Page 11 of Forever Full Circle
Roman’s voice softened. “It doesn’t have to be all or nothing. Let her try it. If she hates it, you’ll know. But don’t say no because you’re afraid. If you have questions, or if Chantelle wants to talk shop, you have my cell number. I’d be happy to help.”
The call ended with a simple, “Take care,” and then she was alone again. She set the phone down and stared at it, then at the brochure.
Emily tried to imagine her daughter among the kids in the photographs: posed with cellos and violins, their faces flushed with pride. The young musicians all grinned as if nothing had ever disappointed them, their hands curled confidently around bows, reeds, and necks of stringed instruments. The Boston address, printed in black serif, looked more formidable than inviting.
The house was coming to life around her. From somewhere upstairs, Charlotte’s giggle tumbled through the stairwell—high and unselfconscious, followed by the heavier cadence of Cassie’s footsteps as she chased the baby down the hallway. At the front desk, the door chime signaled a new arrival. Emily heard the receptionist Marnie’s practiced check-in spiel, then the sound of a guest’s suitcase thunking onto the floor. She let those noises anchor her; the ordinary, the expected, the rhythm she’d worked years to perfect.
Emily looked again at the brochure, flipping to the inside spread. There was a list of sample schedules: six AM start times, recitals every weekend, theory blocks that ran late into the evening. The kids in the photos wore uniforms—navy polos, khaki pants—faces turned toward the camera with an almost military discipline.
Emily slid down the wall until she sat on the floor, knees pulled tight to her chest. When she closed her eyes, she saw the hallway as it would be with one less body in the mix. She saw the kitchen table without Chantelle’s sketches, the weekends without the ping of her questions or detailed lunch orders, the mornings with one less cereal bowl on the counter. She didn’t like the thought of it.
But then, she pictured her daughter in the auditorium, on a stage with a hundred lights trained on her hands, the sound of her musical talent uncontained. She imagined the hush in the air, the pride and disbelief in the faces of the audience. Emily tried to hold both visions at once—the loss and the promise—until the ache of them pulling in opposite directions felt almost good.
Emily stood and headed toward the kitchen, footsteps soft.
Maybe it wouldn’t be this summer; maybe it would be next. But Chantelle was growing up, and the day Emily would have to let go was coming, whether she was ready or not.
CHAPTER FIVE
Once the tasks of the morning were done for guests and staff alike, Emily stood at the kitchen window in the family suite, palms curled around her favorite mug. It was the brown one with a hairline crack at the rim, a relic from her college days, and she’d sworn after the last dishwasher debacle that she was done with the ancient ceramic. But here it was again, warm against her hand, and here she was, staring into the yard as the afternoon bled up through the pines.
She tried to sip her twice-warmed coffee, but the smell hit her like a gut punch—burnt, metallic, chemical—and her stomach flipped in protest. She forced herself to swallow, and then set the mug down and pressed her thumb hard against the line of her jaw. Lately, everything tasted wrong: orange juice too sour, bread dough raw no matter how long she baked it. Even the air in the inn’s kitchen, always a mix of yeast and lemon and old radiator heat, a smell she liked, now made her queasy.
And she was so tired. Despite being up ate, she’d woken an hour earlier than usual, mind thrumming with the million-and-one things left undone. The potential purchase of the lighthouse, the unreturned calls to Roy’s doctor, the still half-assembled summer menus. Then, Sarah’s text had come in requesting to meet. For weeks she’d told herself she just needed one good night’s sleep—she’d wake refreshed, back to her old self, able to manage her anxieties with the sharp, square efficiency she was known for. Instead, she was restless, irritable, and, as of this morning, about three sips away from vomiting on the freshly Cloroxed tile.
It was good that Roy and Patricia had taken Chantelle and Charlotte into town for lunch, because Emily was so tired that she feared she’d need to lie down for a bit. She pulled out achair, sat, and rubbed her temples with the heel of her hand. The room was empty but for the low burble of the aquarium and the hum of the fridge. The aquarium was new—Chantelle’s prize for finishing the school year with all A’s—but the water already needed changing, and Emily could see little flecks of debris drifting behind the sluggish goldfish. She added it to the list.
To distract herself, she clicked on the small television in the corner. The news was all traffic cams and local wildfire risk. She muted the volume and watched the silent crawl of the headlines, letting the rhythm of the scrolling text pull her away from herself. Only when the station cut to commercial did she unmute, needing the noise.
A family in matching sweaters stood in a kitchen much like hers, but cleaner, whiter, nothing out of place. The mother poured orange juice while the father, impossibly handsome, popped a tray of cinnamon rolls onto the table. The kids—three of them, all glossy-haired and gap-toothed—shouted in delight, then pulled their parents into a group hug. The screen faded to the company logo, and Emily felt her vision go watery.
She pinched her nose, annoyed. She’d never been a crier, and yet, the last few weeks she’d been leaking tears at the dumbest things. Grocery store being out of stock of her favorite ice cream. Greeting cards. An episode of “America’s Funniest Home Videos” in which a baby giggled at its own sneeze. Once, while driving, she’d heard a segment about firefighters saving a herd of piglets from a barn blaze, and she’d wept so hard she had to pull over.
Emily told herself it was stress. That it was the uncertainty about Roy and the feeling that the next year of her life might be a set of dominoes waiting to topple. Maybe now, it was Chantelle potentially leaving. As her nausea crested, she thought—great, a stomach bug. Just what I need.
She stood abruptly, hand pressed to her mouth, and made it to the bathroom just off the living room in a few bounding steps. She heaved, retched, then flushed the evidence and leaned into the cool porcelain sink.
When she looked up, her face was ghost-pale, eyes red-rimmed and watery. She fished in the cabinet for mouthwash, then splashed her face with cold water, waiting until she felt solid again.
On her way back to the kitchen, she nearly collided with Daniel, who stood at the living room’s edge, arms folded, gaze heavy with the peculiar concern he reserved only for her. He was dressed for a jog—track pants, ancient cross-trainers, a T-shirt she’d threatened to incinerate in the basement.
He took one look at her and opened his arms, wordless.
Emily hesitated, then let herself be drawn in. His chin rested on her head; her forehead pressed to his chest, the soft logo of his shirt embossed briefly on her skin.
“Rough morning?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Just—up too early. Nerves. Can’t stop worrying about my dad, and his doctor’s office won’t call back.”
Daniel exhaled, and she felt it through his ribs, deep and measured. “Remember, you’re trying to get medical info that isn’t yours. And if you’re trying to break the world record for worrying, you’re there. By a mile.” He tilted her chin up, scanned her face as if searching for some tell. “You look green. Did you eat anything?”
“I tried coffee. Didn’t work out.”
Daniel moved to the counter, resting his hip against the edge. “When’s the last time you had a checkup?”
Emily blinked, caught off-guard. “I—what?”
“Just asking. You’ve been tired, you’re not sleeping, and now you’re throwing up. You think maybe you’re coming down with something?”
