CHAPTER SEVEN
Emily liked to schedule difficult conversations for the midafternoon.
She considered it the best time for a talk, especially with children; there was enough left of the day not to have to go to bed with tough feelings, and enough activity that a person could duck out, if needed, under the pretext of laundry or a wayward guest.
The sunroom was empty, for once. Emily set out a plate of almond cookies, a pitcher of lemonade, then rearranged the coffee table twice before placing the Boston Youth Music Conservatory brochure dead center.
Chantelle arrived without fanfare, trailing the faintest whiff of pencil shavings and the sharp tang of sweat that followed her from the school's playground. She wore jeans with paint-flecked knees and a men’s T-shirt she’d rescued from Daniel’s rag bag, the neck so wide it slipped off one shoulder.
She clocked the cookies first, then the lemonade, and finally the brochure, which she eyed as if it might bite.
Emily gestured to the armchair nearby. “Can you join me for a sec? I want to talk about something.”
Chantelle gave the room a once-over, as if confirming the absence of backup or witnesses, then flopped onto the couch and draped her legs over the armrest. “Am I in trouble?”
“Not unless you plan on putting one of the garden cats in your room again.”
Chantelle snorted, plucked a cookie, and took a tiny, deliberate bite. “So, what is it, Mom?”
Emily hesitated. Her script, rehearsed, felt suddenly overthought.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then reached for the brochure, sliding it forward.
“Sarah told me you might have a shot at the Boston Youth Music Conservatory this summer. Like, a real shot. Roman Westbrook called to say he wants you to come, too.”
She watched for a flicker: delight, pride, even skepticism. Instead, Chantelle’s face went blank, her focus tight on the cookie, which she crumbled between forefinger and thumb until only a powdery residue was left on her palm.
“That’s cool,” Chantelle said, but her voice was flat. She picked at her jeans, creating a new fringe at the seam.
That’s cool?
Emily pressed on. “I know it’s a lot to take in. And it’s only for seven weeks. You’d be in a dorm, but the kids’ wing is supervised. We could visit every weekend. And you’d get to meet other guitar nerds. People who talk about music the way you do.”
Chantelle's mouth tightened at "dorm," but she didn't comment. She rolled the crumbs between her palms, forming them into a little ball, then flicked it toward the window, where it landed in a shaft of light and was instantly claimed by a house ant.
Emily tried a new tack. “Sarah thinks you’re ready for something bigger. Dad and I do, too.” She paused, letting the words settle. “But I want to know what you think.”
This time, Chantelle met her eyes. Her stare was flat, almost defiant.
Emily waited.
Chantelle glanced away first. “Can I see the brochure?”
“Of course.” Emily pushed it over. She watched as Chantelle turned it, inspecting the photos: a courtyard full of kids practicing with sheet music, a rehearsal hall with gleaming floors.
“Everyone looks overly happy,” Chantelle said. “Is that, like, required?”
Emily smiled, unsure if it was a joke or a genuine question. “I think they just tell the photographer to take happy pictures.”
“Huh.”
“Is there something about the program you’re not sure about?” Emily asked.
Chantelle set the brochure down, the front-page curling at the edge. She rested her hands on her knees, then reached for her guitar, which was propped nearby from one of her last lessons teaching Laverne. Chantelle laid the guitar across her lap like a shield.
“I don’t know,” she said. She strummed a chord, soft and unfinished. “I mean, I guess it’d be cool to go. But… I don’t know. What if it sucks?”
“You could always come home. It’s not prison.” Emily smiled, hoping to lighten the mood. “Worst case, you survive a summer in Boston and have a story to tell. Best case, you come back a rock star.”
Chantelle rolled a pick between her fingers, silent.
“I’m not going to make you do it,” Emily said, keeping her voice low. “But if you want to, I’ll make it happen. Scholarships, plane tickets, whatever it takes.”
Chantelle’s hand stilled. “Can I think about it?”
“Absolutely. Do you want to talk about something else?” Emily asked. “Or should I let you get back to your music?”
“Can I have another cookie?”
Emily laughed, and the tension eased by a hair. “Take two.”
Chantelle took another, this time biting a chunk and chewing with noisy intent. “Can I tell you something without you getting mad?”
Emily’s pulse picked up. “Always.”
“I kind of like it here. At the inn. Even when it’s loud. Even when the guests are weird.” She shrugged, embarrassed. “This is our home. And Boston isn’t.”
“It is home here,” Emily said. “And I’m not asking you to leave it if you don’t want to.”
Emily felt momentarily on alert. Were these Chantelle’s abandonment issues rearing back up? Emily and Daniel had worked hard to help the young girl feel secure after her birth mother had disappeared. Emily didn’t want to undo any of that work.
Chantelle nodded, then swung her feet off the armrest and set the guitar on its stand.
She stuffed the last bit of cookie in her mouth and, without warning, gave Emily a quick, fierce hug.
It was over before Emily could reciprocate, but she clung to the feeling, letting it warm her from the inside out.
