Captiva Café (Captiva Island #16)

Chapter 1

M aggie Moretti pushed the soil down into the window box and then stood back to admire the flowers she’d planted.

The white summer snapdragons and yellow begonias added just the right color against the porch railing.

With creeping Jenny spread throughout the box, her creation was as perfect as the clear blue Captiva morning sky.

Looking at her pup Lexie, who had planted herself in the middle of the porch swing, Maggie shook her head. “You easily could have moved to the side. How is anyone going to sit on the swing if you take up the whole cushion?”

“Isn’t that the point?” a voice from the bottom of the stairs answered.

“Good morning, Chelsea. You may have a point. For the life of me, I have no idea how such a little dog can take up so much room. It’s the same thing on our bed. Paolo and I are constantly moving her little body all night long.”

“Well, I feel the same way about Stella. Although, I think my cat is bigger than Lexie.”

Chelsea climbed the stairs and, instead of moving Lexie, chose the corner chair.

“Can I get you iced tea or lemonade?” Maggie asked.

“Maggie, my dear. You know you don’t have to wait on me. I practically live here.”

Maggie nodded. “True. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I suppose you’ve heard about the town crier’s latest complaint?”

Maggie took her garden gloves off and shook her head. “Nope. What is Linda upset about this time?”

Linda St. James, the owner of the Captiva Chronicle, the island’s local newspaper, found something to get worked up about almost weekly.

Maggie had long ago found a way to keep Linda from showing up on her doorstep announcing the latest gossip, but it didn’t always work.

Maggie would either run to the carriage house or tell Linda she was about to go into an important meeting, and Linda would scurry off to find another audience.

“It seems the noise from the Captiva Café construction is off-putting,” Chelsea explained.

“Off-putting? She said those exact words?”

Chelsea nodded. “She did, indeed. At least that’s what Crawford Powell told me this morning.

He said Linda insisted that she’s getting complaints from many islanders and has every intention of making a fuss about it in this week’s edition of the Chronicle.

I guess she figures she’ll put a stop to it. ”

Maggie laughed and sat next to Lexie, giving the pup a strong push, which forced the dog to give up and jump off the swing. “How in the world are they going to get quiet construction?”

Chelsea shrugged. “No idea, but I’m still putting my money on Linda. I haven’t seen anyone come up against her and win.”

Maggie eyes widened. “Oh, really?”

“Whoops, sorry, I meant anyone but you and me,” Chelsea corrected.

Maggie sat back in her seat. “That’s better.”

“I think I’ll have some of your iced tea, after all. It’s getting pretty hot. Any chance there are some leftover scones from breakfast?”

“Did you really think I wouldn’t put aside a couple for you?” Maggie teased.

Chelsea go up and headed to the door. “You are the best, Maggie Moretti. The absolute best.”

Merritt Ryan tightened her grip on the steering wheel, squinting through her sunglasses as the sun glanced off the water stretching out on either side of the Sanibel Causeway.

Her beat-up blue Subaru—still dusted with Maine pine pollen despite the seventeen-hundred-mile journey—chugged dutifully over the bridge, windows down and folk music humming low from the radio.

The smell of salt and something wild drifted in through the breeze, tangling with the scent of the orange-scented hand lotion she’d over-applied that morning. Florida had a scent, and it was nothing like Kennebunk, Maine.

“Here we go,” she murmured to herself, tucking a strand of windblown hair behind her ear. “New chapter, page one.”

She didn’t know exactly what she expected Captiva Island to be, but the sudden drop in speed limit and rise in palm trees made her heart beat with something dangerously close to hope. For the first time in a long while, she wasn’t retracing old steps—she was forging new ones.

Thirty years old, single, and decidedly overqualified to waitress according to her father, Merritt had left behind her classroom job, her predictable routines, and the lifelong company of her well-meaning but overbearing parents. She hadn’t even told her mother she’d left until she hit Maryland.

“I’m not running away,” she had insisted in the voicemail she left at 11:52 p.m. “I’m just...trying something new.”

Her degree in education with a minor in music hadn’t led her to exactly where she wanted to be—though she couldn’t quite say where that was.

But after seven years of teaching elementary school and one particularly miserable Maine winter, she realized she was more than ready to trade in her snow tires for something that smelled like the ocean and sounded like guitar strings strummed slowly at sunset.

She glanced at her guitar case wedged into the backseat, peeking out from under her duffel bag.

She hadn’t performed publicly since college, and even then, it was mostly in dorm stairwells or the occasional coffeehouse open mic.

It wasn’t something she led with when she told people about herself.

It was something she did for herself—on quiet nights, or on mornings when the coffee hadn’t quite hit yet and the world still felt unformed.

As she crossed onto Captiva proper, the narrow road wound past quaint shops, clusters of bikes, and a faded wooden sign welcoming visitors with a splash of hibiscus red.

She passed The Tween Waters Inn she’d heard about in a travel blog and a scattering of kayaks leaned up outside a watersports shop.

Her phone buzzed in the passenger seat, vibrating against the notebook she’d been using to jot down “potential future life goals.” She ignored it.

All she knew was that a friend of her cousin’s had mentioned a small restaurant on Andy Rosse Lane—something small and local, not a corporate chain, the kind of place where regulars would linger over food and local kids might read poetry on open mic nights.

There wasn’t a job listing, no website, just a vague, “I think they’ll need staff soon. ”

It was enough.

“I’ll find it,” she told herself as she took a slow turn past a shaded bike rental kiosk. “I’ll figure it out.”

She didn’t know the street names but, her GPS would find the Key Lime Garden Inn. She could already tell the vibe was slow and low-key. Something about the air—the way it moved like warm silk—told her she’d come to the right place.

