CHAPTER FIVE
Once the tasks of the morning were done for guests and staff alike, Emily stood at the kitchen window in the family suite, palms curled around her favorite mug.
It was the brown one with a hairline crack at the rim, a relic from her college days, and she’d sworn after the last dishwasher debacle that she was done with the ancient ceramic.
But here it was again, warm against her hand, and here she was, staring into the yard as the afternoon bled up through the pines.
She tried to sip her twice-warmed coffee, but the smell hit her like a gut punch—burnt, metallic, chemical—and her stomach flipped in protest. She forced herself to swallow, and then set the mug down and pressed her thumb hard against the line of her jaw.
Lately, everything tasted wrong: orange juice too sour, bread dough raw no matter how long she baked it.
Even the air in the inn’s kitchen, always a mix of yeast and lemon and old radiator heat, a smell she liked, now made her queasy.
And she was so tired. Despite being up ate, she’d woken an hour earlier than usual, mind thrumming with the million-and-one things left undone.
The potential purchase of the lighthouse, the unreturned calls to Roy’s doctor, the still half-assembled summer menus.
Then, Sarah’s text had come in requesting to meet.
For weeks she’d told herself she just needed one good night’s sleep—she’d wake refreshed, back to her old self, able to manage her anxieties with the sharp, square efficiency she was known for.
Instead, she was restless, irritable, and, as of this morning, about three sips away from vomiting on the freshly Cloroxed tile.
It was good that Roy and Patricia had taken Chantelle and Charlotte into town for lunch, because Emily was so tired that she feared she’d need to lie down for a bit.
She pulled out a chair, sat, and rubbed her temples with the heel of her hand.
The room was empty but for the low burble of the aquarium and the hum of the fridge.
The aquarium was new—Chantelle’s prize for finishing the school year with all A’s—but the water already needed changing, and Emily could see little flecks of debris drifting behind the sluggish goldfish. She added it to the list.
To distract herself, she clicked on the small television in the corner.
The news was all traffic cams and local wildfire risk.
She muted the volume and watched the silent crawl of the headlines, letting the rhythm of the scrolling text pull her away from herself.
Only when the station cut to commercial did she unmute, needing the noise.
A family in matching sweaters stood in a kitchen much like hers, but cleaner, whiter, nothing out of place.
The mother poured orange juice while the father, impossibly handsome, popped a tray of cinnamon rolls onto the table.
The kids—three of them, all glossy-haired and gap-toothed—shouted in delight, then pulled their parents into a group hug.
The screen faded to the company logo, and Emily felt her vision go watery.
She pinched her nose, annoyed. She’d never been a crier, and yet, the last few weeks she’d been leaking tears at the dumbest things.
Grocery store being out of stock of her favorite ice cream.
Greeting cards. An episode of “America’s Funniest Home Videos” in which a baby giggled at its own sneeze.
Once, while driving, she’d heard a segment about firefighters saving a herd of piglets from a barn blaze, and she’d wept so hard she had to pull over.
Emily told herself it was stress. That it was the uncertainty about Roy and the feeling that the next year of her life might be a set of dominoes waiting to topple. Maybe now, it was Chantelle potentially leaving. As her nausea crested, she thought—great, a stomach bug. Just what I need.
She stood abruptly, hand pressed to her mouth, and made it to the bathroom just off the living room in a few bounding steps. She heaved, retched, then flushed the evidence and leaned into the cool porcelain sink.
When she looked up, her face was ghost-pale, eyes red-rimmed and watery. She fished in the cabinet for mouthwash, then splashed her face with cold water, waiting until she felt solid again.
On her way back to the kitchen, she nearly collided with Daniel, who stood at the living room’s edge, arms folded, gaze heavy with the peculiar concern he reserved only for her. He was dressed for a jog—track pants, ancient cross-trainers, a T-shirt she’d threatened to incinerate in the basement.
He took one look at her and opened his arms, wordless.
Emily hesitated, then let herself be drawn in. His chin rested on her head; her forehead pressed to his chest, the soft logo of his shirt embossed briefly on her skin.
