Chapter 5
Merritt woke before her alarm. The light coming through the window was soft and pink, the sun just starting to rise over the water.
She lay still for a moment, listening to the sounds of the island waking up.
Gulls calling. The distant hum of a boat engine.
Someone downstairs, probably Justin, already moving around.
She'd been here four days now. It felt like longer, but more importantly, like she belonged.
She got out of bed and padded to the window. The Gulf stretched out before her, flat and calm, the color of pale glass. A pelican flew low over the water, scanning for breakfast. She watched it dive, come up empty, and try again.
Today was her day off. Justin had insisted. “Take some time to see the island. You can't live somewhere you've never explored.”
He was right. She'd been so focused on learning the job, on settling into the apartment, on finding her footing, that she hadn't taken time to actually see Sanibel. Today, that would change.
She smiled thinking she’d start out as a tourist but return home an islander. She figured a true islander would disagree with her assertion, but she didn’t care.
She showered and dressed in shorts and a tank top, pulled her hair back in a ponytail, and grabbed her keys. Then she paused, looking at the guitar case leaning against the wall.
She hadn't played since she got here. Hadn't even opened the case. The guitar had traveled with her from Maine, wedged between boxes in the back seat, but she'd left it untouched since she arrived. Playing felt like too much. Too personal. Too connected to who she used to be.
But today felt different. Today felt like a day for remembering.
She picked up the case and headed downstairs.
The bar was quiet when she slipped through. She could hear someone in the kitchen, pots clanking, water running. She left through the front door before anyone could ask questions and stepped into the warm morning air.
Her car sat in the crushed shell lot, looking tired and old. She'd had it since college. A blue Subaru with a dent in the back bumper and an air conditioner that only worked sometimes. It had carried her from Maine to Florida without complaint, and she patted the hood as she walked by.
“Good job,” she told it. “We made it.”
She set the guitar case in the back seat and drove slowly down Periwinkle Way, the main road that wound through the center of the island. The shops were just starting to open, employees setting out signs and arranging displays.
She followed the signs for the J.N. “Ding” Darling National Wildlife Refuge.
Her father had talked about this place several times since she’d returned from Captiva Island.
It was named after a political cartoonist who became a conservationist, he'd told her.
The kind of man who used his influence for something that mattered.
The entrance appeared on her right, a modest sign marking the turn. She paid the small fee at the booth and drove through the gates onto Wildlife Drive.
The world changed.
The road was narrow and winding, bordered on both sides by mangroves and shallow water. Birds were everywhere. Wading in the shallows, perched in the trees, flying overhead. She'd never seen so many birds in one place.
She pulled over at the first observation point and got out of the car. The air was different here. Thicker. Wilder. It smelled like mud and salt.
A great blue heron stood motionless in the water, its long neck curved like a question mark. She watched it for a full minute before it moved, striking at something below the surface with lightning speed. When it lifted its head, a small fish wriggled in its beak.
“Got one,” she whispered.
She walked along the boardwalk that extended over the water. The wood was warm under her sandals, weathered smooth by years of sun and salt. Interpretive signs lined the path, explaining the ecosystem, the birds, the delicate balance of fresh and salt water.
Her father would love this. He'd probably stop at every sign and read it aloud, adding his own commentary. He'd point out birds she couldn't see and name plants she'd never heard of. He'd turn the whole walk into a lesson, and she wouldn't mind at all.
She took out her phone and snapped a few pictures. The heron. The mangroves. A cluster of white ibises picking through the mud with their curved orange bills. She'd send them to him later.
She kept walking, kept watching. The sun climbed higher, and the air grew warmer. Sweat trickled down her back, but she didn't mind. There was something peaceful about this place. Something that slowed her thoughts and quieted the noise in her head.
She rounded a bend in the boardwalk and stopped.
There, standing in the shallows maybe twenty feet away, was a bird unlike any she'd seen before. It was tall and elegant, with long pink legs and feathers that shifted from pale blush to deep rose. Its bill was flat and wide, shaped like a spoon, sweeping back and forth through the water.
A roseate spoonbill.
Merritt held her breath. She'd seen pictures, of course. Her father had shown her dozens over the years, pointing out the distinctive bill, the pink coloring that came from their diet of shrimp and crustaceans. But seeing one in person was something else entirely.
It was beautiful. Strange and beautiful.
She raised her phone slowly, carefully, not wanting to startle it. The bird didn't seem to notice or care. It just kept sweeping its bill through the water, searching for food.
She took the picture. Then another. Then a third, just to be safe.
The spoonbill lifted its head, and for a moment, it seemed to look right at her. Then it went back to feeding, dismissing her as unimportant.
She smiled and whispered, “Pay no attention to me.”
She stood there for a long time, watching.
Other birds came and went. A great egret landed nearby, its white feathers bright against the dark water.
A small green heron crept along the edge of the mangroves.
