Beginning, Section VI

Chapter Fifteen

Posted on Monday, 22 October 2007

Date: December 6, 2006
From: Harriet Smith (harsmith@caltech.edu)
To: Emma M. Woodhouse (woodhouse@caltech.edu)
Subject: Is the reduction supposed to be black?

Hi Emma! I hope you're having a good time wherever you are...Santa Barbara? I just have a quick question. I just set up the reduction and it turned black when I added the LAH. Is it supposed to do that?

Harriet

---

Date: December 6, 2006
From: Harriet Smith (harsmith@caltech.edu)
To: Emma M. Woodhouse(woodhouse@caltech.edu)
Subject: Nevermind.

Elinor told me.

Harriet

---

Date: December 7, 2006
From: Harriet Smith (harsmith@caltech.edu)
To: Emma M. Woodhouse (woodhouse@caltech.edu)
Subject: The diastereomers

I can't get the diastereomers separated using the conditions you used! Am I missing something?

Harriet

---

Date: December 7, 2006
From: Harriet Smith (harsmith@caltech.edu)
To: Emma M. Woodhouse (woodhouse@caltech.edu)
Subject: Nevermind.

Annie showed me.

Harriet

---

Date: December 8, 2006
From: Harriet Smith (harsmith@caltech.edu)
To: Emma M. Woodhouse (woodhouse@caltech.edu)
Subject: I think I broke the NMR

I can't get my sample out!

Harriet

---

Date: December 8, 2006
From: Harriet Smith (harsmith@caltech.edu)
To: Emma M. Woodhouse (woodhouse@caltech.edu)
Subject: Nevermind.

Catherine showed me.

---

Date: December 8, 2006
From: Frances M. Price(fprice@caltech.edu)
To: Emma M. Woodhouse (woodhouse@caltech.edu)
Subject: No worries...

Seriously. We've taken her computer off the network now.

Knock ‘em dead at Chapel Hill! Say hi to Greg for me when you get to England!

Fran

The knock on the door made her whimper, but she pushed herself up off the bed. After teetering a moment in her shoes and shaking the dizzying weariness out of her head, she shuffled out of the bedroom and through the elegant beige and seafoam green suite, pulling at her underwear, trying to straighten the skirt of her pastel suit. After giving the wide brim of her hat a decided pull into place and making a concerted effort to "relax her eye muscles just a bit more", she opened the door to the day, even if she wasn't entirely ready for it.

And when she ascertained the identity of her visitor, she squealed and threw herself into his arms; Greg Knightley had never seemed as handsome, sexy, and perfect as he did at that very moment.

"Strange, I don't recognize you," he bent close under the brim of her hat, giving her a quick kiss. Then ducked under once more, for a longer one. Holding her back in his embrace, he examined her. "Could it be? Emma, I must say, this change is..."

"Stunning? Have you never seen me more feminine?" she scowled darkly. "And the question is rhetorical. You say anything and one of these really sharp heels is going to go right through your foot," she threatened, with a petulant stamp.

The mortification gave her cheeks color, which was good. Her joy made her eyes sparkle, which he was glad of. However, there were dark circles under her eyes. Though it was only eight in the morning, she already shifted from foot to foot as if she'd been walking in her shoes all day. Rather than remark on it, which would have embarrassed her, he simply smiled.

He really should have arranged to be here, and not in New York, the previous three days. He'd known, hadn't he, that she'd need him when she arrived? Instead, he'd listened to her blasé assertions that she'd be all right. He'd given in to pressures from his agent and assistant, as well as the movie production team, in partaking in the endless parade of talk shows promoting Feynman. Emma, understanding the demands and responsibilities of a career, had been more than supportive.

It had been the right thing to do, of course. But, watching that initial flush fade from her pale cheek, he could not feel completely blameless for her current state.

"I must say I've missed that sunny personality of yours," he said, cupping her face in his hands. Frequent travel had rendered the skin dry and rough. Her lips looked chapped, and while she would have died before confessing her discontent with her looks, he was sure that her physical discomfort, at the very least, was great.

Emma took his hands in her dry ones and played with them. With a sly smile, she precluded his attempt at gallantry. "You were pretty special when you were in California, but here and now I'm just surrounded by that particular British wit. I'll have you know you're expendable..." she turned back into the room to grab her purse, also another Isabella force-on.

Refusing to be ignored, he took her in his arms once more and gave a soft kiss on her forehead. "It's good to see you again."

"Very good," she said, quietly, earnestly. She wanted him to hold her tighter, until there was no air left in her, no noise, no tiredness. Ruefully, she pulled at one of the buttons of her pink jacket. A thread threatened to come undone. Emma dropped her hand away immediately. "Come on. Isabella's not in the right frame of mind for people to arrive late," she said.

After a check in her purse for her key card, she closed the door behind them and slowly walked next to him down the hall towards the elevators. The grim expression on her face was more appropriate for an execution.

"My parents are actually quite wonderful people. They're not going to behead you," he mused, taking her hand.

She untangled their fingers to once more adjust her hat. Realizing that she must have been scowling, she cursed under her breath and plastered on a fake smile.

"Not much better, but a vast improvement," he grinned. "Now if we could get that ‘I'm sucking on a lemon' grimace out of your eyes, we'll be set."

And this time, while he was certainly desirous of the contact, he was wise enough not to reach for her.

"Greg, how long have you known me?"

Greg gave his mother a speculative glance over his champagne. "This is a trick question, right?"

"And how long have I known you?"

"Definitely a trick question," Greg said as he put the flute down and took up his fork once more.

From the other side of the table, where he appeared to be in conversation with Dennis Woodhouse, Greg's father gave him a small smile, clearly glad that he was not involved in the whole business.

The man had no paternal protective instinct whatsoever.

"What are you doing with her?"

As his mother was publicly a tactful woman, he could only assume that the "her" being referred to was Emma, as only two women were absent from the table, and the other was Isabella.

"Fun things. Things that are none of your business," he answered under his breath.

Terra leaned her perfectly arranged French twist closer to her son's head. "It is, if you're in love with her."

Greg took a bite of his eggs and focused on chewing. Leigh Otway was watching them. He leaned closer to his mother. "Why don't we save this topic for later?"

His mother glared at him, clearly beyond impatient with him. "Greg," she said loudly. "I was hoping to go into the kitchen to give my regards and compliments to Emily. I was hoping you'd join me, seeing as she's such a fan of yours," she swept out of her chair, regally. She extended her elegant, perfectly moisturized and manicured hand towards her son.

"But of course, always glad to oblige," he said, pushing his chair back, and taking his mother's hand to wrap it around his arm. His brother and father sent him sympathetic looks. He only hoped that John didn't know what it was about; he had yet to spend enough time with the happy couple to find out just how many of "John's secrets" became "John and Isabella's secrets".

He followed his mother out of the dining room, and tried to ascertain how much longer Emma would take in the loo. He did not want to leave her alone.

"Come now, what's the worst that could happen?" his mother admonished, reading his mind.

They moved out of eyesight of the table, stopping in an alcove on the way to the kitchen.

"Now let me have a look at you," his mother brushed his shoulders carefully. "A very fine suit," she observed. "Did you get it in New York?"

"Yes, Amy procured it a few days ago," he replied.

"Her eye doesn't miss much. This is cut perfectly," Terra nodded approvingly.

Greg sighed. "I'll let her know you approve." He ran a hand through his hair as he bent past a plant to check if Emma had returned to the table. Seeing her seated stiffly next to Taylor, he stood uneasily in his polished wingtips. "Might we..."

"I was giving you the option of stalling a bit longer."

"Such a caring, understanding mother!" he said, absently kissing her on the cheek, trying to steer her back.

Terra laughed quietly, drawing his attention back to her with a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder. "A concerned mother."

"Whatever for?"

"If you love her, if she's it, well, I'll adore her," she said quietly.

Greg shook his head. "What's this supposed to mean, 'if'?" he bristled, defensively.

His mother looked around. "I confess..."

He already didn't like how this was starting.

"...I had not pictured her so..."

Greg rolled his eyes. "So uncomfortable? Stiff? Quiet? Mum, she's halfway around the world, dressed up and strutted around with little more consideration than a Barbie doll. Her sister, despite being quite the legal genius, has no capacity of organization, nor a sound sense of time..."

"Well, then, why does she not speak up?" Terra asked reasonably.

Greg bent to kiss his mother. "That would be entirely too obvious and make entirely too much sense."

"I always had the impression that, when it came down to it, Emma was all sense."

Greg smiled wistfully. "And, like most people, the one exception to the general rule is family. She wants to please them."

Terra looked around her son's tall frame back at the woman in question. She'd wanted to like her. If only for the simple reason that the woman, herself, had seemed an interesting, fascinatingly clever person. Put together with Greg's own nebulous references to their time spent together, Terra was almost positive...but no. The woman who quietly ate, laughed and smiled exaggeratedly just tried too hard: that wasn't what Terra had expected. In fact, sitting at the same table made Terra tense and nervous. "Well then I suppose she is sweeter than she appears to be."

Greg laughed. "Never have I ever heard her described as sweet. I think she'd be completely mortified if she found out. Come, now that I know you'll give her a fair chance to impress you some other day, let's get back to the table."

"No. Not yet," she stayed him with a firm hand to his arm.

"Ah yes, Emily. Though I thought that was a plot," he moved towards the kitchen.

"No," Terra gave her foot a small stamp in exasperation.

Greg looked at his mother expectantly. What did she hope to get out of this? It was clear; sadly, not a fan of Emma. How many people were? Had she not made a terrible first impression on him? Maybe a part of him had hoped that as his wise and discerning mother, she could have seen through the act...

He looked so genuinely confused; she wanted to wring his neck! Honestly, John was not half so obtuse or terse when he'd first told her of Isabella. "Well. What's she really like, then?"

Greg sighed in exasperation. "She's lovely. Trust me."

"And how long have you two been seeing each other?"

"A couple of months now."

"A couple of months and you waited until I figured it out for myself? And how come you two are so...offish together?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you're sitting three seats away from her, flirting with another woman, and she seems to have no problems with it whatsoever."

"Let's be glad she's not so jealous! Given my line of work..."

"...And I don't think anybody else knows. Nobody knows, do they?"

Whatever had been on his agenda this morning, defending his relationship, the reasons and happenings of it, had not figured in the list. And strangely, he was now as reluctant to discuss them with others as Emma was. "Her stepmother."

"Are you serious? That's it?"

"Does it look like Isabella can see anything that isn't coming at her head directly these days?"

"Surely, one of the other bridesmaids..."

Greg laughed tiredly, knowing thoroughly the extent of confidence Emma would ever want to extend to them. "None of their business. None of this is."

Terra frowned, lips pouted in serious thought. "You mean to say that poor girl is bending herself backwards to make herself likeable to people who don't even know or like her?"

"Her family still loves her, even if they don't completely understand her."

