CHAPTER TWENTY
Morning crept in with the promise of full, beautiful summer sun.
Emily stood at the property line of the lighthouse, clipboard pressed against her ribs, and watched the tidal advance of vehicles up the access road.
The lot—miraculously graveled just two days prior on a rush that Emily was so grateful for—was already jammed full of SUVs, compact hybrids, work vans, and a parade of battered pick-ups.
Some volunteers double-parked or wedged their cars at odd angles on the roadside.
A few clever souls rolled in on battered bicycles or dirt bikes, bypassing the scrum altogether.
Lois arrived exactly as forecast, in a Prius that had so many bumper stickers it looked like a satire of itself.
She wore a yellow vest and neon pink runners, and had a tote bag slung over one shoulder that seemed to contain everything from extra arrow signage to a bullhorn.
Within two minutes, she had commandeered the parking situation in the same way that she managed the front of house at the inn.
“Emily! You need a vest,” Lois called across the lot, fishing a chartreuse mesh from her tote and tossing it expertly. “It’s how we know who’s authorized.”
Emily caught it by reflex, surprised by the sting of static and the unambiguous authority it conferred. She shrugged it on, trying not to think about how it clashed with her carefully chosen navy tee, with the little embroidered lighthouses.
Lois snapped her fingers, and a trio of teenage volunteers trotted over. “Green is for delivery receiving, blue for food services, orange for facilities maintenance,” she briefed them, slapping badges on their chests. “If you see anyone wandering without a badge, direct them to me. Got it?”
The teens nodded, wide-eyed, and fanned out.
Lois gave Emily a wink. “I’ve got this, boss.”
A van shuddered to a stop nearby, and Parker, one of the inn restaurant employees, emerged. There was a crate of saran-wrapped platters already in his arms. “Morning!” he called, voice bright even as he staggered slightly under the weight. “The breakfast sandwiches are still hot.”
“Put them on the catering table in the main entry,” Emily directed, then checked herself. “Unless you want to set up a breakfast station outside. Probably smarter—less foot traffic inside.”
Parker grinned. “Your call. I just drive the food.”
Emily hovered, wanting to step in, but caught herself.
Letting go was the point of all this. She let Parker sort the platters and watched as he flagged down a helper (blue badge) and together they set up a makeshift buffet with folding tables that they found inside the lower storage of the lighthouse.
Inside, Emily found Vanessa and Marnie, who had already begun their assault on the lighthouse’s lower level, rubber gloves pulled up to their elbows and industrial mops propped like battle standards.
“We’re going for the crime scene cleanup look,” Marnie said, gesturing at the chemical arsenal lined up on the windowsill.
Vanessa added, “You saw nothing.”
Emily nodded, grateful. “You two are heroes.”
“We know,” they said in unison.
She checked the keeper’s quarters: buckets were deployed, the air tinged with lemon and the faint edge of ammonia.
A small flock of middle-schoolers zigzagged past with rags and dusters, wiping down the wainscoting and shrieking at every spider they encountered.
Marnie gave the kids a warning glare, then returned to scrubbing the ancient, mineral-stained sink in the kitchenette.
Up the staircase, the paint was still tacky in spots, but the color—pale gray with crisp white trim here—made the whole space look awake for the first time in years. As she passed, Emily’s hand hovered over a slight drip at the banister, but she forced herself not to smooth it out.
Downstairs, Amy and Harry were unpacking a bin of pamphlets and clipboards at the welcome booth.
Amy was already greeting new arrivals for the stage setup, Roman’s people, her cheer relentless.
Harry, for his part, was focused on the tech: a battered iPad, two portable chargers, and a printed spreadsheet of names of guests who would be attending.
He taped the sheet to the table, smoothed it, then gave Emily a salute.
“We’re at seventy-three check-ins so far,” Harry reported, “and looks like all the badges are here. We’ll have good control of who gets in.”
Back on the front lawn, Suzanna and Wesley were wrangling the folding chairs into rows.
Toby, Chantelle’s friend and their son, was carrying the lighter end of each stack and narrating his efforts in a steady, self-serious mutter.
Baby Robin was strapped to Suzanna’s back, dead asleep, his head lolling against the collar of his mother’s hoodie.
Wesley grunted as he dropped a stack of chairs with a thud, then straightened and wiped sweat from his forehead.
“You sure you want these this close together?” he asked Emily, gesturing at the four tightly packed rows.
