Chapter 21
M erritt had already started her car toward off-island when she turned her car around and headed to the last parking lot on Captiva Drive. She wouldn’t stay long, just long enough to find the cottage nestled among the palms behind the inn. Emma and Gareth's temporary home.
She hadn't properly said goodbye to Emma—the pregnant woman who had shared just enough of her own story during their brief encounters to create an unexpected connection.
Something about Emma's journey had resonated deeply with Merritt, fragments of conversation lingering in her mind long after they'd parted.
Before she could reconsider, Merritt turned off the engine and stepped out of the car. Her keys felt heavy in her palm as she closed the door and headed toward the cottage, guided by an impulse she couldn't quite name, but feeling emboldened from her conversation with Maggie Moretti.
The morning had warmed considerably, the air thick with humidity that promised another scorching day. Bees buzzed lazily around flowering bushes that lined the shell path, and somewhere nearby, a mockingbird offered its complex repertoire to the cloudless sky.
At the cottage door, Merritt hesitated again, suddenly uncertain.
It was early still—perhaps too early for an unexpected visitor.
But before she could retreat, the door swung open, and Emma stood in the doorway, one hand resting on her rounded belly, the other holding a mug of what smelled like herbal tea.
"I thought I heard someone," Emma said with a smile. "Morning, Merritt."
"I'm sorry to disturb you," Merritt began, feeling oddly nervous. "I was just leaving and realized I hadn't said goodbye, and..." She trailed off, uncertain how to explain the impulse that had brought her here.
Understanding flickered across Emma's face. "You're heading back to Maine," she said. It wasn't a question. "Come in? I've just made tea."
Merritt nodded gratefully and followed Emma into the cottage. The space was simply furnished but homey, with books already stacked on end tables and a laptop open on the dining table, surrounded by notes and printed photographs. “No tea for me, thanks. I’ve already had coffee.”
"Gareth's gone for a walk on the beach," Emma explained, gesturing for Merritt to sit in one of the comfortable armchairs by the window. "His morning ritual. Says the waves help him think through plot problems."
"For his books?" Merritt asked, settling into the chair.
Emma nodded, lowering herself carefully into the chair opposite.
"He's deep in the third act of his new thriller.
Something about an art heist gone wrong.
" She smiled fondly. "When he's stuck in a manuscript, he's only physically present about half the time.
The rest of him is wandering around in whatever fictional world he's created. "
"That sounds familiar," Merritt admitted. "When I'm working on a song, everything else kind of...fades away."
"You're a songwriter," Emma said, her interest piqued. "Maggie mentioned you play guitar beautifully."
Merritt felt her cheeks warm slightly. "I wouldn't call myself a songwriter, exactly. I just...it's how I process things sometimes."
Emma studied her over the rim of her mug. "The most profound art often comes from that place—not from trying to create something for others, but from working through your own experiences."
"I wanted to thank you," Merritt said finally "Something you said the other day, about finding your voice here on Captiva...it stayed with me."
Emma tilted her head, waiting for Merritt to continue.
"You mentioned that you were considering joining a convent before you came here," Merritt went on. "That you were at a crossroads, trying to figure out what path to take."
"That's putting it mildly." Emma laughed softly.
"I was completely lost. Running away from expectations—my family's, my own, God's even.
I thought devotion meant surrendering who I was, becoming someone else entirely.
" Her hand moved unconsciously to her belly, cradling the life within.
"Turns out, authentic devotion means becoming more fully yourself, not less. "
Merritt nodded, feeling a resonance with her own journey. "That's what I wanted to tell you. Your words about finding yourself here, about Captiva helping you discover your own path—they helped me understand what I've been experiencing. Why this place has felt so...significant."
"The island has that effect," Emma agreed. "Something about being surrounded by water, maybe. The physical separation from the mainland creates space for internal clarity."
"I'm going back to Maine today," Merritt said, hesitating before finally explaining. "My mother is dying. I need to be there for her final weeks."
Emma's expression softened with genuine compassion. "I'm so sorry, Merritt. That's an incredibly difficult journey to make."
"It is," Merritt acknowledged. "But I'm not going back as the same person who left.
" She met Emma's gaze directly. "Before I came here, I'd spent my entire adult life defined by my mother's illness, by everyone else's expectations.
I cancelled a wedding that would have cemented that identity forever. "
Emma didn't look shocked or judgmental, just attentive, present.
"I ran away," Merritt continued. "That's what everyone back home is calling it.
That I panicked, abandoned my responsibilities, left people who needed me.
