Page 65 of Island Girl

She was alone.

For the first time in her life, truly alone. Not caring for someone, not being cared for. Just herself, in this place, with nothing but time and space and the sound of the ocean.

She went inside and made coffee, moving slowly through the small kitchen. The bungalow was quiet around her, but not empty. She could feel the history in the walls, the love that had lived here for sixty years. Gregory and his wife. Now her.

She carried her coffee to the bedroom and stood looking at the French doors. They were painted a soft seafoam green, the color of sea glass, with brass handles gone soft with age. Through the glass panels, she could see the deck, the beach, the endless turquoise water beyond.

She set down her coffee and reached for the handles.

The doors swung open easily, letting in a rush of salt air and morning light. She stepped out onto the weathered gray deck, the wood warm and smooth beneath her bare feet.

Her pink flip-flops sat by the door where she'd kicked them off the night before. She didn't reach for them. She didn't need them.

The beach stretched out before her, white sand and turquoise water, palm fronds swaying overhead. The sky was enormous, blue and bright with scattered white clouds. The waves rolled in, soft and steady, a rhythm that felt like breathing.

Merritt walked to the edge of the deck, then kept walking. Down the steps, onto the sand. It was warm between her toes, soft and yielding. She walked toward the water, her arms lifting at her sides, her fingers trailing through the air like she was touching something invisible.

She didn't stop until the waves reached her feet. Cool water, salt foam, the endless pull of the tide. She stood there, her white sundress rippling in the breeze, and let herself feel it.

Home.

Not borrowed, not temporary. Hers, or it would be soon, once the paperwork went through. But already, standing here, she knew this was where she belonged.

She thought about her mother, who had dreamed of a place like this and never got to see it. She thought about her father, flying back to Maine with plans to return. She thought about Gregory, sitting in his wheelchair by the window, trusting her with sixty years of memories.

She thought about Ray, sitting in his corner at Shorebirds, slowly coming back to life.

She thought about the music, and the way it moved through her, connecting her to everyone she'd ever loved and everyone she was learning to love.

This was her life now. This beach, this bungalow, this island. These people who had become her family.

She stretched out her arm toward the water, reaching for nothing, reaching for everything.

The waves whispered against her feet. The palm fronds rustled overhead. The sun climbed higher in that enormous blue sky.

And Merritt Ryan, standing alone on the beach for the first time in her life, finally understood what it meant to be free.

CHAPTER 20

Paula stopped by the bungalow on Saturday afternoon with a bottle of wine and a container of homemade soup.

“I'm not checking up on you,” she said when Merritt opened the door. “I just made too much.”

Merritt smiled and stepped aside to let her in. “You're absolutely checking up on me.”

“Maybe a little.” Paula set the soup on the kitchen counter and looked around. “The place looks good. You've settled in.”

“It's starting to feel like mine.” Merritt ran her hand along the counter, still marveling at the fact that she lived here. The vase Crocker had given her sat on the table, catching the afternoon light. Her shells lined the windowsill. Through the French doors, the Gulf sparkled blue and endless.

“Crocker's?” Paula asked, nodding toward the vase.

“He gave it to me when I moved out of the apartment.”

“That's a big deal. He doesn't give those away lightly.”

“I got that impression.”

They took their wine out to the deck and sat in the weathered Adirondack chairs, looking out at the water. The breeze waswarm and steady, carrying the smell of salt and something floral. A pelican dove for fish near the shore.