the world's first campaign for niobium."

    "Are you freezing?"

    "No. All the buildings here overcompensate the cold by excessive heating. So here's hoping that I looked 'glowing and enthusiastic' instead of 'shiny and sweaty'," she groaned into a pillow.

    Greg chuckled as he placed the cap on the blender and hit a button. He moved away to the hallway, away from the noise, and grimaced as he passed one of the long tables. Anal Amy had stopped by; an elegant arrangement of fruit and another pile of crap he had to deal with. On the top, the post-it, with "Call your mother" violently scrawled across, underlined several times to give no doubt as to the frustration both his parent and assistant felt at his being lately lame in his filial duties. Greg grabbed an apple from the fruit basket.

    "So when do you leave?" he asked, before taking a bite.

    "In a few hours," she grimaced. No sleep now. Certainly no sleep on that stupid uncomfortable plane ride. How was she supposed to be fresh for her Brown interview?

    "And did you get my message about the premiere next Saturday?"

    Emma buried her face in a pillow to muffle the scream of frustration. This was even lower on the list of things she wanted to talk about.

    "Greg, I thought we talked about this."

    Her tone was dangerous. He had to tread lightly, but he didn't want to do that anymore. He found the happy medium in being blunt. "No, I selfishly declared something. Then you pigheadedly declared something. Those somethings did not coincide, which is why it might be time to discuss and negotiate," Greg reentered the kitchen. Why was the blender so loud? He flicked it off.

    "This isn't a deal. You can't give me a cookie and then expect me to go."

    "Well what do you want, Emma?" Greg opened a cabinet door and slammed a glass down. He swore under his breath when it broke, cutting his hand.

    "What I want is for you to understand my situation here," Emma grabbed a fistful of hair, wanting to pull it, as well as his own brain, out.

    "And what I want is for you to understand my situation," Greg flipped the tap and put his hand under the flow of water.

    "Your situation? It's a premiere. If you need a pretty date, bring Annie," Emma shrugged, "who has been way too stressed lately. I think it'd be good for her to have your undivided attention."

    "Duly noted, but you're still coming."

    Emma tiredly yawned. "Who are you to tell me what to do?"

    Greg flipped off the faucet with a flick of his wrist, and grabbed a towel to blot his cut dry. It was on the tip of his tongue to explain to her why he needed her there. Why he needed her steadiness, her encouragement. But seeing as her inner petulant child had come out to play tonight, he was convinced (and afraid that) she'd summarily dismiss real feelings.

    "I'm going to assume that the attitude is because you've been pretending to be nice for too long today."

    Emma frowned. "I didn't call you to get into this."

    Greg carefully applied the Neosporin and stuck on a bandaid. There. Fixed.

    Emma studied the yellow glow of the lamp against the ceiling. This is what came of giving in to stupid impulses. Stuck on the phone with an angry Englishman. She'd keep it in mind next time.

    She was almost guilty enough to give in. You know, to the premiere. After all, she'd been the one that avoided talking to him for the previous ten days. And she had to admit he was being really good to her, for shoving all that aside at first to talk about her interview, to joke and console.

    It was one of things that she loved about him, which of course just made the whole situation worse.

    It was happening. Near the end of their Thanksgiving weekend, she'd seen it everywhere. She'd leaned against him when she'd fallen asleep on the car ride to the airport. She'd reached for his hand on the plane as she was reading her paper. She'd asked him in for a glass of wine after he'd gotten her home, because she really hadn't wanted to say goodbye yet.

    How did things get out of control so quickly? She'd thought that by facing it all, it'd be a straightforward problem. But every step of the way, things got riskier. They got harder, not at all easier.

    And the picture suddenly changed from just her and her unexpected curiosity regarding all things Gregory Knightley. Curiosity had deepened to appreciation and admiration. And it threatened, if left unchecked, to become much worse.

    Thanksgiving was an aberration. Hadn't Annie always said that holidays in general were absolutely terrible for one's emotions? And the tryptophan in the turkey. Of course, lowering her guard. And stupid Taylor with her stupid lecture. It was designed to drive one hopelessly codependent.

    But that was holidays, yes. And now, interviews. Both very stressful situations. Enough to drive any normal person to clutch for anything. It was incredible what maudlin lonely thoughts occurred to a person at 3 a.m. She wanted to talk to him, yes, but the thing underlying all other things was the simple fact that tonight, she needed to speak with him. Needed enough to push aside pride, guilt, and fear.

    Wasn't that enough of a concession? She'd given up so much of herself to him already. She only hoped that when things calmed down, she could either take it back, or perhaps he'd just...not mess with it. "You're pushing me too hard, Greg," she said levelly.

    Greg sighed as he grabbed a broom to clean up the broken glass. "You've pushed me away too long to get away with that one," he rebutted.

    Emma ran her hand through her hair as she sat up stiffly. "There's no getting away with anything." After another deep breath, she allowed herself to be honest, "Things are moving too fast. I need time to think."

    "You've had ten days," he pointed out.

    She didn't use those ten days to think about these things. She used them to avoid thinking about them. Didn't he know her at all?