As the screen door eased shut behind Chelsea, the sound of her flip-flops faded down the shell-covered driveway and out to the street. Lexie returned to the porch swing as if reclaiming her throne, now that the social hour was officially over.

Maggie wiped her hands on a towel and stepped inside the inn’s main office.

The air was cool and scented faintly with lavender from the sachets Millie insisted on tucking into every drawer.

She crossed to the antique registration desk, a carved mahogany piece Paolo had rescued from a Naples estate sale years ago and flipped open the guest book.

A few names had already checked in that morning—returning guests mostly, one couple celebrating their anniversary, and a mother-daughter duo from Wisconsin who came every June without fail. Maggie’s eyes scanned the next reservation and paused at the unfamiliar name.

There were no notes attached. No mention of a special occasion, a referral, or any prior visits. Just the simple email correspondence she'd received a few weeks back requesting a quiet room, preferably one with natural light and “a bit of breeze, if it’s not too much trouble.”

She had the sense the woman didn’t quite know what she wanted, only that she needed to be somewhere new.

“Well, that’s what we’re here for,” Maggie murmured, tapping her finger on the page. “A place to land while life decides what to do with you next.”

She glanced at the clock. Merritt Ryan should be arriving any time now.

Pulling a brass key from the hooks behind the desk, she slipped it into a small envelope marked with Merritt’s name and added a handwritten welcome note. A soft knock on the office door pulled her attention, but it was just Millie with fresh towels and a question about the new guests upstairs.

As Maggie gave instructions and tidied up the desk, she couldn’t shake the quiet curiosity she felt.

There was always something a little mysterious about first-time guests.

You could tell a lot from how people unpacked: whether they brought books or binders, beach towels or laptops, flip-flops or fitness gear.

Some came looking for a fresh start. Others were escaping something they didn’t yet have the words to explain.

Maggie had seen it all over the years.

Still, there was something about the name Merritt Ryan that tickled the back of her mind. Maybe it was just the Maine address. Or maybe it was that sense, small and certain, that this guest’s arrival might be the beginning of something they’d all remember.

She gave the front parlor one last glance, smoothing a throw pillow on the wicker loveseat, and returned to the porch to wait. Lexie’s ears perked up as the sound of an unfamiliar engine rumbled in the distance, growing louder as it made its way down the driveway toward the inn.

Maggie shaded her eyes against the sunlight.

“Looks like we’re about to find out.”

Just two blocks away from the Key Lime Garden Inn, the clatter of drills and the low rumble of machinery blended with the distant call of gulls.

Isabelle stood just outside the taped-off perimeter of the Captiva Café construction zone, staring at a stack of reclaimed wood samples, dropped off earlier that morning.

Gretchen approached, wiping her forehead with a bandana and holding two cups of cold brew from the pop-up coffee stand that seemed to be making a killing off the work crew.

“Pick your poison,” she said, holding one out. “This one’s got oat milk and a splash of whatever that cinnamon syrup is. The other’s straight-up rocket fuel.”

Isabelle took the cinnamon one without looking. “If we use the darker beams for the service counter, it’ll frame the display wall better. But I’m worried it might make the room feel heavy.”

Gretchen sipped. “Heavy? No. Rich. Like a library. Or one of those fancy chocolate stores with imported truffles and velvet chairs no one actually sits in.”

Isabelle let out a breath. “That’s oddly...helpful.”

“You’re welcome.” Gretchen grinned, about to launch into a theory on ambiance when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. “Uh oh. Incoming. You haven’t said anything to anyone about what we found, have you?”

“Of course not,” Isabelle said turning to see Linda St. James marching down the sidewalk like a woman on a mission, her pale pink linen blouse fluttering behind her like battle regalia.

Her large tortoiseshell sunglasses were perched atop her head, though the glint in her eyes had nothing to do with sunshine.

With each step, her sandals slapped the pavement with purpose. By the time she reached the construction tape, the crew had already turned down the radio and shifted just slightly, as if nature itself sensed a disturbance in the force.

“Well,” Linda huffed, hands on hips. “I suppose this is what we’re calling progress?”

Isabelle didn’t flinch. “Good morning, Linda.”

Gretchen smiled sweetly. “You look very summery.”

Linda waved her hand as if swatting a gnat. “Do either of you have any idea how disruptive this racket has become? I can hear it from my office. My office , which, as you know, is two blocks away and meant to be a space of peace, reflection, and respectable journalism.”

“You run the gossip column and write about fish fry fundraisers,” Gretchen muttered under her breath.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing,” Isabelle interjected smoothly. “We’re working as quickly and as courteously as possible. We’ve kept construction within the allowable hours and followed every ordinance. I assure you, this is temporary.”

Linda’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Temporary becomes permanent if you let it. This island has a tone, Isabelle. It has a rhythm. And that rhythm does not include jackhammers during breakfast.”

From the corner of the site, one of the contractors accidentally dropped a board, sending a hollow clatter echoing down the street.

Linda jumped.

Gretchen smiled brightly. “Rhythm’s got a backbeat today.”

Linda scowled. “I’ll be writing an editorial. The people of Captiva have a right to know when their quality of life is being threatened by so-called renovations.”

Isabelle tilted her head slightly, her voice smooth and unmistakably French. “Then by all means, write. Just make certain you spell my name correctly. And if you are so inclined, mention that we are restoring the soul of this building—not simply renovating. That tends to appeal to the sentimental.”

Linda sniffed. “We’ll see.”

She turned on her heel and stormed off, sandals slapping indignantly with each step.

When she was out of earshot, Gretchen turned to Isabelle. “Did we just get threatened and endorsed at the same time?”

Isabelle took a long sip of her coffee and raised one brow. “It is Captiva, non? This is what passes for diplomacy.”