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.
Chantelle bowed, awkward but sincere, then looked directly at her mother. For a flash, she was the same kid who’d once hidden in the pantry during a thunderstorm, or covered the bathroom mirror with song lyrics in dry-erase. She was every age at once—twelve and twenty and still, somehow, the eight-year-old girl who’d arrived in this town with nothing but an attitude and a broken heart.
Emily waved, not trusting herself to shout. On stage, her daughter beamed.
She looked up at the lighthouse, blinking in its measured, ancient rhythm, and thought:This is all the light I could hold.
A new figure appeared at the side of the stage.
Roman Westbrook, in a pearl snap shirt and battered boots, strolled to center stage with a casualness that made it look accidental. The effect was electric. Emily felt the crowd register the shift, a ripple of whispers darting through the benches and up the slope. People straightened in their seats, phones came out, and every pair of eyes settled on the two of them—her daughter and a man who’d played stadiums from here to Singapore, where Owen and Serena were, standing shoulder to shoulder under a string of paper lanterns.
Roman nodded once at Chantelle, who returned the gesture with a tiny, lopsided smile. Then he leaned into his mic and, without introduction, began to harmonize the chorus. His voice, a mellow baritone with the faintest trace of beach sand, wrapped itself around Chantelle’s melody, shading it but never eclipsing.
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.
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.
They sang together—her voice climbing, his grounding—and the sound seemed to melt together in the air, pulling every onlooker into the gravity of the moment. A row of high schoolers behind Emily started swaying, arms linked, eyes closed. A couple at the end of the bench turned to each other and laughed, wiping at their faces.
Patricia, always the first to crack, pressed a wadded tissue to her cheek and didn’t bother hiding her sobs. Charlotte, roused by the crowd’s energy, lifted her head from Daniel’s neck, blinked at the stage, and made a pleased, chirping sound before falling instantly asleep again.
At the song’s second close, Roman let the second-to-last note linger just as Chantelle had, then stepped back to let Chantelle have the last word. She took it, voice steady and round, then let her hands drop and exhaled into the microphone.
The applause exploded again—a roar, louder and more sustained than before, with scattered whoops and even the thump of feet stomping. Chantelle blinked in disbelief, then broke into a huge, startled grin. She looked over at Roman, who winked and gave her a gentle clap on the back. Chantelle gave a quick, self-conscious bow.
Emily cried openly, tears hot and clean. She couldn’t have stopped if she’d wanted to. The love in her chest was so intense it felt like standing on the roof during a thunderstorm, daring the lightning to strike. And it had. This was the place it had landed. The air crackled.
She glanced at Daniel, saw his eyes shining, saw the way he looked at their daughter—at both daughters, one on stage and one in his arms. Roy watched, lips pressed tight, but his hand steady on his knee.
