Chapter 20
Paula stopped by the bungalow on Saturday afternoon with a bottle of wine and a container of homemade soup.
“I'm not checking up on you,” she said when Merritt opened the door. “I just made too much.”
Merritt smiled and stepped aside to let her in. “You're absolutely checking up on me.”
“Maybe a little.” Paula set the soup on the kitchen counter and looked around. “The place looks good. You've settled in.”
“It's starting to feel like mine.” Merritt ran her hand along the counter, still marveling at the fact that she lived here. The vase Crocker had given her sat on the table, catching the afternoon light. Her shells lined the windowsill. Through the French doors, the Gulf sparkled blue and endless.
“Crocker's?” Paula asked, nodding toward the vase.
“He gave it to me when I moved out of the apartment.”
“That's a big deal. He doesn't give those away lightly.”
“I got that impression.”
They took their wine out to the deck and sat in the weathered Adirondack chairs, looking out at the water. The breeze was warm and steady, carrying the smell of salt and something floral. A pelican dove for fish near the shore.
“Have you heard from your father?” Paula asked.
“He called when he landed. And again this morning, just to check in.” Merritt smiled. “He's already talking to a realtor about listing the Maine house.”
“That was fast.”
“He doesn't waste time once he makes up his mind. Never has.” She took a sip of wine. “He said to thank you again, by the way. For driving him to the airport.”
“It was nothing. I was happy to do it.” Paula watched the pelican surface, its pouch bulging. “We had a nice talk on the drive. He told me a little about his work, the books he's written.”
“He's proud of those books. They're his life's work, really. Nature and conservation writing.”
“He mentioned a book about the Everglades. Said he spent a week photographing roseate spoonbills.” Paula smiled slightly. “The way he described it, I could picture the whole scene. The dawn light, the birds feeding in the shallows.”
“That's Dad. He sees the world differently. Everything is a story to him.”
“He talked about you, too.” Paula glanced at her. “How proud he is of you. How worried he was when you first drove down here, and how relieved he is now that he's seen the life you're building.”
Merritt felt warmth spread through her chest. “He worries too much.”
“That's what fathers do.” Paula was quiet for a moment, turning her wine glass slowly in her hands. “He seems like a good man. Solid.”
“He is. The best.”
“It must have been hard for him. Losing your mother, watching you struggle, being alone in that house.” Paula's voice was thoughtful.
“He mentioned his friends in Maine. Poker nights, neighbors who check on him.
But it's not the same, is it? After you've shared your life with someone for that long.”
“No. It's not the same.” Merritt studied Paula's profile. There was something careful in the way she was asking these questions, something Merritt couldn't quite name. “He's lonely. He doesn't say it, but I can tell. The house feels different without her.”
“I imagine it does.”
“That's part of why he wants to sell it. Too many memories, maybe. Or maybe he just needs a fresh start.” Merritt paused. “He talked about eventually moving down here. Once things are settled.”
Paula nodded slowly, her eyes on the horizon. “This would be a good place for a fresh start. The weather alone would be worth it. No more Maine winters.”
“That's exactly what he said.”
The conversation drifted into comfortable silence. Merritt noticed that Paula hadn't asked any more questions about Richard, but something about the way she'd listened, the way she'd lingered on certain details, stayed with her. She filed it away without examining it too closely.
“How are you doing?” Paula asked, shifting the subject. “Really?”
“I'm good. Better than good.” Merritt settled back into her chair. “It's strange, being here alone. But strange in a good way. I keep waiting for someone to need something from me, and then I remember that no one does.”
“That's a big shift.”
“It is.” She watched the pelican dive again. “For so long, my whole life was organized around someone else's needs. My mother's illness, the schedule of medications and appointments. Even after she died, I felt like I was still waiting for the next crisis.”
Paula nodded slowly. “And now?”
“Now I wake up and the day is just…mine. I can do whatever I want with it.” She laughed softly. “I'm still learning what that means.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the waves roll in. The sun was starting its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the clouds pink at the edges.
“Can I ask you something?” Paula said.
“Of course.”
“Your music. How long had you stopped playing before you came here?”
Merritt thought about it. “Years. I played a little for my mother, toward the end. Old songs she loved. But performing, playing for myself? I gave that up when she got sick.”
“Why?”
“I don't know. It felt…selfish, I guess. Like if I was enjoying something, I wasn't focused enough on her. Like my happiness was taking something away from her care.” She shook her head. “That sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.”
“It doesn't sound ridiculous. It sounds like love. Misguided, maybe, but love.”
“My father called it bargaining. He thinks I believed that if I sacrificed enough, I could keep her alive.”
Paula was quiet for a moment. “Did you believe that?”
“I don't know. Maybe on some level I couldn't admit to myself.” Merritt set down her wine glass. “It didn't work, obviously. She died anyway. And I'd given up years of my life for nothing.”