“Rough morning?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Just—up too early. Nerves. Can’t stop worrying about my dad, and his doctor’s office won’t call back.”
Daniel exhaled, and she felt it through his ribs, deep and measured.
“Remember, you’re trying to get medical info that isn’t yours.
And if you’re trying to break the world record for worrying, you’re there.
By a mile.” He tilted her chin up, scanned her face as if searching for some tell. “You look green. Did you eat anything?”
“I tried coffee. Didn’t work out.”
Daniel moved to the counter, resting his hip against the edge. “When’s the last time you had a checkup?”
Emily blinked, caught off-guard. “I—what?”
“Just asking. You’ve been tired, you’re not sleeping, and now you’re throwing up. You think maybe you’re coming down with something?”
She rolled her eyes, but the gesture lacked heat. “I’m not contagious. It’s stress.” Something in his gaze made her pulse tick up, an old reflex that went back to their earliest days—when he’d wait her out, patient as a saint, until she told him what was actually bothering her.
She broke eye contact, pretended to fuss with a crumb on the counter. “Fine. If I’m still feeling gross next week, I’ll call Dr. Lieberman.”
Daniel nodded. “Good.”
She looked up, expecting him to let it go, but instead, he pushed off the counter and took a step closer.
“Can I ask a stupid question?” he said, low.
Emily tensed, sudden and sharp. “You can ask me anything.”
“Is there any chance you could be… you know… pregnant?”
For a moment, the kitchen was silent except for the getting-slimy aquarium, the fridge, the white noise of her own blood. She let the question hang, unsure whether to laugh or bite his head off.
“Pregnant?” she echoed.
Daniel gave a one-shouldered shrug. “It’s just—you’re acting like you did with Charlotte, before we knew. The tiredness. The—” He gestured to the bathroom, tactful. “The rest of it.”
“I’m almost thirty-eight, Daniel. My uterus is basically a dust bowl.”
He smiled. “Still. Stranger things have happened.”
She almost made a crack about immaculate conception, but something in his expression—hopeful, worried, not quite letting go—stopped her cold. She sat at a stool at the island, feeling her knees wobble.
“I haven’t even missed—” she started, then stopped. Tried to count the weeks in her head, but the last month was a blur of guests, party planning, late nights, and too many takeout dinners. “I mean, maybe? But probably not. Probably nothing.”
Daniel nodded, then said, “You want to be sure?”
She thought about it. The idea seemed both ridiculous and faintly terrifying.
She hadn’t planned for another baby. Hadn’t even let herself think about the possibility since Charlotte.
It wasn’t supposed to happen now, not at this age, not with Roy sick and Chantelle maybe leaving, the old lighthouse up for sale.
She pressed her hands together, staring at the small white half-moons at the base of her nails.
“Maybe,” she said quietly. “Just to be sure.”
He tilted his head toward the bathroom, and they both hustled in.
Daniel shut the door behind them. The bathroom cabinet Emily opened was a museum of half-used hygiene: stray floss picks, travel-sized toothpaste, a bottle of cough syrup with dust caked over the cap.
Emily dug through it with shaking fingers, cursing the ghost of her past self for stashing every “just in case” item but never organizing.
Her hand closed around a slim white box, wedged behind expired Advil and a dried-up tube of Retinol.
Pregnancy Test—digital, two-count, but only one left.
She held it up, checking the fine print on the side: “Best by: 03/25.” Technically expired. Maybe it didn’t matter. She remembered reading somewhere that these things lasted forever, the reagents outliving the shelf life.
Emily looked at Daniel, who said, “Worth a try.”
She unwrapped the test, hands trembling so badly she almost dropped it in the sink. She read the instructions twice, even though she could recite them in her sleep: wait three minutes for the control line to appear, five for the result. If two lines, pregnant. If one, not. Simple as that.
Emily perched on the edge of the toilet, peed on the stick, then set it on the edge of the sink, watching as the liquid crept up the window. She turned away and sat on the closed toilet, pulled her knees to her chest, arms wrapped tight around them.
