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 inburlap 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.”
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.