    "I know," he said, tiredly, as he disposed of the fragments.

    She smiled even as she frowned. Of course he did. That's why they had the problem in the first place.

    Let's try this again. Calmer now, he reached into the cabinet to take out another tall glass. "We'll meet up in Boston, and we'll talk about it," he at length conceded.

    Emma was tempted to tell him her answer would be the same, that she could not be dragged into something she wasn't ready for, that she didn't even know if she wanted---hell, that she'd known she'd not wanted, for as long as she could remember. And she certainly wasn't going to tell him that she was afraid that, dragging or not, she'd already been pushed in too far, and she was floundering and grasping, at a loss.

    But some things needed to be discussed in person. Some things needed to happen in person. Because if she didn't stand up and do the right thing, then she'd feel beyond crappy. She owed it to both of them that she did this right. "In Boston, then."

    I need time. I need an out. I need to think things through. Things are moving too fast.

    Emma clenched her fist. It was hard for resolve to be firm when the fist was wrapped in one of Karen's awkwardly knitted but nevertheless cheerful bright red mittens.

    She was on her home turf. Boston was in her blood; despite her two-year absence, her footing solidified with every click of her boots against the pavement. The chilling air bit at her ears, reminding her of reality. The rushing, honking cars made daydreaming and rehearsing a danger to her health.

    It was a simple resolution, but all the same more complicated than ever. It would be long, of course, because he expected and deserved full and complete honesty. Nevertheless, once she left Boston, she'd be on firm, grounded thoughts, with simple, clear goals.

    She scowled when she saw he that he stood outside the doors of the hotel. Didn't she tell him that he could wait indoors, where it was warm? She knew the city like the back of her hand. Did he think she'd get lost? It was just another irritating thing about him. One of those irritating things that made it oh so obvious to her that she simply could not keep him around.

    The flakes became sparkling droplets against the fine dark wool, the bright green scarf. A few flakes tiptoed about in his hair. Never did he look more the movie star. Emma sighed, suddenly very tired. He saw her, turned, and gave her that boyish, charming smile.

    She didn't want to say anything. Resolutions and admonishments fought to be heard, "I told you so" walls were put in place. Still, her heart swelled and all she could do was smile as she approached him. And when he opened his arms, she walked straight into them, and let herself be enveloped.

    He smelled so good. Her heart tumbled over itself even as her mind groaned at her weakness. Within her, peace simply diffused throughout her being. Tension that had been coiled in her spine for weeks melted away as she felt his kiss at her forehead.

    He held her silently, glad that she could absorb what comfort she needed from him. And even though he'd been worrying less than two minutes ago exactly what would happen tonight, doubts dissipated as he held her close to him.

    At length, she sighed as she pushed herself back in his embrace. Speechless for a different reason now, she worried that she still had no idea what she wanted to say to him. She wanted to kiss him, but knew it would be unfair, not to mention stupid. Well, unfair and stupid if she followed through with resolution 1a. If she perchance accidentally stumbled into resolution 3d, then well, kissing was perfectly fine.

    3d was out of the question.

    Oh come on. These changes had to be made gradually anyway. She closed her eyes as she brushed her lips against his. She felt his gloved hands against her cheek, and the mental warnings that she was on dangerous ground flitted out of her mind.

    If only kissing him didn't feel so very, very good. He tasted of tea, and...oranges. Emma smothered her laugh even as she breathily exhaled her bliss.

    At the same moment amused, embarrassed, and disgusted with herself, she neatly tucked and pulled at his scarf until its configuration satisfied her. She allowed herself one small peck on the cheek before turning away. Disentangling their arms, she turned to start walking, pulling him along.

    "I don't think that jumping his bones in Boston could be construed as 'we should slow down' in any language." After a punctuating poke into the air with her spoon, Fran took another generous spoonful of vanilla ice cream into her mouth, cringing at the cold and grinning with pleasure at the same time. "And, secretly, I don't think you want to."

    Emma gritted her teeth.

    "I promised my opinion, not support. I still don't understand why you want to dump him," Fran complained.

    "Just take it for granted and give me a break here," Emma said. "Isn't it enough that I've told you this much?" She turned to Liz, who sat next to her. "Your verdict?"

    "Your coffin," Liz sighed. "Oh, but what a way to go."

    Next to Fran, Annie shoved her melting scoop of strawberry around in her cup, more absorbed in cataloging the effects stirring had in the thermal process than in Emma's dialogue.

    Less than twenty-four hours after a cold but hot winter's night in Boston, Emma sat outdoors in her T-shirt and jeans. Basking in the seventy-degree weather and Annie's company, even as she was wallowing in her own weakness.

    Wallowing in her own weakness with an audience. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

    Never again. Never again never again. When had she turned into one of those women, the ones that had to call a summit to panic? When had she turned into one of those women, who simply broke down and fessed up? This was not professional behavior. There were four empty benches back in Jane Austen's lab right now. Fran had deliberately punted a column, and Liz had forgone the extensive 20-reaction solvent screen she'd been planning all morning.

