CHAPTER NINE
Breakfast at the inn had always been one of Emily’s favorite times—half her love of hospitality was an excuse to hover, to watch the guests enjoy the eggs and toast, to keep track of who liked the jam and who doctored their coffee with extra sugar.
But more so than even catering to her guests, Emily loved breakfast with her family.
And now that she’d seen to it that the buffet downstairs was going off without a hitch, she was back in her own kitchen, tending to the guests that mattered most.
Roy took his usual place at the head of the table in the family suite dining room, posture straight.
Emily loaded a plate with scrambled eggs and fruit, then hovered near the oven as the first batch of blueberry muffins dinged, finished baking.
Roy always claimed not to have a sweet tooth, but by the third cup of coffee, he’d usually accepted a muffin “just to be polite.” Today, though, he seemed uninterested.
When Emily slid the plate in front of him, he stirred his eggs into a pastel yellow mush, then just watched steam curl off the surface of his coffee mug.
She brought the muffin pan to the table anyway, letting the aroma of sugar and lemon zest fill the air. “Still warm,” she said, setting it within reach. “You’ll hurt my feelings if you pass.”
Roy looked up, smile flickering. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He reached for a muffin, the movement slow. When his fingers brushed the edge of the pan, Emily caught the tremor again—small, but definite. He cradled the muffin in his palm, but didn’t eat it.
Daniel joined them with Charlotte balanced on one hip, the baby’s arms already stretching toward whatever food was closest. Once buckled into her highchair, she dove into her pile of minutely-crumbled pancakes and quartered blueberries.
Daniel ruffled Roy’s hair in passing, an old joke about always having woodshop dust in his hair, but Roy didn’t bat his hand away as usual.
Instead, he focused on Charlotte, who squealed at him, mouth smudged with berry juice.
“Little princess,” Roy said, making a face that made Charlotte squeal in laughter.
Roy sipped his coffee, and again his hand wavered, just a shade. When he set the cup down, he closed his eyes for a half-beat, as if that effort had drawn on something deeper than caffeine.
Cassie swept in from the hall, brandishing the morning paper like a victory flag.
“Anyone want the comics before I claim them for my own?” She poured herself a mug—half decaf, per doctor’s orders, which she ignored whenever Emily wasn’t watching—and wedged onto the bench beside Chantelle, who was glued to her phone.
Pancake syrup was dripping dangerously off the edge of her fork, which she held aloft but forgotten.
Cassie tucked a napkin into Chantelle’s shirt.
Emily took her seat, folded her hands, and tried to eat a few bites of melon.
The room was too quiet; even Cassie’s banter couldn’t disguise the odd little pauses, the stretches of empty air that used to be filled with Roy’s opinions about sports or politics.
He barely glanced at the paper Cassie slid toward him, and when she needled him about baseball, he just grunted.
After a while, he excused himself. “Come on, kid, let’s go to the garage and practice a few measures,” he said, meaning Chantelle. “That jazz tunes your teacher’s got you on is a bear to play.”
Chantelle looked up, and then jumped up. “Yay! Awesome, Papa Roy!”
Daniel offered to join him, but Roy waved him off, smile sharpening just a touch. “No need to babysit, Daniel. I’ll holler if I need backup.”
Emily knew he hadn’t meant the babysitting for Chantelle.
The minute he was out of earshot, Cassie’s mask dropped. “He barely touched his breakfast,” she said, voice pitched low. “That’s a first.”
Daniel rubbed his temples. “He said he was tired from the party, but he didn’t seem right last night either.”
Cassie nodded. “He’s been pale since Christmas. And the cough’s back.”
Emily turned to Daniel. “Will you keep an eye on him during the lesson? Not, like, obviously, but—”
Daniel nodded, understanding. “I’ll make up some errand to the garage.”
Charlotte dropped her spoon, which landed with a dull splat in a puddle of yogurt. Emily let it go. She wiped the baby’s mouth and tickled her until she laughed again.
Cassie poured more coffee, then lowered her voice further. “Do you think we should call his oncologist? Or wait it out?”
Emily’s jaw tightened. “I tried already. And he’ll know if we’re plotting. Let’s give it a few hours and see.”
Cassie’s expression was unreadable. “Your call, honey.”
Emily lingered at the table, wiping up stray crumbs and rolling used napkins into tight balls, even after the others had left, Cassie insisting on taking Charlotte to walk around the garden for the fresh air.
The detritus of the meal felt oddly precious: each berry stain, each coffee ring, another proof of life.
After a while, she stood and carried the dishes to the sink.
She felt the urge to tidy, to restore order.
But instead of cleaning, she dried her hands and ducked into her office just off the main hall downstairs.
The door was thin, the space small, but when she closed it, the world receded a few decibels—the clatter of the dishwasher in the inn’s big kitchen, the sound of guests in the front parlor.
She sat in her rolling chair, then spun once, just for the sensory reset.
The room smelled of lemon from the hand lotion she kept by the keyboard and, faintly, of ink from a leaky pen she’d failed to throw away.
Emily pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead.
She tried to focus on anything but the image of Roy’s hands—how they’d looked so strong when she was a kid.
Now, the memory of his tremor played in a loop.
She wanted to fix it. Or, barring that, to manage the decline, do something that would keep the inevitable at bay.
She knew now what Daniel had meant about the fear of being helpless.
But there was also a part of her, old and raw, that remembered what it was like to be hovered over, to have her boundaries dissolved by good intentions.
She picked up her phone and typed out a text to Daniel: If anything seems off, let me know. I’m in the office.
Emily pressed send, then stared at the empty input box.
