CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The evening of the main concert, the very next, arrived with the kind of weather that made locals pretend they’d never complained about Maine in their lives.
It was perfect—not a rhetorical perfect, but an absolute one: warm enough for the toddlers to run barefoot in the grass behind the seawall, cool enough that no one was sweating through their best “I Love Sunset Harbor” tee.
The sky, which had threatened rain, came through at the last minute with a slow-melting pink that bled into orange and then indigo as the sun slid behind the lighthouse.
Emily and Daniel walked down together from their parking spot by the courthouse, their progress slow but steady.
Charlotte was asleep in the crook of Daniel's arm, tiny fists pressed to his collar, head sagging at an angle that would have left a less-flexible child with a permanent crick. Daniel occasionally adjusted his stance so she’d settle deeper into his shoulder.
He looked so relaxed that Emily kept glancing at him, half-expecting to see a nervous tic or compression of his lips.
But he just kept walking, steady as the tide.
Emily had dressed for comfort—stretchy black pants, a linen shirt she’d borrowed from Cassie, and sneakers with enough arch support to survive a night on her feet.
She wore her hair down, which she almost never did anymore, and tucked it behind her ear each time the breeze threatened to blow it into her mouth.
With each step, the weight of the baby in her belly tugged at her spine, and the memory of last year’s chaos seemed to dissolve under the current of new momentum.
They arrived just as the first round of applause for the soundchecks drifted over the water.
The stage, swathed in strings of paper lanterns, gleamed at the harbor’s edge.
People lined the grassy slope, some perched-on picnic blankets, others clustered around the food trucks, which spilled a myriad of delicious smells into the night.
The smell of saltwater blended with barbecue smoke, and the sound of distant laughter mixed with the high, clear ping of someone tuning a mandolin.
At the foot of the lawn, Cassie commandeered the beverage table. She ladled out lemonade and iced tea. She caught sight of Emily and Daniel, flashed a double thumb-up, and mouthed something that could have been “You’re late!” or “You look great!”—probably both.
Closer to the stage, Roy and Patricia had staked out a spot at the end of a long wooden bench.
Roy wore his “dress” flannel, sleeves rolled crisp and neat.
His color was better than it had been in months, though the sharpness of his cheekbones remained.
Patricia had brought a small bouquet of lilacs to throw onstage for Chantelle.
When she saw Emily, she stood at once, arms out, as if prepared to intercept her in a football tackle.
Emily made her way over, Daniel trailing with the sleeping baby. Patricia enfolded her, lilac scent strong enough to crowd out the breeze. “I saved you a seat,” she said, then—softening, as if just now remembering she was speaking to her daughter and not a visiting dignitary— “You look radiant.”
“I look tired,” Emily corrected, easing down onto the bench. She patted her belly, which twitched at the contact. “But thank you.”
Roy gave her a small nod and a not-quite-smile. “You sure did get this shindig off the ground,” he said, voice pitched low enough that only the immediate family could hear. “I mean, dang. Look at it. Look at all these people.”
Emily did. The crowd was enormous for such a tiny town—hundreds, maybe, spread across the lawn and up the slope, filling every step and rail along the wharf.
The new lighthouse beacon, which Daniel and Bill Rogers had rigged up, blinked in slow, ceremonial rhythm.
The last of the sun touched the water with a blaze of gold, and every window in every house on the far side of the harbor glowed in solidarity.
On stage, a high school folk duo finished their set and bowed, then scuttled off. The emcee grabbed the mic with a flourish.
“Okay, okay! Now, let’s bring up our very special guest and all-around superstar, Chantelle Morey! Give it up for the future of music!”
The response from the crowd was instantaneous—a whoop and then a rolling, almost tidal applause that Emily felt in her chest before she heard it with her ears.
She turned to watch her daughter walk out onto the stage.
Chantelle wore jeans and a simple black t-shirt.
Her hair was brushed, but not tamed, and she'd marked her left wrist with a looping, ink-black line—a Sharpie tattoo of a treble clef, courtesy of Bailey.
She walked with a confidence Emily had never seen before, feet planted, eyes scanning the horizon as if she already knew where every camera would be.
