Emily felt her face flush, a small, involuntary pride that quickly curdled into something else. More worry, this time a maternal one. “Would she have to board there? Or could we bring her home at night?”
“Most of the students stay in the dorms, but there’s also a day track for kids within driving range,” Sarah said. “But the real benefit is being in that environment twenty-four-seven. The immersion, the collaborations, the guest artists—they build the whole summer around a musical community. I think she’d love it. But I wanted to talk to you both first. I know it’s a lot.”
Emily’s mind skipped past the logistics and landed on the image of Chantelle in a strange bed, alone at night, surrounded by a sea of new faces and expectations. For a split second, she wanted to snatch the brochure off the table and run it through the shredder in the admin office, just to keep things as they were.
Daniel, who had picked the paper up, now put the brochure down, lining it up with the edge of the table. “What’s the tuition?”
“Twenty-five hundred for the day program. Six hundred for boarding. They have scholarships, and honestly, I think she’d qualify.”
Emily almost asked,“What if she hates it?”but stopped herself. Instead, she said, “It’s a long time to be away from home. She’s never done anything like that before.”
Sarah nodded, sympathetic. “I know. And, forgive me, but there aren’t many kids like her around here. She needs peers who speak her language.”
There it was. Emily felt a tiny fissure open in her chest. She’d always assumed that childhood would stretch on forever, that her daughter’s orbit would remain fixed around the inn, the family, the routine. Her classmates at school. The idea of an outside world reaching in—wanting to pull Chantelle away, even for a few weeks—felt like the first crack in a shell Emily wasn’t ready to outgrow. She thought about the years ahead, how this summer could be just the beginning of a string of departures.
“Is there a deadline?” Daniel asked.
“They’re holding a spot for her. We’d need to confirm by next Friday.” Sarah rose, smoothing her skirt. “But, of course, take your time. If you have questions, I’m always around. I’d be happy to talk with Chantelle, too. No pressure.”
She offered a polite smile, and Emily mirrored it, though she felt her lips stretch too tightly across her teeth. As Sarah waved them both off from standing and let herself out, Daniel placed his hand on Emily’s knee.
He squeezed her leg, then let his hand fall away. “She’s amazing. It’s a good thing.”
Emily tried to agree, but all she could think of was the last time she’d watched Chantelle sleep, the slow, even rise and fall of her back, the small tangle of hair at the nape of her neck. She wasn’t ready for the world to take her daughter. But it wasn’t fair to hold Chantelle here if she wanted to go.
“I’ll let you think it over,” he said softly. “I gotta go to the shop.”
With a kiss, he was gone.
Emily stayed in the parlor for a long time after Sarah and Daniel left, arms hugged tight across her chest. The clock above the credenza chimed the half hour—three polite, distinct notes—before the silence returned.
Suddenly, her phone vibrated on the table. She reached for it, half-expecting a message from Sarah, but the number on the display was unfamiliar: not the number of the lighthouse call, Jamie, but a Boston area code. She answered, voice low. “Hello, this is Emily.”
“Emily!” The voice on the other end was warm and textured.
“Roman! What are you doing in Boston?”
Roman Westbrook, pop star and unlikely friend of the Moreys, laughed. “I’m here at the Conservatory program. Sarah Chen said you’d be expecting my call.”
Emily wasn’t, and the shock must have registered, because he laughed again. “I’m the one who told her about the program for Chantelle.”
“Hi, yes, of course. Sorry, I—caught me off guard.”
“No worries,” Roman said. “I know you’re busy, so I’ll keep this short. Has Sarah filled you in on the Conservatory?”
“She did,” Emily said. “She just left.”
“Good. I wanted to let you know—off the record—I’ve seen a lot of kids, and your daughter blows me away.” He said it with the confidence of someone who expected to be believed. “Sarah’s a friend. She played with my touring band years ago, back when I was still playing in grimy clubs. She doesn’t throw the word ‘prodigy’ around lightly. Neither do I. “
Emily tried to find a response that didn’t sound like outright fawning. “Thank you. Chantelle works hard. But it’s a lot to take in, honestly. I’m not sure we’re ready for this.”
Roman’s tone shifted, more earnest. “I get that. I didn’t even start serious training until I was a teenager. Sometimes I wonder what could have happened if I’d had the right nudge earlier.” A pause, then: “Don’t let her plateau, Emily. The foundational years matter more than people realize.”
Emily walked to the window, phone pressed to her ear, free hand curling the cord of the sheer curtain. “I worry about burning her out young.”
“She’ll burn out if she’s bored, not if she’s challenged,” Roman said. “The right environment is everything. Peer musicians, new repertoire, the discipline—it’s transformative.” A faint beep in the background, someone calling for his attention, but he pressed on: “I’m not trying to play guru. Just—I wish someone had looked out for me, musically. And I know how lonely it can be for a kid who’s different.”
Emily felt her throat tighten. “You and your whole crew were so kind to her last summer, during the songwriting retreat.”