" She swallowed hard. "But hearing your story—how you came to Captiva thinking you were running away, only to discover you were actually running toward something essential—it changed how I see my own choices. "
"What were you running toward?" Emma asked gently.
Merritt considered the question. "Space to breathe. To hear my own thoughts. To play music without feeling guilty for taking the time." Her voice grew stronger. "To discover who I might be if I wasn't defined solely by caring for others."
"And have you found any answers?"
"Not complete ones," Merritt admitted. "But I've found...possibilities. I've remembered parts of myself I'd nearly forgotten existed."
Emma shifted in her chair, finding a more comfortable position for her pregnant body.
"When I first arrived on Captiva, I was so angry—at my family for their expectations, at myself for not fitting into them, at God for not making the path clearer.
" She smiled ruefully. "I thought coming here was failure, an admission that I couldn't follow through on my spiritual calling. "
"What changed?" Merritt asked.
"I stopped fighting so hard against myself," Emma said simply.
"Started listening instead of arguing. And discovered that what I thought was confusion was actually clarity trying to break through all my preconceptions.
" She leaned forward slightly. "The question isn't whether you're running away or toward something, Merritt.
It's whether you're finally being honest about who you are and what you need. "
Merritt felt something shift inside her at Emma's words—a final piece settling into place, completing a picture that had been forming ever since she'd crossed the causeway onto Captiva.
"I need to go home," she said, her voice steady now. "I need to be with my mother at the end. To reconcile with my father. To face the consequences of my choices. But I also need to preserve what I've found here—this sense of possibility, of being more than just someone's caretaker or partner."
"Those things aren't mutually exclusive," Emma pointed out. "You can be present for your family without surrendering your whole self to their needs."
"That's what I'm hoping," Merritt agreed. "I just...I needed to thank you before I left. For helping me see that leaving Maine wasn't the end of my story—it was just a necessary chapter."
Emma smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Sometimes the longest journeys happen inside us, not on the highway."
"Like your journey from potential nun to expectant mother," Merritt observed with a small smile.
Emma laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "Life does have a way of surprising us." She studied Merritt closely. "Will you come back to Captiva? When you can?"
"I hope so," Merritt said, surprised by how certain she felt. "I'm not finished with this place yet. Or maybe it's not finished with me."
"The island tends to keep those it claims," Emma said with knowing nod. "And Captiva has clearly claimed you, Merritt Ryan."
From outside came the sound of footsteps on the shell path, and moments later, Gareth appeared in the doorway, his face flushed from his beach walk, a collection of shells cupped in one palm.
"Found some perfect specimens for your collection," he told Emma, then noticed Merritt. "Oh, good morning. Didn't mean to interrupt."
"Not at all," Merritt said, rising from her chair. "I was just saying goodbye. I'm heading back to Maine today."
"Safe travels," Gareth said warmly. "The roads can be treacherous in this heat. Be sure to stop and rest frequently."
His genuine concern touched Merritt. These people who had known her for such a short time somehow seemed to care more about her well-being than many she'd known for years back home.
Emma stood with some effort, one hand pressed against her lower back, and embraced Merritt. "Remember what you've learned here," she said softly. "And come back when you can. Captiva will be waiting."
Merritt waved as she walked back toward her car and felt strangely lighter despite the long journey ahead.
The conversation with Emma had confirmed what she'd begun to realize during her talk with Maggie earlier—that her time on the island hadn't been an escape so much as a necessary recalibration.
A chance to remember who she was beneath all the layers of expectation and obligation.
The drive back to Maine would be long, with hours of solitude on highways stretching across state lines. But for the first time in years, Merritt was looking forward to the quiet. To the space between here and there, where she could continue the work of becoming reacquainted with herself.
She slid into the driver's seat, adjusted her mirrors, and turned the key in the ignition. As she pulled out of the parking lot, she smiled as she passed several landmarks she’d come to know, including The Bubble Room.
She turned into the restaurant’s parking lot, got out of her car and reached into the cooler in the backseat.
Pulling out a huge piece of Orange Crunch cake and a plastic fork, she got back into the driver’s seat and took a bite.
She couldn’t believe the taste and thought it the most delicious cake she’d ever eaten in her life.
Placing the cake on the seat next to her, she turned the car back out onto Captiva Drive. Maine awaited, with all its complications and heartaches. But Captiva had given her something to carry with her—a sense of possibility, of horizons beyond the boundaries she'd accepted for so long.
And one glorious piece of Orange Crunch cake.