CHAPTER NINETEEN
Roman Westbrook could have chosen any night to post the video, but somehow, as though the universe were lining up blessings, he waited until the sun had set on the day that Roy’s remission news came, the day that Emily and Daniel officially became owners of the lighthouse.
By morning, the video had cracked half a million views. There were comments from Brazil, Latvia, the Philippines. By afternoon, it was trending on Reddit, sandwiched between a video of a raccoon stealing pizza and a debate thread about the best cheap microphones for beginner musicians.
Emily was in the family suite kitchen, nursing a mug of decaf with a ton of milk in it and a truly epic case of morning sickness, when Cassie came in waving her phone.
“You seen this?” she asked, brandishing the screen.
Emily’s brain was still half in the haze of sleep. “What am I looking at?”
Cassie plopped into the seat across from her, phone between them, and tapped play.
The familiar sight of Chantelle’s guitar appeared, the faceless angle from the video she’d shown Emily, fingers working the strings.
Emily watched, transfixed, as the video rolled through the first verse.
The audio was tinny, the camera wobbled when Chantelle shifted, but the feeling was all there.
Cassie scrolled to the comments, reading aloud.
Is this kid for real???
Sounds better than anything on the radio.
Who raised this child and can I hire them to coach my niece?
Cassie kept scrolling.
Oh my god. I’m ugly-crying at eight in the morning over a twelve-year-old’s song, send help.
Emily blinked, unsure whether to laugh or start panicking. “Did you…?”
“Roman posted it last night,” Cassie said, awe creeping into her voice. “It’s going viral. Like, real viral. Look—” She refreshed the screen. The counter leapt by a thousand more views.
“No way,” Emily muttered, the implications making hard for her to form words.
By midday, the inn’s main number was fielding calls from newspapers—Local child prodigy stuns with folk song!, morning show producers, and one woman from a podcast who claimed to be on a first-name basis with Oprah.
The air around the inn changed—guests lingered at breakfast, waiting to see if “the girl from the video” would make an appearance. The kitchen staff started using “Chantelle” as a verb— “You just Chantelled that omelette, my dude”—to mean doing something surprisingly well under pressure.
But the real fun started in the afternoon, when Emily dared to look at her inbox.
Chantelle was at the kitchen table, working through a summer bridge fraction worksheet, when Emily waved her phone between the girl and her math. “Looks like you got a fan club, kid.”
Chantelle stared at the phone, then at Emily. “Do I have to open them?”
Emily peered at the email addresses—some were from talent agencies or music labels that’s he recognized, some with Los Angeles zips, some from as far as Singapore. One was from a girl in Ohio who wanted to start a band over Zoom.
“Only if you want to,” Emily said.
Chantelle shrugged, like it was no big deal, but her hand trembled as she took the phone.
They read them together. The agencies were professional but breathless— “We heard your demo and are in awe of your emotional maturity; we’d love to discuss next steps.
” The labels sent form letters, asking for “samples of further compositions” and “parental consent for initial contact.” The Ohio girl wanted to mail Chantelle a friendship bracelet, begging Chantelle to “never stop singing or being weird.”
The video kept climbing—over 700,000 views by dinner, with another thousand comments. Cassie read the best ones aloud at the table. Daniel, who had been skeptical of the entire internet as a concept, seemed equal parts baffled and delighted.
“I didn’t think people actually paid attention to music anymore,” he said, carving a baked potato.
Chantelle stabbed her fork into her peas, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “It’s just a dumb song.”
Cassie, never one for subtlety, said, “That dumb song made five people in this house cry today, including the dishwasher.”
Emily reached over and squeezed Chantelle’s wrist. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want,” she said, knowing even as she said it that it was a lie. Once the world noticed you, it rarely let go.
After dinner, as Emily loaded the dishwasher, she caught a flash of movement in the window.
Chantelle was on the back porch, guitar in lap, singing to the dusk.
The sound didn’t carry far, but Emily could see the intent in her daughter’s face—lips pressed tight, eyes squinted as if she were reading the air for clues.
It struck her then, viscerally, that this was only the beginning.
She wasn’t sure of what, though. Emily let the plates soak and wandered outside, standing just out of sight.
Chantelle played through the verse, then stopped, muttered something, and started again. She worked the melody over and over, each time changing a word or a chord. She didn’t know anyone was watching. It was pure, unfiltered effort, the kind of practice that didn’t need an audience or a reason.
Emily stood there, listening to her daughter be herself.
