Page 17 of Captiva Café

They reached the path leading back to the inn, shells crunching beneath their feet as they left the softer beach sand.

"And what about you, Merritt?" Maggie asked gently. "Are you running from something, or toward something?"

The question caught Merritt off guard with its directness. "I'm not sure," she admitted after a moment. "Maybe both?"

Maggie nodded, accepting this answer without pressing further. "Well, sometimes you have to get away from one thing before you can see clearly what you're moving toward. Captiva has a way of helping with that process."

As they approached the inn, the scent of freshly baked scones wafted through the open windows. Iris could be seen through the kitchen window, arranging fruit on a platter. The day was beginning in earnest now, the peaceful solitude of early morning giving way to activity and purpose.

"Thank you," Merritt said suddenly.

"For what?" Maggie looked at her, curious.

"For not asking all the questions I can see you want to ask." Merritt smiled faintly. "About why I'm here, what I'm doing, what my plans are."

Maggie returned the smile. "Oh, I'm definitely curious. But some journeys need to unfold at their own pace. And besides," she added, holding the door open for Merritt to enter, "scones taste better when they're not served with interrogation."

As they stepped into the warm kitchen, Merritt felt something inside her relax slightly. She wasn't ready to share her story—the canceled wedding, the suffocating expectations, the growing realization that she'd been living someone else's version of her life. But for the first time in months, she felt like she might eventually find the words to explain it, even to herself.

And that, perhaps, was a beginning.

CHAPTER 6

The next morning, Chelsea found Maggie arranging fresh flowers in a blue ceramic vase.

"Morning, sunshine," Chelsea called, dropping her tote bag on an armchair. "Are those scones I smell?"

"Help yourself." Maggie nodded toward the kitchen. "There's a plate wrapped on the counter. Coffee's still hot too."

Chelsea didn't need to be told twice. She returned moments later with a plate bearing two scones and a steaming mug of coffee, settling into her favorite corner of the sofa.

"I swear these get better every time," she said after her first bite. "Is it a new recipe?"

"Same recipe, new orange supplier," Maggie replied, trimming a stem before placing it in the arrangement. "These have more oils in the zest. Makes all the difference."

Chelsea made an appreciative noise, then set her plate down, her expression shifting to one Maggie recognized immediately—the face of a woman bursting with information she couldn't wait to share.

"What?" Maggie asked, amused. "You look like you've caught Millie sneaking cookies again."

"Better." Chelsea leaned forward conspiratorially. "Have you noticed anything different about Linda St. James lately?"

Maggie considered the question. She'd seen Linda just yesterday at the post office, where the newspaper editor had barely acknowledged her, too busy rushing off with a stack of mail. "Not particularly. Still complaining about the café construction?"

"No, no." Chelsea waved impatiently. "Not her usual busy-body activities. I'm talking about her appearance."

"Her appearance?" Maggie frowned slightly, trying to recall details.

"Exactly!" Chelsea pointed her scone at Maggie triumphantly. "You didn't notice because it's been gradual. But Linda St. James—our perpetually practical, sensible-shoes-wearing, no-nonsense Linda—has been making an effort."

Maggie raised an eyebrow. "What kind of effort?"

"She's wearing makeup. Not just a swipe of lipstick, but actual blush, mascara, the works. And her clothes? Those linen shifts she's worn for years are suddenly being replaced with—" Chelsea paused dramatically, "—dresses. With patterns. And last Tuesday, I swear on Stella's nine lives, she was wearing a sundress that hit above the knee."

"No." Maggie gasped in mock horror.

"Yes." Chelsea nodded firmly. "But here's the clincher—she smells nice."

"She...smells nice," Maggie repeated, trying not to laugh. "Was she particularly odorous before?"

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