Terra shook her head.

"Now, as her only true ally, I would like to get back to the table."

The congestion of thoughts and emotions needed airing. She grabbed her son and held him close once more.

He wrapped his arms around her securely, resting his chin on her head. And while he didn't know if he truly appreciated the examination, he thanked her for it all the same. At length, she pushed herself back in his embrace with a sigh. Her darling still looked so upset! That wouldn't do. "Well," she said, taking his arm and directing him towards the kitchen, "if you really care for her then, we've got to help her out. She needs to get away from her sister before she snaps into pieces, or she snaps and kills someone!"

"It's still missing something," Isabella eyed her critically.

"Straps?" Emma asked, helpfully. She adjusted the bodice of the black sheath, glad she hadn't had that last helping of eggs benedict during brunch.

"Stop fidgeting! The dress looks fabulous on you and I want you to keep it."

Of course. She supposed it'd been fortunate that, due to Isabella's fashionista tastes and high closet turnover, Emma had been able to get away without purchasing new suits for years. And the gowns had certainly had come in handy when she and Greg had started attending premieres together. All the same, Emma's own closet was starting to feel a bit bloated these days. "I don't get out all that much," she shifted uncomfortably. "Really, I don't need-"

Isabella reached into her jewelry box and withdrew a simple line of diamonds and laid them across Emma's collarbones. "Hm."

The necklace felt cold against her skin but Emma didn't notice. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that Greg is a wonderful man."

Emma cleared the nerves out of her throat. "Then you should be marrying him and not his brother," she suggested.

"This looks great. You're going to wear this," Isabella came around behind her and quickly clipped the clasp behind Emma's neck.

Sitting at the counter in yet another of her sister's dresses, Emma felt even less herself. In her sister's makeup, in her sister's necklace, and her hair styled to her sister's taste, Emma wondered if any part of her remained. Most likely not, as the quiet scientist had no business in this world.

That lesson, one more time. Just in case she hadn't picked up on it in the past few days.

And while she'd felt awkward and uncomfortable before, this time she simply felt fake. She could never be this woman in the mirror. The minute she opened her mouth, it simply wouldn't work.

More importantly, that woman in the mirror would never reflect her.

How did this happen? It was one thing to "date publicly" in Hollywood, but quite another to "just go out together" in front of family. Especially when it was Greg's family. But surely it wasn't a real date, was it? The invitation had been so casually tossed: "Oh, my husband and I have another two seats for the opera this evening. Perhaps you'd like to join us? Maybe Greg, are you free this evening to join us as well?"

While Isabella had been a bit reluctant at first to let one of her invitation-folding minions off for the evening, Karen's enthusiastic support preempted everything: "Such a fantastic idea! Emma hasn't had a moment to pause and enjoy London. I think it's a very good thing, don't you?" she turned to Emma.

The only thing that would have made the whole thing a bit more obvious would have been if Karen had punctuated with a tacky wink-wink.

Emma accepted, of course. If only to get away for the evening.

But if she'd known that her acceptance would have resulted in this, maybe she would have reconsidered.

She forced a smile to her sister while Isabella once more stepped back and reassessed.

"There's still something off...."

Me.

"...but you look great, regardless," Isabella finished. "I give up. You're done."

Was that supposed to be a compliment? Emma stood up, putting out a hand to her chair to steady herself.

Emma felt relieved when she heard the knock at the door. "That's Greg. On the dot," she smiled. She'd taught him that. She moved to exit the bedroom, but before she could enter the parlor, Isabella cut her off. "No no. Let me get it. A woman must make an entrance."

There were many rules that Emma had always been aware of but never obeyed herself. Greg never seemed to have a problem with her disregard for conventions. But since she was on her sister's newly acquired turf, she decided to just let it be. She'd wanted a moment to herself anyhow.

Checking her reflection once more, she sighed tiredly.

Well, at least this evening was going to be...different from the rest. Probably more pleasant. Well, most likely. She wasn't entirely sure what Greg's parents thought of her, and the idea of spending an evening with his parents would have held little invitation in her eyes, had it not been for the simple idea of being away for the evening, and not folding invitations, listening to Leigh go on again about her commitmentphobic boyfriend, and drinking martinis she could barely afford with the rest of the bridesmaids.

She only hoped that he didn't tell them anything. She didn't want to deal with more expectations, more scrutiny. She just wanted Greg. She wanted to be with him, and enjoy his company. And if they had to be behave a bit...more politely, then so be it.

But the moment Isabella had followed her into her hotel suite an hour and half ago, Emma realized that tonight wasn't going to be just another evening with Greg.

The peace and comfort she'd managed to find in his companionship was again gone. And this time, it wasn't because either of them had done anything.

There was the way the Greg's mother looked at her. There was the way Isabella had taken over every aspect of her appearance so carefully, as if the wrong necklace would doom the evening to failure. There was the way that the other bridesmaids looked at her with envy for the remainder of the brunch, for the remainder of their afternoon through errands.

Maybe some thought it was just an evening spent away from wedding preparations. Maybe others thought it was an enviable, glamorous "first date" in one of the most exclusive, luxurious venues possible (with matching parents). Maybe some just didn't care. But Emma didn't like that her evening was now the subject of some people's thoughts.

Taylor was certainly pouting. As the maid of honor, wasn't she the first in line for hanging out with the best man and his parents?

She wondered how Greg was holding up to the pressure. And she felt sorry for him. She only knew that given this tough audience, she actually longed for the spotlight of Hollywood.

"Emma, are you ready?"

Emma turned and got up off her chair. It was time.

"You should have seen it. Sixteen of them, one after another."

Greg shook his head, laughing. "But you say it's under control now?"

"Appears to be," Emma sighed, stretching her arms above her head. "She's not my problem anymore, at least."

"No, she's Annie's, Elinor's, and Catherine's."

"And I owe them two rounds of margaritas at Amigo's."

"Harriet didn't have these issues the previous weeks, when you were out of town before?" Greg poured the wine.

Emma shook her head. "She's an undergrad who has yet to learn the art of multitasking. I'm just glad she's in now, even if she's sucking at it. Her finals are in two weeks and I'm sure she'll be gone again just as quickly."

"Ah," he sighed, ruefully, handing her a glass. "To you," he proposed.

"Ha. To your mom," Emma said, kissing his glass with hers.

Emma drew the glass up to her nose and took a deep breath. Rich. After a quick swirl in the light to check the color and viscosity, she took a taste. When the flavor burst on her tongue, she groaned. "Isabella and John may be 'doing it up fancy' for this wedding, but they've got nothing on you in wine palate."

She put aside her glass and trapped him at the counter. Grabbing him on both sides of his face, she pulled his head down to hers for a kiss. Just because she could.

As she backed away from his embrace, she sighed over their surroundings. She'd lusted over kitchens like this. It was clean, neat, and organized, sleek and equipped. Her fingers ached. "Can I help?"

Greg looked very much at home in the T-shirt and jeans he'd changed into after he'd finished their tour of his large, airy flat. He started chopping the mushrooms. "No, you absolutely cannot," Greg stated firmly.

"Then what do I do?" she frowned in her disappointment.

He put down the knife momentarily, and bestowed a kiss on her nose.

At his urging, she'd changed into an old sweatshirt and pair of flannel pajama bottoms, and although the clothes were his, she looked much more like herself than she did in the dress her sister had rigged her up in.

When he'd arrived at her hotel room, flowers in hand, and taken his first look at her, he'd immediately changed his plans. The dinner reservations and box at Covent Gardens were abandoned; some distant cousins were called on to take their place and send their regrets. Instead, he insisted on taking her back home, where he would cook dinner for the two of them.

He took her hands. "You are going to relax."

"I've been relaxing this whole trip. I haven't thought about chemistry at all."

"You haven't been thinking about chemistry, but you definitely have not been relaxing. Here," he guided her to a stool by the kitchen island. "You're going to sit here and I'm going to entertain you."

"Well, that doesn't sound like a low-stress endeavor. It's hard for me to sit still, and harder still to be entertained," she smiled as she went to take her perch.

Though he'd anticipated recounting some story about the driver he had in New York, her quiet smile promised him that his just being there was enough for now. So he worked in silence for a bit. When he turned back to her, he saw that she'd brought a knee up and rested her chin on it. Her eyes were glazed over in a mask of sleepy dreaminess. "Lovely."

"Not as lovely as I was in the dress before, though, right?"

"No, lovelier," he replied, looking her in the eye.

She looked surprised at his emphatic statement, but let it go. "I didn't realize you cooked. I thought that tiramisu was just for a special occasion..."

"You could say that we share this passion," he smiled as he took out the garlic and separated out two cloves. He moved to the oven to set the temperature. "I love to cook. I can't boast desserts like yours, but I've been told that my sautéed mushrooms are to die for."

She wondered why she'd never known this. It certainly looked like it was a big part of his life. But then again, she'd never seen his London home. "So what are we having?" she asked, to distract her thoughts.

"A pear and stilton salad to start. Lamb chops, the mushrooms, and asparagus," he listed as he crushed and chopped the garlic.

"And to finish?"

"Baked apples."

She sighed in anticipation. "Sounds delightful."

He turned the stove on and set a frying pan on top of the burner. "How goes the wedding preparations?"

Emma groaned.

"I see we should avoid conversations about the blessed day," he smiled.

"It'll be blessed because it'll all be over with," Emma sighed. "Most of it is set now. I know that it's Isabella's thing, but the anticipation is killing me."

He grinned at her as he poured a measured amount of olive oil onto the pan.

"So what were you roped into doing? Planning the bachelor party?" she asked.

"Well, yes, but mainly I just drive around and pick up things whenever John or your sister calls in a panic."

Emma pondered it for a second and then replied triumphantly, "I think I have it better than you do."

"You're right, you do. But I just got started today, whereas you've been at it for four already," he kissed her on the forehead. "Poor baby."

She watched his back as he turned to the counter. "Is it really envy that has single people hating weddings? Or is it the obligations?"

"I'd say a little of both," he turned to grab the chopped garlic.

As he seemed preoccupied with his garlic, she looked around, unable to hide her joy at being here with him. Away from Isabella. Away from wedding preparations. Simply away from everything. Free.

While he didn't really seem to pressure her into keeping him entertained, she really just wanted to enjoy this moment with him. And wanted to enjoy him. It was just so easy. "I really do like your brother," she started conversationally. "I've enjoyed seeing him here."

"Well, that's of great relief, as he'll be your brother soon."

Emma laughed. "As will you." And she nearly melted when he added the garlic to the pan. The snap and crackle and the sharp smell of fresh frying garlic had her curling her toes. "That smells unbelievably good."

"I try," he smiled wryly.

He moved around easily, grabbing the chopped mushrooms and laying them out on the pan. "I could get used to this," she uttered before realizing it.

