Page 59 of Island Girl

Paula stopped outside a familiar door. The small wooden sign still read: “Gregory Harrison, Birdwatcher Extraordinaire.”

She knocked twice and pushed it open.

Gregory was in his wheelchair by the window, dressed in a crisp button-down shirt and pressed slacks. He'd made an effort again, Merritt realized. Just like last time. He wanted to make a good impression.

But this time, his attention wasn't on her. His eyes went straight to Richard, studying him with the sharp, assessing gaze of a man who had spent ninety-one years learning to read people.

“You're the father,” Gregory said. “The nature writer.”

“Richard Ryan.” Richard crossed the room and extended his hand. “And you're the man who's been looking out for my daughter.”

“Someone had to.” Gregory shook his hand firmly, his grip stronger than his frail appearance suggested. “She showed up on this island with nothing but a guitar and a broken heart. Needed a place to land.”

“She found one. Thanks to you.”

“Thanks to Paula.” Gregory's eyes flicked to the doorway, where Paula stood watching. “She's the one who saw what Merritt needed. I just had the real estate.”

Richard smiled. “Well, I'm grateful to both of you.”

“Sit, sit.” Gregory gestured to the chairs arranged near the window. “Paula, stop hovering. You too, Merritt. Everyone sit. We have things to discuss.”

They arranged themselves around Gregory's wheelchair. Through the window, Merritt could see the bird feeders swaying gently in the breeze. A cardinal landed on the nearest one, bright red against the green foliage.

Gregory followed her gaze. “That's Harold. Comes every morning around this time. His wife shows up around noon. I call her Mildred.”

“You've named the birds?” Richard asked.

“Of course I've named the birds. What else am I going to do all day?” Gregory's eyes crinkled with amusement. “I've got a whole roster. Cardinals, finches, painted buntings when I'm lucky. Even had a roseate spoonbill once, though nobody believed me.”

“I believe you,” Richard said. “I've seen them in the Everglades. Spent a week photographing them for a book a few years back.”

Gregory's face lit up. “Is that so? Tell me about it.”

And just like that, they were off. Richard described the week he'd spent in the Everglades, wading through shallow water at dawn, waiting for the perfect light. He talked about the spoonbills' feeding patterns, the way they swept their bills through the water in wide arcs. He talked about the alligators he'd had to watch for, the mosquitoes that had nearly eaten him alive, the moment when he'd finally gotten the shot he wanted, a spoonbill silhouetted against a pink and orange sunrise.

Gregory listened with rapt attention, asking questions, sharing his own observations. He talked about the birds he'd seen at the bungalow over the years, the ospreys that nested near the water, the pelicans that dove for fish at sunset. He talked about his wife, who had kept a journal of every bird sighting for forty years.

“She was the real birdwatcher,” Gregory said, his voice softening. “I just tagged along. But after she passed, I kept the tradition going. Seemed wrong to let it die with her.”

“That's how it works,” Richard said quietly. “We carry their loves forward. Keep them alive in the things we do.”

Gregory studied him for a long moment. “You lost someone too.”

“My wife. Eighteen months ago. MS.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Thank you. She gave me a daughter who takes my breath away.” Richard glanced at Merritt. “I can't ask for more than that.”

Merritt felt tears prick at her eyes. She looked down at her hands, trying to compose herself.

Gregory nodded slowly, something shifting in his expression. Understanding. Recognition. Two men who had loved and lost, finding common ground.

“Paula tells me you want to buy my bungalow,” Gregory said.

“I do. If you're willing to sell.”

“I'm willing. More than willing.” Gregory turned his wheelchair slightly to face Richard more fully. “That place has been in my family for sixty years. My wife and I bought it when we were first married. Lived our whole life there. Every sunset, every storm, every quiet morning with coffee on the deck.”