    It was supposed to be a rundown of her interviews at Wisconsin, Brown, and Boston University. A play-by-play of question/answer sessions, an in-depth post-game analysis on what certain comments and gestures were supposed to mean. Instead, she'd simply exploded with the details that had shamed her the most: upon seeing Greg in Boston, she'd simply tossed everything aside, from interview concerns to her own uneasy emotional rumblings.

    She hadn't told them that part. The emotional rumblings. Well, the true reason for them. A woman had to save face, after all, and well, she was still new to this talking it over with people thing.

    Just like how she'd not told them that she hadn't planned to spend Thursday in Boston. That she'd put off her flight back to California an extra day just because he wanted to spend a day in the city with her, wandering the Freedom Trail in the biting cold. Wanted to get her opinion on a necklace he'd been contemplating for his mother for Christmas. Wanted to go to Finale's with her and gorge on chocolate desserts, sipping the moment in deliciously with rich port.

    Truth be told, she'd needed the day off. With Greg or no, time and distance was just what she needed to forget her social ineptitude in Wisconsin. Or the fiasco with the projector at Brown. Or the corrosive wit of the eccentric aging virago at Boston University, who considered it her own personal crusade to rid the scientific world of so-called "weak women", one caustic personal attack at a time.

    Emma took another bite of her vanilla mixed with English toffee. "By the way, thanks for babysitting Harriet," she smiled apologetically.

    Liz rolled her eyes. "I think I've been turned off taking on undergrads for the rest of my life."

    Fran laughed. "She'll get into the rhythm eventually."

    "As if your halo weren't shiny enough," Liz muttered. "Come on, I want to hear more details on your hot date with Greg," she turned back to Emma. "Were you recognized anywhere?"

    "We were both bundled up in more than five layers each."

    "Certainly a point in favor of East Coast living, then," Fran observed.

    Emma raised a brow.

    "You know, for privacy's sake." Fran shrugged. "That is, if you're thinking about that stuff. Future stuff."

    Emma concentrated on her next bite of ice cream. Then turned to watch Annie.

    While she'd been more than eager to join them for ice cream, Annie had been reticent throughout their conversation thus far. The very fact that she was willing to join them signaled to Emma that whatever frenzied spirit had possessed her friend had let go. Still, something lingered, though, making Annie very tired.

    "Did you get the draft to Jane yet?" Emma asked quietly.

    Annie met Emma's gaze. Emma nearly winced at the flash of emotional overflow in her friend's eyes. She was trying to hide something and failing miserably at it. Emma turned to Liz and Fran, wondering if they too were aware of Annie's ill-concealed turmoil.

    "Yes, I did," Annie said with deceptive placidness.

    Fran met Emma's eye, then grabbed her purse. Of course. Emma wondered that anything could really slip Fran's notice. "I'd stay a bit longer, but I promised Will we'd set up the new cryostat today," Fran started, apologetically.

    Liz took the last bite of her own ice cream and pushed back her chair. "Thanks for treating, Em."

    "No problem. Thanks for letting me relive the pain," Emma smiled. "I guess we'll save the interview stuff for another time."

    "Sure thing," Liz nodded. She started to walk away, but turned and laughed, "Boys suck." She grinned, and continued with Fran. "I can't believe Will convinced Jane that we needed another cryocool. We have plenty..."

    Still smiling, Emma shifted to the chair opposite Annie's. The smile disappeared as she wondered where to begin. There so much to talk about, and yet saying things aloud just intimidated the crap of her. And while Annie seemed willing to sit with Emma, she still did not give any indication that she was ready to talk. They sat in silence. Emma started pushing around the melting lump of ice cream in her cup as well. She'd sit it out.

    "You don't know what you're doing with him," Annie said flatly, after a few minutes.

    Emma was once more tempted to divert the attention to Annie's own emotions, but backed off. Emma shook her head with a rueful smile. "No, I don't."

    Annie examined the tight line of Emma's lips and cut to the heart of the matter. "You love him."

    Emma opened her mouth the deny it, but exhaled her assent.

    Annie once more considered her bowl of pink liquid, and met Emma's eyes levelly. "I feel sorry for you, I really do."

    Emma smiled. "But."

    "But a small part of me is pleased. And not just happy for you pleased. The spiteful kind too," Annie admitted with a bitter smile, keeping her gaze to the table.

    It was mean. She deserved that, Emma supposed. Years of swanning around with the false knowledge of herself, years of advice doled out without true intimate insight of the dilemma. She once more recalled Fred Wentworth, wondering not for the first time if she'd made a mistake there. No rebuttal seemed appropriate, but Annie wasn't looking for one.

    Annie yawned, stretched, and leaned forward. "Ok, I'm going to tell you, but you can't judge," Annie said. "Especially given where you are now."

    Emma opened her mouth to comment, but Annie's honest, dubious glare had her zipping up immediately. "Go ahead."

    Annie tried to force herself to meet Emma's gaze, but cowardly stared at the table. "I'm still in love with Frederick."

