Page 92 of Island Girl

Merritt understood. She'd seen it herself, in the way Ray held his shoulders now, in the way he sometimes looked up when the music played instead of looking down. Small changes. Tiny shifts. But they added up.

Justin noticed too.

“He ordered dessert last night,” he said one evening, leaning against the bar while Merritt restocked the garnishes. “Key lime pie. Asked for extra whipped cream.”

“That's progress.”

“That's a miracle.” Justin shook his head, smiling. “I've worked here two years. I've never seen him eat anything but the occasional basket of fries.”

“People can change. When they're ready.”

“Yeah.” He looked at her, something flickering in his eyes. “I guess they can.”

They were doing well, the two of them being friends. They'd found a rhythm, a way of being around each other that acknowledged what had happened without letting it consume everything else. They talked during slow shifts and laughed at Crocker's dry jokes and worked side by side with the easy coordination of people who knew each other's movements.

The tension was still there, underneath it all. Merritt felt it every time their hands brushed reaching for the same bottle, every time she caught him watching her during her sets, every time he brought her food from the kitchen and stood a little too close while she ate. But they'd made a choice, and they were sticking to it. For now.

Tuesday night brought a surprise.

Merritt was tuning her guitar, getting ready for her set, when the door opened and a familiar voice rang out across the bar.

“There she is! Our little runaway turned island musician!”

Merritt looked up, and her face broke into a grin. Maggie Moretti stood in the doorway, her short blonde hair catching the light, her smile as warm as the Florida sun. Behind her came Paolo, her husband, tall and distinguished with his Italian good looks, and then a whole crowd of faces Merritt hadn't seen since her time at the Key Lime Garden Inn.

Chelsea came through the door next, her hair swept up in a casual twist, followed by her sister Gretchen, who had the same warm eyes but a quieter presence. And behind them, elegant and poised, was Isabelle, her dark hair pulled back, her posture straight as a dancer's.

“You came,” Merritt said, setting down her guitar and crossing the room to meet them. “You actually came.”

“Of course we came.” Maggie pulled her into a hug, holding her tight. “You think I'd miss a chance to hear you play? After all those mornings you spent on my porch, practicing while the sun came up?”

“She's been talking about coming here for weeks,” Paolo said, his accent rolling warmly over the words. “Nothing would stop her.”

“We had to see for ourselves,” Chelsea added, squeezing Merritt's arm. “Maggie told us how much you've grown, but we wanted to witness it in person.”

“And 'ear you play,” Isabelle said, her French accent making the words sound like music themselves. “Maggie says you are magnifique. I 'ad to judge for myself.”

Gretchen hung back slightly, but her smile was genuine. “It's good to see you again, Merritt. You look happy.”

“I am,” Merritt said, and realized as she said it that it was true. “I really am.”

Crocker appeared from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. He took in the crowd of newcomers with a raised eyebrow.

“Friends of yours?” he asked Merritt.

“Family,” Maggie answered before Merritt could speak. “She's family, whether she knows it or not.”

Crocker studied Maggie for a moment, then nodded slowly. “I like her,” he said to Merritt. “She can stay.”

They pushed two tables together near the small stage, and Justin brought over menus and water glasses. Merritt watched him navigate the introductions, shaking hands with Paolo, complimenting Chelsea's earrings, responding to Isabelle's rapid-fire questions about the menu with patient good humor.

“He's cute,” Gretchen murmured to Merritt as Justin walked away. “Is there something there?”

“We're friends.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Gretchen's knowing smile said she didn't believe that for a second.

When Merritt took the stage, she looked out at the familiar faces in the crowd. Ed and Margie at their usual table. The fishermen at the bar. Ray on his stool, his Coke half-finished, his eyes already turning toward her. And now, right up front, the women who had helped her find her footing when she'd first arrived on the islands, broken and lost and running from a life that had never felt like her own.