CHAPTER TWENTY #2
The screen froze on Serena’s smile, and Emily felt her heart clench. She handed the iPad back, blinking fast.
“I’ll reply later,” she told Harry, her voice thick.
As the morning bled into midday, the lighthouse grounds filled with a new density—people, tables, stacks of equipment, toddlers chasing each other through the grass.
Emily floated from team to team, checking progress but refusing to micromanage.
Every so often, her hand would hover toward a crooked sign or a chair slightly out of alignment, but she forced herself to stop, to trust.
The effect was contagious. The more she let people do, the more they did, often in ways she wouldn’t have considered. The breakfast tables multiplied into a row of picnic buffets, where everyone converged to eat and laugh and bond.
Mid-afternoon brought the final highlight: Mayor Derek Hansen, who greeted the crowd and made a slow, deliberate circuit of the site, pausing at every cluster of volunteers to shake hands and offer up a sincere “Thank you, we couldn’t do this without you.”
When he reached Emily, he stopped, fixed her with a steady look, and said, “I hope you know what you’ve done here.”
She blinked, not sure whether to laugh or look for an exit.
The mayor took her hand in both of his. “This lighthouse has been waiting for someone like you to bring it back to life. You did what everyone else only talked about. On behalf of the town—thank you.”
He held her gaze, the words landing deeper than she expected.
Behind them, the crowd erupted into applause for a pair of kids balancing a cupcake tower. They set it on one of the lunch tables, and Emily felt the tears rising again. This time she didn’t try to swallow them. She let them ride, just a little.
She took out her phone and texted Daniel: How’s things there? She was sure that the inn was running like clockwork, but she missed him. Missed her girls. Missed Roy, her mom, Cassie.
We miss you, he texted back.
I’ll be home tonight. Things are looking so good here.
He sent a celebration emoji. Take your time. You’ve got this.
***
Another flatbed truck pulled up just as early the next morning.
The lighthouse grounds, already crawling with stagehands in matching T-shirts and steel-toed boots, were suddenly covered with stagehands unloading pieces of a portable stage.
A shuttle van, plastered with the logo of Roman’s label, made five runs up and down the bluff before eight, offloading armloads of cable, matte-black road cases, and more crew members with earpieces and clipboards of their own.
Emily watched it all unfold from the front steps as she sat and ate breakfast as she had promised Daniel she would this morning, a travel mug cradled in both hands.
She still wore her safety vest, though the parking situation had mutated into a controlled free-for-all.
Last night’s chaos had left the lawn pockmarked, rutted with tire tracks, but Roman’s team moved through the mess with the calm of people who measured everything in amps and lumens.
A phalanx of technicians fanned out, staking power cords in crisp lines from the generator to the stage.
The stage itself was not the plywood riser she’d pictured, but a full-on festival platform: aluminum struts, blue skirt, a weather-resistant canopy that snapped into place with the authority of a military tent.
Within an hour, they’d built a wall of speakers taller than Daniel.
The rigging rose behind it in sharp, geometric counterpoint to the battered old tower.
Bryony, who had done marketing and online content for the inn for ages, stood beside the stage, iPad in one hand, a walkie-talkie clipped to her belt.
She was in rare form—hair up, lips painted a glossy red, and a steady patter of updates pouring from her as if she were reporting live from a war zone.
“That’s our second food truck,” she intoned, stabbing a finger at the taco van bumping up the drive.
“Lobster rolls on the left, vegan grain bowls next to the composting toilets, and they doubled the kettle corn order. Also, the Magic Elves are here to do the specialty cleaning—look at that, they even got the window in the top of the lantern room.”
Emily looked up and, sure enough, two climbers in matching blue polos were squeegeeing the last of the salt haze from the lighthouse glass.
Below, another team ran a buffing machine over the stone steps.
She felt her phone buzz, glanced down at a notification from the event’s website—Bryony again, live-blogging each addition to the schedule.
