Page 73 of Island Girl

The tears came then, finally, silently, streaming down her cheeks and falling onto the weathered wood of the deck. She cried for Ray, for what he'd been through, for the pain she'd added to his burden. She cried for herself, for the pattern she couldn't seem to break, for the damage her good intentions always seemed to cause.

And she cried for her mother, who had never asked for Merritt's sacrifice but had received it anyway, and who had died just the same.

The waves kept rolling in. The stars kept turning overhead. And Merritt sat alone in the dark, waiting for news that might never come.

CHAPTER 23

Ray didn't come back. The chair where he always sat, the table where his untouched Jameson always rested, the shadows where he'd hidden from the world for two years. All of it empty.

Merritt played her set anyway. She didn't know what else to do. But her fingers felt clumsy on the strings, and her voice kept catching in her throat, and every time she looked toward that corner, the absence hit her like a blow.

Justin watched her from behind the bar, his expression unreadable. Crocker stayed in the kitchen most of the night, emerging only to check on tables and disappear again. Neither of them said anything to her about what had happened, but she could feel the weight of their awareness. Everyone knew. The whole bar had witnessed Ray's explosion. The whole bar had watched him walk out.

After her set, she found Justin wiping down the bar.

“Any word from Paula?”

He shook his head. “She went to his trailer Tuesday night. He wasn't there. His truck was gone. She's been calling, but he's not answering.”

“Where would he go?”

“I don't know. He doesn't have many places. The dock, sometimes. The VFW, but he hasn't been there in years.” Justin set down his rag. “Paula's checking everywhere she can think of. She'll find him.”

But his voice lacked conviction, and Merritt knew why. Ray had survived many years by disappearing. He knew how to vanish when he wanted to. He knew how to make himself unfindable.

“This is my fault.”

“Merritt.”

“It is. I pushed when I should have waited. I said things I had no right to say.” She gripped the edge of the bar, her knuckles white. “Paula warned me. She told me to be patient, to let him be. And I didn't listen. You warned me, too. I was too stubborn to do the right thing.”

Justin was quiet for a moment. Then he reached across the bar and covered her hand with his.

“You made a mistake. People make mistakes. But Ray's been carrying this weight for a long time. Whatever happens, it's not all on you.”

“It feels like it is.”

“I know. But feelings aren't facts.” He squeezed her hand and let go. “Go home. Get some rest. We'll know more tomorrow.”

She went home, but she didn't rest. She sat on the deck until the sky started to lighten, watching the stars fade and the horizon turn pink, thinking about Ray and wondering where he was sleeping. If he was sleeping at all.

Thursday was worse.

She went to visit Gregory in the afternoon, hoping the familiar routine might settle her nerves. But when she walked into his room at Seaside Gardens, she knew immediately that something had changed.

He was smaller. That was the only word for it. Smaller inthe bed, smaller in his skin, as if something essential was slowly leaking out of him. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. The bird feeders outside his window hung still and half-full. Harold and Mildred were nowhere to be seen.

“Gregory?” She pulled her chair close to his bed and took his hand. It felt papery and light, like something that might blow away in a strong wind. “It's Merritt. I came to tell you about the birds.”

His eyes fluttered open. For a moment, they were unfocused, cloudy with confusion. Then they found her face and something shifted. Recognition. A faint smile.

“Merritt.” His voice was barely a whisper. “The bungalow girl.”

“That's me.”

“Tell me.” He closed his eyes again, but his hand tightened on hers. “Tell me about the birds.”

So she did. She told him about the ospreys, how the babies were getting bigger now, learning to spread their wings. She told him about the painted bunting that still came every morning, so bright it looked like it had been dipped in paint. She told him about the pelican that dove for fish while she drank her coffee, and the herons that stalked the shallows at sunset, patient and precise.