Chapter 19
Richard stayed for five more days. The small bed and breakfast near Shorebirds suited his needs but he declined breakfast so that he could spend those precious mornings with his daughter.
They fell into an easy rhythm. Mornings, Merritt would pick him up and bring him back to the bungalow, where bagels and muffins and his favorite orange juice were already waiting.
They'd drink coffee on the deck and watch the pelicans dive for fish and talk about everything and anything that came to mind.
Afternoons, they worked on the bungalow, cleaning, organizing, making lists of small repairs that would need attention eventually. Evenings, Richard came to Shorebirds and sat at the bar while Merritt worked. He chatted with whoever sat beside him and seemed happy to be in Florida.
He fit here. That surprised her, though maybe it shouldn't have. Her father had always been adaptable, comfortable in his own skin no matter where he was. Maine winters or Florida heat, small-town diners or beach bars, he found his footing quickly and made himself at home.
“You're good at this,” she told him one morning, watching him refill the bird feeder Gregory's wife had hung outside the kitchen window.
“Good at what?”
“Being somewhere new. Not fighting it. It feels like you belong. Don’t you think?”
Richard considered this, his hands still working the feeder. “Your mother taught me to always be ready with a Plan B when Plan A didn’t work out. She used to say home wasn't a place, it was a feeling. If you carried the right things inside you, you could be home anywhere.”
“I remember her saying that.”
“She was right. She usually was.” He finished with the feeder and brushed the seeds from his hands. “This place feels like it could be home. For you now, and maybe for me someday.”
“When the Maine house sells.”
“When the Maine house sells.” He smiled. “No rush. These things take time.”
On Tuesday evening, Merritt played her regular set at Shorebirds.
Richard sat at the bar with Crocker, both of them nursing beers and watching her perform.
The room had that familiar hush, conversations softening as her voice carried through the space.
She was playing something slow, something melancholy, her eyes half-closed as her fingers moved across the strings.
“She's good,” Crocker said. Not a question.
“She is.” Richard took a long pull from his beer. “She gets it from her mother. Laura had a voice that could stop a room.”
“Did Merritt always play?”
“Since she was a kid. Guitar, piano, sang in the school choir. She studied music education in college and taught elementary school music for several years.” Richard paused, watching his daughter's face as she sang. “But when her mother got sick, she stopped. Just…stopped. Gave it all up.”
Crocker was quiet for a moment. “That's a lot to give up.”
“It wasn't just the music.” Richard set his beer down on the table. “She gave up everything. Her friends, her hobbies, her whole life outside our house. Merritt was sixteen when Laura was diagnosed. Thirty when she died. fourteen years, and Merritt refused to live any of them.”
“She was taking care of her mother.”
“No.” Richard's voice was firm but tired. “I was taking care of her mother. I was Laura's husband. I was capable, I was present, I handled the medications and the appointments and the hard days. Merritt didn't have to do what she did. She chose to cut off any kind of life for herself.”
Crocker turned to look at him, something shifting in his expression.
“I told her,” Richard continued. “Over and over. Go out with your friends. Play your music. Live your life. But she wouldn't. She'd come home from teaching and sit by her mother's bed. She'd cancel plans, skip events, turn down opportunities. The only thing she kept was Weston.”
“Weston?”
“Her boyfriend. They'd been together since they were kids. Everyone assumed they'd get married someday, including Laura. When he proposed, Merritt said yes.” Richard shook his head slowly. “Not because she wanted to. Because she thought it would make her mother happy.”
On stage, Merritt finished one song and moved into another. Something lighter this time, a folk tune about the ocean. She had no idea what her father was saying about her, no idea of the conversation unfolding just twenty feet away.
“What happened?” Crocker asked.
“The wedding got closer. The pressure built. And one day, Merritt just…ran. Got in her car and drove until she ended up here. Captiva, actually. A woman named Maggie took her in, helped her see that running wasn't the answer.”
“So she went back.”
“She went back, said a proper goodbye to Weston, and stayed with her mother until the end.” Richard's voice roughened. “Laura died six months later. And then Merritt came back here to start over.”
Crocker was silent, his eyes on Merritt across the room. The string lights caught the silver in his hair, the deep lines around his eyes.
