Chapter 17
Merritt arrived at the bungalow an hour before Paula was due to arrive with her father.
She'd told herself she needed time to open the windows, air the place out, make sure everything looked its best. But really, she just needed to be here. To stand in this place that might become hers and imagine seeing it through her father's eyes.
The French doors were open to the beach, letting in the salt breeze and the sound of the waves.
She'd swept the floors that morning, wiped down the counters, arranged fresh flowers in a mason jar she'd found in one of the cabinets.
The bungalow didn't need much. It had its own beauty, weathered and real.
But would her father see it?
She loved him and trusted him completely.
But Richard Ryan was a practical man. A man who noticed details, asked hard questions, looked for problems others might miss.
It was what made him a good writer, a good father.
He wouldn't just see the French doors and the ocean view.
He'd see the tin roof that might need replacing, the windows that might not seal properly, the foundation that might have issues after sixty years of salt and storms.
What if he looked at all of this and saw a mistake?
She was still worrying when she heard a car pull into the sandy drive.
Through the window, she saw Paula's sedan. The passenger door opened, and her father climbed out.
He looked the same as always, tall and lean, gray hair gone white at the temples, squinting in the Florida sun like a man who hadn't seen real brightness in months.
He wore khakis and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he stood for a moment just looking at the bungalow, his face unreadable.
Merritt's heart pounded as she stepped onto the deck.
“Dad.”
His face split into a wide grin, and suddenly he was crossing the sandy path, pulling her into a hug that smelled like airplane coffee and something underneath that was just him. Familiar. Safe. Home.
“There's my girl.” He held her tight, then pulled back to study her face. “Look at you. You look good. Rested.”
“I am good.” She felt tears threatening and blinked them back. “I'm so glad you're here.”
“Me too, sweetheart. Me too.”
Paula had come around the car and was watching them with a small smile. She looked different today, out of her scrubs, wearing a simple blouse and linen pants. Professional but relaxed.
“Thank you for picking him up,” Merritt said.
“It was my pleasure. Your father and I had a nice talk on the drive.” Paula glanced at Richard. “He asked a lot of questions.”
“I'm a curious person.” Richard's eyes were already moving over the bungalow, taking in the pale blue paint, the white trim, the tin roof. “This is the place?”
“This is it.”
He nodded slowly, his expression shifting into something more focused. The writer's eye, Merritt thought. The one that saw everything.
“Show me,” he said.
She led him through the French doors into the main room. Richard stood in the center, turning slowly, the way he'd done when she was a child showing him a school project. He wasn't just looking. He was assessing.
“Hardwood floors,” he said. “Original?”
“I think so. Gregory's wife kept them polished.”
He walked to the wall and pressed his palm against it, testing something she couldn't see. “Solid construction. No give.” He looked up at the ceiling. “No water stains. That's good. Means the roof has held.”
“It's old, though. The roof.”
“Old isn't bad if it's been maintained.” He moved to the kitchen, running his hand along the counters, opening a cabinet, checking under the sink. “Plumbing looks updated. Probably done in the last twenty years.”
“You can tell that just by looking?”
“You learn things when you own a house for thirty-five years.” He straightened and looked at her. “Your mother and I replaced half the pipes in that old place. I know what new work looks like.”
He continued through the bungalow, checking windows, testing door frames, looking at things Merritt had never thought to examine. She followed him, nervous, watching his face for signs of concern.
In the bedroom, he stood at the French doors and looked out at the beach. The turquoise water stretched to the horizon, the waves rolling in soft and steady. Palm fronds swayed overhead.
“Your mother would have loved this,” he said quietly.
“I know. I think about her every time I stand here.”
He was silent for a long moment. Then he turned back to the room, his practical eye returning.
“Three walls of windows. Good light, good ventilation. But hurricane season could be a concern. Do these have storm shutters?”
“I don't know. I didn't think to ask.”
“We'll find out.” He walked back through the main room, out onto the deck. He tested the railing, looked at the support beams underneath. “Deck's solid. Been rebuilt at some point. The wood's not original.”
Paula had been waiting by the car, giving them space. Now she walked up the path to join them.
“What do you think?” she asked Richard.