She closed her eyes. She tried to let herself exist in the moment, to trust that she didn’t have to control every outcome.
Not Roy, not the new baby. The air in the office was still, and for a minute, the world outside her door receded even further.
She heard only her own breath. In that pause, she found the smallest measure of peace.
But it didn’t last.
The office door banged open so hard it rattled the wall. Daniel stood in the threshold, breathless and wide-eyed. “Em, it’s Roy,” he said. “He just—”
She was up before he finished, half-expecting to hear sirens. Daniel was already coloring in the details: Roy, while standing, had tipped forward, going slack. Chantelle had panicked in two seconds flat. Daniel had caught Roy under the arms just as the old man had keeled over.
“He says it’s nothing,” Daniel said. “Swears he just stood up too fast. But he’s pale as a sheet, and…” He didn’t finish the sentence, which was worse than anything he could have said.
Emily’s mind snapped into procedural mode. “Where is he now?”
“Parlor. Your mom had just gotten here, she’s with him. He’s insisting on getting back to the guitar lesson, but I made him sit.” Daniel’s hands fluttered uselessly before balling into fists. I can’t fix this, she knew he was thinking. “Should I go sit with him? Or—?”
She nodded, already opening her phone. “Go. I’ll call his doctor.”
Daniel hesitated, clearly wanting to be with her and Roy, but finally nodded. “Cassie’s got the girls in the kitchen. She says she’ll keep them out of the way.” Then he turned and jogged back down the hall, footsteps heavy on the old wood.
Emily locked the office door behind him, less to keep people out than to keep her own anxiety from spilling into the rest of the house. She pressed the phone to her ear and navigated the endless labyrinth of the clinic’s automated prompts.
The phone chirped, and a nurse’s voice came on the line, brisk and efficient. “Sunset Harbor Oncology, this is Jeanette.”
Emily modulated her tone, aiming for competent concern, not panic. “Hi, this is Emily Morey. My father, Roy Mitchell, is a patient there. He just had a dizzy spell—almost fainted. He’s conscious, but very pale. No fever, no vomiting. He’s had cancer for about a year.”
The nurse fired back questions with the speed of someone used to sorting wheat from chaff. “How long did the episode last? Any chest pain, shortness of breath?”
Emily relayed the facts. “A few seconds. No chest pain, but he was winded. He’s eating less, seems more tired, but no other acute symptoms.”
There was a pause, the sound of keys clacking. “Any history of heart issues?”
“Not that I know of,” Emily said. “He’s had some anemia before. Otherwise, it’s just the cancer.”
The nurse hummed. “Has he fallen before?”
Emily thought back, fast-forwarding through the last month of family meals, movie nights, and Roy’s walks around the property. “Not that I’ve seen. This is new.”
The nurse put her on hold, but Emily could hear the muted murmur of a hand-over-mouth as Jeanette relayed the story to the doctor. She waited, stomach in knots, tapping the pen against her desk until she realized she was leaving dents in the finish.
When the line reconnected, the nurse’s voice was softer, more personal.
“Doc says to monitor for the next few hours—check blood pressure, make sure he’s not bleeding from his nose, mouth, or ears, or vomiting.
If he gets short of breath, or faints again, call 911.
” She hesitated, then added, “Sometimes, I can tell you as general advice and not specifically in your father’s case, these spells can mean the cancer is progressing, or there’s internal bleeding.
But they could also just be the body saying slow down.
You’re not alone—just call if you’re worried. ”
Emily thanked her, hung up, and let her head rest in her hands for a moment before she went to the front parlor.
She found Roy on the couch; a blanket draped over his shoulders.
He had a stubborn set to his jaw, but his color was off, a washed-out version of himself.
Patricia sat close by, knitting needles clacking with a nervous speed, though her hands never faltered.
Daniel stood behind the sofa, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He saw Emily, caught her eye, and raised his eyebrows in a silent question: What now?
Roy spotted her and tried for a smile. “I’m not dead yet,” he said, voice raspier than before.
Emily perched on the edge of the coffee table. “No, but you scared the crap out of us. You’re overdoing it lately.” Subtly, Emily looked for any sign of a nosebleed, anything around his ears. Nothing.
He shrugged, then winced. “You know me. Drama queen.”
Patricia’s needles clacked faster, but her face betrayed nothing. “You should listen to Emily,” she said, not looking up. “She knows what she’s saying.”
Roy made a face, but he didn’t argue.
Emily glanced at Daniel. “Why don’t you three hang out here for a bit? I’ll make some tea.” She shot Daniel a look, and he got the message: keep him resting.
In the kitchen, Cassie was in her element, two children and a plate of cookies arrayed around her like the world’s messiest solar system. She caught Emily’s eye, wiped her hands on her apron, and leaned in close. “Is it bad?”
“Don’t know yet,” Emily said. “We’re supposed to monitor. If he faints again, we call for help.”
Cassie nodded, mouth set in a grim line. “Let me know if you need me to take the girls into town to pick up pizza for dinner or anything.” She tickled Charlotte under the chin, earning a giggle.
“Will do. Will you check on Chantelle for me?”
Cassie nodded again.
Emily fixed a tray—tea for Roy, water for herself, a fistful of napkins in case of spills. Back in the parlor, she set the tray down, poured a cup, and handed it to Roy. He sipped, then coughed, then grinned at her over the rim. “See? I’m fine.”
Emily let herself laugh. “Only just.”
After a few minutes, Roy’s breathing evened out. He leaned back into the couch, and some color crept back into his face. “Maybe I did just stand up too fast,” he said, but it sounded like an apology.
“Maybe,” Emily said. She didn’t believe it for a second.