Chapter 17 #2
“I like her,” Richard said as they pulled out of the sandy drive. “Paula.”
“She's been wonderful. I don't know what I would have done without her.”
“She's practical. Direct. Doesn't sugarcoat things.” He glanced at Merritt. “Reminds me a little of your mother, actually. That same steadiness.”
“She's a nurse. I think it comes with the territory.”
“Maybe so.”
At Shorebirds, the evening crowd was just starting to filter in. Merritt led her father through the door, watching his face as he took in the string lights, the black and white fishing photos, the pottery displayed on every shelf.
“This is it,” she said. “This is where I work. Where I play.”
Crocker was behind the bar, and he looked up when they entered. His sharp eyes moved from Merritt to Richard and back again.
“The father,” he said. Not a question.
“Richard Ryan.” Richard extended his hand. “I've heard a lot about you.”
“Likewise.” Crocker shook his hand firmly. “Your daughter's got talent. Real talent. The kind you can't teach.”
“So I've been told.”
“You'll see for yourself tonight.” Crocker nodded toward the wooden stool by the window. “That's her spot. People come specifically to hear her play now. Tuesday and Thursday nights we get double the usual crowd.”
Justin emerged from the back, wiping his hands on a towel. He stopped when he saw the group by the door.
“Mr. Ryan,” he said, crossing to shake Richard's hand. “Justin Landry. It's good to finally meet you.”
“Call me Richard.” Her father studied Justin the way he'd studied the bungalow, looking for structural issues, hidden problems. “Merritt speaks highly of you.”
“She's being generous. She's the one who's been a gift to this place.” Justin glanced at Merritt with something warm in his eyes. “We were lucky she walked through that door.”
“How so?”
“She works hard. She cares about people. And her music…” Justin shook his head. “You'll see tonight. It changes the room. Changes the people in it.”
Richard listened, asked questions, watched everything.
He noticed how Justin checked on Merritt without being asked.
He noticed how Crocker's gruff exterior softened when he looked at her.
He noticed the way the regulars greeted her by name, how Ed and Margie waved from their usual table, how Dottie called out a hello from the bar.
And Paula, who had followed them in, stood slightly apart, watching it all with the careful eyes of someone who had spent years assessing situations, reading people, understanding when something was safe and when it wasn't.
After an hour, Richard sat down at a table with Paula while Merritt prepared for her set.
“Well?” Paula asked. “What's the verdict?”
Richard was quiet for a moment, his eyes on his daughter as she tuned her guitar across the room.
“She's happy,” he said finally. “Genuinely happy. I haven't seen her like this in years.”
“She's building something here. A life that fits her.”
“I can see that.” He turned to Paula. “Thank you. For looking out for her. For connecting her with the right people.”
“She made it easy. She's the kind of person people want to help.”
“She gets that from her mother.” Richard smiled. “Her mother was the same way. People just…gravitated toward her.”
“Then Merritt comes by it honestly.”
The bar filled up around them, and at seven-thirty, Merritt settled onto her stool and began to play.
Richard watched his daughter perform, his eyes bright, his expression shifting through something that looked like wonder and pride and grief all tangled together. When she played her mother's lullaby, tears rolled down his cheeks, and he didn't bother wiping them away.
Afterward, when the applause had faded and the bar had returned to its normal rhythm, Merritt found Justin behind the bar.
“Can I talk to you and Crocker for a minute?”
Justin's expression shifted, something cautious moving behind his eyes. “Everything okay?”
“Everything's good. Really good, actually. I just have some news.”
Crocker emerged from the back as if summoned, his sharp eyes taking in the scene. “What's this about?”
Merritt took a breath. Paula's words echoed in her head. Good news isn't something you have to apologize for.
“I'm moving out of the apartment upstairs,” she said. “There's a bungalow on the beach. It belonged to a man named Gregory Harrison. Paula introduced us, and he offered to let me stay there. My father is going to buy it.”
The silence lasted a beat too long. Merritt felt her heart pound.
Then Crocker nodded slowly. “Good.”
“Good?” She'd expected more. Questions, at least. Maybe disappointment.
“You've been living in a shoebox above a bar. You deserve better.” Crocker's voice was gruff, but his eyes had softened. “French doors to the beach, I hope?”
“How did you know?”
“Gregory Harrison. I know the place. Knew his wife too, years ago. She used to come in for chowder.” He shook his head. “That bungalow's been sitting empty too long. It needs someone like you.”
Justin watched her with an expression she couldn't quite read. “You're still working here, though? Still playing?”
“Of course. Nothing's changing except where I sleep.” She met his eyes. “This place is home. That's not going anywhere.”
Something in his face relaxed. “Good. Because I'm not training another bartender.”
“You barely trained me.”
“Exactly. I'm not doing it again.”
Merritt laughed, the tension in her chest finally releasing. She glanced across the room at her father, who was watching from his table. He gave her a small nod. Proud. Approving.
She'd done it. She'd told them. And the world hadn't collapsed.
Later, as the bar emptied and the string lights cast their soft glow across the room, Richard pulled Merritt into a hug.
“I'm ready,” he said.
“Ready for what?”
“To meet Gregory. To talk about buying that bungalow.” He pulled back and looked at her. “You've built something real here, Merritt. Something worth protecting. I want to help you protect it.”
Paula caught Merritt's eye and smiled.
“I'll set up a meeting for tomorrow,” she said. “Gregory will be thrilled.”