Chapter 15
Tuesday arrived faster than Merritt expected.
She'd spent the day before at the bungalow, measuring windows and making lists.
Paula had helped her work out the details with Gregory.
She'd move in at the end of the week, once she'd had a chance to clean the place and air it out.
Gregory had been delighted, asking her three times to describe the view from the French doors, his blue eyes bright with remembered joy.
But today wasn't about the bungalow. Today was about music.
She arrived at Shorebirds early, before the dinner rush, wanting to get settled before her set. Justin was behind the bar, slicing limes, and he looked up when she walked in.
“You're early.”
“Nervous.” She slid onto a barstool and accepted the glass of water he pushed toward her. “I invited some people tonight. Friends from Captiva.”
“The inn crowd?”
“Just Sarah and Trevor. Maggie's daughter and her husband. They live on Sanibel, so it's not far for them.” She took a sip of water. “They wanted to come hear me play.”
“That's great.” Justin set down his knife and leaned against the bar. “You've got fans now. That's a good thing.”
“It feels like pressure.”
“It's not pressure. It's people who care about you, wanting to support you.” He smiled, that easy grin that always made her feel calmer. “Relax. You've done this a dozen times now. You're good at it.”
“You have to say that. You're my boss.”
“I'm saying it because it's true.” He picked up his knife and went back to slicing limes. “Now go tune your guitar or do whatever you need to do. I'll save your friends a good table.”
Merritt climbed the stairs to her apartment, one of the last times she'd make this climb, she realized, and sat on the edge of her bed with her guitar in her lap. She ran through a few songs, warming up her fingers, letting the familiar movements settle her nerves.
It was strange, how much had changed in such a short time. A few weeks ago, she'd been terrified to play in front of anyone. Now she had a regular slot, a growing audience, and friends coming to watch her perform.
And she had a bungalow. A home of her own.
She was still getting used to that idea.
Around six-thirty, she heard the dinner crowd starting to fill in below.
The familiar sounds of Shorebirds, glasses clinking, voices rising, the occasional burst of laughter, drifted up through the floorboards.
She checked her reflection in the small mirror by the door, straightened her hair, and headed downstairs.
The bar was busy but not packed. Ed and Margie were at their usual table, already working on their coconut shrimp.
The fishermen had claimed their corner, sunburned and loud.
Dottie sat at the bar, chatting with a woman Merritt didn't recognize, probably another friend she'd brought to hear the music.
And in his corner, alone as always, sat Ray.
Merritt's eyes found him automatically now.
It had become a habit, checking to see if he was there, noting the way he sat, the angle of his shoulders, the untouched glass of Jameson on the table.
Tonight he looked the same as always, still, quiet, contained.
But when she glanced his way, his eyes lifted to meet hers.
He nodded. Just once. A small acknowledgment.
She nodded back.
The door opened, and Sarah and Trevor walked in.
Sarah looked different outside the chaos of the inn, more relaxed, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders instead of pulled back in her usual practical ponytail. Trevor had his arm around her waist, and they were both smiling, taking in the bar with the curiosity of first-time visitors.
Merritt crossed the room to meet them. “You came.”
“Of course we came.” Sarah pulled her into a hug. “We've been looking forward to this all week.”
“The kids were furious,” Trevor added. “Noah wanted to come so badly. But we kept explaining that this was a place where adults come. It’s not exactly something he understands. Don’t worry though, you’ll get the whole circus one of these days.”
“Especially if you get to perform on Captiva,” Sarah explained.
Merritt felt a rush of gratitude that she had people in her life who felt like family.
It was a wonderful feeling, and she had Maggie Moretti and her family to thank for that.
But she suddenly felt even more nervous than before they had arrived.
She hadn't realized how performing for people whose opinions mattered would feel so different from playing for strangers.
These were people who knew her, people who would remember this night and talk about it later.
The stakes felt higher somehow, even though she knew that was silly.
Justin appeared beside them. “You must be the Captiva contingent. I've got a table for you right up front.”
“Up front?” Sarah's eyes widened. “We get VIP treatment?”
“You get friend-of-the-musician treatment.” Justin led them to a small table near the window, close enough to see Merritt clearly but not so close it would feel intrusive. “What can I get you?”
They ordered drinks and settled into their seats. Merritt lingered for a moment, suddenly unsure what to do with her hands.
“Go,” Sarah said, shooing her away. “Do your thing. We'll be right here, cheering you on.”
“Not too loudly,” Trevor added. “We don't want to embarrass you.”
“You could never embarrass me.”
“Challenge accepted.”
Merritt laughed and headed back to the bar. Crocker had already set up the wooden stool in its usual spot, and her guitar was waiting for her, leaning against the wall. She picked it up, settled onto the stool, and took a moment to tune.
The bar quieted, the way it always did when she was about to play. Conversations softened. Chairs turned. Even the fishermen lowered their voices.
She found Sarah and Trevor in the crowd. They were watching her with identical expressions of encouragement, their drinks untouched on the table.
Ray was in his corner watching her too, his guarded expression cracked just enough to let something through.
She began to play.