    Emma wanted to punch a hole through the table, but instead simply snapped her plastic spoon in half. The crack was not half as satisfying as she'd hoped. "Oh, really."

    Chapter Fourteen

    Posted on Monday, 8 October 2007

    Date: December 7, 2006
    From: Anne L. Elliot (ale@caltech.edu)
    To: Amy Morelli (more.ames@gmail.com)
    Cc: Emma Woodhouse (woodhouse@caltech.edu), Greg Knightley (gpknightley@gmail.com)
    Subject: Sure I'll be ready.

    I wouldn't miss it for the world. Can't wait!

    A.

    Date: December 7, 2006
    From: Emma M Woodhouse (woodhouse@caltech.edu)
    To: Isabella Woodhouse (irw@ckg.org)
    Subject: re: Grandma's earrings?

    Of course!!

    What do you take me for? I've already dug them out and they're sitting on top of my dresser.

    If all else fails, I'll let you borrow my sweet temper. I think you'll need it.

    E.

    Date: December 8, 2006
    From: Isabella R. Woodhouse (irw@ckg.org)
    To: Emma M. Woodhouse (woodhouse@caltech.edu)
    Subject: YOU try getting married.

    You get a sense a humor now?!?!

    Bread. Half and half. Tomatoes. Flour.

    Emma clenched her hands on the steering wheel.

    Milk. UghFred. Orange Juice. More beer.

    The light turned green and she forced herself not to punch on the accelerator.

    Eggs. Some herb...was it oregano?

    She let out a breath as she finally pulled into a parking spot and got out of the car.

    It was pointless to shop for groceries when she was leaving again so soon, but she simply could not help it. She needed to cook. She needed to bake. She needed to do something before she exploded.

    It had been an anticipated reaction, she was sure. Why else would Annie have avoided telling her about this until now?

    "I need to figure it out for myself this time."

    Well, Emma could name one good thing about the situation: her confusion with Greg was no longer at the forefront of her worries. Not that this was the only thing going on in Emma's mind. No, she wasn't thinking about this. Annie didn't want her to be involved. Emma snatched an abandoned cart, raining all sorts of immoderate curses on the thoughtless shoppers who left their carts in the middle of parking spaces. Not involved.

    Had she not wanted Annie to speak with her again? To tell her what was wrong? And hadn't she, Emma, called it herself? Why was she even surprised?

    Emma smiled tersely to an exiting shopper. It was different, though. It was one thing to dread the abhorred event. It was quite another to acknowledge it.

    Emma grabbed a bunch of scallions, bagged them and threw them into the cart.

    "I'm telling you because you're my friend. You're my closest friend."

    They both would have been better off if Annie placed less trust in her. Emma scowled over the pears. Well, was it really trust when it came with explicit warnings?

    "I'm telling you this right now, Em. Stay out this time. I know I just told you about it, but I'm not telling you because I want you to get involved. I'm not even telling you this because I want to hear an opinion. I just wanted to tell someone, and I wanted you to know."

    Emma paused, making herself take a breath before she grabbed the tomatoes, lest she bruise them.

    "I'm looking for closure, and I'm looking for it without your help."

    It was an exculpating assertion. One that complicated her life a lot less.

    Still, Emma pursed her lips as she contemplated a bag of carrots, still.

    It's none of my business. It'd never been her business, though! In the beginning, had she not deliberately tried to stay out of the Annie/Fred thing? Had she not patiently sat by while Annie gushed, while Annie angsted? And had she not been completely open and supportive when Annie had confronted her with the knowledge of Fred and Emma's own previous relationship?

    Emma had waved the green flag. She'd shrugged and said, "Good for you guys!"

    Was there still garlic around? Emma paused for a second to consider. There was no reason not to get it. Annie actually cooked with garlic, you know. Once a month.

    She'd have to remind Annie to use the garlic.

    She deserved an award for standing back, letting things take their course. Not that she and Fred had had a particularly terrible breakup. If it'd been anything different, maybe she would have said something to Annie right off. Probably. Fred wasn't a bad boyfriend. They dated, it was fun. A few months later, they called it quits. No hard feelings, and pretty simple closure.

    But if that was closure, what exactly was the explosive WWIII that happened in their apartment three days before graduation?

    Ooh. Snow peas. She backtracked.

    If she and Fred already put the nail in the coffin, perhaps one could say that afterwards, through their experiences with Annie, they took that coffin and put it into the center of the Earth, and watched it simply atomize away in the heat.

    The thing was, Emma lamented as she pushed her cart out of the way of a harried father with a screaming infant, she and Fred had been good exes. After their relationship had finished, they'd still managed a few meals and coffee breaks together. In many ways, Emma concluded, as she took up the butter, she and Fred had broken up all over again through Annie.

    Emma winced as she came to that thought. No, it wasn't to say that it was Annie's fault. Certainly not. And despite all the accusations on Fred's part, it certainly wasn't Emma's fault that he and Annie broke up.

    Milk.

    But it was hard to maintain a relationship between three people, even if two of them proclaimed no more interest in the other. It was hard for Emma to keep her thoughts to herself when Annie had started to give them her own voice, nearly word for word.