Emily hesitated, picturing the stage setup and the predicted crowd. “Let’s leave a wider aisle down the middle. I think Bryony’s marketing team is bringing a camera crew, so they’ll need the space for tripods.”
Wesley nodded, already shifting the chairs.
Suzanna juggled Robin with one hand and smoothed her hair with the other. “Toby, can you help with the little tables?” she asked, and the boy zipped off, arms pinwheeling, to the rental van where the rest of the tables and chairs were.
Emily knelt beside the makeshift aisle and measured the distance by eye. It was narrower than she would have liked, but the configuration made sense. She thought of the hours she’d spent obsessing over other seating charts—how ridiculous it seemed now. This was the most important.
The sky was full sun by now, pale and sharp as the inside of a shell.
Emily spotted Mr. Amos coming up the walkway, the owner of the antique shop, pushing a handcart stacked with three old trunks.
He paused every few feet, catching his breath, then powered on, his pace determined.
The trunks rattled and creaked, the sound oddly cheerful.
“These are for the memorabilia display,” he announced, loud enough to draw attention. He set the trunks down with a flourish.
Emily looked at the battered steamer trunks: one was stenciled with a ship’s name, the second with a faded railway stamp, the third simply battered and banded with iron.
She reached for the handle of the smallest, found it unexpectedly cool and smooth in her palm.
She lifted the lid and inside was a jumble of enamel mugs, a compass, and a crumbling logbook.
“Some of these might be worth real money if you put them in the silent auction,” Mr. Amos said. “If it helps the cause, that’s what matters.”
Emily felt the urge to hug the old man, but settled for a squeeze to his forearm. “You’re a legend,” she said.
He beamed, eyes bright, then trundled off to the breakfast sandwiches.
A commotion at the drive drew her attention: Terry’s truck arrived, bed loaded with what looked like small trees. Pine saplings, maybe two dozen of them, their roots wrapped in burlap and plastic. Terry from the Christmas tree farm hopped down, his beard bristling with his enthusiastic smile.
“I figured we’d give the place a proper forest edge look,” he said. “They’re just for show, unless you want to plant them later. But I thought—” here his voice dipped conspiratorial, “—that it’d make the stage backdrop pop.”
Emily nodded, already picturing it. “Perfect. Put them along the walkway? Maybe three on each side at the base of the stairs?”
Terry tipped an imaginary cap. “Yes ma’am.”
In the midst of the chaos, Emily’s phone buzzed. She recognized the New York area code, smiled, and ducked behind a bank of potted shrubs to take the call.
“Jayne!” she said, voice lighter than she’d heard it in days.
Her old friend’s face appeared, pixelated but unmistakably grinning. “Is that a safety vest? You look like you’re about to direct runway traffic at JFK.”
Emily rolled her eyes, but couldn’t stop smiling. “It’s Lois’s doing. You should see her—she’s got a whole system.”
Jayne’s voice was warm with nostalgia. “I love it. I’m watching the live stream, by the way. Did you know there’s a drone circling above the lighthouse? You’d better get it. It’s, like, getting so many views right now. Stealing your thunder.”
Emily laughed and looked up. “I’ll find it.”
“I’m so proud of you,” Jayne said. “Seriously. This is really happening.”
There was a lump in Emily’s throat, sudden and sweet, at her old friend’s words. They’d been through so much together back in New York, a life that seemed a world away now. “I wish you were here.”
“I am. In spirit. Also, I overnighted a care package—chocolate from that Times Square shop for Chantelle.”
Emily promised to look for it, and the call ended with another round of congratulations, a little more genuine with each repetition.
A few minutes later, as she ducked inside to check again on the cleaning progress in the main hall, Harry flagged her with a wave. “You got a message,” he said, proffering the iPad. “It’s from Singapore. Want me to play it?”
Emily blinked. “Singapore?”
Harry grinned. “I think it’s Serena and Owen?”
Emily’s heart warmed at the thought of Serena, her first friend in Sunset Harbor, and her fiancée, Owen, who had once played piano at the inn.
Harry tapped play. The video started with a selfie shot of Serena, windswept and sunburned, with the city’s glittering skyline behind her. Owen stood at her side, holding a small sign: “GOOD LUCK FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD!”
Serena spoke first: “Hi Emily! It’s so cool to see the old lighthouse getting its moment in the sun. We wish we could be there, but we’re sending our love from literal tomorrow. Go get ‘em!”
Owen added, “Don’t let Roman do any less than two encores.”