“Not for nothing. You were with her. You loved her.”
“I did. But I lost myself in the process.”
The sun touched the water now, spreading orange light across the waves. Paula watched it, her expression thoughtful.
“Ray used to play,” she said quietly.
Merritt turned to look at her. “What?”
“Music. Ray used to play music.” Paula kept her eyes on the horizon. “Piano, guitar. He sang too. He was good. Really good.”
“I had no idea.”
“No one does. He stopped when he came back from his last deployment. Just…stopped. Gave away his guitar, never touched a piano again. It was like that part of him died over there.”
Merritt felt something shift in her chest. “What happened to him?”
“I don't know the details. He won't talk about it. But whatever he saw, whatever he did, it broke something in him.” Paula finally turned to face her. “For years, I've watched my brother disappear into himself. He doesn't talk, doesn't connect, doesn't feel anything he can't drown in whiskey.”
“But he comes to Shorebirds.”
“He does. Every night, almost. Sits in that corner with his drink he never touches.” Paula paused. “And then you showed up.”
“Me?”
“Your music, Merritt. Something happens to him when you play. I've seen it. That first night, he left in the middle of your set. I thought it was a bad sign. But then he came back. And he keeps coming back.”
Merritt remembered that night. The way he'd stood up abruptly, walked out without looking at anyone. She'd thought she'd done something wrong.
“He's spoken to me a few times,” she said. “Just a few words. 'Good music.' Things like that.”
“You don't understand what that means.” Paula's voice was thick. “Ray hasn't spoken to anyone in two years. Not me, not his doctors, not anyone. And then you start playing, and he finds words again.”
The weight of this settled over Merritt. She didn't know what to do with it.
“I'm not telling you this to put pressure on you,” Paula said quickly. “I'm not asking you to fix him. No one can fix him. I just…” She took a breath. “I wanted you to know. Because I think your music matters to him. And I think you deserve to understand why.”
“He was a musician.”
“He was. A real one. The kind who played because he couldn't not play.” Paula smiled sadly.
“When we were kids, he'd sit at our grandmother's piano for hours.
Taught himself everything. Our parents couldn't afford lessons, so he just figured it out. By the time he was sixteen, he was playing in bars, lying about his age to get gigs.”
“What kind of music?”
“Everything. Rock, folk, blues. He could play anything.” Paula's eyes grew distant. “He had this voice. Low and rough, like gravel and honey mixed together. People would stop talking when he sang. The whole room would go quiet.”
Merritt thought about her own music, the way silence fell over Shorebirds when she played. She'd felt that power, that connection. And Ray had once had it too.
“Then he enlisted,” Paula continued. “Right after 9/11. He was twenty-five, full of fire. He wanted to do something that mattered. Four deployments. Each one took a little more of him.”
“And the music?”
“Gone. All of it. He won't even listen to the radio. Turns off the jukebox at the VFW if someone puts on a song.” She looked at Merritt. “But he sits in that corner at Shorebirds and listens to you. Every Tuesday and Thursday, he's there. He doesn't leave when you play. He stays.”
The sun had slipped below the horizon now, leaving the sky streaked with purple and gold. The first stars were appearing.
“Why are you telling me this?” Merritt asked softly.
“Because I've watched you, too. The way you check on him without being obvious about it.
The way you don't push, don't pry. You just play, and you let him be.” Paula reached over and squeezed her hand.
“You're the first person who's reached him in years, Merritt. And you did it just by being yourself.”
“I didn't do anything.”
“You played. You opened a door. Whether he walks through it is up to him.” Paula let go of her hand and stood up. “I should go. Early shift tomorrow.”
Merritt walked her to the door, her mind still processing everything Paula had shared.
“Paula,” she said as Paula stepped out onto the sandy path. “Thank you. For telling me.”
Paula nodded. “Just…be patient with him. Whatever happens. He's been lost for a long time. Finding his way back won't happen overnight.”
“I understand.”
Paula smiled, a little sadly. “I know you do. That's why I told you.”
Merritt watched her drive away, then went back to the deck. The stars were bright now, scattered across the dark sky like spilled salt. The waves kept their steady rhythm, in and out, in and out.
Ray used to play.
She thought about him sitting in that corner, night after night, listening to music he'd once made himself. What did he hear when she played? What memories surfaced? What pain?
She thought about her own years of silence, the music she'd given up because it felt like a betrayal of her mother's suffering. She'd found her way back. Was it possible for Ray to find his way back too?
It wasn't her job to save him. She knew that. Paula had said it herself—no one could fix him. But maybe she could keep playing. Keep leaving the door open. And maybe, someday, he'd be ready to walk through it.
She stayed on the deck until the night grew cool, thinking about music and loss and the strange ways people find each other.
When she finally went inside, she picked up her guitar and played softly in the dark, for no one but herself.