Chapter 2
Merritt came downstairs at four-thirty, wearing a black T-shirt and jeans like Justin had suggested. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she'd traded her driving sneakers for the comfortable flats she used to wear when teaching.
Shorebirds was quiet. A few tables had customers finishing late lunches, but the dinner rush hadn't started yet.
The ceiling fans turned lazily overhead, pushing around the warm salt air that drifted in through the open windows.
She could hear the soft clink of silverware and the distant sound of waves.
Justin stood behind the bar, slicing limes. He looked up when she came through the back door.
“There she is. Ready for your first shift?”
“I think so. Nervous, but ready.”
“Good. Nervous means you care.” He set down the knife and wiped his hands on a towel. “Come back here. Let me show you where everything is.”
She walked behind the bar and stood next to him.
The space was tighter than it looked from the other side.
Rubber mats covered the floor, and everything had its place.
He pointed to the various stations: the beer taps lined up in a row, the liquor bottles organized on shelves by type, the wine fridge humming underneath, the glasses in different sizes stacked within easy reach.
“Ice is here.” He tapped a metal bin. “Backup ice is in the kitchen. If we run out during a rush, which happens, you yell for someone to grab a bucket. Don't try to do it yourself while you've got people waiting.”
She nodded, trying to take it all in.
“Garnishes here. Napkins here. Straws here, but we don't give them out unless someone asks. Trying to cut down on waste.” He opened a small refrigerator. “Mixers. Juices. Cream for the occasional White Russian, though honestly, nobody orders those anymore.”
“Got it.”
“You don't have to memorize everything today. Just get a feel for the layout. You'll learn the rest as we go.”
“Okay.”
He closed the refrigerator and leaned against the bar, crossing his arms. “Before we get into all this, I want to be straight with you about something.”
Merritt felt her stomach tighten. “Okay.”
“I know you're not a bartender. You told me you taught music to third graders for seven years. I didn't hire you because of your experience pouring drinks.”
“Then why did you hire me?”
Justin picked up a lime and turned it in his hand.
“Because I can't keep anyone. This island looks like paradise, and it is, but it's also small and expensive and far from everything.
People show up thinking they're going to live the beach life, and then reality hits.
They get bored. They miss their friends. They can't afford rent. They leave.”
He started slicing again, the knife moving in quick, practiced strokes. “I've hired six people in the last year and a half. The longest anyone lasted was four months. Most don't make it past six weeks.”
“That's a lot of turnover.”
“It is. And every time someone leaves, I'm back to doing everything myself while my grandfather pretends he's not too old to be working twelve-hour days.” He shook his head.
“He is too old. He won't admit it, but he is.
The man's seventy-eight and still thinks he can close the bar at midnight and open it again at eleven.”
Merritt glanced toward the back hallway where Crocker had disappeared earlier. “He seems pretty sharp.”
“Oh, he's sharp. Sharp as they come. But his knees are shot and his back gives him trouble, and he needs to be sitting on his deck making pottery, not hauling cases of beer up from the storage room.” Justin set down another perfectly sliced lime.
“That's why I'm here. That's why I need someone who's actually going to stay.”
“So what made you think I'd be different?”
Justin set down the knife and looked at her. “Because you're not running to something. You're not chasing some fantasy about island life. You told me you were starting over. That you needed to figure out what comes next. That's different.”
“How?”
“Because people who are figuring things out tend to stay put while they do it. They're not looking for the next adventure. They're looking for solid ground.” He smiled. “Besides, you drove more than twenty-four hours to get here. That's commitment.”
Merritt laughed. “Or desperation.”
“Sometimes they're the same thing.” He grabbed another lime and pushed the cutting board toward her.
“Here's the deal. I don't need you to know how to make a perfect martini.
I need you to show up, work hard, and be willing to learn.
I'll teach you the drinks. I'll teach you the food.
I'll teach you which regulars want to talk and which ones want to be left alone.”
“And in return?”
“In return, you get a job, a place to live, and a chance to figure out your life without anyone breathing down your neck.” He nodded toward the cutting board. “You know how to slice a lime?”
“I think I can manage.”
“Good. Start there. We'll work our way up to the complicated stuff.”
