CHAPTER FOUR
The inn’s back sunroom was Emily’s favorite room, and it had hosted everything from the fundraising teas of the Chamber of Commerce to Chantelle and her friend Laverne’s guitar lessons.
Today, though, the morning after the party, the room hummed with Emily’s nervous energy as Sarah Chen, Chantelle’s guitar teacher, perched on the edge of the Queen Anne armchair.
Her hair was clipped back in a no-nonsense sweep, and she wore a severe black dress that was at odds with her gentle personality.
Across from Emily, Daniel sat with his legs neatly crossed, one ankle resting on his knee, hands folded in his lap.
He looked so much like a lawyer that Emily wanted to reach over and undo his top shirt button, just to break the illusion.
He’d been as nervous as Emily since Emily had gotten the early-morning text from Sarah, a request to meet with them about Chantelle.
Emily’s mind raced. Chantelle was good. A good student. Well behaved. Sure, when she had first come to live with Daniel and Emily, having been with her addict mother for so long, there were bumps, but they’d grown strong as a family.
So, what could be so urgent that Sarah had needed to meet so quickly?
There had been coffee, croissants, and small talk.
Emily was antsy to get to the meaning of the meeting.
Just before she could gently prod, Sarah leaned forward and spread a glossy, trifold brochure on the coffee table in front of them all.
On its cover, a boy with a mop of red hair and a wide smile cradled a cello, the Boston Youth Music Conservatory’s dome rising like a promise in the background.
“I’ll just come out and say it. I think Chantelle would flourish in this program. It’s a full-day schedule—seven weeks, with weekend intensives and guest faculty from all over.” She glanced at Emily, then Daniel, as if expecting protest.
Emily nodded, the motion automatic, but her eyes darted to the top-right corner of the brochure where a sticker announced, in foil-embossed font, “NOW ACCEPTING STUDENTS 9–18.” She ran a thumb along the edge, feeling the thickness of the paper. Heavy. Serious.
“That’s quite a commitment,” Daniel said, picking up the brochure and flipping through its pages. “Daily practice, master classes, concerts. Plus, the theory and composition classes. How did you hear about it?”
Sarah hesitated, just long enough for Emily to notice. “A fellow musician mentioned the program’s expanding, looking for prodigies outside the usual Boston pipeline. I thought immediately of Chantelle.”
Emily felt her face flush, a small, involuntary pride that quickly curdled into something else. More worry, this time a maternal one. “Would she have to board there? Or could we bring her home at night?”
“Most of the students stay in the dorms, but there’s also a day track for kids within driving range,” Sarah said.
“But the real benefit is being in that environment twenty-four-seven. The immersion, the collaborations, the guest artists—they build the whole summer around a musical community. I think she’d love it.
But I wanted to talk to you both first. I know it’s a lot. ”
Emily’s mind skipped past the logistics and landed on the image of Chantelle in a strange bed, alone at night, surrounded by a sea of new faces and expectations.
For a split second, she wanted to snatch the brochure off the table and run it through the shredder in the admin office, just to keep things as they were.
Daniel, who had picked the paper up, now put the brochure down, lining it up with the edge of the table. “What’s the tuition?”
“Twenty-five hundred for the day program. Six hundred for boarding. They have scholarships, and honestly, I think she’d qualify.”
Emily almost asked, “What if she hates it?” but stopped herself. Instead, she said, “It’s a long time to be away from home. She’s never done anything like that before.”
Sarah nodded, sympathetic. “I know. And, forgive me, but there aren’t many kids like her around here. She needs peers who speak her language.”
There it was. Emily felt a tiny fissure open in her chest. She’d always assumed that childhood would stretch on forever, that her daughter’s orbit would remain fixed around the inn, the family, the routine.
Her classmates at school. The idea of an outside world reaching in—wanting to pull Chantelle away, even for a few weeks—felt like the first crack in a shell Emily wasn’t ready to outgrow.
She thought about the years ahead, how this summer could be just the beginning of a string of departures.
“Is there a deadline?” Daniel asked.
“They’re holding a spot for her. We’d need to confirm by next Friday.” Sarah rose, smoothing her skirt. “But, of course, take your time. If you have questions, I’m always around. I’d be happy to talk with Chantelle, too. No pressure.”
She offered a polite smile, and Emily mirrored it, though she felt her lips stretch too tightly across her teeth. As Sarah waved them both off from standing and let herself out, Daniel placed his hand on Emily’s knee.
He squeezed her leg, then let his hand fall away. “She’s amazing. It’s a good thing.”
Emily tried to agree, but all she could think of was the last time she’d watched Chantelle sleep, the slow, even rise and fall of her back, the small tangle of hair at the nape of her neck.
She wasn’t ready for the world to take her daughter.
But it wasn’t fair to hold Chantelle here if she wanted to go.