“ROMAN WESTbrOOK SOUND CHECK: 2:00 PM. CHANTELLE MOREY TO OPEN. STAY TUNED.”
It was kind of amazing what could happen when she let go of the reins a little. Emily smiled, proud of what her team had done without her. They were solid, and she just needed to learn how to let them work their own magic.
Emily sipped her decaf coffee, then set it aside on the edge of the railing. She ran a palm over her abdomen, still getting used to the new shape of her body—solid but soft, and unpredictable, like a weather system only she could sense.
A surge of sound cut through the air. It was the first feedback whine of the morning, a telltale sign that the main board was up and running.
In the center of the stage, Roman himself was setting up—no entourage, no drama, just jeans and a work shirt and the kind of calm she associated with only the most seasoned professionals.
Chantelle stood beside him, guitar already slung over her shoulder.
Her hair was pulled back in a taut ponytail, a borrowed denim jacket rolled at the cuffs.
She didn’t fidget, didn’t hover at the margins.
Instead, she leaned in, listening as Roman adjusted a pedal and muttered something about the midrange.
She nodded, dead serious, then flicked her pick across the strings in a clean, bright G chord.
Emily watched, waiting for the nervous giggle, the sidelong glance—any of the tics that used to mark her daughter’s discomfort in new places.
Instead, Chantelle squared her stance and echoed Roman’s next chord.
He grinned, then ran a harmony line, humming it under his breath.
Chantelle caught the interval instantly, singing it back without even a blink.
The sound tech, a woman with a cloud of platinum curls, cued up the mics. “Let’s do a verse,” she said, and the two of them played off each other, the notes tight and perfectly matched, like they’d rehearsed together for weeks instead of minutes.
Emily felt a dizzy flush of pride and loss all at once—her daughter, center stage, utterly unafraid.
The crowd beyond the barricades grew as the morning went on: more volunteers in high-vis vests, old men in fishing caps lookie-looing, more catering crew with trays balanced on their hips.
A few early arrivals clapped at the end of each run-through, but mostly people just watched, phones held up at odd angles, as if trying to document a thing they didn’t quite believe was happening.
Daniel left Charlotte with Roy at lunchtime and came to survey the setup, then found Emily. He kissed her and raised his brow, as if to ask, can you believe this?
She gave a helpless laugh, then shook her head. “Not even a little.”
He sat beside her on the steps, taking it in. “I’m pretty sure they put in more wiring than we’ve got in the entire inn,” he said. “And they’ve got a team just for the food trucks.”
Emily looked out over the tents and tables, the sea of folding chairs already filling up, the army of children running logistics for the memory wall. “This wasn’t what I pictured,” she admitted, “but it’s perfect.”
Daniel watched the stage, the set of his shoulders relaxing. “She’s grown up, huh?” he said, his voice so soft she almost missed it.
Emily nodded, blinking hard. “She really has.”
They sat for a while, letting the sound wash over them. The kettle corn aroma tangled with the briny air, and every few seconds, a shriek of laughter or a smattering of applause would roll up from the picnic tables where caterers were reloading the food.
Bryony appeared, moving at double speed.
“We’re ahead of schedule. If the wind holds, we’ll open the gates for the early birds at four.
” She pointed at the VIP section, where the mayor and a handful of donors clustered around the memorabilia trunks, debating the provenance of a salt-stained telescope.
Bryony leaned in. “Roman wants a quick run-through with Emily and Daniel on the stage for the intro, then he’ll let Chantelle lead off the set.
Remember, this is just the soft opener. We’ll go bigger and better for night two tomorrow.
” She glanced at the two of them, eyebrow raised. “You good with that?”
Emily managed a nod. Daniel said, “We’ll be there.”
Bryony flashed a thumbs-up, then strode off to settle an argument about the placement of the beverage coolers.
When it was time, Emily and Daniel made their way onto the stage, slipping behind where a pair of crew members adjusted a bank of LED spotlights.
