CHAPTER THIRTEEN
That evening, the kitchen in the inn’s family suite was a mosaic of leftovers.
Emily didn’t have the energy for dinner, and Daniel was running late from work in town.
But she and Charlotte and Chantelle had made do with cold pizza, leftover pasta salad, and prepackaged cupcakes, washed down with strawberry milk.
Now, Chantelle sat at the far corner of the dining table bench, body angled away as she flicked a blue guitar pick end over end across the table.
She wore a hoodie three sizes too big, sleeves swallowing her hands, and had her legs tucked up under her.
Her left sock was inside out. Her hair was out of its usual ponytail, a drifting curtain over one eye.
She looked every bit the child she was—except for the way her jaw was set, stubborn and a little sad, like she’d taken up residence in her own mind and was determined not to be evicted.
We’ve all got things on our minds, Emily thought.
She shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t make her lower back ache.
The baby was too small to show, but her body had already started sending signals: sit like this, not like that, eat now or you’ll regret it in an hour.
She reached for the half-cold mug of herbal tea at her side, the rim still faintly sticky with sugar.
Her hand landed next to a smear of tomato sauce, and she wiped it away with the side of her thumb before taking a careful sip.
The guitar pick made another arc, skittering to a stop at the edge of the salt shaker.
Emily pushed herself up, the bench’s edge scraping a note along the tile, and gestured toward the wide window seat at the bay window nearby. The harbor was a splotch of blue and pewter beyond the glass, the boats at their moorings toy-sized from here.
“Come here, honey,” Emily said, patting the seat beside her as she settled.
Chantelle followed, clutching her knees to her chest. She pressed her forehead to the glass, leaving a faint smear. “What?”
Emily took a second to organize her words. The old her would have scheduled the conversation, written out bullet points, anticipated every possible outcome. Now, she just breathed in the moment.
“I haven’t told you everything about living in New York,” Emily said.
“It was… a lot.” She tried to conjure the feeling, the blocky skyline and the echo of shoes on wet pavement, the endless chase of success or recognition.
“I worked really hard. I kept thinking, if I could just do more, make a bigger splash, I’d finally be happy. ”
She watched her daughter absorb this; eyes fixed on the boats.
“The thing is,” Emily continued, “it was never enough. No matter how well I did, there was always something missing. Sometimes I wonder if I focused too much on work and missed out on relationships that mattered. Friends. Family.”
Chantelle snuck a look, her hair falling away from her face. “You have friends here. And family.”
Emily smiled, acknowledging the small truth of it. “I do. But I had to start over. And I still think about the people I left behind. Auntie Amy came, thank goodness.”
Another silence. Emily could almost hear the gears turning in her daughter’s head.
“I’m not saying Boston is like me running to New York,” Emily said. “If you want something—really want it—sometimes you have to risk being uncomfortable for a while. But if you’re going to chase something that will take you away from somewhere you’re already happy, don’t go. That’s okay, too.”
Chantelle twisted a loose thread in her hoodie, unwinding it until it curled around her finger. “What if I want both?” she said, barely above a whisper.
“Then we find a way to make that work.”
For a while, they just watched the water. The window glass reflected them, two faces framed by dusk and indecision.
Chantelle broke the silence. “Do you want to hear something kind of dumb?”
“Always.”
“I’ve been recording my songs. Like, on my phone. I have this account—don’t worry, I never show my face, just my guitar—where I post them. People comment and stuff. Sometimes they say nice things.”
Emily’s jaw went slack, but she forced herself not to overreact. “You’ve been putting your music out there?”
Chantelle’s ears turned pink. “Not, like, on YouTube or anything. It’s just a site where musicians share original stuff. But… yeah. Some of the people are really good. Better than me, even. They help me fix my lyrics or tell me what chords sound wrong.”
Emily blinked, letting the new information rearrange her entire model of the world. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Chantelle made a face—somewhere between embarrassment and pride. “I didn’t want it to be a big deal. If I messed up, I could just delete it.”
Emily felt her heart squeeze. “Can I listen to one?”
After a long pause, Chantelle slid her phone out of the hoodie pocket, thumbed the screen a few times, and handed it over. The username was something random, and the display picture was a blurry close-up of a cat’s nose. Emily scrolled to a recording labeled “Demo 3” and hit play.
The song was rough, the sound tinny, but the melody was unmistakably Chantelle: bright and a little anxious, with lyrics that didn’t shy away from weird metaphors or wordplay. It was all the more moving for its flaws.
