Page 93 of Island Girl

She played for them. She played the songs they'd heard on Maggie's porch, the ones she'd written during those early mornings when she was still figuring out who she wanted to be. She played new songs too, ones that had come to her in the bungalow, watching the sunset, learning to be alone without being lonely.

When she finished, Isabelle was dabbing at her eyes with a napkin.

“Mon Dieu,” she said. “Maggie was right. You have a gift.”

“That was beautiful, honey,” Chelsea said. “Really beautiful.”

Maggie just smiled, that knowing smile that said she'd seen this coming all along. “I told you,” she said to the others. “I told you she'd find her way.”

They stayed until closing, talking and laughing and catching up on everything that had happened since Merritt left Captiva.

“You should come back and visit,” Maggie said as they were leaving. “The inn misses you. I miss you.”

“I will,” Merritt promised. “Soon.”

“And bring that cute bartender with you,” Gretchen added with a wink.

“We're just friends.”

“Sure you are.”

They left in a flurry of hugs and promises, and Merritt stood in the doorway watching them go, her heart fuller than it had been in a long time.

“Good people,” Crocker said, appearing beside her. “You're lucky to have them.”

“I know.”

“Don't forget where you came from, even as you figure out where you're going.”

She looked at him, this gruff old man who had given her so much without asking for anything in return. “I won't.”

Thursday arrived, and with it, her father.

Richard's flight landed at Southwest Florida International just after noon. Merritt picked him up at the terminal, watching for him through the crowd until she spotted his familiar face, a small carry-on rolling behind him.

“There she is,” he said, wrapping her in a hug. “My island girl.”

“Dad.” She squeezed him tight, breathing in the familiar scent of him, coffee and cedar and the faint trace of whatever book he'd been reading on the plane. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too. More than you know.”

They walked to her car together, Richard asking questions about the bungalow, about work, about how she was really doingunderneath all the fine and good she'd been giving him on the phone. She answered honestly, more honestly than she had in weeks. The words came easier in person, with him right there beside her, solid and real.

“The closing is tomorrow morning,” she said as they drove across the causeway toward Sanibel. “Ten o'clock. The lawyer's office is on the mainland in Fort Myers, but it shouldn't take long.”

“And then it's officially yours. Well, mine. But yours to live in.”

“It still feels strange. Living in Gregory's house. Even though he wanted it this way.”

“He did want it. He told me so himself, when I flew down to meet him. I’m happy for us but sad to lose such a lovely man” Richard looked out the window at the Gulf, sparkling in the afternoon sun. “He said you reminded him of his wife. Something about the way you told stories. He said she used to do the same thing, make the ordinary sound magical.”

Merritt felt her throat tighten. “He never told me that.”

“He probably didn't know how. Some things are easier to say to strangers than to the people who matter most.”

They drove in silence for a while, the island unfolding around them, palm trees and beach grass and the occasional glimpse of water between the houses. Richard took it all in with the quiet attention of a writer, someone who noticed details and filed them away for later.

“I can see why you stayed,” he said finally. “It's beautiful here. Peaceful.”