Merritt picked up a knife and a lime. The fruit was firm in her hand, the smell sharp and clean. She cut it in half, then into wedges, the way she'd seen bartenders do a hundred times.
“Not bad,” Justin said. “Keep going. We need about thirty more.”
They worked side by side without saying much for a bit.
Jimmy Buffett played softly from the speakers, something about cheeseburgers in paradise.
Through the window, Merritt could see the water, golden in the late afternoon light.
A couple walked along the beach, holding hands, their feet splashing in the shallows.
She thought about what Justin said. Solid ground. That's exactly what she was looking for. Not a vacation, not an escape. Just a place to stand still for a while and figure out who she was supposed to be.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
“Sure.”
“Why are you here? You said people leave because the island's small and far from everything. But you're still here.”
Justin didn't answer right away. He finished slicing his lime and reached for another. “My grandfather needed me. My grandmother passed away about twelve years ago. He ran this place alone for a long time after that. Then my mother got sick.”
Merritt looked up. “I'm sorry.”
“Cancer. Ovarian. It was fast, which was a blessing and a curse.” He kept his eyes on the cutting board.
“She died two years ago. After that, I took a hard look at my life.
I was working in Boston, making good money, hating every minute of it.
My grandfather was down here, alone, trying to run a bar by himself.
Didn't take long to figure out where I was supposed to be.”
“So you moved here.”
“Quit my job, packed my car, and drove south. Sound familiar?”
Merritt smiled. “A little.”
“We're all running from something or toward something. Sometimes both at the same time.” He looked at her. “The trick is figuring out which one matters more.”
Crocker appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a rag. Clay dust covered his forearms. “You two going to slice limes all night or are we opening this place?”
Justin grinned. “We're opening. Merritt's getting the tour.”
Crocker looked at her, those sharp eyes taking her in. “You settling in okay up there?”
“Yes, sir. It's perfect.”
“It's small.”
“It's home. That's what matters.”
Something shifted in his face. Not quite a smile, but close. “Good answer.” He nodded toward the deck. “Tables need wiping down. You know how to wipe a table?”
“I think I can figure it out.”
“Then grab a rag and get to it. Happy hour starts in twenty minutes.”
Merritt set down her knife and grabbed a clean towel from under the bar.
She headed out to the deck, where the tables sat empty, waiting for the evening crowd.
The sun was lower now, casting long shadows across the weathered wood.
A pelican perched on the railing, watching her with one skeptical eye.
She wiped down the first table, then the next. The towel smelled like lemons and something else, maybe vinegar. The wood was warm under her hands, smooth from years of use.
Behind her, she heard Justin and Crocker talking in low voices. She couldn't make out the words, but the tone was easy, familiar. The sound of family.
She finished the tables and stood for a moment, looking out at the water. The Gulf stretched all the way to the horizon, flat and glittering. Somewhere out there, dolphins were probably swimming. She'd have to look for them later.
The front door opened and a group of tourists spilled in, laughing and sunburned, wearing swimsuits and cover-ups. Justin appeared beside her with a stack of menus.
“And that's your cue. Follow me. I'll show you how we do things around here.”
Merritt tucked the towel into her back pocket and followed him inside. Her first shift had officially begun.
The next few hours were a blur.
Merritt ran food. She cleared tables. She refilled water glasses and brought extra napkins and smiled at everyone even when her feet screamed at her to sit down. Justin stayed close, guiding her through the chaos with a calm she envied.
“Table six needs their check. Table two wants another round of beers. The couple by the window is celebrating an anniversary, so be extra nice.”
She nodded and moved, trying to keep everything straight in her head. The menu wasn't complicated. Fish tacos, shrimp baskets, burgers, salads. But remembering who ordered what and which table was which felt like learning a new language.
The regulars were easier. They came in and sat in the same spots, ordered the same things, and didn't seem to mind that she was new.
An older couple named Ed and Margie took a table by the window every evening at five-thirty.
He ordered a whiskey sour. She ordered a glass of chardonnay.
They split a plate of coconut shrimp and watched the sunset.
“Don't bother giving them menus,” Justin told her. “They've been coming here for years. They know what they want.”