When the porch light flicked on, Chantelle looked up, caught sight of her mother, and rolled her eyes. “You’re stalking me,” she called.
“Just making sure you weren’t lured away by record executives.”
Chantelle shrugged. “They’d have to offer me, like, a million dollars and a dog. Maybe two dogs.”
Emily smiled, stepping into the porch’s halo. “Mogsy and Rain aren’t enough?”
“We can negotiate,” Chantelle said.
They stood together for a moment. Emily wanted to say something wise, something that would turn this viral blip into a lesson about humility or the dangers of fame. But all she could think of was how brave her daughter was, and how little she herself had to do with any of it.
Instead, she just said, “You did good, kid.”
Chantelle played a nonsense chord. “You sound like Nana Patty.”
Emily laughed. “Maybe she’s rubbing off on me.”
Chantelle considered, then said, “Not a bad thing. She has a cool tattoo.”
“What?” Emily was shocked. “I—did not know that.” She made a mental note to have that awkward convo with Patricia later.
Emily’s phone pinged. This time, it was a text from Roman Westbrook himself.
Industry is losing its collective mind. They’re not wrong—she’s the real deal. Hope you’re ready for the ride.
She texted back. I’m not sure. This is much bigger than an invite to Boston.
The phone vibrated again, this time with the insistent, triple-pulse of an incoming call. It was Roman. Emily stared at it, pulse loud in her ears.
She showed the screen to Chantelle. “Should I answer?”
Chantelle shrugged, but her facial expression said yes.
Emily thumbed it open. A warm, familiar voice flooded the line, thick with California sunshine and a velvet edge of mischief.
“Emily Morey,” said Roman, “I hope I’m not calling too late.”
Relief and anxiety spiked in equal measure. She ducked around the corner, out of Chantelle’s earshot, and put the phone to her other ear. “It’s fine. Obviously, we’re up.”
“I—should I say I’m sorry?”
Emily sighed. ‘No. I mean, it’s amazing. It’s just a lot.”
On the line, the sound of music—a piano, distant, maybe a rehearsal or a bar with a decent house band—filtered in. Roman said, “I’m going to get right to it. I wanted to talk to you before the press or the agents did. I know what it’s like. And I know it’s a lot.”
Emily laughed. “Understatement.”
Roman’s tone gentled. “Your daughter is extraordinary. And she doesn’t have to be anything she’s not, no matter what people say. The industry’s a circus, but you get to be the ringmaster.”
Emily shut her eyes, letting the words soak in. “I’m terrified for her.”
“You’re supposed to be,” Roman said. “Means you’re doing it right.” He paused, let the background noise fade. “I have an idea. One that won’t send her away, or force her into anything she isn’t ready for. I just need two minutes to pitch this.”
He waited for her permission.
Emily’s heart beat faster. She put the phone on speaker. “I’m listening.”
Roman seemed relieved as he continued, “I’m coming back to Sunset Harbor next month.
I want to do a benefit show for the lighthouse arts center project.
Small crowd, invite-only. I want Chantelle to open for me.
It’ll be live-streamed, but she’ll only need one song.
That’s it. She picks it, or writes her own.
No contracts, no managers, no pressure. Just playing in a room full of people who care. But millions could see her.”
Chantelle’s eyes widened. Emily sagged against the wall. “That’s—”
“She’s ready, Emily. And she gets to say no. But I think it would mean something to her. And to the town. To your project getting financial support from outside of town.”
She glanced at Chantelle, and Daniel, who had come outside. He mouthed, “Good?”
She nodded. She looked over at Chantelle, who also nodded—grinning like it was Christmas morning. Yes, yes, yes, she mouthed.
“Let’s do it,” she said.
Roman’s laugh was pure delight. “That’s the spirit.
My team will handle everything. And if Chantelle decides she wants to run for the hills at any point, that’s okay, too.
Or you can tell her no. You can tell me no.
I don’t want to be one of those people who makes a kid feel like she owes the world her voice. ”
“I know,” Emily said, the words thick. She swallowed hard. “Thank you. You’re a wise man, Roman.”
“Eh,” he replied, “I’m just older than I look. But it’s not plastic surgery, I swear.”
Emily laughed. They said goodbye. Emily ended the call and felt Daniel’s arms around her, warm and sure. They both turned to look at Chantelle.
“I’m going to open for Roman,” Chantelle said, wonder in her voice.
Daniel grinned, proud and a little awed. “Guess we’re the parents of a star.”
Emily let herself laugh again, the sound wild and free. “God help us.”