Roman met them at the foot of the ramp, smiling the smile of a man who had seen every permutation of nerves and self-doubt and was always, somehow, the cure.
“You’re going to introduce the event,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Just say what you want. The town’s already on your side.”
Emily blinked, then laughed. “I haven’t even written anything.”
Roman shrugged. “The best stuff is always spontaneous.”
Chantelle joined them, guitar in hand. Roman looked at her, then at Emily, and there was a flicker of pride, maybe even a little awe, in his eyes.
He said, “Ready to make history, kid?”
Chantelle gave him a look that was pure Morey—steady, unblinking, equal parts challenge and invitation. “Are you?”
Roman laughed, then led them all up the ramp.
Emily took her place at the mic, Daniel at her side. She looked out at the sea of faces—some familiar, some strangers.
She swallowed, heart thrumming in her throat, and said, “Thank you all for coming. It means more than I can say.” She glanced at Daniel, who gave her a nod.
“When we started this, it was just a dream. To see all of you here—” her voice cracked, but she let it, “—it makes it real. You’ve turned this place into something alive again. ”
The small crowd applauded, warm and immediate. Emily stepped back, letting Daniel say his piece, and then it was time.
Roman introduced Chantelle, his voice clear as church bells. She stepped to the mic, tuned her guitar, and scanned the audience. For a half-second, her eyes found Emily’s. She smiled—a small, private thing—and then started to play.
The song was a cover song, a melody full of longing and brightness, the words simple but so true it made Emily’s hands shake.
The crowd hushed, the sound carrying all the way to the water and back.
Chantelle’s voice was different than before.
Not louder, but certain. Each note was placed, deliberate, as if she’d weighed it and found it worthy.
By the time she finished the first chorus, half the lawn was sniffling, and the other half was already on their feet.
When she hit the last chord, there was a silence so total Emily could hear the cry of a gull overhead, the sigh of the wind through the pines. Then the applause came, a wave that hit so hard it made Emily dizzy.
Emily wondered, What will she pick to sing for the big concert? Chantelle had kept it a close secret.
Chantelle bowed, then nodded to Roman and played a last few notes, who took up the harmony and built it into something so layered and alive it felt like the air might split open.
The rest of the band joined in—one of Roman’s friends on upright bass, a fiddler who looked barely old enough to drive—and together they made a sound that seemed to anchor the lighthouse to the very center of the world.
Then, the music turned, and Chantelle’s cover song merged into the opening chords of one of Roman’s most popular tunes.
She glanced at Daniel. He was smiling, wide and shameless, and he wiped his eyes without embarrassment. At the end of the set, the crowd surged forward, not in a crush but in a slow, swelling movement, as if everyone wanted to get just a little closer.
Roman found Emily and Daniel at the edge of the crowd. “You did good,” he said, voice hoarse from singing. “You really did. Tomorrow’s going to be epic.” He hugged them both, then disappeared into the swirl of fans and townspeople.
As the sky pinked toward evening, Emily lingered to watch as the volunteers began pulling out, to watch the last rays of light catch in the clean glass of the lantern room.
The old beacon was dark for now—the power hadn’t yet been restored—but in the dusk, the tower glowed, reflecting the joy and noise below like a prism.
Chantelle drifted over, still clutching her guitar, her cheeks flushed with effort and the afterglow. She collapsed onto the steps beside her mother, head on Emily’s shoulder, and for a long moment, neither of them said anything.
Then, without preamble, Chantelle said, “Can we have big parties like this again? Like, even after the concert?”
Emily let herself laugh. “Anytime you want.”
They sat in the fading light. In the background, the Magic Elves were already policing trash, ready to make the grounds gleam again by morning.
Emily didn’t need to plan or fix or worry. She just held her daughter, felt the future shifting into shape around them, and let herself relax. Out past the lawn, past the last of the parked cars and the blue of the bay, the world waited for them.
And Emily knew, down to the bone, that they were ready for it.