    Frozen chicken nuggets for Annie. That is, if the poor woman would eat.

    Annie always took the extreme. It was one of the most annoying things about her. Why starve yourself just because you were having issues with a significant other? Seriously, why did one's health rest on the happiness of other people? It's not like Annie Elliot had walked around with a "Drama Queen" sign flashing. Neither was Annie particularly the most obvious choice for a star of her own miserable drama. But somehow, they'd embroiled themselves.

    Somehow, they'd tangled themselves up.

    The rotini was two for one. Definitely a go. Never mind the other four boxes of pasta that were awaiting their own turn at home.

    How could such theoretically intelligent people screw it up so badly?

    It'd been in the details, Emma concluded. At first, a simple joke in commiseration. Then it was beers over shared grievances. And then, before she knew it, Emma was reliving a very different relationship with Fred. One she'd not anticipated.

    How did a good ex become bastard scum?

    There was the flour. Annie had been on a whole wheat kick. Emma shook her head in self pity as she reached for it.

    She'd kind of missed him. "Good ex Fred" really was a genuinely good guy. Certainly good enough to keep in touch with, to still vaguely care for, in that way that if he was happy, then you, too, would be decently happy. (And, of course, if he was unhappy, you still were kind of happy. In an admittedly selfish way.)

    Admittedly, Emma mentally emphasized as she snatched a half-gallon of skim milk from the refrigerated dairy case. Not so much that he deserved dating two women through one, and breaking up three times between the two.

    He'd been inconsiderate and selfish, though. Annie wasn't as independent as Emma. Annie wasn't as strong in her resolutions. She was so easily persuaded to forgo her own responsibilities, simply because Fred wanted to hang out. It was as if Annie simply forgot she had her own motivations when she was with him.

    Emma sucked in a caustic breath when she saw the hypocrisy of her own thoughts. As if her own goals weren't being complicated right now by a certain British actor. But this wasn't about her, it was about Annie.

    It was odd, though. One of the things that Fred had said he'd adored about Emma when they'd started dating was her devotion to her studies, her passion for her chemistry. But people could change their minds.

    We are SOOO not going there. Emma grabbed a pint of Cherry Garcia. We're not going anywhere, because this does not concern you.

    It does. Of course it does. You were the one that blatantly told Annie to dump him to begin with.

    What was she supposed to do? Her friend was in pain, torn between the decision of following her own exciting hopes and goals to Boston for grad school, or compromising with a man she was fighting with every other day by going to San Diego, for a less invigorating research program. She'd asked for advice.

    Maybe Emma was the fool to give it so readily, but the drama had gone on for what seemed like ages. If Annie had gone to San Diego with Fred...what if they hadn't worked out? Where would that have left Annie?

    Starting over twelve years later, far too behind in the field, with two daughters, one which basically pretended that you never existed. That's where.

    No, Emma resolved as she selected a loaf of whole wheat bread, Annie made the right decision. And not just in her eyes, but in general. Even a monkey could have seen that one. Detergent. Good idea. They were running low, last she checked. She was tempted to call Annie to see if she'd already gotten more, but really, a phone conversation about detergent was probably not what Annie wanted right now. And extra detergent never hurt anybody, Emma concluded as she grabbed the bottle and shelved it under the basket of her cart.

    It wasn't interference. First of all, she had simply stated the obvious. Secondly, Annie had asked for Emma's advice because she'd needed courage. Surely, Annie had known when she'd asked for Emma's opinion that Emma wasn't going to tell her some wishy washy crap that she'd wanted to hear; she going to tell her what she what she'd needed to hear. Isn't that what the truest friend did? And didn't Annie tell Fred that her decision to end their relationship had not been because Emma told her to, but in fact because she herself wished it?

    Emma pushed her cart towards the checkout lines. She, Emma, hadn't looked back, well, until lately. There'd been no real reason to. None, she reassured herself as she checked in her purse for her wallet. She'd commiserated with Annie when Annie felt lonely or depressed, hadn't she? She'd helped Annie pick her self-respect back up after Fred's immature kiss-off rant. (If there ever was an example to show that he clearly didn't deserve her...)

    Emma started placing her items on the belt. Glaciers rebounded faster than Annie did, but Emma had never taken her to task for it. Neither had she pressured her friend to give up the ghost, nor had she reminded Annie how terrible a boyfriend Fred really had been. Her role in everything had been exactly as it should have been.

    So why did it bother her now that Annie wanted to handle this one on her own? Had she not been on her own enough? Had she not cornered Emma into telling her to dump Fred? Really, the woman wasn't helpless, so why was Emma treating her thus? Annie could see Fred's flaws for herself, just as she had before.

    But then again, Annie had gotten herself in love with Fred in the first place. And had gotten herself in love again now.

    Emma sighed. No.

    "Paper or plastic?"

    Emma hesitated over her decision.

    She knew it wasn't a good idea, but she couldn't help herself. He'd been so good to her. Leaving him hanging, high and dry when he'd made it so obvious that her attendance was important to him...(not a very actor, at least not to her.) It was only going to make everything messier, but if she didn't go, then what kind of person was she, using him when she needed him, and denying him when he needed her?