In her head, she tried to count backwards—when had her last period started? She worked the math again, and it still didn’t add up—shouldn’t she have noticed sooner? She’d been so busy, she could have missed anything.
Tick, tick, tick. She glanced at the clock. Two minutes and twelve seconds. It felt like an hour.
She stood, paced a tight circle on the bathmat, then stopped to stare at her own reflection.
Her face looked pinched, the hollows under her eyes more pronounced than she remembered.
She could see the worry lines as physical things, embossed above her eyebrows.
She pressed her palm to her stomach, as if expecting to feel an answer there, but it was flat and unyielding, no different than yesterday.
She looked again at the test, expecting nothing, hoping for nothing. But the window showed two clear lines, side by side, as bold and unmistakable as a red light at an intersection.
Emily stared. Blinked. Stared again. The instructions had said faint was still a yes, but this wasn’t faint—it was screaming at her, bright and alive, a message from her own body that she wasn’t done yet.
For a long minute, she just breathed, in and out, until the panic receded enough for her to think.
Pregnant. At thirty-eight. With an inn to run and a father she might have to lose and a whole renovation project for the lighthouse on the line.
She let out a sound—half laugh, half sob—and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.
The test shook in her grasp. She looked at it again, hoping for a different answer, but it was as stubborn as she was.
Daniel looked over her shoulder and gently eased the test from her grip. He inspected it, and then set it down with exaggerated care on the counter. He looked at her again, face a strange mix of alarm and awe. “Well, damn,” he said, and she almost laughed.
For a long moment they just stood there. When Daniel reached for her, she didn’t resist. He held her, not too tight, and let her decide whether to cry or scream.
She did neither. Instead, she tucked her head into the hollow of his shoulder and let her lungs fill with the clean, damp smell of him, the hint of dryer sheet and the ghost of his aftershave.
He stroked her hair, slow and careful. For a while, Daniel said nothing, just held her hand and let the news settle in the air.
When he finally spoke, it was with gentleness.
“If you’re worried, we can go to urgent care, or the drugstore, get a real test. We can make an appointment. We can wait and see. Whatever you need.”
She swallowed. “What if I’m too old?”
Daniel looked at her, and his mouth worked like he was chewing on his next words. “You’re not too old,” he said. “You’re… advanced maternal age, maybe.” The joke landed, and the tension splintered a little.
Emily managed a breathy laugh. “That’s what the OB called me last time. Like a yellowed library book.”
He grinned. “I’d check you out.”
She rolled her eyes, but the tightness in her chest faded a notch.
He sobered, thumb tracing the inside of her wrist. “It’s a shock, but it’s not a bad thing. We know the drill. We’ve done this before.”
Emily bristled, then softened. “We barely survived last time.”
“But we did,” he countered. “And we’re better now. The girls are older. The inn runs itself most days.” He squeezed her hand.
She stared at the floor, the swirl of the rug’s pattern suddenly dizzying. “It’s not just me. There’s Roy, and the lighthouse, recovering from the hurricane, and all the other crap we just barely got under control. We have to go tomorrow to see the lighthouse!”
Daniel turned and opened the door, leading her to the couch. He pulled her into his lap, his hands warm on her back. “That’s the thing about you,” he said. “You always have room. Even when you’re sure you don’t.”
Emily let herself lean into him, this man who made everything seem possible even when it was transparently, laughably impossible. For a long time, she just breathed.
Then, she stood, wiped her face with the back of her hand. “I need to call my dad and check on the girls.”
Daniel nodded, let her go.
Emily eased out of the family suite and into the hall, her phone in her hand.
She pressed her other hand to her stomach, in awe.
She wondered what it would be like to start over, to be the mother of someone new when she’d only just learned how to mother the ones she already had.
And who knew if she was doing that right?
Emily closed her eyes and waited for the fear to pass.
It didn’t.
But hope did edge in, as bright and thin as a harbor sunrise through a bedroom curtain. They had so much room for more, love for more—Emily just had to stop letting her fear tell her otherwise.