He looked up at her with a boyish smile before he starting to push around the mushrooms on the pan. "I couldn't cook in Pasadena because you wouldn't let me into your kitchen."

"You never announced any longing to work in my kitchen and, in my defense, I had no idea you were such a good cook. But I'll tell you what: if this is as good as it smells, I'll let you cook any time you want back in Pasadena," she grinned.

"How very generous of you," he went to the oven to check on the lamb chops.

"You should feel honored that I'm even considering allowing you into my kitchen."

"Tell you what: we'll switch off."

Emma considered the proposal for only a millisecond. "Sure."

"All right," he gestured for her to come around the island and stand next to him. Using a pair of chopsticks, he picked up a mushroom and blew on it gently. "Have a taste."

It smelled tantalizing and she didn't need further urging. Upon her first chew, she sighed slowly in reverence. The butter and garlic were velvety rich, the mushroom perfect in texture. Leaning against the countertop, she closed her eyes in pure appreciation.

When she opened her eyes again, she saw his smug smile. And shook her head. "These are definitely worth feeling cocky over."

"I'm glad you like them," he replied warmly.

He was just so...Greg. And he was just so simply great. She sighed and threw her arms around him in appreciation. "Greg, you're fabulous."

He was a masochist. There was no other reason for why he was sitting next to Emma on the couch suffering through Lassoed Hearts. A gem from the 80's, this one boasted his poor attempts at a Texas drawl and terribly uncomfortable boots, as well as big hair.

Emma had almost fallen off the couch next to him; she was laughing so hard.

Dinner had been slow and pleasant. Emma, normally a very fast and efficient diner, paid Greg the highest compliment by really tasting and relishing each bite.

It was Emma who'd suggested watching one of his movies. They'd been curled up in bed, so happy and cozy that he was almost asleep. The next moment, she'd pushed herself up on an elbow and smiled winningly at him as she asked, "Do you know what would make this night absolutely perfect?"

He'd objected at first, but really, she seemed to have her heart set on it. And his mother, after all, had requested that he find a way to relax her. Because he was in such a doting mood, he'd dug the abhorred cowboy movie out of the freebies that he'd accumulated over the years and removed it from its shrink-wrap.

"You're lucky I was feeling nice. I was hoping I'd never see this one ever again," he groaned, tangling his fingers in the mop of hair at his side.

"I could watch this one over and over," she said breathlessly. "Oh, I can't even sit up any more; my stomach hurts!"

Greg rolled his eyes but laughed.

Emma grinned at him tiredly, turning her attentions away from his younger cowboy alter ego. Her eyes narrowed and she contradicted her previous proclamation by pushing herself up slowly and carefully now. "Is anything wrong?"

"No," he shrugged, reaching out to tuck some loose strands behind her ears. "I'm glad that you're enjoying yourself."

"But you're not," she observed seriously, shooing his hand and diversionary tactic away. She tilted her chin, assessing his features carefully. "You don't like watching yourself, do you?"

He opened his mouth to protest but she continued as the details fell in place. "You fidget the whole time when we're at premieres. And you rarely look at the screen."

Emma took the remote off the table and fumbled with the buttons until she'd put the movie on pause. She took his hand and entwined her fingers with his. "Greg."

He looked at their linked hands and up at her earnest eyes.

She wanted to tell him what she thought. She really did. But it was a jumble of thoughts. And she was embarrassed. Not knowing how to deliver her message, feeling like quite the condescending queen to even presume to dispense advice in a field so unknown to her, she opted for the coward's way out; leave it for another time. This was her night off. "Never mind."

There was a wall. It kept things so polite, restrained. And while it was comfortable to hide behind it before, he again felt that frightening urge within him to knock it down and push forward.

Not only to challenge her, but also to challenge himself.

He reached out to take her cheek in his palm. It was on the tip of his tongue, to tell her just how much she meant to him. What her presence did for him. How perfectly cozy his flat seemed at this moment.

She looked so relaxed, so happy, so everything he wanted.

And still so very tired, and wary for the following days.

He smiled half-heartedly, taking her in his arms, kissing her forehead gingerly. "You're fabulous, Emma."

Chapter Sixteen

Posted on Monday, 29 October 2007,

Date: December 15, 2006
From: Donna L. Sheridan (dls@uchicago.edu)
To: Emma M. Woodhouse (woodhouse@caltech.edu)
Subject: re: Flight information?

Really, Emma, I know how to hail a cab and tell them a hotel name. You really don't have to pick me up!

But, because you asked so nicely, here it is:

12/17/2006
United 922
Arrive 10:00 pm at LHR

12/20/2006
United 929
Departs 10:25 am at LHR

I can't wait to see you!!

Love,
Mom

"What does she look like?"

"Isabella, only twenty years older with less makeup," Emma replied, scanning the arriving crowd. "Really, I don't understand why you insisted on coming along."

"And trust you to drive on the correct side of the road?"

"Such a cliché," Emma chuckled. "I could have cabbed it." She stepped around a running child, and watched the boy with envy. She wanted to be similarly occupied. Around her, London Heathrow Airport's frenetic energy gave expression to the growing entropy of nerves she felt.

Emma checked her watch.

"It's only two minutes later than you checked last time."

Next to her, in an unglamorous ensemble comprising a parka-two-sizes-too-large, shades, and Knicks cap, Greg stood in relaxed attitude, as if he hadn't been all over town today, checking up on centerpieces, ice sculptures, and bouquets. As if he hadn't had to sweet-talk an extra twenty-five fancy frou frou forgotten boutonnières out of a very upset and flustered florist. As if he hadn't had to drive to the caterer's to deal with "Bruschettagate" the day before. Just standing there, relaxed and smiling at her. Really, it was so very considerate of him to come here with her. Thoughtful, even though it made things a bit more stressful.

So stressful she wanted to reach for his hand. Blushing, she scanned the crowd again. And checked around them, catching the eye of one of the more persistent paparazzi. Keep on watching, buddy. There ain't nothin' to see. What was it with the British and their paparazzi? She didn't know what made her feel worse: the threat of being caught canoodling on film, or the prospect of Greg meeting her mother.

Why hadn't Greg let her take one of the rental cars by herself? Or why hadn't she insisted on taking a cab?

Still, she mused as she giggled over a drifting down feather, it was so nice that, at the end of the day, they were standing next to each other, even if it was at Heathrow waiting for her mother. Her own drama of the day might have sounded small next to his, but Isabella's unexpected weight gain was not a trivial matter, and she was not about to let anybody forget it! Emma doubted that even Greg could have handled it with much aplomb.

Despite its best efforts, wedding drama had taken a nice, cozy backseat these past few days, though. Having Greg around, busier than she was but nevertheless steady and charming, was absolutely inspiring. Oh, he'd grumbled, of course, when she reasonably argued that they not make their relationship known, (especially as it would have taken some of Isabella's thunder, thereby incurring centuries of wrath and possibly a curse) but he was still there, standing next to her. Doting on her. Adoring her. Making her laugh.

And while she hadn't wanted to make it obvious that his presence was completely crucial for her sanity, it was quite evident to all and sundry that they were, indeed, as Emma asserted, "very close friends".

"Her plane may have arrived fifteen minutes ago, but she still has to get through immigration and customs," Greg explained reasonably. "It'll be a while yet. We should sit down. Do you want some water?"

Emma shook her head, a small smile at his thoughtfulness. "Do you think she'll need to eat?"

"Likely. We'll check after we get her settled in your suite."

"Maybe we ought to take her out for dinner..."

"...and give you a reason to avoid drinking it up with your sister and her friends tonight? Emma, she marries tomorrow. It's bad enough that it's eleven o'clock and you're here at Heathrow instead of back in the city, you know, doing female bonding rituals."

"Yes, completely terrible of me, not getting completely drunk and whining about boys and 'freedom' for yet another evening," Emma stated sarcastically. "It's not bonding, it's bondage. Guilt, time, and money."

"The triple threat," he laughed.

Emma shook her head as she checked her watch.

"Still, just two minutes later than you checked last time."

Emma laughed. After standing next to him, and smiling for no reason even while she wanted to scream, she turned to him. "Really, why are you so nice to me?"

"I'm being nice to me. I'm pretty sure the rest of the groomsmen will be waking up with monstrous hangovers tomorrow morning."

"The advantages of an evening ceremony," Emma laughed, then winced, "Joke's on me. A whole day more for Isabella to panic, pick, and pout."

Greg put a companionable hand on her shoulder. "If you do a good enough job tonight, she could sleep in until noon."

"Still not feeling guilty yet."

"And none was meant," Greg said good-naturedly. "Just imagine, Emma. Twenty-four hours from now, your only concern will be how to get yourself out of dancing the 'Macarena'."

Emma laughed. "And finding a way to steal the best man from the maid of honor."

"Of course. But I don't think that will be so difficult."

"Oh?"

"Well, I have it on good authority that he finds neurotic chemists very sexy," he smiled rakishly.

"Poor Taylor, she never had a chance!" Emma shook her head, chuckling. And in that second, that one perfect moment, it was irresistible. With him smiling That Way and her feeling This Way, she simply couldn't help herself: everything seemed so unbelievably intensely beautiful. And, unpredictably, irrationally right. "Greg, I'm in love with you."

Though she couldn't see his eyes through the sunglasses, his eyebrows rose in surprise. Emma looked around, self-consciously. A passing toddler sent her a 'Heathrow?! Really, you can't do better than Heathrow!?' glare. Maybe it was her imagination. "Uh, joke," she said quietly.

At Greg's wide grin, and Emma flushed, clenched her fists, and looked away. Maybe she should have just stayed shut up. Embarrassment had her scanning the crowds for her mother desperately. But she couldn't help but turn back to him. And when she saw that he was still grinning, that things were, indeed, still textbook perfect in the world, she met it with a tentative smile of her own. And while maybe 25% of her brain was still going "Oh Craaaaaap!" the rest of it was doing better. Pretty fine. More than fine.

"Maybe not a joke?" he asked, reaching out to straighten the collar of her shirt.

He was still smiling, and he wasn't going to stop. And, she laughed, neither was she. "Joke's on me, again," she said brazenly, reaching out to pull at a loose thread on the cuff of his jacket.

He reached up to take his sunglasses off, meeting her eyes with his own bright ones. With his free hand, he grabbed hers. And while she knew she had that personal rule about making sure they had no physical contact in public, she couldn't help herself. Her hand was trembling, but she wasn't nervous. Not anymore.

"Joke's on both of us, then," he said, huskily, taking her hand up to his lips, giving it a gentle kiss.

And she found herself feeling silly, wanting to be that idiot who asked, "This means you love me, right?" if only so that she could hear the words. Because the ones uttered thus far were tickling her stomach silly. She dreaded and thrilled at the idea of hearing the real thing.

"Emma?"