    "Just a bit of this where?" Emma asked, holding up a compact.

    Liz sat up from her prone position on the bed to take a glance. "It's eyeshadow. I'd guess your eyes."

    Emma frowned over the coral color. "I'm not sure I should be trusted with this."

    "Of course you're not. That's why I'm here watching you."

    Emma scowled at the compact. It'd been her own idea, in preparation for the London nuptials. After all, she was not going to be caught off guard by Taylor & Co. again. She was going to be fantastic. Witty. Charming. And if not that, she was determined to at least look the part, if only so that no one could easily and immediately find fault with her. "Why did I need three different things of eyeshadow? I don't have three eyes."

    "Haha. Very funny, Einstein. Did you learn nothing from earlier today?"

    Emma bit her lip. "Fine, I'll try what I think I remember, but I swear if I look like a clown at the end I will do the same thing to you. On your defense date."

    Liz chuckled. "Now why wouldn't I want to correct you? I've been waiting two years for the opportunity to tell you that you're wrong."

    Emma started to protest, "I'm wrong-"

    "Yeah, it's a joke. Let it go."

    Emma turned back to the mirror, took up the applicator brush, took a breath, but turned back to Liz. "I have to go tonight."

    Liz looked at Emma carefully, glib retort ready, but at the last minute retracted. The woman hardly looked like she was ready for the time of her life. Liz wondered if now was the moment when Emma would give in, and tell her what was going on.

    "He's been good to me."

    That was easy to reply to. "Yes, he has."

    "There will be people watching tonight."

    "He's bringing you and Annie," Liz stated carefully. "Just don't neck during the movie and you'll be fine. And if you do get nervous about how things appear," she shrugged, "I'm pretty sure Annie wouldn't mind necking with him. You know, for appearance's sake."

    Emma nodded, joke completely lost on her. Surely, even if there was confusion now, soon enough they wouldn't be around each other any more, and people would figure out that there was nothing to watch.

    She tried to reassure herself that her professional life and personal life had nothing to do with each other, that her merits as a leader of her own research group would be seen, regardless of whether or not the interviewer saw some random magazine picture. After all, hadn't the damage already been done before, and hadn't she been doing all right? Hadn't she overreacted just a bit before?

    She shook her head. Regardless of all the stories she was weaving for herself right now, what she wanted didn't matter.

    A person she cared about was having a movie premiere tonight. That person was concerned about how his performance was received. In all honesty, he was nervous, had been nervous for some time now. And while he'd not expressed the true extent of those nerves to her, she understood that they were there, regardless.

    And it didn't matter if he was her boyfriend. He was her friend. She'd do the same for Annie, right?

    Emma looked down at her applicator brush again and then back at herself once more in the mirror. Robotically, she applied the powder. Liz always seemed so much more natural or at least...creative about it when she applied hers.

    "Boy, are you stingy."

    Emma paused, but did not move. "I don't want to look like a hooker!"

    "You'll need a lot more than that to get to hooker status," Liz laughed. Serious, she elaborated. "Trust me, putting on a bit more won't make you look weird."

    Emma huffed as she streaked some more on, being careful to keep the shading even. She grabbed the compact of brown shadow.

    "Can we say 'interview'?"

    "Can we say '$200 on makeup I presume to want to wear again'? Besides, what happened to Rite Aid?" Emma lamented over the painful lunch hour she'd spent at a Macy's counter "getting her colors done".

    Liz glared at her.

    Emma sighed as she once more applied herself to painting herself pretty. Liz narrowed her eyes in assessment. The other form of peer review. Sighing, Emma grabbed the last compact and opened it. Before she applied, she took a moment to assess. It didn't look disappointing, and it looked similar to what she'd looked like when the Macy's clerk had been finished. Emma awkwardly handled the applicator as she tried to assess exactly where the highlighting color belonged. In the end, she poked and dabbed and hoped for the best.

    "My baby girl's growing up," Liz laughed.

    Emma shook her head as she grabbed the mascara.

    Liz cleared her throat in protest.

    "Can't we just forgo the eye liner tonight?" Emma asked, attempting but failing to keep the whine out of her voice.

    Liz continued to stare.

    "Fine, fine."

    Emma gingerly held up the tube of liquid liner, unscrewed it, and then leaned in closely to the mirror.

    "Careful there, you're going to start making out with yourself soon."

    Emma grumbled, sat back, then focused. The thought that if she missed and drew a line up to her brow she'd have to start all over again didn't intimidate her in the least. She certainly wasn't thinking that.

    "Don't do the Cleopatra. Just be subtle," Liz offered one last word of advice.

    "Great," Emma muttered. "No noises out of you until I'm done." Taking one deep breath to collect up some focus, she leaned close to the mirror once more. She was blinking more than a strobe light. "I have great coordination. I'm a chemist," she told herself.

    Liz laughed in sympathy. "Just swipe and worry later."

