did. Just before they’d left for Martha’s Vineyard. She’d been wishing him goodbye, something she hadn’t had the chance to do since the age of fifteen, and he’d joked that he might get a phone to keep in better contact. At the time she’d felt filled with hope. Not that he’d get a phone but that he would remain in regular contact. Sadly, it didn’t seem to be panning out that way. If he couldn’t stay in letter touch, what chance was there of him breaking with the habit of a lifetime and getting a phone!
“I’m going to pray that he does get one,” Chantelle said affirmatively. “And that we get to FaceTime each other.”
Emily nodded, hiding the grief that was creeping up inside of her. “I think that’s a very good idea,” she told the child.
Chantelle closed her eyes and Emily watched, her heart swelling, as the girl’s lips moved in silent prayer. Then she opened her eyes and grinned. “Amen.”
They reached the mailbox and Emily helped Chantelle put the letter inside. As they headed back to the house, Emily heard an incoming text message on her cell. She instantly thought of her father. Perhaps Chantelle’s prayer had been answered already!
But when she pulled her phone out of her pocket she was surprised to see that the name on the screen was Roman Westbrook.
Emily felt a jolt of shock. She didn’t want to act star-struck around Roman at all. He’d made it very clear how important his privacy was, how much he appreciated being respected in Sunset Harbor. It was among his reasons for wanting to stay in contact with Emily and the rest of the family after checking out. But she also couldn’t quite get her head around the fact that Roman Westbrook, famous singer, mega superstar, was a contact in her phone!
She opened the message and read it in her head, then exclaimed aloud.
“What is it?” Chantelle asked quizzically.
“Roman’s bought his house,” Emily said to Chantelle. “The one in Sunset Harbor.”
“Cool,” Chantelle said. “Does that mean we can do a welcome party? Take him a gift basket?”
Chantelle loved making up packages for the neighbors. She’d created several care packages for Trevor when he’d still been alive.
“He wants us to come over for a dinner party,” Emily told the child.
Chantelle looked excited and clapped her hands. “When? When?”
“Today!” Emily exclaimed. “Quick, go and put on a nice dress and wash your face. I’ll get Daddy!”
They hurried back to the inn, both as excited as each other that they would be spending the evening with none other than Roman Westbrook.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Of course Roman’s house was in the nicest part of Sunset Harbor. Emily felt a little embarrassed as they pulled onto the curved driveway in Daniel’s beat-up, rattling pickup truck.
“We really need a new car,” she said, looking out the passenger’s side window and up at the huge, vast mansion.
Chantelle whistled. “This place is awesome,” she said.
There were pots containing styled topiary, creeping ivy and roses up the walls, a fountain, and Roman’s cream-colored Rolls Royce parked to one side.
The family got out of the pickup truck and went to the large, carved front door. Chantelle rang the bell and a few seconds later it was opened by a humongous security man wearing a dark suit and a very stern expression.
“I’m Emily Morey,” Emily explained. “This is my husband, Daniel, and our daughter, Chantelle.”
The man didn’t say a word but he nodded as though he’d been briefed on their arrival and stepped aside. They went through the door and into the foyer, which had vast ceilings and pristine tiled floors. The decor inside was far more modern than the outside would have suggested.
They were greeted next by a maid, a young East Asian woman dressed casually in a summer dress. She took their coats and slung them over her arm.
“Can I show you through to the drawing room? Mr. Westbrook won’t be a moment.”
They followed her into a large room with wooden floors, a bright red leather couch, a large patterned rug, a glass coffee table and matching glass liquor cabinet, and a very large abstract painting taking up one wall. Emily caught Daniel’s eye and they exchanged a glance.
“Chantelle, don’t touch anything,” Emily said.
Chantelle sat on the couch, her feet not reaching the floor, hands clasped in her lap, looking very intimidated by the surrounding room.
“This is insane,” Emily whispered to Daniel.
They sat also, the brand new couch squeaky under their weight.
“It looked like an old money mansion from the outside,” Daniel said, looking around. “But he must have had the place gutted and completely redone on the inside.”
Just then, they saw Roman descending the staircase, wearing his trademark fedora.
“You made it!” he grinned, bouncing exuberantly into the room.
They stood and he skidded to a halt, arms wide for hugs. Emily felt stilted embracing Roman Westbrook. She still didn’t know him very well, even though he’d gone all out by pulling some strings so they could have the fanciest hotel room on the whole of Martha’s Vineyard.
“How was the honeymoon?” he asked Emily as he let her go.
“It was wonderful,” Emily said.
Roman shook Daniel’s hand. “And your jazz band?” he asked. “They’re still doing the wedding circuit?”
“They play at the inn once a week now,” Daniel confirmed.
Emily was surprised that Roman could remember so much about them. She was rather touched.
“Chantelle,” Roman said, turning to the little girl. “How’s my little star in the making?”
Chantelle blushed and replied shyly, “Good, thanks.”
“Want to see the recording studio before dinner?” he asked.
Wide-eyed, Chantelle looked at Daniel and Emily for confirmation. They nodded.
“Okay,” Chantelle said in a timid voice. It wasn’t often that she was bashful these days.
Roman led his guests out of the room and into the foyer, then to a large door. He opened it to reveal a staircase heading downstairs.
“It’s in the basement, of course,” he said.
They all went down. It was very dark and because of the sound-canceling walls their footsteps were almost completely muffled. It was quite a strange experience, Emily thought. Like walking into the vacuum of deep space.
The recording studio was brand new, state of the art. The walls were dark and a large glass partition separated the recording area from the mixing area. There was an old-school 1940s microphone inside the recording room, a grand piano, a large double bass and a concert-sized harp. On the producer’s side of the glass was the soundboard containing a million knobs and buttons and screens that indicated noise levels. Chantelle’s mouth dropped open in awe.
“I’m going to speak to your school about having a choir on the background of my charity Christmas single,” Roman said. “What do you think about that?”
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