Emma swore under her breath, pulling her hand away even as the logical side of her brain woke up from Greg-stupor and reminded her of the situation. By the time she turned towards the voice, she looked placid, calm, and not like a fifteen year old girl who just heard the "L" word from her crush from homeroom. "Mom!"

Though maybe some of the crush-rush lingered, rendering her completely unable to stop smiling.

Donna Sheridan, looking as fresh and starched as she most likely was when she'd gotten on her plane, greeted her daughter with a quick kiss on the cheek and a tight hug. After reaching to tuck her daughter's hair behind her ear she smiled. "Emma. It's so good to see you again. You look great!"

"It's good to see you too!" Emma grinned again. A quick look out the corner of her eye told her that Greg caught it, which made her grin more.

Focusing once more on her mother, though, Emma realized that though Donna looked her usual neat, prepared, and placid, little details, details Emma'd never seen before protested that her mother was anything but. Pressed lips, faintly colored with lipstick chewed off as quickly as it had been applied. The little Vs that persisted at the corner of her clear eyes. The vein popping out of her neck. Was it the longer flight, or something more? "Well, Mom, ah," she turned.

Greg took off his cap, offered his other hand. "Ms. Sheridan?"

Donna sent Emma a surprised look, but smiled politely and took his hand in a firm handshake. "Yes. Just Donna. Greg?"

"Yes, Greg. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine," Donna replied automatically.

"Greg was nice enough to offer to drive us," Emma supplied cheerfully. She was pretty sure that if she flapped her hands even harder during her gesticulations, she was going to take off. Calm. Down.

"May I get that?" he gestured to the luggage by Donna's side.

"Only if you don't mind," Donna pulled the handle closer to Greg.

"Of course not," Greg took the handle and started walking. "How was the flight? Crowded?" he asked, taking her elbow gently with his free hand. Donna stiffened in surprise, but meekly fell into step. Emma was left to follow.

"Happily uneventful. We had a delayed takeoff, but other than that, it was fine. The flight was full, but I was comfortable. How was the rehearsal?" her mother asked, conversationally.

"A bit stressful, but all right," Emma spoke up, quickening her step to fall into step beside them.

Greg expertly steered the women and luggage, smiled for a few photos, and kept up his share of the conversation. "Pretty typical, really. Not without confusion, but pretty much smooth by the end."

"And the dinner? I'm sorry I couldn't make it." Donna hissed as she greeted the cold winter air. She reached into her bag for her gloves.

"My mother got the flowers, and thanks you," Greg replied, as he took the valet ticket out of his coat pocket and handed it to the smiling attendant at the booth. "She loves tiger lilies."

Donna smiled, "I do as well."

Emma raised an eyebrow in surprise, but remained silent.

"And how is Isabella?" Donna asked Emma, conversationally.

"Stressed out, but dealing. Right now, she's out, enjoying her last night of freedom," Emma replied.

Donna shook her head. "I knew I shouldn't have sent you my information. Emma, I could have taken-"

"No, Mom, don't worry about it. She's been living it up all week," Emma shook her head. "It's the party that never ends. You know Izzy, though, she's got so many friends, and more and more of them arrive each day, and they always want to take her out...trust me, there are probably so many people there that she doesn't even notice my absence."

Donna laughed. "She gets that from her father. We didn't eat at home for six weeks after we got married," she informed Greg.

Emma smiled to herself ruefully. She hadn't heard her mother bring up her father in conversation for years, at least anecdotally.

"Our happy couple will most likely also have a similar first few weeks," Greg observed pleasantly, keeping his tone level, plenty experienced with quieting the nerves of the Woodhouse women scientists. "Ah. There's the car. You must be tired. When did your flight leave this morning? It must have been, what, around six? We'll get you back to the hotel, and settled in."

"Are you decent?" Karen Woodhouse asked excitedly from the other side of the door.

Carefully applying the band-aid where she was sure it wouldn't be visible, but still provide maximum comfort, she gave her toes one last wiggle before strapping them in. Emma looked up around the room at the other occupants. Leigh applied lipstick, while Kristen and Dianne taped up Dianne's slipping strapless dress. Taylor and Isabella were in deep discussion, undoubtedly over something important, like how much teeth to show. Ally looked up from the pile of papers in her lap, met Emma's eyes, and shrugged. Emma moved towards the door and opened it. "For women, yes."

In her sapphire blue mother of the bride gown, Karen glimmered. Standing a bit behind her in another spectacular gown, this one in bronze tulle, stood Terra Knightley. And behind the two of them, in a neat, chic burgundy suit that Emma had helped her select that morning, stood Emma and Isabella's mother, glimmering a bit less, but pleasant serene countenance present, all the same. None of last night's ragged edges were at all visible, making Emma conclude that the nerves with which Donna had floated off the plane last night had been strictly travel-related. Emma greeted with stiff but all the same completely heart-felt hugs. "If I kiss you, I'll smear..." Emma said, ashamed that she was now starting to sound like one of the bridesmaids.

She closed the door and followed the women farther into the room, watching her mother's back speculatively. She'd known, and worried, hadn't she? Given her duties, Emma wasn't going to be able to spend time with her mother this day. And while Greg had volunteered to find her a ride to the church for the ceremony, Donna had surprised Greg and Emma last night by informing them that Terra had invited her to breakfast at Donwell, and so would be going with Emma to the estate in the morning.

It didn't surprise Emma that her mother and stepmother were walking around like old, close friends. In their few interactions in the past, there'd always been a pressure for them to be on their best behaviors: graduations, an occasional birthday, and the like. It wasn't as if Emma expected to fight, it's just...whenever she saw the turbulence in her mother's eyes, when ever she saw the tightening of her stepmother's lips...they were good women. The best, to try so hard to make things as easy as possible.

"You look gorgeous," Karen said, after scanning Emma from professionally positioned hair to silk shoe-shod feet. After a quick glance to the others, she grinned, "You all do."

"Hello Mrs. Woodhouse, Mrs. Knightley! You both look gorgeous!" Leigh greeted.

"No, not at all compared to you girls!" Karen enthused. "Beautiful, all of you! I wanted you all to meet someone: this is Ms. Sheridan, she's Isabella's mother."

Leigh and Kristen sent each other looks; Ally stepped forward with an extended hand. "So glad to meet you, Ms. Sheridan."

Donna shrugged, clapping her hands together. The loud snap into the air sent the nerves pounding straight through Emma once more. "It's good to be here," Donna said. "Wow, this is..." she turned to look around the ornately decorated room.

"It's the Kelly suite. Renovated for Grace Kelly, when she visited," Terra explained.

"That's hot," Taylor said.

"Now let's have a look at the bride," Terra said.

Though a bit self conscious of just how well the corset-styled bodice would conceal her unexpected increase in mass, Isabella was still more than ready to show off her stunning Oscar de la Renta, as well as the Mikimoto pearl necklace John had given her after the rehearsal last night.

"Oh my..." Karen gasped as the breath hissed out of her. "I told myself I could hold on until at least the ceremony today..." she gasped, as she sank into a chair.

Donna reached into her handbag and pulled out a travel pack of Kleenex. After extracting one from the bag, she held it out gingerly to Karen. "Fortunately, I set myself up for failure," she said.

Terra and Karen laughed, but no one else did. It was a good joke, of course. If one only forgot the context, which Donna apparently did in her haste to be nice. Not that it was exactly in poor taste, but...Emma looked back at the impressionist painting above the fireplace. Donna continued cheerfully, "Isabella, your old asthma inhaler's in here if you have an attack at the altar."

Isabella smiled a bit too wide for authenticity but grabbed her biological mother's hands in hers, showing her sincere appreciation. Emma noted that both sets of hands were shaking. If she was right in her mental calculations, the last time Donna and Isabella had seen each other was when Isabella graduated from law school, four years ago. "Thank you for being here," Isabella said quietly, reservedly.

Donna took the features of her daughter in slowly, carefully, then shook her head, "Well, ah, of course I would be!" she said with a shrug. "You look beautiful," she said, reaching around her daughter for a stiff hug. When she pulled back, she reached to adjust a curl. "So beautiful." Pulling away, she reached for her own tissue.

"I think that settles it. We need champagne, and we need it fast," Ally said to Emma, pushing aside her papers and Blackberry and grabbing a bottle. Emma snatched the other from the bucket and started pulling at the foil.

"She looks flushed," Karen observed worriedly to her husband.

Dennis turned back to look at his daughter. She looked like a princess. His princess. His perfect princess that was no longer going to be his. He cleared his throat, pushing down the sting, "She has a right to be, she's getting married in a few minutes!"

Emma smiled, and after another check to make sure her hair hadn't slipped or budged in the mirror, she moved to the circle surrounding her sister.

"I'm so happy."

"I can't believe it's...now!"

Emma pulled a few tissues from the box that had been discreetly placed a table away, and handed them around. The girls dabbed at their tears and queried each other over the state of their eye makeup. Emma reached a hand out to Isabella's.

"Your hands are freezing!" Isabella said.

"Mine are perfectly fine. Yours are a bit warm, though," Emma reached to brush a hand to Isabella's forehead. "You ready?"

Isabella nodded. "Why wouldn't I be? I'm getting married today. To a wonderful man whom I love madly, and who completely adores me."

"Then it sounds like you can't lose," Emma said, bending closer to kiss her sister's cheek, then wipe at any lingering residue.

Isabella grinned at the gesture. "You're learning."

"You're delusional," Emma quipped back. Louder, she informed the others, "We should get ourselves in formation. The parents are already gone and Dad's going to be back any second now."

They grabbed their bouquets.

"Remember, just keep your arms at your hips. That way your arms won't get sore holding up the bouquet," Leigh stated, very much in the know.

The girls put themselves in order by height, the tallest going first so that they stood at the end at the altar. Emma was second. Taylor, though quite tall, still entered last, right before Isabella. Emma looked back at her sister. Isabella, while still a bit red, was smiling now.

It was bit warm in the church, they'd been warned. Emma had been careful not to apply too much makeup; the dress was, after all, quite expensive and she didn't want for her sweat and powder to end up on it any sort of accident.

Her father reentered the vestibule, and the girls all took a deep breath.

Emma found her hands shaking. Nervous, for no reason whatsoever! She'd done things far more difficult, and honestly had walked more aisles (and sometimes in more difficult wardrobe) in the past few months than she'd wanted to admit to. Emma took another breath and turned.

When her stomach rumbled she wanted to curse. Of course, a whole layout of tea and sandwiches available all afternoon and now she was hungry. She only hoped that it didn't go off at "speak now or forever hold your peace"

The doors were pulled wide open now and Ally started walking in front of her.

The parish church was beautifully decorated. A profusion of rose petals scattered across the carpet, professionally done, as there were no young girls to bestow the honor of flower girl upon in either family. Still, Emma mused as she started her own walk, professional was good. The petals were evenly distributed.

The aisle was punctuated at every few pews with another riot of red roses and baby's breath. Classic, romantic. Elegant, traditional.