    Emma scowled at herself once more. Leaned in close once more. With a quick swipe, her right eye was done. Take that.

    She leaned close for the other eye. Frustrated that she couldn't handle it with her steady right hand, she watched her own left hand wearily. The weaker hand. I can take this. Just swipe and worry later.

    She went for it.

    "Crap."

    "It was good," Emma said succinctly, picking at a piece of lint on her warp.

    Annie rolled her eyes and reached out to grab Greg's hand in a firm clasp. "Greg, the movie was fantastic. You were absolutely fantastic."

    Greg nodded sheepishly, acknowledging what must have been his one hundred seventy-fifth compliment of the evening.

    And the night was still young. The idea of going to the Caltech faculty club and talking to more people about Feynman...it simply did not appeal. Greg sank into his seat and wished he could have simply directed the driver to take them back to Emma and Annie's apartment.

    He should have been over the moon. The movie was pretty impressive. He looked impressive. He should have been feeling pretty lucky, pretty accomplished. If he was honest, the performance was better than his previous ones. The movie had been of a higher caliber; had he not been completely surprised at it, himself? Had the praise not been lined with Oscar-gleam? He'd pulled it off. He'd gotten away with it.

    But instead of feeling elation or pride, he simply felt exhausted.

    Annie yawned. "Now, I'm going to have to be very, very lame."

    "I don't like where this conversation is going..." Greg warned.

    Annie laughed. "I have NMR time at midnight."

    Emma simply stared. Greg was a bit surprised, himself. Annie had seem so enthusiastic when they'd first talked about the premiere, weeks back: had her curiosity about the premiere/party experience waned?

    Annie sighed. "Jane said she wouldn't even look at my draft until I tried the study at 70 degrees."

    Emma nodded and bit her lip. Was it in envy or resignation? Greg was startled when she swore, hissed, and then drew a tube of lipstick and a hand mirror out of her bag. Amused, Greg turned and lowered the partition and spoke to their driver, "Can you bring us back to the apartment, please?"

    "Sure thing."

    Emma was speaking quietly with Annie. "I'm glad that you could still make the time to join us for the movie, at least." The polite remark was not lost on Greg, and he wondered at it. Wondered at why Emma was so cautious with her friend.

    "Not at all a problem. I wasn't able to get the instrument until midnight anyway," Annie shrugged. "I really enjoyed the movie, Greg."

    Greg nodded. The limo pulled at up to the apartment and Annie made to throw open the door and hop out, but Emma restrained her with a touch on the arm. "Do you need someone to go to lab with you?"

    "Oh, no. I called Edward right before we left the theater. He'll be around lab tonight."

    Emma laughed in surprise. "Edward Ferrars?"

    "We've had a lot of opportunities to interact in the past few weeks," Annie observed as the door was opened. "What, with raiding your glassware at the same time of night..."

    A genuine glimmer of pleasure infused Emma's eyes at the joke. Greg made for the exit, told her quietly he'd be a moment, and Emma nodded.

    Annie turned to him with embarrassment as they walked through the courtyard to the door. "You really didn't have to walk me."

    "No I didn't, but I wanted to. Thank you so much for attending."

    Annie nodded. "The pleasure was all mine. I had a really great time. And the movie really is good. Seriously, if it weren't for this NMR time..." she began, as she withdrew her keys from her beaded purse. She unlocked the door in silence.

    Conviction was absent from her tone, but Greg wasn't going to push her. It was Emma's problem, Emma's responsibility, whatever it was. "Well then," he took her hand up in his and laid a kiss on it.

    Annie smiled and tiptoed up to kiss him on the cheek. "Thanks, Greg."

    Greg smiled back and made for the street.

    "Greg!"

    He turned back.

    "She cried when your wife died. During the movie."

    He'd noticed, but it was sweet of Annie to observe it anyway. Greg laughed. "Who didn't?"

    Emma was adjusting the bust line of her gown as he got back in the car. "It's tight," she said quickly to his raised eyebrows.

    Greg laughed as he got in and sat beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. "By all means..."

    She blushed, but turned towards him, putting her cheek against the fine fabric of his tuxedo jacket. The driver got back in the front seat. "We'll be going to the party now, Mr. Green," Greg informed the driver.

    "All right, Mr. Knightley."

    The partition went back up, leaving the two in dark privacy. Emma took his hand in hers, and leaned against him. And while he enjoyed the warmth of her, the intoxicating apple shampoo smell of her, he wondered why she'd never felt so distant. He was tempted to ask what was wrong with Annie, but Emma seemed completely enthralled in the silence, closing her eyes to the world.

    As they pulled into the parking lot, Emma raised her eyes to his, emotion bright in her irises. She hesitated over her words, but they burst out nonetheless: "You did a good job, and you should be proud." He was surprised how overpowering her quick kiss was. Within a blink of an eye, she was out of the car holding her arm out for his, a deceptively calm smile upon her lips.

    Conversation was thick and ubiquitous when they entered the courtyard of the Atheneum. Emma surreptitiously let her hold on his arm loosen. When a woman came by with a tray, Emma let go completely and grabbed two flutes of champagne, handing one to Greg. "To the man of the evening," she said with a smile, smoothly clinking her glass to his.

