Page 1 of Captiva Café

CHAPTER 1

Maggie 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 lifelongcompany 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.”

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