The first song was an old favorite, something she'd played a hundred times for her mother. Her voice came out strong and clear, filling the room with a melody that felt like home. She let herself disappear into the music, the way she always did, trusting it to do whatever it needed to do.
When she finished, the applause was warm and immediate. Sarah was clapping enthusiastically, her face lit up with pride. Trevor whistled, then looked sheepish when Sarah elbowed him.
Merritt smiled and moved into her second song.
She played for about forty-five minutes, mixing old favorites with newer discoveries, songs she'd written and songs she'd borrowed. The bar stayed quiet through each one, the usual chatter settling into something more respectful, more attentive. Even the fishermen seemed to be listening.
Between songs, she caught glimpses of the room. Ed and Margie, holding hands across their table. Dottie, nodding along to the rhythm. Justin, watching from behind the bar with something like pride in his eyes.
And Ray. Always Ray.
He hadn't moved since she started playing. His Jameson sat untouched, his hands rested on the table. But his face had changed over the past few weeks. The tight lines around his jaw had softened. His eyes, once so flat and distant, held something that looked almost like peace.
Not healed. Not fixed. But present. Here, in this room, listening to music like a man remembering how to feel.
When Merritt finished her last song, the bar erupted in applause. Sarah jumped to her feet, clapping so hard her wine nearly spilled. Trevor was grinning, giving her a thumbs-up. Even Crocker emerged from behind the register to nod his approval.
Merritt set down her guitar and made her way to Sarah and Trevor's table. Her fingers ached pleasantly, the familiar soreness of a good session.
“That was incredible,” Sarah said, pulling her into a hug. “Merritt, I had no idea. Mom said you were good, but that was…that was something else.”
“She's not exaggerating,” Trevor said. “I don't even like live music usually. Too loud, too crowded. But that was beautiful.”
“Thank you.” Merritt felt heat rise to her cheeks. “It means a lot that you came.”
“We wouldn't have missed it.” Sarah released her and sat back down, reaching for her wine. “Now tell us everything. How did this happen? How did you go from waitressing and bartending to performing?”
Merritt told them the story, Crocker's request, that first terrifying night, the way it had grown into something regular. She told them about the regulars who came specifically to hear her play, about the wooden stool that had become her spot, about the chalkboard sign by the door.
She didn't tell them about Ray. That felt too private, too fragile to share.
But Sarah noticed him anyway.
“Who's that?” she asked quietly, her eyes drifting to the corner. “He's been watching you the whole time.”
Merritt glanced over. Ray was still there, still sitting in his stillness. But as she looked at him, he stood up.
Her breath caught.
Ray moved the same way he always did: slow, deliberate, contained. He left money on the table and walked toward the door. But as he passed their table, he paused.
Merritt felt Sarah and Trevor go still beside her.
Ray stood there for a moment, not quite looking at her, his jaw working. Then he spoke.
“Good set tonight.”
Three words. More than he'd ever said to her before.
“Thank you,” Merritt managed.
He nodded once and walked out the door, disappearing into the warm night air.
The silence that followed felt sacred, like something important had just happened.
“Who was that?” Trevor asked, his voice hushed.
“Someone who's healing,” Merritt said quietly. “Slowly. Through the music.”
Sarah reached over and squeezed her hand. “You're doing something special here. You know that, right?”
“I'm just playing guitar.”
“No. You're not.” Sarah's eyes were bright. “You're giving people something they need. A space to feel things. A reason to show up.” She paused. “Mom was right about you. She said you'd find your place. And you have.”
They stayed for another hour, talking and laughing and ordering more drinks. Trevor told stories about Noah's latest obsessions and Sophia's ongoing war against vegetables. Sarah shared updates about little Maggie, who had apparently learned a new word: “no.”
“She says it constantly.” Sarah groaned. “No to breakfast, no to naps, no to shoes. It's her favorite word.”
“That's what three-year-olds do,” Merritt said. “They discover they have opinions.”
“I liked her better before she had opinions.”
When they finally stood to leave, Sarah hugged Merritt tightly.
“We're coming back,” she said. “And next time, we're bringing the whole crew. Mom, Chelsea, Grandma Sarah, everyone. They all want to hear you play.”
“That might actually be overwhelming.”
“Too bad. You're stuck with us now.” Sarah grinned. “That's what family does.”
Family. The word settled into Merritt's chest like something warm and solid.
She walked them to the door and watched them disappear into the parking lot, their arms around each other, their laughter drifting back through the night air.
When she turned back to the bar, Justin was watching her.
“Good night?” he asked.
“Great night.”
“I’m glad.” He smiled. “You deserve it.”
She helped him close up, wiping down tables and stacking chairs, the familiar routine that had become comfortable over the past few weeks. When they finished, she climbed the stairs to her apartment.
Before she knew it, she'd be in the bungalow. French doors open to the beach. The sound of waves lulling her to sleep.
But tonight, she lay in the dark and thought about what Sarah had said.
You're giving people something they need. A space to feel things. A reason to show up.
She thought about Ray, standing by her table, saying three words instead of two.
Good set tonight.
It was progress. Small but real.
She fell asleep with music still humming in her chest and the promise of something new waiting just around the corner.