CHAPTER TWELVE
Patricia arrived just before lunch with a plate of black currant scones and a new haircut; her silver streaks now chopped into a blunt bob that made her look both more sophisticated and younger at once.
She wore a lavender scarf and an oversized floral cardigan that Emily immediately clocked as her own, long-ago left in a box that Emily had stored, still unpacked, from her move from New York.
And now, evidently, adopted. Her mother breezed through the foyer, stopping at the new flower arrangement.
“You’ve always had a hand for that, Em,” she complimented. Then, she came over and gave Emily and Charlotte, who was in her playpen delightedly playing with several stuffies, big hugs.
Then, plopping down behind the reception desk next to Emily, Patricia asked, “How’s Roy today?” Her voice was casual, eyes scanning the desk and not meeting Emily’s.
“Resting,” Emily replied. “That dizzy spell wiped him out. But nothing new has happened. Nothing worsening.”
Patricia nodded, then set her hands flat on the desk. For a second, the lines in her face relaxed, and the woman underneath—the one who Emily remembered from her childhood, who once sang along to Fleetwood Mac with a dish towel slung over her shoulder while she baked, or did dishes—peeked through.
“I brought his favorite jam,” she said, pulling a small, blue-labeled jar from her purse. “If he doesn’t eat in the mornings, will you toast him a piece of bread and see if he’ll try?”
Emily smiled. “You know I will.”
Patricia tapped the desk twice as if to mark a beat and let herself exhale. “Good. How’s your morning been?”
“Good. Quiet. I talked to Amy. She’ll be home tomorrow, probably. Roman stopped by.”
“Hmmm,” Patricia said, seemingly studying her. “Want one of these?” She pointed to the scones.
“Yes. Let’s go,” Emily said, grateful for the break. There were no arrivals planned until the evening, so she scooped up Charlotte, who scrambled to grab stuffies as she was lifted from the playpen, and came away with one in each little hand. Patricia grabbed the plate of treats.
They passed through the inn’s main kitchen; dinner prep was underway.
Emily admired how the staff moved as an efficient team, and the sounds of pots, pans, steam and chopping was like music.
Harry was at a prep table going over a clipboard list with Parker, one of the assistant chefs.
Both men looked up as they passed, and Parker’s eyes lit up at the sight of the plate in Patricia’s hand.
“Scones?”
Patricia flipped up the tin-foil covering. “You know it. Help yourself.”
Both Harry and Parker took one, and Patricia preened under their excited thanks.
“Ems,” Harry said before they went on, “Amy just texted. Her flight’s tonight, so she’ll be here tomorrow.”
Emily nodded and deftly caught a stuffie that Charlotte sent flying, grabbing it from midair before it could land anywhere on a kitchen surface. “Great news! And her meeting?”
“Nailed it,” he said. “Distribution starts next month.”
“I knew it!” Patricia crowed. “Those candles are too divine not to go nationwide.”
Emily made a mental note to text Amy her congratulations, and she and Patricia went out the back door, to the back porch, and down the steps to the lawn.
“So,” Patricia said, settling into a lawn chair as Emily gently set Charlotte down in the grass with her stuffies, “do we talk about it, or do we pretend it’s just another day?”
Emily tried for a neutral laugh. “Which ‘it’ are we talking about?”
Patricia arched an eyebrow, then took a scone and offered Emily the plate. “The lighthouse. Or Roy.”
Emily found herself afraid to ask what Patricia might know about Roy and his health. She took a scone and set the plate on the side table between them. “I dreamed about the lighthouse last night. Isn’t that silly?”
Her mother shook her head. “It’s not silly.”
Emily watched Charlotte mush her stuffies together, hard. “I think about it every day. I keep trying to find reasons not to go for it, and Daniel has a few, but—”
“But?” Patricia’s voice was gentle, prodding.
Emily ran a thumb along the arm of her chair. “But I want it. Even if it’s a mess. Even if it’s completely impractical.”
“When I met your father, he was standing in that lighthouse. I thought he was an idiot, up on the scaffolding in the wind with a sketchbook and that rickety railing—yes, it was rickety, even back then.” Patricia smiled, and in that smile was something Emily hadn’t seen in quite some time: pride, unguarded and unhidden.
“I asked him once why he kept coming back,” Patricia continued.
“He said the light changed every minute, and he wanted to see every possible version. It was the most romantic thing.”
Emily grinned, imagining the scene. “He must have had some good lines to get you.”
“He did,” Patricia agreed, eyes misting. “I loved him so much. I still do, even after all these years, and all we’ve been through.”
The confession itself wasn’t shocking—Emily knew that her mother and father, long-since separated, had spent more and more time together since she’d bought the inn, since his diagnosis. But it was a surprise to hear her mother say it out loud.
“I want you to buy it,” Patricia said suddenly, quiet but clear. “The lighthouse. I don’t care if it’s a disaster. Some things are worth the mess.”
