Page 46 of Island Girl

They stopped outside a door decorated with a small wooden sign: “Gregory Harrison, Birdwatcher Extraordinaire.” Paula knocked twice and pushed it open.

The room was bright, with large windows overlooking a garden. Bird feeders hung just outside the glass, and as Merritt stepped inside, she saw a flash of red, a cardinal, pecking at seeds.The walls were covered with photographs of birds, some of professional quality.

And in a wheelchair by the window sat Gregory Harrison.

He was smaller than she'd expected, shrunken with age, his white hair thin and wispy. But his eyes were sharp, bright blue and full of intelligence, and when he saw Merritt, his face creased into a wide smile.

“So you're the guitar girl,” he said. His voice was stronger than his body, clear and warm. “Paula's told me all about you.”

“All good things, I hope.”

“Mostly good. She mentioned you're stubborn.” He winked. “I like stubborn. Means you don't give up easy.”

Merritt laughed, surprised by how quickly she felt at ease. “I try not to.”

“Sit, sit.” Gregory gestured to a chair near the window. “Paula, stop hovering. Go do nurse things. We'll be fine.”

Paula rolled her eyes but smiled. “I'll be back in thirty minutes. Try not to cause too much trouble.”

“No promises.”

She left, closing the door behind her, and Merritt settled into the chair Gregory had indicated. From here, she could see the bird feeders clearly, cardinals and finches and a painted bunting that made her think of her father.

“You like birds?” Gregory asked, following her gaze.

“I'm learning to. My father's a nature writer. He'd love this setup.”

“A nature writer.” Gregory's eyes lit up. “What's his name? Maybe I've read him.”

“Richard Ryan. He writes mostly about conservation. Wetlands, wildlife corridors, that sort of thing.”

“Richard Ryan.” Gregory repeated the name slowly, testing it. “I don't know the name. But I'll look him up. Always room for another good nature writer on my shelf.”

They talked for a while about birds, about Gregory's years asan amateur photographer, about the painted bunting that had appeared at his feeder that morning. He was easy to talk to, sharp and funny, and full of stories. Merritt relaxed, forgetting why she'd come, just enjoying the conversation.

Then Gregory leaned back in his wheelchair and fixed her with a knowing look.

“So. Paula tells me you need a place to live.”

“She mentioned you might have something available.”

“I might.” He turned to look out the window, his expression softening. “I've got a little bungalow on the beach. Been in my family for sixty years. My wife and I bought it when we were first married, back when you could still afford beachfront property without selling a kidney.”

Merritt smiled. “It sounds beautiful.”

“It is. French doors that open right onto the sand. You can hear the waves at night. I used to fall asleep to that sound every night.” His voice caught, just slightly. “Haven't been back since I moved in here. Can't manage the stairs anymore. Can't manage much of anything, if I'm honest.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. I'm ninety-one years old. I've had a good run.” He turned back to her, his blue eyes clear. “But that bungalow deserves someone who'll love it. Someone who'll open those French doors and let the sea air in. Someone who'll take care of it the way my wife did.”

“Paula said you might want to rent it out.”

“I don't need the money. Got more than I'll ever spend, and no one to leave it to.” He shrugged. “What I need is peace of mind. Knowing the place isn't sitting empty, falling apart, getting swallowed up by sand and salt.”

“What would you want from me?”

Gregory considered the question. “Cover the utilities. Keep the place clean. Let me know if anything breaks.” He paused, studying her face. “And maybe come visit me sometimes. Tell meabout the birds you see. The sunsets. The storms rolling in off the Gulf.”