When it ended, Emily handed the phone back, careful not to let her hands shake. “You sound amazing,” she said. “I mean it.”
Chantelle tucked her chin, smile a quirk at the edge of her lips. “The people online say it’s okay. They like the bridge, usually.”
Emily leaned back, letting the window seat’s padding cradle her. “You know,” she said, “if you ever want to do a real recording session, I bet Dad could set something up. He’s got good microphones for the conference speakers.”
Chantelle considered, then shrugged, but not in a way that meant no. “Maybe.”
A few rooms away, Daniel’s voice rumbled. He was in Charlotte’s room. Must have stopped on his way up, Emily thought. The happy sound of the baby’s laughter was a reassurance.
“If we get the lighthouse,” Chantelle asked suddenly, “would you let me invite some of the people from the website? The ones who help with the music stuff? Not, like, strangers-strangers, but the ones who aren’t creepy?”
Emily’s first impulse was protective—strangers, the internet, the possibility of some disaster. But underneath that, a curiosity. “You want to host them? For workshops, or…?”
Chantelle nodded, then pulled her phone from her pocket again, already scrolling.
“There’s this girl from Minneapolis who plays six instruments, and this other kid my age who makes beats but also likes jazz, and I thought—if we had the space, and the equipment, we could do a real camp.
Like, our own version of Boston. Just smaller.
We could live-stream concerts from the lantern room. Maybe raise money for the restoration.”
Emily felt her heart leap—a strange, youthful kind of hope—and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning too wide. “That’s actually brilliant.”
Chantelle’s eyes flicked up, surprised by the lack of resistance. “Really?”
“Really,” Emily said, the word a little shaky. “Listen, Chantie, what if we brought the Boston experience to you, at least for now?”
The effect was immediate. Chantelle’s whole posture changed—she stood and bounced on the balls of her feet, fingers dancing across the phone as she opened a new note, started making a list. “We could call it The Beacon Summit, or something less dorky. You know, play off the lighthouse. Oh, and we could ask Roman to invite his friends, too. He’d do it, I bet. ”
Emily tried to picture it: the lantern room packed with mismatched folding chairs, teenagers with instrument cases slung over their shoulders, the air buzzing with ambition and cheap pizza and the awkwardness of first meetings.
“It’ll take a lot of work. Insurance, chaperones, probably a ton of fundraising.”
Chantelle suddenly looped her arms around Emily in an abrupt, bone-tight hug. “Thanks, Mom,” she whispered.
Emily wrapped her own arms around the narrow back, pulling her daughter close.
She felt the roughness of the hoodie, the subtle scent of shampoo and graphite and something sweet.
For a moment, she let her eyes close and just held on.
When she opened them, there were tears. She didn’t bother to wipe them away. Instead, she hugged a little harder.
Chantelle squirmed, embarrassed by the extra squeeze but not truly fighting it.
The moment was interrupted by the creak of the kitchen door swinging open, and Daniel stepped in, a tired expression on his face.
Roy followed closely behind him, looking drawn and serious.
Emily and Chantelle parted, and Emily stood.
The tension from Emily and Daniel’s earlier argument was where Emily’s mind immediately went, but before Emily could say anything, Daniel closed the distance between them and enveloped her in a tight hug. It was a silent apology, ad she hugged back, giving hers.
“We’ll talk late,” Daniel whispered as he pulled back.
Chantelle sprung up and hugged Daniel, and then Roy, already halfway out the door. “I’m gonna text Laverne,” she said, “and tell her we’re starting a music revolution.”
Daniel looked at Emily.
“Long story. Later, too. You guys have a good day at the shop?”
“A bit of a tough one,” Daniel said. “I did convince this one to sit most of the day.” He jerked a thumb toward Roy.
Roy cleared his throat, his gaze flickering between Emily and Daniel. “Sorry, Dad, you want something to eat? We had leftovers, but I can cook if you—"
“No,” he interrupted. Then, he shuffled slightly “Actually, Em, can we speak in private?" Roy’s voice was low.
Emily looked at Daniel, who looked as confused as she felt.
“Sure, Dad. Now?”
He nodded. “Now.” Then, he stepped back and held open the kitchen door for her. Emily’s heart leapt into her throat.
“I’m good. Go,” Daniel said, already in the fridge pulling out containers.
Shoving her hands in her pockets and slipping on her flip-flops, Emily followed Roy out of the kitchen.