Page 52 of Island Girl

On Thursday night, after her set at the bar, she called her father.

“Hey, sweetheart.” His voice was warm, slightly sleepy. “Everything okay?”

“Everything's fine. I'm sorry, I didn't realize how late it was.”

“Don't apologize. I was just reading.” She heard the creak of his chair, the sound of a book being set aside. “What's on your mind?”

Merritt sat on her bed, the phone pressed to her ear, trying to find the right words. She'd told him about the bungalow already, about Gregory and Paula and the offer that seemed too good to be true. But she hadn't told him about the fear.

“I've been thinking about the bungalow,” she said slowly. “About what happens when Gregory dies.”

Her father was quiet for a moment. “That's a heavy thought.”

“I know. But I can't stop thinking about it. He's given me this incredible gift, this place that feels like home, and I'm terrified it's going to disappear.” She pulled her knees to her chest. “He has no one, Dad. No kids, no close family. Just distant relatives who've never even visited him. And when he's gone, they'll swoop in and sell the place to the highest bidder, and I'll be back where I started.”

“Have you talked to him about it? About his plans?”

“A little. He says he doesn't care what happens after he's gone. He just wants to know someone's taking care of it now.” Merritt sighed. “But I care. I care what happens. And I feel terrible for even thinking about it, because he's still alive, he's still here, and I'm already worried about losing something that was never really mine.”

“It's not terrible,” her father said gently. “It's practical. You're protecting yourself, thinking ahead. That's not a bad thing.”

“It feels selfish.”

“It's not selfish to want stability. To want a home.” He paused, and she could hear him thinking, the way he always did before he said something important. “Tell me more about this bungalow. What's the property like?”

Merritt described it, the pale blue paint, the tin roof, the French doors opening onto the beach. She told him about the wind chime and the seashell collection and the way the sunset turned the whole place gold. She told him about the small kitchen and the worn hardwood floors and the fireplace that probably hadn't been used in decades.

“It sounds beautiful,” her father said. “It sounds like you.”

“It feels like me. That's the thing. I've never had a place that felt this right. This feels like it could actually be mine.”

“What if it was?”

“What do you mean?”

Her father was quiet again. When he spoke, his voice was careful, measured. “What if I bought it?”

Merritt sat up straight. “Dad, what?”

“Hear me out.” She could picture him leaning forward in his chair, the way he did when he was working through an idea. “Gregory wants to sell, or at least ensure the place goes to someone who'll care for it. You need stability. And I've been thinking about my own future lately.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm tired, Merritt. Tired of these winters, tired of shovelingsnow, tired of watching the ice creep across the harbor every November and not thaw until April.” He laughed softly. “Margaret's casseroles are wonderful, but they're not enough to keep me warm anymore.”

“Dad.”

“I'm serious. I've been rattling around this house ever since your mother passed. It's too big, too empty, too full of memories. And you're down there, building a life, finding your place. Why am I up here alone?”

Merritt felt tears prick at her eyes. “I didn't know you felt that way.”

“I didn't either, for a while. But watching you leave, watching you take a chance on something new, it made me realize I've been standing still. Waiting for something, I don't know what. Permission, maybe. A reason to move forward.” He paused. “This could be that reason.”

“You want to move to Florida?”

“Eventually, yes. Not tomorrow, not next month. But someday. And in the meantime, I could buy the bungalow, give Gregory his peace of mind, give you your stability. You'd pay rent, help with the mortgage until I sell the Maine house. And when I'm ready, maybe I'll come down and we'll figure out the rest together.”

Merritt's mind was spinning. It was too big, too generous, too much to process. “Dad, I can't ask you to do that.”