Chapter 14
Merritt called Paula on Monday morning.
She'd been staring at the card for two days, turning it over in her hands, thinking about what Grandma Sarah had said. Opportunities don't wait forever. And neither do you.
Paula answered on the third ring. “Merritt. I was hoping you'd call.”
“I've been thinking about what you said. About Gregory. About the bungalow.”
“And?”
“I'd like to meet him. If the offer still stands.”
“It stands.” Paula's voice warmed. “Can you come by this afternoon? Around two? Gregory's sharpest after lunch, and I think you two will get along.”
“I'll be there.”
She spent the morning restless, unable to settle into anything.
She cleaned her small apartment, reorganizing the few belongings she'd accumulated since arriving on Sanibel.
She practiced guitar, working through songs she hadn't played in years.
She stood at the window and watched the parking lot fill with lunch customers, the shell-covered gravel glinting in the sun.
At one-thirty, she changed into a simple sundress and drove to Seaside Gardens.
The assisted living facility was a low, sprawling building surrounded by palm trees and hibiscus bushes.
It looked more like a resort than a nursing home, with wide verandas and rocking chairs and bird feeders hanging from every available branch.
Merritt parked in the visitor lot and sat for a moment, gathering her courage.
She wasn't sure why she was nervous. It was just a conversation. Just a meeting with an old man who might or might not want to rent her his bungalow.
But it felt like more than that. It felt like the next step in something she didn't fully understand yet.
Paula was waiting for her in the lobby, still in her pale blue scrubs, her silver-threaded hair pulled back in a practical ponytail.
“I’m glad you decided to come,” she said, smiling.
“Are you sure he won’t mind my being here?”
“Of course not.” Paula gestured for her to follow. “Come on. He’s been looking forward to your coming. I may have talked you up a little.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That you're a musician. That you're kind. That you’re a good person who needs a soft place to land.” Paula glanced at her as they walked down the hall. “Was I wrong?”
“No,” Merritt said, “you weren't wrong.”
They stopped outside a door decorated with a small wooden sign: “Gregory Harrison, Birdwatcher Extraordinaire.” Paula knocked twice and pushed it open.
The room was bright, with large windows overlooking a garden. Bird feeders hung just outside the glass, and as Merritt stepped inside, she saw a flash of red, a cardinal, pecking at seeds. The walls were covered with photographs of birds, some of professional quality.
And in a wheelchair by the window sat Gregory Harrison.
He was smaller than she'd expected, shrunken with age, his white hair thin and wispy. But his eyes were sharp, bright blue and full of intelligence, and when he saw Merritt, his face creased into a wide smile.
“So you're the guitar girl,” he said. His voice was stronger than his body, clear and warm. “Paula's told me all about you.”
“All good things, I hope.”
“Mostly good. She mentioned you're stubborn.” He winked. “I like stubborn. Means you don't give up easy.”
Merritt laughed, surprised by how quickly she felt at ease. “I try not to.”
“Sit, sit.” Gregory gestured to a chair near the window. “Paula, stop hovering. Go do nurse things. We'll be fine.”
Paula rolled her eyes but smiled. “I'll be back in thirty minutes. Try not to cause too much trouble.”
“No promises.”
She left, closing the door behind her, and Merritt settled into the chair Gregory had indicated. From here, she could see the bird feeders clearly, cardinals and finches and a painted bunting that made her think of her father.
“You like birds?” Gregory asked, following her gaze.
“I'm learning to. My father's a nature writer. He'd love this setup.”
“A nature writer.” Gregory's eyes lit up. “What's his name? Maybe I've read him.”
“Richard Ryan. He writes mostly about conservation. Wetlands, wildlife corridors, that sort of thing.”
“Richard Ryan.” Gregory repeated the name slowly, testing it. “I don't know the name. But I'll look him up. Always room for another good nature writer on my shelf.”
They talked for a while about birds, about Gregory's years as an amateur photographer, about the painted bunting that had appeared at his feeder that morning. He was easy to talk to, sharp and funny, and full of stories. Merritt relaxed, forgetting why she'd come, just enjoying the conversation.
Then Gregory leaned back in his wheelchair and fixed her with a knowing look.
“So. Paula tells me you need a place to live.”
“She mentioned you might have something available.”
“I might.” He turned to look out the window, his expression softening. “I've got a little bungalow on the beach. Been in my family for sixty years. My wife and I bought it when we were first married, back when you could still afford beachfront property without selling a kidney.”
Merritt smiled. “It sounds beautiful.”
“It is. French doors that open right onto the sand. You can hear the waves at night. I used to fall asleep to that sound every night.” His voice caught, just slightly. “Haven't been back since I moved in here. Can't manage the stairs anymore. Can't manage much of anything, if I'm honest.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. I'm ninety-one years old. I've had a good run.” He turned back to her, his blue eyes clear. “But that bungalow deserves someone who'll love it. Someone who'll open those French doors and let the sea air in. Someone who'll take care of it the way my wife did.”
“Paula said you might want to rent it out.”
“I don't need the money. Got more than I'll ever spend, and no one to leave it to.” He shrugged. “What I need is peace of mind. Knowing the place isn't sitting empty, falling apart, getting swallowed up by sand and salt.”
“What would you want from me?”
