Page 47 of Island Girl

Merritt felt something tighten in her chest. It was too generous. Too easy. There had to be a catch.

“Why me?” she asked. “You don't know me. I could be anyone.”

“Paula knows you. That's enough for me.” Gregory smiled. “She's a good judge of character, that one. Gets it from her mother. And she says you're someone who takes care of things. Takes care of people.” His smile faded, something sadder moving behind his eyes. “Lord knows that family could use someone like that.”

Merritt didn't ask what he meant. She didn't have to. She thought of Ray, sitting in his corner at Shorebirds, his Jameson untouched, his eyes fixed on nothing. She thought of Paula, carrying years of worry like a stone in her chest.

“When can I see it?” she asked.

Gregory's face brightened. “Paula's got a key. She can take you over whenever you're ready.” He reached out and patted her hand, his skin papery thin and warm. “I think you'll like it. And I think it'll like you.”

Merritt was surprised when her throat tightened and her eyes filled with tears. Something about Gregory touched her and moved her deeply.

“I’m not sure why, but somehow I know I will,” she responded.

Gregory smiled, as Merritt took his hand in hers, not letting go.

Paula returned a few minutes later, and Gregory shooed them both out with instructions to report back immediately. In the hallway, Paula handed Merritt a key on a simple silver ring.

“The address is on the tag. It's about ten minutes from here, right on the beach.” She hesitated. “You don't have to decide anything today. Just go look at it. See how it feels.”

“Thank you, Paula. For all of this.”

“Don't thank me yet. You haven't seen the place.” But Paula smiled when she said it. “Let me know what you think.”

Merritt drove to the bungalow with the windows down, the salt air rushing through the car. The address led her down a narrow road lined with sea grape and palm, the kind of road that felt like a secret, like something only locals knew about.

And then she saw it.

The bungalow sat at the end of the road, small and weathered and perfect. It was painted pale blue, the color of a winter sky, with white trim and a tin roof that had gone soft with age.

Merritt parked and sat for a moment, just looking.

It was exactly what she'd imagined. Exactly what she hadn't dared to hope for.

She got out of the car and walked around the building. A wooden deck wrapped around the front, facing the beach, and there, just as Gregory had described, were French doors, their glass panels reflecting the afternoon sun.

She walked back to the front of the house and walked up the sandy path to the front door. The key turned smoothly in the lock, and she stepped inside.

The interior was simple but lovely. Hardwood floors, worn smooth by decades of sandy feet. A small kitchen with open shelves and a window over the sink. A living room with a faded sofa and a fireplace that probably hadn't been used in years. At the back, through an archway, a bedroom with windows on three sides and those French doors, standing open to the beach beyond.

Merritt walked through the rooms slowly, trailing her fingers along the walls, breathing in the smell of salt and wood and something faintly floral. The place felt loved. Lived in. Likeit was waiting for someone to come back and fill it with life again.

She stepped through the French doors and onto the deck. The beach stretched out before her, white sand and blue water and a sky so big it didn’t seem real. The waves rolled in, soft and steady, a rhythm she could feel in her bones.

She stood there for a long time, watching the water, feeling the sun on her face.

This was it. This was where she was supposed to be.

She called her father that night, after her shift at the bar.

“Hey, sweetheart.” His voice was warm and familiar, a comfort she hadn't known she needed. “How are things on the island?”

“Good, Dad. Really good.” She curled up on her bed, the phone pressed to her ear. “A lot has happened since we last talked.”

“Tell me everything.”

So she did. She told him about playing at the bar, about Crocker's request and the wooden stool by the window and the regulars who came to hear her now. She told him about Ray, carefully, without too many details, just that there was a man who seemed to be healing, slowly, through music. She told him about Paula and Gregory and the bungalow with the French doors.