Flowers on the hips.

Getting to the end of the aisle, she gave a small glance to Greg, who smiled at her. Emma replied with a small smile of her own, giving yet another one to Reverend Falsey, who'd known the Woodhouse girls all their lives, and had flown all the way from California to perform the service.

She walked to stand two feet from Ally, and stopped to turn back towards the door. Within a few seconds, Kristen stopped next to her. Six bridesmaids. They looked like an army. A smartly dressed one, of course.

Taylor walked with as much joy and excitement radiating out of her as the bride. Maybe she was already looking forward to the reception. Maybe she had a killer murper speech prepared.

Everybody was smiling. Everybody. So very happy to be here, to watch this couple get married. And that was, in itself, quite a lovely idea. To command the attentions of more than two hundred people, to have their well-wishes and heartfelt congratulations.

And when her sister and her father entered the door, and everybody stood, the fuzzy idea that had danced around in her mind in the past year and a half finally coalesced into cold hard fact: after the wedding, Isabella would be married. Emma felt her eyes sting, but she blinked, once, twice, and held the tears at bay.

It's not like they were close. And it wasn't even rational to cry. What was there to mourn? So what if she'd never really had the opportunity to know "lawyer from Philadelphia Isabella". Izzy was still Izzy, and she was always going to be her sister. And how could she feel so sad when Isabella obviously looked so very happy?

Even masked by the veil, Isabella radiated happiness. She smiled brilliantly, showing off that slight overbite she always was a bit too oversensitive about. Emma was glad that her sister was so lost in her moment.

Emma shifted on the shoes. Pinchy. Great.

Their father looked down at Isabella adoringly.

She heard a small, discreet sniff from Kristen, who stood to her left. Kristen had warned them that the father-daughter stuff always made her bawl.

From her seat, Karen watched, weeping and rapt. From their seats across the aisle, Terra and Edgar watched with pride and joy.

Her own mother sat a few rows behind Karen and her father, next to Aunt Patti, with a stiff smile on her face. Emma wondered: was Donna happy? Did she approve? Or was she, like Emma, here because she cared for Isabella? What did she think of having a daughter of hers get married? Give up a lucrative position for it?

Emma wondered if things would have worked out differently if Isabella had never blamed their mother for the divorce, if they'd kept in touch over the years. Would Isabella have ended up like Emma? Or was she just too pretty, friendly for that fate?

"Dearly beloved," the priest intoned.

Emma turned; really, if the bridal party were the closest to the marrying couple, then why didn't they get front seats? Instead, all she got to see was Kristen's back. There was a pattern of freckles the resembled Orion.

Wow, Em. Could you be any less romantic?

She glanced at her mother again. Emma hadn't realized that her mother and Aunt Patti were at all close. But then again, Emma scanned the pews of wedding guests, she supposed there weren't all that many people present whom her mother knew.

Her father and stepmother were standing up. "We do," they said solemnly.

Ah the parents portion.

Well, at least she'd already watched the thing a few times last night.

Her underwear itched. And how come their mother hadn't stood up as well? Emma nearly pinched herself when she realized she was frowning. Hadn't Isabella warned her to keep her face relaxed and pleasant-looking?

It's not like it was real last night, though. Reverend Falsey truncated his portion by saying "And now I'll go yada yada yada..." Emma smiled to herself, wondering if the reverend ever slipped and accidentally just went "yada yada yada". Or said the wrong name.

Guiltily, she silently groaned as she again remembered that she hadn't read any papers since her plane ride. Or rehearsed her talk. The world wasn't going to end, of course, but, still, Ally had been doing her work, had she not? Of course, Ally was chained to her Blackberry and couldn't seem to shut it up, a personality flaw that Emma found endearing but the other bridesmaids despised.

Making Ally cool.

What were they, twelve?

"I, Isabella Rachel Woodhouse, take John Geoffrey Woodhouse to be my lawful wedded husband..."

The vows. More than ten minutes in, less than ten to go. Oh, she was hungry. And sweaty.

Really, were these things really the thoughts she wanted to have while her sister was getting married?

She was surprised when things started changing color. Iridescent black dots splotched her vision.

Focus.

Emma blinked once. Twice. A discreet redistribution of her mass alleviated the strain on the balls of her feet to a certain extent, but was depressingly ineffectual against the increasing haze that was invading her vision.

The audience chuckled quietly at one of the more humorous aspects of the vows Isabella and John and written together.

She really didn't have a romantic, generous, or sentimental bone in her body, what with her obsessive single-mindedness on her own discomfort! Without a thought to unobtrusiveness, she reached behind her to adjust the back of her dress.

Her fingers were shaking. Arms on hips. Arms on hips.

She snuck another glance at her mother, who seemed to be intent on the ceremony. Not lost in thoughts, or in any sort of physical discomfort.

Emma watched as Isabella and John turned towards each other. They were exchanging rings. Just another five minutes or so until the end, Emma recalled from the rehearsal. But who knew what it was with all the "yada yada yada"s expanded. Not too much longer, she hoped.

Was that an ungracious thought? Oh she was a horrible---counting down the end of the ceremony, physically unable to get through it without having every muscle and nerve convulsing in allergic reaction. How would she ever be able to survive a wedding of her own? Yet another blatantly obvious example of how unsuited she was for---

She inhaled deeply and quietly, frustrated that her vision was still failing her. She cared about this. She wanted to watch this!!

Mortified, felt her knees fold beneath her.

"It's all right, dear. No use in fretting over it now," the woman comforted with a pat on the back. "Just keep drinking up that water." She was a kind woman, one of the Knightley contingent who'd been concerned enough to forgo the rest of the ceremony.

Emma was as grateful for her attentions as she was completely mortified.

"Oh. My. God," Ally came bursting through the doors. "Are you all right?" she grabbed Emma by the shoulders.

Meekly sipping at her water and taking another bite out of the chocolate bar she'd been handed a few minutes ago, Emma looked up at her fellow bridesmaid.

"Fine. Now." She couldn't say the words without feeling the heat rush to her cheeks. Ally took a seat beside her, and rubbed her shoulder, comfortingly. Definitely Emma's favorite bridesmaid. "Mortified."

"Let's be glad that I was standing behind you, at least."

"Ha. Any of the others probably would have let me fall."

Ally snickered, glad to find Emma's sarcasm intact, then continued. "I slowed you down, and then two of the guests from John's side took you up and hoisted you out of there. Andy looked kind of panicked when it was time to exit and you weren't waiting for him, but I took him and Mike for myself."

"Smart woman."

Ally laughed. "Honestly, I don't think that many people saw. You were quiet, and John and Isabella were exchanging rings."

Emma nodded. "So if there was such a thing as 'optimal fainting time' I chose it? Well, uh, thanks."

Ally laughed.

"Do you know, a certain British actor wanted to storm in here to check on you..."

"I'm sure he did. But..."

"But he's currently being harassed by the other bridesmaids."

The doors opened again and this time, Greg's mother came in. "Oh dear, are you all right?"

Emma sighed quietly. "Guess I'll have to get used to it."

Ally laughed. "At least everybody will know how to start a conversation with you."

Emma turned to Terra. "Embarrassed beyond belief, but completely well," she admitted. " I hadn't even lost consciousness. Just complete control of my body," she groaned.

It was just so weak and silly, fainting at a wedding.

"Oh, darling. This church is beyond hot and stuffy. You're not the first woman to faint during a wedding here, and certainly not the last."

Emma was skeptical, but thanked the woman for her comforting words all the same.

"Thank you for taking care of her, Deb," Terra thanked Emma's companion with a kiss on the cheek and a hug.

"Any time," Deb replied good-naturedly.

"Thanks for the chocolate," Emma said. "And the water."

"Never leave home without it!" she laughed.

"I've learned my lesson," Emma smiled contritely.

"Now, are you up for wedding pictures?" Terra asked Emma gently, after carefully ascertaining that the girl did look, indeed, all right.

Emma was up for making a run for Heathrow, going away and never seeing these people ever again. However, that wasn't possible, and those hopes were immature. Facing it like a grownup, Emma pushed herself up off the chair and took a moment to determine that her cerebellum was functional again. "I spent more than $1500 on this getup so that we could match for the stupid pictures. Of course I'm up for them," she pronounced with false bravado.

Ally grinned. "Thata girl."

"Great, well then see you out there! I have to round up some of Greg's relatives," Terra explained, before exiting.

Emma checked her reflection in the window. After she ascertained that her hair and face had not suffered, for all her "histrionics", she continued to exit. "So...what am I looking forward to?" she asked quietly of Ally.

"Leigh's saying you did it on purpose to make sure Greg pays attention to you all night. Taylor thinks you're acting out, because you've never had the same kind of attention Isabella has."

Emma rolled her eyes.

Ally laughed. "You're not going to get any protest from me," she said under her breath. "Come on, let's get this over with."

"Oh, you poor poor darling!"

Emma patiently smiled as her seventy-something-year-old great aunt hugged her one more time.

"I know you try so hard. There's no need to be embarrassed, sweetie."

The continual reassurance that it didn't matter seemed to protest otherwise, but Emma took the condolence gratefully. As Ally had predicted, Emma was by far the most approachable bridesmaid; of course, that wasn't going to help Emma with her standing with the other bridesmaids, but screw it.

It happened.

She hated that it did.

But what could she do about it?

"Thank you, Aunt Sarah," she kissed her relative on the soft, over-moisterized cheek.

"Isabella looked so very beautiful. Just like Donna on her wedding day!" Aunt Sarah enthused.

Emma and her great-aunt turned to the object of their talk. Donna stood by Greg's mother, smiling with a happiness that didn't quite reach her eyes, but still trying nonetheless.

"She's still so beautiful," Aunt Sarah observed.

"She is," Emma said quietly.

Sarah shook her head with a sigh. "Well, I think it's time for us to leave. Paul's giving me the eye. And my legs are tired! Do you know, before that handsome brother of John's asked me to dance, the last time I'd spun around the dance floor was in '89?"

Emma laughed. "That Greg, he's a good man."

"The best, and the handsomest. Nobody at the nursing home's going to believe me..." Sarah confided. "But that doesn't matter. I know it happened."

"Yes, and that's all that matters," Emma smiled, hugging her great aunt again.

As her uncle Paul came forward to lead his mother away, Emma smiled prettily.

"You look lovely," her uncle remarked.

"Thank you," Emma said. "You look pretty handsome yourself, Uncle Paul!"

Emma waved as her relatives left the ballroom, and turned once more to scan the crowd.

The ballroom of Donwell Abbey was dimly lit, giving the room a romantic, whimsical air. A jazz ensemble kept couples hushed and shuffling in romantic twirls on the dance floor. Waiters diffused about evenly, replenishing food and drink as quickly as it was desired. Kristen and Greg swept by, and Emma smiled as Greg gave her pleading stare.