Gregory considered the question. “Cover the utilities. Keep the place clean. Let me know if anything breaks.” He paused, studying her face. “And maybe come visit me sometimes. Tell me about the birds you see. The sunsets. The storms rolling in off the Gulf.”
Merritt felt something tighten in her chest. It was too generous. Too easy. There had to be a catch.
“Why me?” she asked. “You don't know me. I could be anyone.”
“Paula knows you. That's enough for me.” Gregory smiled.
“She's a good judge of character, that one.
Gets it from her mother. And she says you're someone who takes care of things. Takes care of people.” His smile faded, something sadder moving behind his eyes.
“Lord knows that family could use someone like that.”
Merritt didn't ask what he meant. She didn't have to. She thought of Ray, sitting in his corner at Shorebirds, his Jameson untouched, his eyes fixed on nothing. She thought of Paula, carrying years of worry like a stone in her chest.
“When can I see it?” she asked.
Gregory's face brightened. “Paula's got a key. She can take you over whenever you're ready.” He reached out and patted her hand, his skin papery thin and warm. “I think you'll like it. And I think it'll like you.”
Merritt was surprised when her throat tightened and her eyes filled with tears. Something about Gregory touched her and moved her deeply.
“I’m not sure why, but somehow I know I will,” she responded.
Gregory smiled, as Merritt took his hand in hers, not letting go.
Paula returned a few minutes later, and Gregory shooed them both out with instructions to report back immediately. In the hallway, Paula handed Merritt a key on a simple silver ring.
“The address is on the tag. It's about ten minutes from here, right on the beach.” She hesitated. “You don't have to decide anything today. Just go look at it. See how it feels.”
“Thank you, Paula. For all of this.”
“Don't thank me yet. You haven't seen the place.” But Paula smiled when she said it. “Let me know what you think.”
Merritt drove to the bungalow with the windows down, the salt air rushing through the car. The address led her down a narrow road lined with sea grape and palm, the kind of road that felt like a secret, like something only locals knew about.
And then she saw it.
The bungalow sat at the end of the road, small and weathered and perfect. It was painted pale blue, the color of a winter sky, with white trim and a tin roof that had gone soft with age.
Merritt parked and sat for a moment, just looking.
It was exactly what she'd imagined. Exactly what she hadn't dared to hope for.
She got out of the car and walked around the building. A wooden deck wrapped around the front, facing the beach, and there, just as Gregory had described, were French doors, their glass panels reflecting the afternoon sun.
She walked back to the front of the house and walked up the sandy path to the front door. The key turned smoothly in the lock, and she stepped inside.
The interior was simple but lovely. Hardwood floors, worn smooth by decades of sandy feet.
A small kitchen with open shelves and a window over the sink.
A living room with a faded sofa and a fireplace that probably hadn't been used in years.
At the back, through an archway, a bedroom with windows on three sides and those French doors, standing open to the beach beyond.
Merritt walked through the rooms slowly, trailing her fingers along the walls, breathing in the smell of salt and wood and something faintly floral. The place felt loved. Lived in. Like it was waiting for someone to come back and fill it with life again.
She stepped through the French doors and onto the deck. The beach stretched out before her, white sand and blue water and a sky so big it didn’t seem real. The waves rolled in, soft and steady, a rhythm she could feel in her bones.
She stood there for a long time, watching the water, feeling the sun on her face.
This was it. This was where she was supposed to be.
She called her father that night, after her shift at the bar.
“Hey, sweetheart.” His voice was warm and familiar, a comfort she hadn't known she needed. “How are things on the island?”
“Good, Dad. Really good.” She curled up on her bed, the phone pressed to her ear. “A lot has happened since we last talked.”
“Tell me everything.”
So she did. She told him about playing at the bar, about Crocker's request and the wooden stool by the window and the regulars who came to hear her now.
She told him about Ray, carefully, without too many details, just that there was a man who seemed to be healing, slowly, through music.
She told him about Paula and Gregory and the bungalow with the French doors.
“French doors to the beach,” her father said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “That sounds like a dream.”
“It feels like one. I keep waiting for something to go wrong.”
“Maybe nothing will. Maybe this is just…good.” He paused. “You deserve good things, Merritt. You know that, right?”
“I'm starting to believe it.”
“Good. That's all I've ever wanted for you.” His voice softened. “Your mother would be so proud of you. The music, the new home, all of it. She always said you'd find your way. She just knew you needed time.”
Merritt felt tears prick at her eyes. “I miss her, Dad.”
“I know. I miss her too. Every day.” He was quiet for a moment. “But she's still with us, in a way. In the music you play. In the person you've become. She's in all of it.”
They talked for another hour, and when she finally hung up, Merritt lay in the dark, listening to the muffled sounds of the bar below. Soon, she'd trade all of that for the sound of waves.
She closed her eyes and imagined it: waking up in the blue bungalow, opening those French doors, stepping out onto the sand. Playing her guitar on the deck at sunset. Building a life that was hers, truly hers, for the first time.
Tomorrow, she'd tell Paula yes. She’d need to find the words to explain to Crocker and Justin how much she appreciated them letting her stay in the apartment. She'd start packing her few belongings, figure out the logistics, and make the move official.
But tonight, she just let herself feel it. The hope. The possibility. The quiet certainty that she was exactly where she was supposed to be, and the sound of the waves calling her name.