“I think it's well-built. Well-maintained. Someone loved this place.” He looked at Paula directly. “But I'm not just here to look at a house. I'm here to understand my daughter's situation.”
Paula nodded, unsurprised. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.” He sat down on the deck steps, and Paula and Merritt joined him. “Where does she work? Who are these people she's surrounded herself with? Is this community safe for a young woman on her own?”
Merritt felt heat rise to her cheeks. “Dad, I'm thirty years old.”
“You're still my daughter.” His voice was gentle but firm. “And you've been through a lot in the past few years. You helped take care of your mother, you broke off an engagement, you drove a thousand miles to start over. Those are big things. I just want to make sure you've landed somewhere solid.”
“She has,” Paula said. “I wouldn't have connected her with Gregory if I didn't believe that.”
Richard turned to face her fully. “Tell me about these people at the bar. This Crocker and his grandson.”
“Crocker Rawlings has been on this island for almost eighty years.
He built Shorebirds with his wife June. They're an institution here. Everyone knows them, everyone respects them.” Paula's voice was steady, matter-of-fact.
“His grandson Justin came down from Boston after his mother died.
Left a finance job to help his grandfather. They're good people, Richard. Solid.”
“And they've been good to Merritt?”
“They gave her a job when she needed one. They gave her a place to live. And when they heard her play guitar, they gave her a stage.” Paula glanced at Merritt with something like warmth. “They see what she is. They're protective of her.”
“And the community? The people who come to the bar?”
“Regulars, mostly. Locals. People who've been coming to Shorebirds for years.” Paula paused. “This island takes care of its own. We're small enough that everyone watches out for everyone else. If something were wrong, if someone were bothering Merritt, people would notice. People would step in.”
“Would you?”
“I already have.” Paula met his eyes. “I'm the one who brought her to Gregory. I'm the one who's been helping her navigate all of this. She's not alone, Richard. She has people looking out for her.”
Merritt watched this exchange, something tightening in her chest. Two adults, two parents in their own way, talking about her with the seriousness of people who understood that safety wasn't guaranteed, that the world could be hard, that someone needed to be watching.
Richard nodded slowly. “I'd like to see the bar. Meet these people.”
“Of course,” Merritt said. “I was planning to take you tonight anyway. I have a set at seven-thirty.”
Paula looked at Merritt. “Have you told Justin and Crocker about the bungalow yet?”
The question caught her off guard. “Not yet. I was waiting until things were more certain.”
Richard's head turned. “You haven't told them? Why not?”
“I don't know. I just…” She fumbled for the right words. “They've done so much for me already. Given me a job, a place to live, a chance to play. I didn't want to seem ungrateful, like I was just using them as a stepping stone to something better.”
“That's not what this is,” Paula said gently. “And they wouldn't see it that way.”
“I know, but…” Merritt trailed off. The truth was harder to explain.
She wasn't used to announcing her own good news, making herself the center of attention.
For years, she'd organized her life around her mother's needs.
Her own plans, her own dreams, had always felt like afterthoughts.
Something to be whispered about, not celebrated.
“Merritt.” Her father's voice was firm. “These people took you in. They gave you a place to land when you had nowhere else to go. They deserve to hear this from you before they hear it from anyone else.”
“I was going to tell them. I just wanted to wait until—”
“Until what? Until it was so far along that you could present it as a done deal?” Richard shook his head. “That's not fair to them. And it's not fair to you.”
“He's right,” Paula said. “Good news isn't something you have to apologize for. These people care about you. They'd want to know.”
“I'm not apologizing. I'm just…” She didn't know how to finish the sentence.
Richard reached over and took her hand. “You need to stop acting like your happiness is an inconvenience to other people.”
The words landed hard. Merritt felt them settle into her chest, pressing against something old and tender. It was the kind of thing her mother would have said. Gentle but unflinching. The truth she didn't want to hear.
“Tell them tonight,” Paula said. “After your set. They deserve to hear it from you.”
Merritt nodded slowly. “Okay. I will.”
After touring the bungalow, the three of them drove to Shorebirds, Paula in her own car, Merritt and her father in hers. The late afternoon light was golden, the kind of light that made everything on the island look like a postcard.