He hadn't stopped dancing since the music had started. Song after song, he guided ladies out to the floor, fulfilling his role as "stud bachelor" brother.

Isabella laughed over champagne in the corner with a few friends from college. Her father and stepmother danced closely on the floor, bodies swayed together in perfect synchronization. John, his parents, and her mother stood in another corner, in a completely engrossing conversation.

Emma grabbed another flute of champagne, smiling as Terra leaned close to her mother. The Knightleys, she decided, were decidedly good people. Just absolutely amazingly warm, and fun, and personable. Civilized, courteous, and always cheerful.

Not to say that her father and Karen weren't, but...their joy was a bit more privately shared tonight. The way her father cupped the back of her stepmother's head gently, the way their feet moved together so fluidly, as if their hearts were keeping the same exact rhythm. It was all so beautiful. And even while Emma felt the overwhelming warmth and love in their moment...

Emma glanced from the couple to her mother, who blanched when she realized her daughter had caught her in the act of...lamenting. Emma's own heart clutched in pain.

It wasn't as if Donna even talked about Dennis Woodhouse, or even asked after him beyond a quick inquiry into his health and (yet another) warning about his blood pressure. She'd given this up. Donna wasn't one for regrets.

Emma could see why. Because if that explosive burst of emotion in her mother's eyes in that one moment was regret, really, how could one live with that every day?

Donna had tried so hard tonight. She'd been charming, smiling, and joking. She'd even dragged out the old stories, retelling them with charm and verve, and complete confidence. Maybe she'd tried too hard, stumbled into old feelings that she hadn't wanted to relive.

Maybe she thought Dennis was still a handsome man (which, Emma observed objectively, he was). Maybe she even still loved him.

These were suspicions, Emma frowned, that were best left alone. Rubbing at her chest, right above her heart, she felt a headache come on.

Emma was relieved when John bent his head close to Donna's and uttered something in her ear. She turned, surprised at the tall young man, but nodded and put her empty flute on an abandoned table.

John led her mother to the floor and pulled her close, swaying in time with her, undoubtedly distracting her with another charming story of his, making the woman who really didn't belong at least party to the moment.

Emma turned away before she could tear up. It was her shoes, she decided. They were hurting too much.

"Are you feeling better now?" another stranger approached her.

Emma blinked. As she realized what she was being asked, she smiled politely, "Much. Thanks for asking."

She rubbed at her toes, checking her stockinged feet for blisters.

How was she going to get through the rest of her interviews? Maybe she could just give up and get a cast for one.

But which one? The right had fewer blisters, but that one on her left pinkie toe...that one hurt so much more than the poor toe ever deserved. "Poor baby..." she sighed.

Really, that was the problem when you gave up Easy Spirit for, what was this...she picked up the one-time-use burgundy sandal. Jimmy Choo. A man's name? Was the designer a man? Why on Earth would a woman want to wear shoes designed by a man? Had women not learned from the corset?

Perhaps the line was named for an ex-boyfriend. Here are the shoes that will help you forget the pain...by bringing it to a whole new level. She laughed to herself, even as she acknowledged the bitterness of truth in it.

"You must be thinking about chemistry."

"Come in before they see you!" Emma gestured with waving arms. "And make sure that the door is closed!"

Greg entered the library quickly and closed the door as commanded. "I see you found a hiding spot," he approached her perch on the couch.

"I wasn't going to stay here forever. Just for a while," she shrugged. When he took her hand in his, she looked up at him. And admired his handsome features. "And I'll have you know that I wasn't thinking of chemistry."

Greg raised a brow, moving towards the decanter on the sideboard. After seeing she already had a glass of wine at her side, he poured a glass of his father's bourbon for himself. "Oh really? And what has captured your fancy?"

Emma enunciated the word triumphantly: "Shoes."

Greg shook his head as he took a seat next to her on the overstuffed leather couch. "Now I know you've gone crazy. I was told you hadn't hit your head when you went down..."

Emma rolled her eyes.

"Needed a break?" Greg said, pulling her chin towards his. He kissed her gently. "Hello there, darling."

Emma flushed in appreciation of his attentions. He was a welcome distraction. "Well hello to you too. And yes. I needed a break. It's just...suffocating. The preparation, the to-do..."

"...the ceremony."

It never got old. She flushed up again. "I'm fine. Let's not talk about it. Ever again."

Greg nodded with a chuckle.

"I'm glad it's done with," Emma said, grabbing her glass of wine from the coffee table and taking a sip.

"As am I."

"Aside from my fainting, though, it really was perfect." At Greg's raised brow, Emma elaborated: "Their vows, the aisle, the coordinating colors for the bridesmaids and groomsmen, the centerpieces, down to the speeches, which were all eloquent, murpy, and very well executed. It was beautiful," Emma sighed. "A feast for even the most clinical, uninvolved eye."

Greg shook his head with a smile. After another sip of bourbon, he needled her. "But..."

But...it hurt. Emma rubbed her breastbone again as she once more recalled the pain in her mother's eyes. Emma shook her head, leaning against his arm. Some of the pain in her heart faded. Her mother's business was nobody else's. "But I don't know," Emma enunciated one of her other thoughts of the evening, while her head was spinning with all the details, all the happiness, all the overwhelming everything of it. "I wouldn't ever do it this way." Would I ever do it at all?

"Oh?"

Emma took another sip of her chardonnay. "I don't know," she said succinctly.

And because he'd longed for her company all evening, he tangled his fingers in her hair and poked at her. "Of course you do. Emma's perfect wedding. Let's hear it."

Emma frowned. Was this the kind of conversation that she was suppose to have with him? Conventionally, well, it was a neon sign flashing "Danger!" "Hm," she said, sitting up straighter, away from his encompassing arm.

She was looking upset. She was trying very hard to hide it. He kept her focused on the conversation at hand. "Indulge me," he said.

He seemed tired too. But...she closed her eyes. It wasn't dangerous. Marriage was far from his mind. And had been from hers. They'd been dating for, what, less than two months? And didn't even acknowledge it in public. It was nice. A nice thing they had going. She was being paranoid, what with all the wedding stuff going on. Really. People always talked about weddings at weddings, right?

She offered very little to start: "First of all, no expensive white dress."

"Very impractical, those white dresses," Greg mused. He was glad to see her smile, he noted as he toyed with a loose tendril. "You're better suited with your labcoat. Appropriate color, no bells and whistles, and you can reuse."

She couldn't help but laugh with overwhelming relief at the blatant silliness. And because it was silly, and because he was being so very good to her, she ran with it. "You see right through me. Though I suppose I'd have to pause in my planning long enough to have it dry-cleaned first."

"A very considerate concession. Just promise me there won't be safety glasses."

Emma coughed up her next gulp of wine, and even as her eyes were twinkling, she dead-panned: "Marriage is a very serious and dangerous endeavor."

"You get started on 'forming covalent bonds', and I'm cutting you off," he gestured towards the glass.

"Fine, no safety glasses," she snorted. She gathered up her legs under her. "So, what do we have? Me, my dry-cleaned labcoat...on the way to..."

"Vegas. Where you can just buy a wedding and have it be done with. You might want to throw in a wheelchair, for yourself. Just in case you feel light-headed."

Emma sighed, leaning against him. "I would be the most terrible bride...ever."

He completely adored her. And when he opened his mouth, he realized that there really was only one thing to say to that: "Let's find out."

The neon sign hadn't fazed her, so reality went with the anvil. Oh crap. It crushed her lungs, making it completely impossible to breathe. She pushed back from him. "Let's find out what?" she asked breathily.

Greg cleared his throat, liking the idea more with each passing second even as his stomach clenched at the complete look of horror on her face. Should have gone with a different strategy, you fool. He cleared his throat: "If you're really that bad. Let's do it. Let's get married. Marry me."

Emma pushed herself off her seat quickly, even as she started berating herself. Joking about weddings with him? Really. A recipe for disaster. After teetering on her shoes, she reached down and yanked them off. After pacing another half circle, she turned to him once more. "Are you out of your mind?" she asked.

Chapter Seventeen

Posted on Tuesday, 13 May 2008

Date: December 18, 2007
From: Elizabeth Bennet (eliza@caltech.edu)
To: Emma M. Woodhouse (woodhouse@caltech.edu)
Subject: Hope you're having fun.

Borrowed 0.5 g of your stock of Austen5.

Don't do anything I wouldn't do. ;)

Liz

"Joke's on me again?" she asked, worry heavy on her voice.

Greg stood up, approaching her. "Perhaps I should have worked on the delivery," he rubbed at his forehead. "No. Not a joke," he said, looking back at her, gaze level and serious.

"Your delivery is fine. I'm not fine," Emma said, moving away from him, and then, not knowing what else to do, she sank back onto the couch.

He was literally in the dark. The dim lighting of the room could only illuminate Emma's actions, and not her face, not her eyes. He wished a few more lights were on, but did not make a move. Instead, he stared at the hazy splotches of pattern of the Persian rug and tried to synthesize his argument.

It should have involved planning, precision, and more than a few smooth moves. Regardless of whether or not Emma found his delivery to be lacking, had he not realized these past few weeks that ideas had to grow on Emma, occur to her first? Had he not seen more progress by stepping aside and being patient than simply pushing her into a situation?

"Greg," Emma said quietly.

Her voice sounded calm now; he'd hoped that she would not have settled things so quickly in her mind. Emma extended her hand, and gestured at the spot next to her on the couch. Greg took the hand, sank to his knees before her and said quietly, "Emma, I love you."

Emma pulled at his hands. "Get up, Greg."

Greg shook his head. As he opened his mouth to speak, she put a finger to his lips.

"Please?" she asked, a tinge of desperation and embarrassment to her voice.

This was not going the way he'd imagined. Sighing, he pushed himself up off his knees and took a seat next to her on the couch.

Emma took his hand. "Greg. Yesterday I told you that I love you," she began. After another breath, she continued. "I want you to know that I meant it."

He reached for her cheek, but she shrugged the touch off. Emma sighed, looking at their entwined fingers once more. She couldn't let go. She couldn't. A hard sting tore through her chest as she realized that there was no clear or easy solution. Nor did she know if...confusion stung her throat. She forced herself to go on. "I haven't been in love with anyone before. At least, not the way I've been in love with you."

"And I-" Greg started.

"And I really don't want to hurt you," she said gruffly. She forced herself to hold her head high and address him forthrightly. She had to be forthright here. Even as she wanted to say the words, even as his knowing eyes preemptively reflected the pain, her sentences stilled at her throat, large awkward chunky precipitates.

"But," he said at length.

"But I...I-why did you ask me?" she asked.

If only he could read her. She didn't sound angry, which was handy. She certainly didn't sound like a puddle of mush, but, truth be told, he hadn't been expecting that either. He pulled their hands closer to him, pulling her towards his lap. Gathering her close, his nose stung as he inhaled a perfume that was completely unnatural to his Emma. Undoubtedly, another imposed trimming. Greg wrapped his arms about her, and held her tightly, hoping that all the love that he felt for her could suddenly just pass through her, like...well, like osmosis.