“I’ll think about it,” Chantelle said, voice muffled by the hallway as she made her escape.
Chantelle came back less than a minute after leaving, as if the house had spat her out, back to the sunroom.
She hovered in the doorway, hands shoved in her pockets, the confidence of her earlier exit erased.
Emily, who hadn’t moved from the parlor, caught the shadow of her daughter’s return in the reflection of the coffee table and feigned surprise. “You forget something?”
Chantelle shrugged. She just stood on the threshold, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
Emily watched her carefully. “You want to talk some more?”
“I guess.” Chantelle drifted back to the chair but didn’t sit.
Instead, she leaned over the armrest, staring out the window.
She picked at a loose thread on the chair, then let her hand drop.
“I’m not scared of going, just so you know.
Not really.” Her jaw set, stubborn, like she was bracing for an argument.
“But I don’t want to miss stuff here, either. ”
Emily leaned forward, elbows on her thighs. “What would you be missing?”
Chantelle opened her mouth, then closed it, the words reconfiguring. “Grandpa Roy is sick, right?” She said it flat, matter-of-fact. “He’s been tired a lot, and he doesn’t walk as much as before. I heard you on the phone trying to call his doctor.”
Emily’s stomach contracted, the old fear curling up from her gut to her chest. She forced her shoulders down, tried for calm. “He’s doing okay right now. But yes, he gets tired. That’s why he’s here. So, we can spend time together.”
“Right,” Chantelle said. She thumbed the edge of her pad, the motion slowing as she spoke. “If I leave for the summer, I might miss… I don’t know. Important things.”
Emily reached up, tucking her hair behind her ear, a nervous tell she’d never managed to lose. “You think about that a lot?”
Chantelle nodded. “Sometimes I dream he’s already gone. Like, I’ll wake up and forget if it’s true or not.”
Emily exhaled a shaky breath. She’d tried so hard to shield Chantelle from the truth of Roy’s cancer, to keep the edges soft, but the girl had sliced through it anyway. “That’s a real fear,” she said softly. “I feel it, too.”
Chantelle glanced up, her face open and unguarded. “I’m not being stupid, right?”
“Not at all.” Emily slid closer, until their knees almost touched. “It’s not stupid to want to be here for your family.”
“There’s more,” Chantelle said, voice even smaller. “Laverne, you know she had a rough year with her parents divorcing. If I go to Boston, who’s going to help her keep learning guitar?” She ran her thumb along the loose chair thread again, then added: “She really sucks at F major.”
Emily let the smile come, not mocking, but full of affection. “F major’s tough.”
“She’s got skinny fingers,” Chantelle said, looking away as if embarrassed by her own defense.
“Is there anyone else?” Emily asked, quietly. “Anything else you’d worry about missing?”
Chantelle considered, then said: “Bailey’s my best friend.
She’s not good with new people, but I help her.
If I leave, she’ll probably just play Roblox all day and never leave the house.
” She chewed her lip, then added, “And I don’t want to miss Charlotte talking more.
Or Dad’s barbecue parties because I always set up the sprinklers.
Or—” She hesitated, then finished, “Or you.” The last word cracked.
Emily felt her eyes sting, a pressure that threatened to spill over if she didn’t keep her voice steady. “I’d miss you, too. But we’d visit. We’d call every day, if that’s what you wanted.”
Chantelle shrugged, a lopsided gesture. “It’s not the same.”
“I know,” Emily said. She rested her hand on the table, palm open. After a beat, Chantelle set her own hand beside it, the two of them close enough that their fingers almost brushed.
“I know it’s a big opportunity. I really do. But what if something important happens while I’m gone?” Her voice broke a little again, just at the end.
Emily reached out and, with infinite care, laid her hand over her daughter’s. “Then we’ll call you. We’ll get you home.”
Chantelle nodded, but she didn’t look convinced. Emily’s earlier worry flared. She didn’t at all want Chantelle to feel as if the Boston thing was them pushing Chantelle out.
Emily let the conversation rest, sensing the fatigue in it.
“Do you want to help me with dinner?” Emily asked. “Cassie’s making meatballs and pasta, but she says my spinach salad must go on the side.”
Chantelle gave a ghost of a smile. “Maybe.”
She followed Emily out of the room. As they walked, Emily resisted the urge to pull her in for another hug, to promise that nothing would change, that there would be no loss or regret. Instead, she just matched her pace to her daughter’s, letting the day unfold, minute by ordinary minute.
In the kitchen, Cassie started ranting about the proper way to seed a cucumber, and Chantelle answered with a laugh that rang clear and unburdened, at least for now. Emily watched her daughter lean against her grandmother, and felt a ripple of new worry.
Emily’s first prenatal appointment was tomorrow.
They hadn’t yet told Chantelle about the possibility of the new baby.
If they told her now, would she give up Boston and stay here?
Or would she go, and feel even sadder that her chance came with that new loss of being part of their family life?
Would she feel that the new baby was replacing her?
And they couldn’t possibly keep the new baby secret from her now—could they?