Emily laughed. They said goodbye. Emily ended the call and felt Daniel’s arms around her, warm and sure. They both turned to look at Chantelle.
“I’m going to open for Roman,” Chantelle said, wonder in her voice.
Daniel grinned, proud and a little awed. “Guess we’re the parents of a star.”
Emily let herself laugh again, the sound wild and free. “God help us.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Morning crept in with the promise of full, beautiful summer sun. Emily stood at the property line of the lighthouse, clipboard pressed against her ribs, and watched the tidal advance of vehicles up the access road. The lot—miraculously graveled just two days prior on a rush that Emily was so grateful for—was already jammed full of SUVs, compact hybrids, work vans, and a parade of battered pick-ups. Some volunteers double-parked or wedged their cars at odd angles on the roadside. A few clever souls rolled in on battered bicycles or dirt bikes, bypassing the scrum altogether.
Lois arrived exactly as forecast, in a Prius that had so many bumper stickers it looked like a satire of itself. She wore a yellow vest and neon pink runners, and had a tote bag slung over one shoulder that seemed to contain everything from extra arrow signage to a bullhorn. Within two minutes, she had commandeered the parking situation in the same way that she managed the front of house at the inn.
“Emily! You need a vest,” Lois called across the lot, fishing a chartreuse mesh from her tote and tossing it expertly. “It’s how we know who’s authorized.”
Emily caught it by reflex, surprised by the sting of static and the unambiguous authority it conferred. She shrugged it on, trying not to think about how it clashed with her carefully chosen navy tee, with the little embroidered lighthouses.
Lois snapped her fingers, and a trio of teenage volunteers trotted over. “Green is for delivery receiving, blue for food services, orange for facilities maintenance,” she briefed them, slapping badges on their chests. “If you see anyone wandering without a badge, direct them to me. Got it?”
The teens nodded, wide-eyed, and fanned out.
Lois gave Emily a wink. “I’ve got this, boss.”
A van shuddered to a stop nearby, and Parker, one of the inn restaurant employees, emerged. There was a crate of saran-wrapped platters already in his arms. “Morning!” he called, voice bright even as he staggered slightly under the weight. “The breakfast sandwiches are still hot.”
“Put them on the catering table in the main entry,” Emily directed, then checked herself. “Unless you want to set up a breakfast station outside. Probably smarter—less foot traffic inside.”
Parker grinned. “Your call. I just drive the food.”
Emily hovered, wanting to step in, but caught herself. Letting go was the point of all this. She let Parker sort the platters and watched as he flagged down a helper (blue badge) and together they set up a makeshift buffet with folding tables that they found inside the lower storage of the lighthouse.
Inside, Emily found Vanessa and Marnie, who had already begun their assault on the lighthouse’s lower level, rubber gloves pulled up to their elbows and industrial mops propped like battle standards. “We’re going for the crime scene cleanup look,” Marnie said, gesturing at the chemical arsenal lined up on the windowsill.
Vanessa added, “You saw nothing.”
Emily nodded, grateful. “You two are heroes.”
“We know,” they said in unison.
She checked the keeper’s quarters: buckets were deployed, the air tinged with lemon and the faint edge of ammonia. A small flock of middle-schoolers zigzagged past with rags and dusters, wiping down the wainscoting and shrieking at every spider they encountered. Marnie gave the kids a warning glare, then returned to scrubbing the ancient, mineral-stained sink in the kitchenette.
Up the staircase, the paint was still tacky in spots, but the color—pale gray with crisp white trim here—made the whole space look awake for the first time in years. As she passed, Emily’s hand hovered over a slight drip at the banister, but she forced herself not to smooth it out.
Downstairs, Amy and Harry were unpacking a bin of pamphlets and clipboards at the welcome booth. Amy was already greeting new arrivals for the stage setup, Roman’s people, her cheer relentless. Harry, for his part, was focused on the tech: a battered iPad, two portable chargers, and a printed spreadsheet of names of guests who would be attending. He taped the sheet to the table, smoothed it, then gave Emily a salute.
“We’re at seventy-three check-ins so far,” Harry reported, “and looks like all the badges are here. We’ll have good control of who gets in.”
Back on the front lawn, Suzanna and Wesley were wrangling the folding chairs into rows. Toby, Chantelle’s friend and their son, was carrying the lighter end of each stack and narrating his efforts in a steady, self-serious mutter. Baby Robin was strapped to Suzanna’s back, dead asleep, his head lolling against the collar of his mother’s hoodie. Wesley grunted as he dropped a stack of chairs with a thud, then straightened and wiped sweat from his forehead.
“You sure you want these this close together?” he asked Emily, gesturing at the four tightly packed rows.
Emily hesitated, picturing the stage setup and the predicted crowd. “Let’s leave a wider aisle down the middle. I think Bryony’s marketing team is bringing a camera crew, so they’ll need the space for tripods.”
Wesley nodded, already shifting the chairs.
Suzanna juggled Robin with one hand and smoothed her hair with the other. “Toby, can you help with the little tables?” sheasked, and the boy zipped off, arms pinwheeling, to the rental van where the rest of the tables and chairs were.
Emily knelt beside the makeshift aisle and measured the distance by eye. It was narrower than she would have liked, but the configuration made sense. She thought of the hours she’d spent obsessing over other seating charts—how ridiculous it seemed now. This was the most important.