Emma sighed, tired, yet warm in the circle of his embrace. "I feel like I'm stealing something," she admitted quietly, pushing herself back gently. "Something that I don't have a right to."

Greg loosened his hold, but held fast to her cold hand. Sandwiching her dry, cracked fingers between his own, he stated it simply. "I asked you because I want you."

"You have me." After a moment of silence, she had her answer: "You don't want just me. You want more." Extracting her hand from his, she rubbed at her forehead. "You're asking for a lot, Greg," Emma said.

"I'm not-I'm not asking for everything," he said.

Emma looked up at him in the dim light. Awkwardly, she shrugged, unpleasant feelings dragging against her chest. She cleared her throat to make herself heard, but when she spoke, it came out soft: "I...I think it's still too much." She leaned close to take his hand in hers.

He kissed her forehead. "Too much now? Maybe I got carried away. The whole 'weddings are contagious' thing. But-"

"Maybe you did get carried away, but, Greg...is this where you see us going?"

Greg swore under his breath when he heard the knock at the door. But perhaps, discussing this at a wedding wasn't exactly a good idea in the first place.

Emma pulled away from him and stood up as the interloper opened the door.

"Ah, here you are! Isabella is going to throw the bouquet in a few minutes and has demanded that you make yourself present," Terra informed Emma.

There couldn't have been a task that sounded more and less exciting at that very moment. Emma hesitated, looking back at Greg, wondering to herself how much she wanted to continue the conversation, at the same time knowing that she was taking the coward's way out.

Of course, duties were duties. "Sure, I'll get down there right away."

Terra nodded, and, sensing the tension in the air, decided to leave immediately, without the curious glance at her son that she'd desperately wanted to execute.

Emma turned to Greg. Tension knotted his back into a rigid posture. "Later?" she asked, helplessly.

Within a microsecond, his face changed. The tangle of worry at the center of his brow cleared, and she was made aware of just how great an actor he could be. "How about tomorrow, over dinner?" he asked carelessly, as if they were simply discussing another date.

Emma cleared her throat. "Ah...I promised my mother we'd play tourists and shopping buddies in the city for the day." She looked at the door, urgency demanding she be quick, but common courtesy, not to mention strong emotions, demanding she stay and take her time. "I know. It sounds lame but-"

"But she leaves the day after. I...I understand," he said, all the same annoyed at the circumstances. "Well, how about after we drop her off together, then?"

Emma opened her mouth to protest.

"We'll drop her off together," he declared.

Emma nodded quietly. "Well, then. Thanks. I guess...I guess we'll talk then."

Greg stepped close to her, and kissed her on the forehead. "Don't think too much about it. It'll hurt," he smiled.

"It already does," she said quietly, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. "Can-can we pretend, just...just be normal for the rest of tonight?" Emma smiled ruefully to herself. "Well, as normal as we are?"

The light from the hallway illuminated her upturned face. The bright, honest eyes could not hide the desperation, the confusion, and the raw love she felt for him. He bent forward to kiss her gently. He felt her arms tremble and smiled that the kiss still moved her as much as it moved him. Confusion and hurt rolled through him in constant waves, but her love, her confusion still made him hope. Cynically, he understood he was only setting himself up for more disappointment. "Of course," he replied.

Emma stamped her feet on the brick, trying to knock the itch out of her foot.

If there was one thing to be said of Southern California's advantages, it was that she did not have to bother with boots. Ever. As the stamping was ineffectual, she started to rub the toe of her right boot against the instep of her left.

Thereby making the itch worse.

She gustily sighed as she unwound the scarf from around her neck, and pushed her hat off. The static had the dry strands of hair crackling and clinging awkwardly to her face, clothes. Stray strands, wet from her sweat, clung to her forehead and stiffly twined around her neck.

Across the table from her, Donna took her beret off, quickly combed her fingers through her hair, and set the beret into her designer purse. Withdrawing a compact, she reapplied her lip color.

"What would you ladies like to drink?" An approaching waiter politely inquired.

"Tea would be fantastic," Donna observed pleasantly.

"For the two of you?"

Emma nodded as she pushed the sweaty strands of hair behind her ears. After another few minutes, she felt her body temperature finish equilibrating. Peace was returning to the world. Relieved, she grabbed a menu, stifling the growling noises her stomach made and smothering the yawn that threatened to bubble up through her trachea.

For all their assertions that they simply did not suit, Isabella Knightley nee Woodhouse and Donna Sheridan actually had quite a bit in common, the most tragic (in Emma's opinion) being that they both had frustratingly slow shopping styles. Always on the hunt for a bargain, they wasted hours on discount racks. When the coveted item was not up for discount, rotations had to be made throughout boutiques, to ensure that a sweater of a more beautiful color, or more becoming style simply could not be found.

They both lamented that Emma was a careless shopper. Emma argued that her shopping experience was far from careless, even if it did seem a bit more extravagant and expensive. But it was efficient. Truth be told, Emma was quite proud of herself for figuring out that J Crew not only fit well and looked neat, but it also was easily ordered on line, and shipped to her home. Not to mention that the clothes often coordinated quite easily, especially when given the aid of a catalogue.

Though Emma had protested actually participating in the shopping today, she was nevertheless currently loaded down with at least £200 of clothing, accumulated over a painstakingly slow eight-hour period, a period spent in the midst of a bustling, frantic, noisy holiday shopping season.

Recalling the mess of Harrod's made Emma's head ache again. Though she knew that her savings could absorb the heavy blow she'd dealt it today, she hadn't been saving it up with this in mind. She needed a job.

She'd get one, she reassured herself.

She smiled gratefully to the waitress who brought them their tea.

Donna's eyes sparkled from a day and money well-spent, and gorgeous clothing well-earned. And because she rarely looked this happy, Emma couldn't begrudge the woman her triumph.

"Hands down, the best buy had to be that suit we found at Benetton's," Donna relished.

Emma nodded as she took a sip of her tea. The liquid scalded her tongue, but Emma would not be put off. "It's nice," she said, infusing energy and conviction into her words. At the point she'd purchased the said suit, she'd been beyond caring, laying down her credit card whenever her mother claimed that something or another was "a steal".

Her mother smiled widely across the table, and reached a hand out to caress her daughter on the cheek. "You're a darling. A very patient one," Donna said, adoringly.

Emma smiled sheepishly, but her heart filled with warmth all the same. "It's been a long, but good day," she said earnestly.

Donna grabbed her mug of tea and took a sip. "It's been a long, but good visit," Donna said, quietly.

Emma was disappointed to see that the hint of sadness she'd been able to chase away for most of the day seemed to appear once more on the corner of her mother's tightly-drawn lips, the rim of her wide fathomless pupils. Inexperienced with such matters, Emma looked around, hoping the waiter would appear and interrupt them. She hissed a self-admonishment when she acknowledged, once more, that she was being a coward. The time for denial, smoothing over, and blatant enforced ignorance was over. Maybe it was in the truly defeated way her mother looked into her tea cup, trying to read her fate in the unready leaves. Maybe it was in the continuous haranguing she'd been exposed to in the past few months from her sister. Maybe it was in the simple honesty she'd been learning to receive and give to others.

Maybe it was all of it. But given all of it, there was no way Emma could let her mother's cry for acknowledgment go unanswered. She wasn't surprised when her hand shook as she extended it across the table. She tried to steady it as she covered the bumpy shell of her mother's hand, and mentally commanded her own to unclamify itself. Did one really ponder these things when offering comfort? Emma scowled inwardly. What did her mother want to hear? In her most gentle, yet honest voice, Emma stated her emotions simply: "It sucks. I'm sorry. I love you, Mom."

Her mother gave a helpless gasp of a laugh and held on to Emma's hand, tracing the ridges of her knuckles.

For someone who didn't talk much, Emma realized she really didn't like silences. "You've...you've never missed him?"

"Of course I've missed your father!" Donna said breathlessly. Looking into her daughter's eyes, she sighed. "I just...I just don't want to."

While the sentiment was naïve and simple, Emma knew her mother was speaking to the heart of the situation.

"I tried, Em. I really did," Donna said, tearing up a napkin, eyes fused on her task. "But..."

"But," Emma said, breathily.

"He was...is. The most wonderful man I'll have ever met," Donna said with a bitter smile. "But it just wasn't enough."

No, it wasn't, Emma stared grimly into her tea cup. And in its depths, she read the truth that she'd been trying to deny; Emma didn't think that this kind of stuff was going to be enough for her, either.

"...and then Amy tells me..."

"...that Victor called," Emma completed.

Greg smiled to himself as he heard her quiet chuckle across the cabin of the car. It was a tired chuckle, but nevertheless, he was now sure that Emma, 100% Emma, once more inhabited the body next to his. As much as he missed the flirty, fitted cuts of the outfits that Isabella had chosen, Emma looked much more beautiful and dear to him in her shapeless sweater and slacks.

"And let me guess," she said. "You haven't called him back yet."

"Let him sweat a bit."

Emma frowned quietly. "Aren't you worried that they'll cast someone else in the meantime?"

Greg shrugged. "I suppose."

"Then shouldn't you talk to him?"

Greg shrugged again. Emma considered his profile, biting her lip to prevent the warning from dribbling out. Greg smiled to himself. "I haven't decided if the part's right for me."

"But, well, shouldn't you have figured that out in the past few meetings?" Emma couldn't resist asking. "You've been in negotiations for the past month, Greg."

"I need time to think it over," he exculpated himself. "Are you hungry?"

Emma turned to look out the window, keeping the irritated twitch on her lips to herself. Of course he changed the subject.

She was in a bad mood today. Of course she was. She hadn't had a moment alone for days now. Strong, intense, confusing feelings had been laying siege to her mind and heart. And here she was, once more trying to be something she wasn't with someone who loved her, cared for her, but...did he understand her?

"No, I'm not hungry," she said, voice heavy with the patience she'd schooled herself to hold tight to.

"Well, I am. I thought we might just drive over to Savill Garden this afternoon. Maybe we could stop first at Englefield Green?"

The weather didn't look particularly optimal for a walk, but she supposed that the threat of precipitation was not enough to really prevent them from taking their chances. He'd chosen the setting. "S-Sure. Of course. If that's what...if that's what you want," she ventured to sound as pleasant and normal.

Ten minutes later, Greg pulled his Jag into a parking spot in front of a small cozy-looking restaurant. The silence, when he cut the car engine, was smothering. Emma quickly opened the her door and jumped out of her seat to greet the crisp cold slap of the winter air. She closed her eyes against the startling change. And when she opened them again, he was standing next to her, chivalrous hand to her elbow, ready to escort her towards the restaurant.

