CHAPTER 1

The save the date was as beautiful as expected. "Save the Date for the wedding of Anne Taylor to Charles Weston. October xx, 2017. Negril, Jamaica."

Emma congratulated herself as she poured a second cup of coffee for her father. "I always knew they'd be a great match."

"Yes, but could she really be happy working in food service?" Mr. Woodhouse wrinkled his nose at her over his copy of the New York Times Sunday Edition.

Emma sighed. "Dad, we've been over this. You know Charles and his businesses well. Becoming the COO of his restaurant group is a far cry from acting as a hostess. Not that there'd be anything wrong with that. You like him, don't you?"

"Of course I do. Insured the man 15 years, haven't I?"

"And you know how happy Anne has been since they started dating."

"Very well. But I still don't see why she had to leave me. Do you know how hard it is to find a new chief of staff?"

Emma internally debated the wisdom of continuing down this path. At 65, and having lost his wife (20 years ago, cancer) and his older daughter (3 years ago, marriage), Mr. Woodhouse had developed a remarkable knack for worrying himself over all sorts of imagined wrongs. Still, there could be worse traits for a man who owned a successful insurance company.

Sensing a way to head off additional morose thoughts, Emma continued gaily, "Speaking of the office, when is George coming by to sign his partnership agreement?"

Her father brightened. "Ah, right. He said he'd be here by 10 o'clock, which means," with a quick glance at his watch, "any moment now."

George Knightley, son of the late Robert Knightley, was many things to the Woodhouse family: business partner and protege, surrogate brother and actual brother-in-law (see above re: the elder Woodhouse daughter). The Knightleys and the Woodhouses had enjoyed close ties for nearly 35 years, when the two patriarchs had left a large Hartford insurance conglomerate to start their own company providing insurance to boutique hospitality groups all over New England. Over the years, they had built their small dream into a lucrative enterprise. From Greenwich, Connecticut to Portland, Maine, if you sought white-glove service for your hotel or restaurant, KW Insurance was the first number to call.

When Robert had passed 10 years ago (a black notation in Mr. Woodhouse's journal marked the date each year), George had only been an associate for 2 years, having returned to Hartford after graduating from NYU. But his aptitude for the business and his attention to detail had catapulted him through the ranks. And though some may have grumbled about his being the late boss' son, none could deny that he was a logical choice to be made partner, even at the tender age of 35.

Emma reached for a lemon ginger scone. "If there's anything that George is, it's punc-" A rapping knock and the kitchen side door swung open. "George. Speak of the devil and..."

"...He shall appear at the previously agreed upon time, looking appropriately relaxed for paperwork on a Sunday?" George smiled, his dark blue eyes crinkling at the edges.

"He shall interrupt the last few minutes I get with Dad before I have to head back to New Haven."

"Well, perhaps he's only being helpful by coming by the house."

"Well, perhaps he should have suggested a later time."

"Well-"

"Children." Mr. Woodhouse interrupted the building squabble. "As much as I love and respect you both, your arguing elevates my blood pressure."

Chastised, Emma sent George smile that was at once conciliatory and smug. She rose. "Sorry, Dad. And on that note, I should probably go gather my things to catch the 11:00 train." And with a quick flip of her auburn hair, she was gone.