    It was the first event that they were attending publicly since their relationship had started, and he'd never seen her so bright. So chummy.

    It was to be expected, he supposed.

    "Greg, absolutely masterful!" William Cox approached with a heavy pat on the back.

    Emma smiled widely at the man.

    "Emma, this is William Cox, one of the producers. William, this is-"

    "Emma Woodhouse," she offered with a friendly smile.

    Greg bristled at her interruption. It wasn't as if he was going to say "my girlfriend". He'd read the boundaries on her face.

    "Very good to meet you." William nodded. "Greg, we have been astounded with the reaction this evening! People are absolutely enthralled."

    "Anything I can do to help," Greg observed wryly with another pull of champagne.

    Emma smiled again, all politeness.

    "Greg!" Before Greg could even recognize the woman, she was in his arms, giving a tight strong hug.

    One sniff of Chanel No. 5 had him grinning. "Janette!" he greeted into her curls, and gave a quick kiss on the cheek.

    "Greg, wasn't it amazing?" she planted a loud kiss on his lips. "I'm so excited!!! Emma!" Janette gushed as she saw the woman standing to the side.

    Emma held out a hand and exchanged kisses on the cheek glimmeringly. She withstood the fierce hug similarly. "Janette. So great to see you."

    "I'm so happy to see you again."

    "Glad to oblige," Emma said. At length, she tilted her head in a studied, admiring glance. "I love your dress."

    "Isn't it fantastic?" Janette laughed, as she spun, one ivory arm up in pose. "But shame on you, trying to steer the subject away preemptively. Why haven't we had lunch yet?"

    Emma laughed self-consciously. "I've been traveling a lot lately."

    "Greg, I wanted you to meet Olivia Dixon, she's the CEO of Paramount..." William said quietly. "I think she was hoping to meet Janette as well, but I think she's a bit busy, eh?"

    Seeing the two golden heads ducked closely in conversation, he envied Emma and Janette's easy manner. Emma laughed loudly. He could have sworn it carried a hint of falsity, but that was also expected. It was the environment, and nerves. But Janette would set her at ease. Emma looked so comfortable with her. "Sure thing," he said to William.

    Emma gave a small nod as he walked away, and turned back to Janette. "So I was able to corner one of the James group members," she began eagerly.

    He gave the arch of her foot a companionable rub and she groaned her happiness.

    "I'm sorry, I didn't realize there wouldn't be much seating."

    Her left eye cracked open and she sent a wary smile. "It's all right, Greg," she reached for his hand.

    The abandoned shiny slingbacks lay by the door. Hairpins littered the carpet, leading to the couch.

    "It's a pity I didn't remember to pack that moscato," she lamented, toying with the back of his hand.

    "Right, because what we need right now is more alcohol," he observed her dilated pupils in the dim light. "How many glasses of champagne did I see you reach for tonight?"

    It wasn't the champagne. It was the success. Emma shrugged. "You're exaggerating. I only had three glasses. And believe me, I sopped it sufficiently with the asparagus and bruschetta."

    He nodded. "You know," he observed companionably, "We could have easily had the moscato had we stayed at your place tonight..." he ventured, tracing a line on her leg.

    Emma started to sit up. Greg put a hand over her heart, and pushed her back over the couch cushions, leaning over her.

    Emma reached up, pulled his head down and kissed him on the nose, then the mouth playfully. More serious, she began. "I..."

    Greg rebuked himself. Patience. Her limbs were so fluid, she was so relaxed. Why did he feel the pressing need to push her when she'd at least come tonight? "I'm glad you came," he said, abandoning his chastisement with another soft kiss.

    Emma sighed, putting limp arms over his shoulder. "It was..." she shrugged, "...only fair."

    Greg frowned. "Only fair?"

    "You've been so...good to me," Emma said quietly, playing with a curl of his hair.

    Greg sat back up out of reach and undid his cuff links. After a moment to gather his thoughts, he broached the topic lightly, "You know, just because I do good things for you-"

    Emma interrupted. "I know I was under no obligation. But...Greg, that's just the way things work in my mind."

    "So you're saying that if-"

    He couldn't change the way her mind worked, and she wondered at why he even dreamed he could. Emma shook her head tiredly. "Let's not play that game right now, Greg. I went. I tried. Isn't that good enough?"

    He was silent.

    Emma was too tired for an argument. She'd spent the past three hours falling over her dignity making sure that people around her weren't bored. She'd made sure that it looked like she was having a good time. And she'd done her best to put Greg's worries over her at ease. Really, the least he could do now to just drop it.

    He saw her discomfort. He was impatient, tired of being generous, and tired of knowing her too well. He leaned back down, reached a hand to her cheek, smiling over the smeared eyeliner and the dusting of migrating eye shadow on her cheekbones.

    It had to be enough. "It's good," he answered, bending close to kiss her. "It's really good," he repeated again, as he gathered her up in his arms.

    Continued in Next Section

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