Page 54 of Island Girl

Maybe they both did.

She pulled out her phone and texted him: Book your flight. I'll be here waiting.

His response came back almost immediately: Already done. See you Tuesday.

Merritt smiled and slipped her phone back into her pocket.

For the first time in a long time, the future felt less like something to fear and more like something to welcome. She didn't know exactly how it would unfold, didn't know what challenges lay ahead.

But she knew her father was coming. She knew the bungalow might actually be hers to keep. And she knew that whatever happened next, she wouldn't have to face it alone.

CHAPTER 17

Merritt arrived at the bungalow an hour before Paula was due to arrive with her father.

She'd told herself she needed time to open the windows, air the place out, make sure everything looked its best. But really, she just needed to be here. To stand in this place that might become hers and imagine seeing it through her father's eyes.

The French doors were open to the beach, letting in the salt breeze and the sound of the waves. She'd swept the floors that morning, wiped down the counters, arranged fresh flowers in a mason jar she'd found in one of the cabinets. The bungalow didn't need much. It had its own beauty, weathered and real.

But would her father see it?

She loved him and trusted him completely. But Richard Ryan was a practical man. A man who noticed details, asked hard questions, looked for problems others might miss. It was what made him a good writer, a good father. He wouldn't just see the French doors and the ocean view. He'd see the tin roof that might need replacing, the windows that might not seal properly, the foundation that might have issues after sixty years of salt and storms.

What if he looked at all of this and saw a mistake?

She was still worrying when she heard a car pull into the sandy drive.

Through the window, she saw Paula's sedan. The passenger door opened, and her father climbed out.

He looked the same as always, tall and lean, gray hair gone white at the temples, squinting in the Florida sun like a man who hadn't seen real brightness in months. He wore khakis and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he stood for a moment just looking at the bungalow, his face unreadable.

Merritt's heart pounded as she stepped onto the deck.

“Dad.”

His face split into a wide grin, and suddenly he was crossing the sandy path, pulling her into a hug that smelled like airplane coffee and something underneath that was just him. Familiar. Safe. Home.

“There's my girl.” He held her tight, then pulled back to study her face. “Look at you. You look good. Rested.”

“I am good.” She felt tears threatening and blinked them back. “I'm so glad you're here.”

“Me too, sweetheart. Me too.”

Paula had come around the car and was watching them with a small smile. She looked different today, out of her scrubs, wearing a simple blouse and linen pants. Professional but relaxed.

“Thank you for picking him up,” Merritt said.

“It was my pleasure. Your father and I had a nice talk on the drive.” Paula glanced at Richard. “He asked a lot of questions.”

“I'm a curious person.” Richard's eyes were already moving over the bungalow, taking in the pale blue paint, the white trim, the tin roof. “This is the place?”

“This is it.”

He nodded slowly, his expression shifting into somethingmore focused. The writer's eye, Merritt thought. The one that saw everything.

“Show me,” he said.

She led him through the French doors into the main room. Richard stood in the center, turning slowly, the way he'd done when she was a child showing him a school project. He wasn't just looking. He was assessing.