“Why do you think she did it?” he asked finally. “Gave up everything when she didn't have to?”
Richard was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“I think she believed that if she sacrificed enough, she could save her.
Like some kind of bargain with the universe.
If she gave up music, gave up friends, gave up her own happiness, then maybe her mother wouldn't die.” He picked up his beer but didn't drink.
“But it doesn't work that way. You can't trade your life for someone else's. You can only lose both.”
Crocker nodded slowly. “June was sick for a long time before she passed. I watched Justin's mother do the same thing. Gave up her job, her friends, moved back here to help. Annette was convinced that if she just did enough, tried hard enough, June would get better.”
“There was nothing Annette could do to change the outcome. June died anyway. And Annette spent the rest of her life carrying that weight.” Crocker's voice was gruff.
“She passed two years ago. Cancer. Justin came down after, same way Merritt came here. Looking for something. Trying to figure out how to live again.”
The two men sat in silence, watching Merritt play. She had moved into a happier song now, something that made the fishermen in the corner tap their feet. She was smiling, lost in the music, unaware of the weight of the conversation at the bar.
“She's learning,” Richard said finally. “I can see it. The way she talks about this place, these people. She's starting to live for herself.”
“She is.” Crocker finished his beer. “The music helps. Gives her something that's hers again.”
“Thank you for that. For giving her a stage.”
“Didn't give her anything. She earned it.” Crocker stood and collected their empty glasses. “Your daughter's got fight in her, Richard. She just forgot for a while. She's remembering now.”
On Wednesday, they visited Gregory together.
The old man was having a good day, alert, talkative, eager for company.
Richard pulled his chair close to the window and told Gregory about the birds he'd seen at the bungalow that week.
A roseate spoonbill at dawn. A family of ospreys nesting near the water.
A painted bunting that had appeared at the feeder, bold as anything, like it knew it was special.
Gregory's eyes lit up at each description. He asked questions, what colors, what time of day, how long did it stay, and Richard answered with the patience and detail of a man who'd spent his life observing the natural world.
“You're a good storyteller,” Gregory said when Richard finished. “Most people just say, 'I saw a bird.' You make me feel like I'm there.”
“That's the goal. That's always been the goal.”
“Your daughter's the same way. When she describes the sunsets, I can see them.” Gregory's gaze drifted to Merritt. “You're lucky to have each other.”
“We are,” Richard said. “We really are.”
Gregory mentioned that his nephew had called back about the sale. “Says he'll handle everything from his end. Title company, lawyers, all of it. Should take about a month, maybe six weeks.” He waved a hand. “I told him not to drag his feet. I want this settled while I'm still around to see it.”
Before they left, Gregory took Richard's hand in both of his.
“Take care of that bungalow,” he said. “And take care of her. She's special, that one.”
“I know. I've known since the day she was born.”
Gregory nodded, satisfied. “Good. Then we understand each other.”
On Thursday, they packed up the apartment above Shorebirds.
It didn't take long. Merritt had arrived on Sanibel with almost nothing, a suitcase, her guitar, the few possessions that had fit in her car. She'd accumulated a little more since then, some clothes, some books, a collection of shells she'd gathered on morning walks, but it all fit in a few boxes.
Justin helped them carry everything down the narrow stairs. When they reached the bottom, Crocker was waiting by the bar with something in his hands.
It was a vase. Small, glazed in blues and greens that swirled together like the Gulf on a cloudy day. One of his pieces, Merritt recognized his style immediately.
“For the bungalow,” Crocker said, holding it out to her. His voice was gruff, his eyes not quite meeting hers. “June always said a home needs something handmade in it. Something with a soul.”
Merritt took the vase carefully, feeling the weight of it in her hands. “Crocker, I can't…”
“You can.” He cut her off before she could finish. “I've got a hundred of them. Won't miss one.” But the way he said it, the way his jaw tightened, told her this wasn't just any piece. This one mattered.
“Thank you,” she said. “I'll take good care of it.”
“I know you will.” He nodded once, then turned back toward the bar. “Now get out of here before you make me sentimental.”
Justin grinned as they loaded the last box into Merritt’s car. “That's the most words I've heard him string together in a month.”
“He's a softie under all that gruff.”
“Don't let him hear you say that.”