She carried the custom guitar Daniel had made her by the neck, swinging it once before settling on the stool at center stage. She adjusted the mic with a practiced flick, then leaned in and did a quick check— “Check, check”—her voice echoing across the water.
Emily’s hands trembled. She tucked them beneath her thighs, hoping the movement would look casual, not desperate.
Chantelle took a deep breath, and for a moment the only sound was the distant slap of a boat’s wake against the pier. Then, with a surety that left Emily lightheaded, she played the first notes of “Home in the Harbor.”
I packed my life in boxes,
Rushed and scared and scattered,
Left behind the fear and noise,
Hoping things would matter.
It wasn’t the version Emily had heard in the kitchen or through the thin walls of the inn.
It wasn’t the first version Chantelle had performed in public, all those months ago, either.
It was brighter, more urgent—a voice lifted by the sheer, reckless joy of being heard.
The first verse was clean, every word distinct.
By the chorus, Chantelle’s voice had grown, filling the space all the way to the back of the crowd.
People turned to each other, eyebrows arched in surprise, as if they hadn’t expected a kid to sound like this.
And Emily heard herself in the lyrics. She, too, had packed her life in boxes, come from New York to Sunset Harbor, hoping her new life and what she could contribute here in Sunset Harbor would matter.
We almost lost it all one day,
To anger, fear, and weather,
But sometimes broken things come back,
If you just hold together.
A breeze flicked the paper lanterns, sending shadows chasing across the lawn.
Emily pressed her hand to her belly, the baby rolling in a slow, tidal rhythm under her skin.
Every word from the stage landed like a stone in her stomach, each chord vibrating down her spine.
She was aware, in a way that bordered on painful, of every sensation—the warmth of Daniel’s thigh next to hers, the uneven rasp of Roy’s breath, the faint metallic taste in her mouth.
She felt the crowd’s attention fix on her daughter, the collective inhale and exhale, the wonder that built with every phrase.
At the bridge—always the hardest part—Chantelle’s hands stilled on the strings. She looked up, not at the audience, but at the lighthouse. She held the moment for a second, maybe two, and Emily held her breath.
We learned the shape of quiet here,
The hush that follows thunder,
Built a home from broken dreams,
And love we did discover.
Chantelle sang the bridge in a lower register, almost a whisper. The microphone caught every edge, every tremor, turning the vulnerability into a kind of armor. The effect was immediate: every conversation on the lawn ceased, every face turned forward. Even the breeze seemed to pause.
Emily’s throat closed. Tears tracked hot and unstoppable down her cheeks. She tried to hide them—wiped at her face with the back of her hand, looked skyward as if studying the last shreds of sunset—but it was no use. The emotion was too big to be managed, too bright.
Next to her, Daniel leaned in, shoulder pressed to hers. She realized he was crying, too, though he made no show of it. His hand found hers beneath the bench, squeezed, and didn’t let go.
There’s a home in the harbor,
Where the wind knows my name,
And the light on the water
Puts my old world to shame.
I was lost, but you found me,
And that’s all that remains—
A home in the harbor,
And the hearts that we’ve claimed.
We thought our world would end one night,
With flames and sirens calling,
But through the dark we held on tight,
Unbroken, still not falling.
There’s a home in the harbor,
Where the past can’t invade,
And the storms on land and water
Can’t wash us all away.
If you’re lost, I will find you,
And I’ll never let go—
There’s a home in the harbor,
That my heart will always know.
Emily felt the baby kick, sharp and insistent, as if responding to the music. On stage, Chantelle closed her eyes and rode the last note all the way out, letting it ring, letting it linger.
For a heartbeat, the entire harbor was silent.
Then, a wave of applause rose—thunderous, raw, punctuated by whoops and even a single, sustained air horn from somewhere in the back.
The crowd stood. People waved their arms, kids jumped on the slope, someone threw a hat in the air, and it landed two rows down, setting off a spasm of laughter. Patricia threw the flowers onstage.
Emily laughed, too—laughed through the tears, through the ache in her face, through the ache in her chest. She laughed and cried and held Daniel’s hand, and felt not just relief, but a perfect, unsullied pride.