Page 78 of Island Girl

Merritt almost smiled. “That's what Paula said when she came over with soup.”

“Great minds.” He held up the bag. “It's from the kitchen. Crocker made his chowder tonight. Said you needed something that sticks to your ribs.”

She stepped aside to let him in. The bungalow was dim, lit only by the fading evening light coming through the French doors. She hadn't bothered to turn on any lamps. She hadn't bothered to do much of anything since coming home from the park.

Justin set the food on the kitchen counter and looked around. His eyes landed on her, taking in her rumpled clothes, her bare feet, the shadows under her eyes.

“Have you eaten today?”

“I had coffee.”

“That's not food.”

“It's something.”

He shook his head and started unpacking the bag. Two containers of chowder, a loaf of crusty bread, two slices of key lime pie wrapped in wax paper. He moved around her kitchen like he belonged there, finding bowls and spoons, pulling out plates for the bread.

“Sit,” he said, nodding toward the table. “I'll bring it to you.”

She sat. The vase Crocker had given her caught the last of the sunset light, the blues and greens glowing softly. She traced her finger along the rim while Justin worked, listening to the familiar sounds of someone else taking care of things.

He brought the food to the table and sat across from her. For a few minutes, they ate in silence. The chowder was good, rich and creamy, full of clams and potatoes. Merritt hadn't realized how hungry she was until she started eating.

“Crocker talked to me,” she said finally.

“I know. He told me.”

“What did he say?”

“That he gave you some hard truths and you took them better than he expected.” Justin tore off a piece of bread. “He likes you, you know. He doesn't say it, but I can tell.”

“He called me a pretty girl with a guitar and good intentions.”

“Sounds about right.”

She looked up at him, surprised by the hint of humor in his voice. He was watching her with those steady eyes, the ones that always seemed to see more than she wanted to show.

“I made such a mess of things,” she said.

“You made a mistake. There's a difference.”

“Is there?”

“Yeah. A mess implies you broke something beyond repair. A mistake is just a wrong turn. You can come back from a wrong turn.”

She pushed her spoon through the chowder, watching thecream swirl. “Ray's still missing. Gregory's dead. I don't know how to come back from any of it.”

“Gregory's death isn't your fault. You know that.”

“I know. But it still hurts.”

“It's supposed to hurt. That's how you know it mattered.”

They finished eating in a comfortable silence. Justin cleared the plates and washed them in the sink while Merritt sat at the table, too tired to protest, too grateful for his presence to send him away.

When the kitchen was clean, he came back to the table and sat down across from her again.

“How are you really doing?” he asked. “And don't say fine. I've known you long enough to know when you're lying.”