Page 33 of Island Girl

At eleven, she climbed the stairs to her apartment and sat by the window, looking out at the water. The moon was high and full, painting silver ribbons across the Gulf.

She thought about calling her father. It was late, but he'd still be awake, reading in his chair by the window. He'd want to hear about the music, about playing in front of people again. He'd be proud of her.

But she didn't reach for her phone. Not tonight.

Tonight, she just sat with the silence and the moonlight and the memory of Ray Maguire's face when the music found him.

Tomorrow, she'd figure out what to do next.

CHAPTER 10

Ray came back the next night.

Merritt noticed him the moment he walked through the door. Same time as always, same quiet entrance, same path to his corner table. He sat down and Justin brought him his Jameson without being asked. The glass sat untouched on the table, catching the light from the string lights above.

Everything the same. Except it wasn't.

Merritt felt the shift the moment their eyes met. It lasted less than a second, Ray looking at her, really looking, before his gaze dropped to the table. But it happened. She hadn't imagined it.

She didn't play that night. Crocker hadn't asked, and she didn't offer. The memory of the previous evening still felt too raw, too uncertain. She needed time to understand what had happened before she did it again.

So she worked. Cleared tables, poured drinks, laughed at Ed's terrible jokes and admired the photos Margie showed her of their grandchildren. She moved through the evening the way she always did, present and attentive, taking care of the people who came through the door.

But part of her stayed aware of Ray. The corner of her eyetracked his stillness, his silence, his untouched drink. And twice more during the evening, she caught him glancing her way.

Not staring. Just glancing. Quick looks that disappeared as soon as she noticed them.

It meant something. She just didn't know what.

Three days later, Crocker brought out the stool again.

“Do you feel like playing tonight?” he asked.

Merritt looked at the stool, then at the corner where Ray sat. He'd arrived early, around seven-thirty. His Jameson was already on the table, the amber liquid glowing in the soft light.

“Sure,” she said. “If you want me to.”

“I want you to.”

She climbed the stairs to get her guitar. Her hands were steadier this time, her heart calmer. She'd done this before. She could do it again.

When she came back down, the bar had filled a little more. The fishermen had claimed their usual spot. Dottie was perched at the bar, chatting with Justin about something that made him laugh. Ed and Margie were at their table, and Margie waved when she saw the guitar.

“Oh good,” Margie called out. “We were hoping you'd play again.”

Merritt smiled and settled onto the stool. She took her time tuning, letting her fingers remember the strings, letting the nerves settle into something more like anticipation.

Then she began.

She started with something simple. An old folk song her mother had loved, one with an easy melody and lyrics about the sea. Her voice found its footing quickly this time, stronger than it had been that first night. The music flowed out of her without resistance, natural as breathing.

She didn't look at Ray. Not at first. She kept her eyes on her hands, on the guitar, on the middle distance where the musicseemed to live. She let herself get lost in it, the way she used to back when playing was as essential as sleep.

But when she started the second song, she let her gaze drift across the room.

Ray was watching her.

Not glancing this time. Watching. He kept his eyes fixed on her face and sat completely still, exactly as he always did. But something in his posture had changed. He leaned forward, just slightly, and watched her performance.