But she kept her eyes on the spoonbill, this impossible pink creature that looked like it belonged in a dream.
Finally, her phone buzzed with a notification. Low battery. Time to go.
She walked back to her car slowly, reluctantly. She wasn't ready to leave this place. But she'd be back. That was the gift of living here. She could come back whenever she wanted.
She drove the rest of Wildlife Drive, stopping at a few more observation points, watching the birds, reading the signs. By the time she reached the exit, it was nearly noon and her stomach was growling.
She pulled into the parking lot of a small café she'd noticed on the drive in. Island Grounds, the sign said. Coffee and light fare. She went inside and ordered an iced coffee and a turkey sandwich to go, then sat in her car with the windows down while she ate.
When she finished, she pulled out her phone and texted her father the picture of the spoonbill.
Found one. You were right. They're incredible.
His reply came almost immediately.
A roseate spoonbill! Look at those colors. Where did you see it?
Ding Darling. I spent the whole morning there.
That's my girl. Did you see the observation tower? You can see the whole refuge from up there.
I missed it. Next time.
There will be plenty of next times. That's the beauty of living there.
She smiled at the screen.
How are you doing, Dad?
Fine. Tom and I fixed the deck board yesterday. Margaret brought another casserole. Tuna this time.
You hate tuna.
I know. But she means well.
Merritt laughed. She could picture him, standing in the kitchen, staring at yet another casserole he didn't want but would eat anyway because he was too polite to say no.
I miss you, she typed.
I miss you too. But I'm glad you're there. You sound happy.
She thought about that. Was she happy? She wasn't sure happy was the right word. But she was something. Something better than she'd been a week ago.
I'm getting there, she wrote back.
That's all any of us can do.
She put the phone away and glanced at the guitar case in the back seat then looked around for a quiet place to sit. Instead of staying she decided to look elsewhere to enjoy her coffee and free time.
She drove back toward the center of the island, past the shops and restaurants, looking for something she couldn't quite name. She didn't want a beach. Too many people, too much noise. She wanted somewhere private. Somewhere she could play without anyone listening.
She turned down a side road she hadn't noticed before and found herself in a quieter part of the island. Residential, mostly. Small houses tucked among the trees, gardens spilling over with tropical plants.
Then she saw it.
A small community garden, set back from the road behind a low wooden fence. It wasn't much. A few raised beds, some fruit trees, a bench under a sprawling banyan. And most importantly, it was empty.
She parked on the side of the road and grabbed her guitar case. A sign on the fence read, “Sanibel Community Garden - All Welcome.” She pushed through the gate and walked toward the banyan tree.
The shade was cool and deep, the air heavy with the smell of jasmine and something citrusy. She sat down on the bench and set the case beside her. For a long moment, she just looked at it.
The case was old, covered in stickers from places she'd been. A lighthouse in Portland. A coffee shop in Boston. A music festival in Vermont she'd gone to with friends the summer before her mother got sick. Before everything changed.
She unlatched the case and lifted the lid.
The guitar was a Martin. Her mother had given it to her for her twenty-first birthday.
It was the nicest thing Merritt owned, and she'd almost sold it twice during the hard years, when money was tight and her mother's medical bills kept climbing.
But she couldn't do it. It was the one thing she couldn't let go.
She lifted it out of the case and held it in her lap. The wood was warm, the strings slightly out of tune. She adjusted them by ear, the familiar motions coming back to her without thought.
Then she played.
Nothing complicated. Just simple chords, a melody she'd written years ago and never finished. Her fingers moved slowly at first, remembering, then faster as the music came back to her. She hummed along, not singing, just feeling the sound in her chest and a breeze on her face.
She'd missed this. She hadn't realized how much until right now.
Music had always been her refuge. When her mother was too tired to talk, Merritt would sit by her bed and play. Soft songs, quiet songs. Songs that filled the silence without demanding anything. Her mother would close her eyes and listen, and sometimes, when the pain wasn't too bad, she'd smile.
After her mother died, Merritt couldn't play. Every time she picked up the guitar, she heard those bedside songs, and the grief was too much. So she'd put it away. Told herself she'd come back to it when she was ready.
Maybe she was ready now.
She played for almost an hour, alone in the garden with the jasmine and the banyan tree and the distant sound of birds. No one came. No one heard. It was just her and the music and the warm island air.
When she finally stopped, her fingers ached and her eyes were wet. But something inside her felt lighter. Like a knot she'd been carrying had loosened, just a little.
She put the guitar back in its case and closed the lid. She sat for a few more minutes, watching the light filter through the banyan leaves, listening to the rustle of the wind.
Then she stood, picked up her case, and walked back to her car.
As she drove toward Shorebirds, she made herself a promise.
She would play again tomorrow. And the day after that. She would find her way back to the music, one quiet afternoon at a time.
The guitar rode beside her in the passenger seat, no longer hidden in the back.
It was a start.