“I’ll let you think it over,” he said softly. “I gotta go to the shop.”
With a kiss, he was gone.
Emily stayed in the parlor for a long time after Sarah and Daniel left, arms hugged tight across her chest. The clock above the credenza chimed the half hour—three polite, distinct notes—before the silence returned.
Suddenly, her phone vibrated on the table. She reached for it, half-expecting a message from Sarah, but the number on the display was unfamiliar: not the number of the lighthouse call, Jamie, but a Boston area code. She answered, voice low. “Hello, this is Emily.”
“Emily!” The voice on the other end was warm and textured.
“Roman! What are you doing in Boston?”
Roman Westbrook, pop star and unlikely friend of the Moreys, laughed. “I’m here at the Conservatory program. Sarah Chen said you’d be expecting my call.”
Emily wasn’t, and the shock must have registered, because he laughed again. “I’m the one who told her about the program for Chantelle.”
“Hi, yes, of course. Sorry, I—caught me off guard.”
“No worries,” Roman said. “I know you’re busy, so I’ll keep this short. Has Sarah filled you in on the Conservatory?”
“She did,” Emily said. “She just left.”
“Good. I wanted to let you know—off the record—I’ve seen a lot of kids, and your daughter blows me away.
” He said it with the confidence of someone who expected to be believed.
“Sarah’s a friend. She played with my touring band years ago, back when I was still playing in grimy clubs.
She doesn’t throw the word ‘prodigy’ around lightly. Neither do I. “
Emily tried to find a response that didn’t sound like outright fawning. “Thank you. Chantelle works hard. But it’s a lot to take in, honestly. I’m not sure we’re ready for this.”
Roman’s tone shifted, more earnest. “I get that. I didn’t even start serious training until I was a teenager. Sometimes I wonder what could have happened if I’d had the right nudge earlier.” A pause, then: “Don’t let her plateau, Emily. The foundational years matter more than people realize.”
Emily walked to the window, phone pressed to her ear, free hand curling the cord of the sheer curtain. “I worry about burning her out young.”
“She’ll burn out if she’s bored, not if she’s challenged,” Roman said.
“The right environment is everything. Peer musicians, new repertoire, the discipline—it’s transformative.
” A faint beep in the background, someone calling for his attention, but he pressed on: “I’m not trying to play guru.
Just—I wish someone had looked out for me, musically.
And I know how lonely it can be for a kid who’s different. ”
Emily felt her throat tighten. “You and your whole crew were so kind to her last summer, during the songwriting retreat.”
Roman’s voice softened. “It doesn’t have to be all or nothing. Let her try it. If she hates it, you’ll know. But don’t say no because you’re afraid. If you have questions, or if Chantelle wants to talk shop, you have my cell number. I’d be happy to help.”
The call ended with a simple, “Take care,” and then she was alone again. She set the phone down and stared at it, then at the brochure.
Emily tried to imagine her daughter among the kids in the photographs: posed with cellos and violins, their faces flushed with pride.
The young musicians all grinned as if nothing had ever disappointed them, their hands curled confidently around bows, reeds, and necks of stringed instruments.
The Boston address, printed in black serif, looked more formidable than inviting.
The house was coming to life around her.
From somewhere upstairs, Charlotte’s giggle tumbled through the stairwell—high and unselfconscious, followed by the heavier cadence of Cassie’s footsteps as she chased the baby down the hallway.
At the front desk, the door chime signaled a new arrival.
Emily heard the receptionist Marnie’s practiced check-in spiel, then the sound of a guest’s suitcase thunking onto the floor.
She let those noises anchor her; the ordinary, the expected, the rhythm she’d worked years to perfect.
Emily looked again at the brochure, flipping to the inside spread.
There was a list of sample schedules: six AM start times, recitals every weekend, theory blocks that ran late into the evening.
The kids in the photos wore uniforms—navy polos, khaki pants—faces turned toward the camera with an almost military discipline.
Emily slid down the wall until she sat on the floor, knees pulled tight to her chest. When she closed her eyes, she saw the hallway as it would be with one less body in the mix.
She saw the kitchen table without Chantelle’s sketches, the weekends without the ping of her questions or detailed lunch orders, the mornings with one less cereal bowl on the counter. She didn’t like the thought of it.
But then, she pictured her daughter in the auditorium, on a stage with a hundred lights trained on her hands, the sound of her musical talent uncontained.
She imagined the hush in the air, the pride and disbelief in the faces of the audience.
Emily tried to hold both visions at once—the loss and the promise—until the ache of them pulling in opposite directions felt almost good.
Emily stood and headed toward the kitchen, footsteps soft.
Maybe it wouldn’t be this summer; maybe it would be next. But Chantelle was growing up, and the day Emily would have to let go was coming, whether she was ready or not.