Emma caviled, but followed, each step increasing the flutters in her stomach, patience too shaky to handle a pedestrian peaceful meal. So she hadn't done a good job of ignoring the awareness and tension before, but it was escalating now. She plastered a false friendly smile for the hostess as they were seated and handed menus, and unwrapped herself out of her winter armor. After placing her order for tea and seeing the eager waitress off, she turned to Greg, across the table. He was concentrating on his place setting. Emma watched the other restaurant patrons, and allowed a few moments for the overabundance of floral print to fully sink in. It was a comfortable enough place that obviously catered to tourists by being a "small cozy English restaurant".

She drank her oversteeped tea as she tried to organize her thoughts. The tea started to swirl and slosh in her stomach, so she gave up on it. She ate only two bites of her crumpets before she felt the weight of them. It was as if the clumps expanded in her stomach, until she could focus on nothing but how uncomfortable she felt at that moment. Greg devoted his full attention to his sandwich and graciously signed napkins for interrupting fans. Emma was pretty sure she smiled pleasantly at the other patrons, and only hoped that she didn't offend or confuse anyone with any accidental display of her jumbled emotions.

Greg conversed with false placidity. She wondered how he thought their conversation would go. Was he in denial? Was he nervous? It was moments like these, she observed wryly, that she reckoned Greg could be a fantastic actor if he really wanted to be one.

At length, Greg signed the bill, put away his wallet, and took her hands, and patiently waited for her to look up at him, and abandon the delicate pattern on her tea cup. She was taken aback by the intensity in his gaze. "Well, are you ready to go onto the gardens?" he asked.

Though his tone was light, she felt the heavy resignation. And the concern in his gaze. She swallowed, "Yes," she replied quietly.

They bundled themselves up and stepped out of the restaurant. Greg unlocked the doors to the car and she got back in. There was no disputing it; the tension was near unbearable, and certain impenetrable. No cheesy topic came to her head. She wanted to blurt it out and get it over with.

They both deserved a thorough, mature conversation in the right setting, though. She wasn't an expert at these things, but she was aware that a discussion of their relationship merited a certain...privacy. And delicacy. So instead of wondering why she hadn't exploded with all her thoughts yet, she patiently waited. They were fortunate enough to be not far from the gardens, and Emma both sighed relief and winced as she saw the signs. Greg parked the car in the lot. They got out and approached the building. She kept her footfall steady, and felt the mire of emotions. Did she know what she wanted to say to him? She'd been so positive a second ago. She wasn't so sure, now. She stood to the side as he paid for their admission, and followed when he gestured to the gardens.

Being just a week before Christmas, a sprinkling of tourists loitered about the walkways. Discontent, tired children pouted into the gray sky. Emma and Greg walked quietly for a bit.

Who was to begin? How did this start?

"So," Greg exhaled on a sigh.

"So," Emma replied quietly.

"...have you...?"

"I-I have given thought to your-to what we were talking about. At the wedding," she began, tentatively.

Greg gritted his teeth. "So have I."

"And...and what did you think?" she asked.

Greg sighed. "I think," he turned to nod at a passing couple, then looked back at her. With a deep breath, he said the words heavily, even as he was aware that the declaration should have been filled with joy. "I think that's where I want for us to go."

Emma felt the breath knocked out of her. Maybe she'd been hoping he'd whimsically smile and take the proposal back. But there was none of the happy flippancy that she'd come to adore on his well-chiseled features. Determination was set in his gaze, set in his jaw. As if he'd prepared for a battle.

Didn't he see how...unnatural that was?

"W-with me," she stuttered.

"With you." Greg took her hands in his. The grip was firm and sure.

"A-and you know...?"

Greg sighed tiredly. "Yes, I know."

"I can't handle this."

The words had been expected, but hearing them had a peculiar effect on him. "You can't handle this," he repeated.

Emma cleared her throat. "I can't."

Greg sighed, putting a hand to his brow. "Of course," he said quietly. He opened his eyes to take her hands in his, fighting to keep a steady tone. "But I can't just...stand stupidly around and not let you know where I want for this to go. Surely, it's best to...be cognizant of all the details as soon as they develop?"

She nodded. "Of course," she said. "It's just-"

"I know that you love me, and that you never thought you would, or could."

And since he had a point, she stayed shut up.

"So...so who's to say that maybe..."

"Maybe?" she asked incredulously.

He gritted his teeth. "Maybe," replied defiantly. "Dammit, Em. You're an honest person, so that's what I'm going to give you. Here are the facts: I am in love with you. I don't think I've ever met anybody whose perspective has come to mean as much to me as yours. And I don't think I've ever met anybody whose happiness has come to mean as much to me as yours."

"I-if my happiness meant that much to you..."

"...then I wouldn't have mentioned this at all?" And suddenly, that darling pale face of hers, those wide scared eyes...became simply tiresome. "As much as I care for your happiness, I can state that I know with full conviction that mine must come first."

The determination and conviction had her making a double take at the man who stood next to her. "P-point made," she said. "But you did just kind of ambush me with this."

Greg stepped away to kick at the gravel walkway, swore to himself and turned on her, frustration emanating from his rigid posture. "Emma, I've been patient."

"I know you have. For the most part."

"I've let you do your thing, and let you take your time."

"Yes, you have. In the past."

"But if I have to wait one more time, or compromise...Emma, I've bent myself over backwards to accommodate your lifestyle, to answer your challenges."

"I-you made the choice to do so yourself!" she replied, even as she knew her argument was weak. But...but she'd never asked! Of course. She wasn't blind, or stupid. She wasn't unaware of the concessions he'd made for her. But those kind of gestures...were they supposed to be traded?

He felt tired. "Perhaps I have. Maybe it's worked for me in the past. Happy go lucky. But it's been far too easy for you, and it isn't working anymore for me. It's time for me to step up, and demand that you step up with me." This was not going the way he'd planned. The ring box was still in his pocket. The floral words, the cajoling, the winsome smile...all that rehearsing had been for naught.

"Demand?" her brow rose.

He could have kicked himself, but the repressed frustration would not and could not be ignored any longer. "Yes. Demand. I reserve and deserve the right."

"You do?" The last word carried a note of shrillness, so acidic it stung on her own ears. She stopped herself before she lost grip completely. She turned away and let herself be silent for a count to five before speaking again. "Greg, you're not...you're not being very...sensible."

He replied levelly, anger cooled from his voice. "Perhaps not."

"Maybe we should talk about this---"

"---some other time?" Greg shook his head bitterly. "I think we know where this is going."

"Well, crap," Emma uttered quietly.

At length, he spoke again. "I-I had something...nicer prepared."

"I believe you," Emma replied.

"But..."

"But. I don't think we're going to agree on this one."

"And that means..."

Emma bit her lip. "We can't get married. Not like this."

Greg sighed. "I...I suppose not."

"And if that's where you want to go, and if that's where I-" she cleared her throat, "I can't go, then maybe...we can't see each other anymore," she said quietly.

He didn't reply. She didn't know if her heart was breaking or steeling itself. She didn't know what she wanted out of him. This was ridiculous. Messy. Confusing. "It's just...m-maybe it's good to stop now, before we started to really resent each other, you know? This way we can back away, become good in-laws. Good...friends." The words sounded awkward to her, but she clung to the belief with all she had. "G-Greg, you're...you're too important to me to just...ruin this way. And I'd hate to know that you were...I like you too much for that."

He swallowed past the mass in his throat. It had been expected, had it not? Had he not known, these past two days, that this was to be the outcome of their conversation, even as he prepared the proposal he didn't use, rehearsed the cunning arguments he did not employ? "And is...is this the only way we can proceed?"

"It's...it's the only way I know how," she uttered quietly.

He couldn't help but prevent the bitter cynical smile; she always got her way, didn't she? But what was with the nonsense of "ways"? Her way, his way; this was not right. She stood three feet away, considering the scenery with level focus, her own face devoid of expression. It was if, in her mind, they'd already been broken up for years.

And this was the woman he'd fallen in love with. He could have cheerfully strangled her.

Even as he waded through the bitter angry thoughts, he was well aware that these things, these connections, these decisions, they didn't happen this way. And maybe that was the problem with them to begin with.

"Well," he replied. "Well, then."

"...and of course Will thinks it's the THF," Liz uttered ferociously.

"Of course he does."

"Why is it always the THF? I'll have you know that a lot of things can go wrong with a reaction," Liz slammed her palm against the steering wheel.

"That's true," Emma replied. "But..."

"Yes, I dried the THF myself this time and tried it out. It's not the THF," Liz replied smoothly as she guided the car along the curves of the 110.

Aside from a passing inquiry on the trip to London, Liz carried the conversation easily, maneuvering from topic to topic as expertly and smoothly as she changed lanes. If she saw anything amiss in Emma's demeanor, or was curious why Emma had come back to Los Angeles three days before she'd planned, Liz kept it to herself, and Emma was extremely grateful for it.

"...I can't believe I let her drag me out there. It's been almost two years since I've actually gone down to Hollywood to party it up," Liz sighed. "I guess I needed to get out and get off campus for a bit, but really, it was so crowded, and the wait was...well, it could have been worse. I'm telling you: Will's little sister is a social tornado."

"You say that with both exhaustion and admiration in your voice."

"She's crazy, but I like her. As far as roommates go, she's awesome; laidback, neat, clean. And a morning person, like me. Much less obnoxious than Will, that's for sure," Liz blew out a breath.

"Well, it sounds like you have a better arrangement, then."

"It's not bad, that's for sure," Liz replied as she pulled the car in front of Emma's apartment building and popped the trunk.

"Thanks for picking me up, I really appreciate it...I owe you beer," Emma said.

Liz opened her mouth to say something. When she saw the forced smile on her labmate's face, she knew to back off. "No problem. Have a good night. Good luck with the jet lag."

Emma smiled widely and unfolded out of her seat and went to the back of the car to unload her suitcase. After slamming down the trunk, she waved vigorously to signal the completion of the task, and her dismissal of her colleague's company. Liz drove off without looking back.

Sighing, she pulled out the handle of her bulky, overstuffed suitcase, wondering how on Earth she'd been persuaded to buy so much on this trip. But, she conceded, it wasn't as if she wasn't going to be wearing these clothes. They were useful purchases. None of them were particularly crazy, and some of the purchases were replacing items whose lifetimes had already been extended entirely too many years for the fashionable and fabulous.

Emma dragged the suitcase up the walkway towards her door. She smiled at the passing mailman and paused to wave at a harried neighbor who rushed through the courtyard, equipped with laundry basket.

She dug her keys out of the bottom corner of her purse and relished the sensation and sound of the sliding the key into the lock and turning to unlatch the door to her home. Finally, true familiarity. Her haven. Stepping inside, she took in the apartment, which looked so warm in the late afternoon sun. She pulled her suitcase inside and shut the door, locking it carefully behind her.

Then she sank down onto the hard floor and started to cry.

Continued In Next Section