Emily swallowed. “It’s a good price, but still money we don’t need to spend. And Daniel—he’s right, we have so much already.”
Patricia waved her off. “Let me help. I’m not flush, but I have enough. It’ll be a family project once it’s bought, anyway.”
Emily stared, stunned. Her mother, for most of her adult life, had hoarded every spare penny as if the world might end tomorrow—a legacy of her own spare childhood, a habit never broken. To hear her offer support, financial support, left Emily blinking.
“You’d do that?” she asked.
“Of course. You think I want it spent on cruises and cashmere sweaters? I want it spent on something that matters. Being here at the inn with you all, and your father being sick, that’s taught me what’s important.”
Emily exhaled “I don’t know what to say.”
Patricia shrugged, but her lips pressed together in a line that said she’d been waiting for this moment.
“Say yes. Or say you’ll think about it. I’m not going anywhere.
But I want you to have it—the lighthouse.
” She reached across the table and placed her hand on Emily’s, the touch surprisingly soft.
Emily let herself feel the full, awkward weight of being on the receiving end of generosity, the kind that she knew came with no strings attached but still tangled her up in ways she couldn’t describe.
Her throat stung, and there was a pressure at the bridge of her nose.
She pinched it, hard, and found her vision blurring anyway.
What was it, really, that made her want to cry?
The offer itself—the surprise of being believed in, trusted by her mother?
Or the sense that the world was moving too quickly, that the time left with her father, with her mother, with everything she had built here, was being measured in fewer and fewer seasons?
“I always knew you’d leave, you know,” Patricia said. “Go to New York or L.A.., run the world. I didn’t think you’d choose to come back here. Or stay. Not because you wanted to. But I was wrong. You chose this. You’re making it work. For all of us. And that’s more than I ever could.”
Emily’s throat closed, the words tangled and knotted. “You did fine, Mom.”
Patricia smiled, small and self-effacing. “I did okay. But you—you’re the real thing. I don’t say that enough. I’m sorry.”
Patricia squeezed Emily’s hand, once, then again. “So., we have a plan, then?”
Emily nodded. “I mean, I have to talk to Daniel.” She was saying that a lot today—about Chantelle, about the lighthouse. She realized that she ached to talk with her husband, settle their friction.
“I’m scared,” she admitted to her mom, much the same as Daniel had said to her just the day before.
“But it’s not just risking the money. It’s Dad.
I keep thinking, if we get the lighthouse, and he doesn’t make it through the summer—what then?
What if he never gets to see it restored?
What if—” She trailed off, the panic hot and bright in her chest. And what if he never meets his new grandchild? she thought.
Patricia shook her head, her own eye glossy. “Then you do it for him anyway.”
Emily shook her head too, a tear rolling down her cheek before she could catch it. “I don’t want to do it without him. And the lighthouse isn’t all. Mom, I’m—” her voice broke.
Patricia’s face crumpled, just for a second. “Hey, we’re not going anywhere, Em. Even if Dad were to—well, he’d still be here with you.”
As Patricia spoke, Emily felt a surge of overwhelming emotion welling up inside her.
The unexpected offer, the tender moments being shared between them, and the looming uncertainty about Roy's health all collided in Emily’s heart.
Unable to contain the flood of emotions any longer, she blurted out, "I'm pregnant! "
Patricia's eyes widened in joy and surprise, a smile breaking across her face. She launched from her chair and enveloped Emily in a warm, tight embrace, the scones momentarily forgotten on the side table.
With tears streaming down her cheeks, Emily felt a rush of relief and love. Patricia held her close, whispering, “Oh, honey! That’s wonderful!”
After a moment, Patricia pulled away. She pushed Emily’s damp hair back from her forehead. "This doesn’t change anything. You have a chance to chase a dream with this lighthouse, to create something meaningful. And your father would want that for you."
Emily nodded and mumbled a snotty “thank you,” smiling through her tears. Then, something sparked in Emily’s mind at her mother’s words. Roman’s visit—Chantelle’s invite to the Conservatory—Roy’s health and wanting to seize every moment with him. What if the lighthouse solves everything?
Her brain wouldn’t yet land on how that could work, but the ghost of a plan was forming.
When Charlotte crawled over and pulled herself up on the arm of Emily’s chair, offering Emily a chewed-on stuffie, Patricia stood. “I should go. I promised Cassie we could go antiquing today.” She hesitated, then said, “I’ll call you tonight, okay?”
Emily nodded as she picked Charlotte up, snuggling her close, her body suddenly heavy with exhaustion. “Okay.”
At the back door, Patricia paused and turned. “You’re stronger than you think, Emily. I’m not sure you got that from me, but I’m glad you have it.” She left, this time for good, her footsteps fading into the house.
Emily didn’t know what would happen next—whether the money would work out from her mom, whether Daniel would agree to go for it, whether Roy would be here to see the lighthouse, whether she could keep any of the things she loved from slipping away.
But she believed more now that she could try.