Page 63 of Island Girl

“I think she believed that if she sacrificed enough, she could save her. Like some kind of bargain with the universe. If she gave up music, gave up friends, gave up her own happiness, then maybe her mother wouldn't die.” He picked up his beer but didn't drink. “But it doesn't work that way. You can't trade your life for someone else's. You can only lose both.”

Crocker nodded slowly. “June was sick for a long time before she passed. I watched Justin's mother do the same thing. Gave up her job, her friends, moved back here to help. Annette was convinced that if she just did enough, tried hard enough, June would get better.”

“There was nothing Annette could do to change the outcome. June died anyway. And Annette spent the rest of her life carrying that weight.” Crocker's voice was gruff. “She passed two years ago. Cancer. Justin came down after, same way Merritt came here. Looking for something. Trying to figure out how to live again.”

The two men sat in silence, watching Merritt play. She had moved into a happier song now, something that made the fishermen in the corner tap their feet. She was smiling, lost in the music, unaware of the weight of the conversation at the bar.

“She's learning,” Richard said finally. “I can see it. The way shetalks about this place, these people. She's starting to live for herself.”

“She is.” Crocker finished his beer. “The music helps. Gives her something that's hers again.”

“Thank you for that. For giving her a stage.”

“Didn't give her anything. She earned it.” Crocker stood and collected their empty glasses. “Your daughter's got fight in her, Richard. She just forgot for a while. She's remembering now.”

On Wednesday, they visited Gregory together.

The old man was having a good day, alert, talkative, eager for company. Richard pulled his chair close to the window and told Gregory about the birds he'd seen at the bungalow that week. A roseate spoonbill at dawn. A family of ospreys nesting near the water. A painted bunting that had appeared at the feeder, bold as anything, like it knew it was special.

Gregory's eyes lit up at each description. He asked questions, what colors, what time of day, how long did it stay, and Richard answered with the patience and detail of a man who'd spent his life observing the natural world.

“You're a good storyteller,” Gregory said when Richard finished. “Most people just say, 'I saw a bird.' You make me feel like I'm there.”

“That's the goal. That's always been the goal.”

“Your daughter's the same way. When she describes the sunsets, I can see them.” Gregory's gaze drifted to Merritt. “You're lucky to have each other.”

“We are,” Richard said. “We really are.”

Gregory mentioned that his nephew had called back about the sale. “Says he'll handle everything from his end. Title company, lawyers, all of it. Should take about a month, maybe sixweeks.” He waved a hand. “I told him not to drag his feet. I want this settled while I'm still around to see it.”

Before they left, Gregory took Richard's hand in both of his.

“Take care of that bungalow,” he said. “And take care of her. She's special, that one.”

“I know. I've known since the day she was born.”

Gregory nodded, satisfied. “Good. Then we understand each other.”

On Thursday, they packed up the apartment above Shorebirds.

It didn't take long. Merritt had arrived on Sanibel with almost nothing, a suitcase, her guitar, the few possessions that had fit in her car. She'd accumulated a little more since then, some clothes, some books, a collection of shells she'd gathered on morning walks, but it all fit in a few boxes.

Justin helped them carry everything down the narrow stairs. When they reached the bottom, Crocker was waiting by the bar with something in his hands.

It was a vase. Small, glazed in blues and greens that swirled together like the Gulf on a cloudy day. One of his pieces, Merritt recognized his style immediately.

“For the bungalow,” Crocker said, holding it out to her. His voice was gruff, his eyes not quite meeting hers. “June always said a home needs something handmade in it. Something with a soul.”

Merritt took the vase carefully, feeling the weight of it in her hands. “Crocker, I can't…”

“You can.” He cut her off before she could finish. “I've got a hundred of them. Won't miss one.” But the way he said it, the way his jaw tightened, told her this wasn't just any piece. This one mattered.

“Thank you,” she said. “I'll take good care of it.”

“I know you will.” He nodded once, then turned back toward the bar. “Now get out of here before you make me sentimental.”

Justin grinned as they loaded the last box into Merritt’s car. “That's the most words I've heard him string together in a month.”