Page 19 of Captiva Café

"I was?" Chelsea questioned, then caught Maggie's pointed look. "I was. But only because I have important errands to run."She gathered her bag and the remaining scone, then paused by Merritt. "Word of advice—if you're going to explore the island, sunscreen is non-negotiable. That nose is going to be peeling by tonight."

Merritt touched her face self-consciously. "I didn’t realize how much stronger the sun is down here."

"Rookie mistake." Chelsea nodded sympathetically. "Aloe in the fridge works wonders. Maggie keeps a stock for northern visitors."

As Chelsea headed for the door, she turned back to Maggie with a mischievous grin. "Think about what I said. About the blue dress versus something new. It's an important consideration for our...mutual friend."

With that cryptic comment, she was gone, leaving Merritt looking puzzled.

"Is everything okay?" she asked, glancing from the door to Maggie.

"Everything's fine," Maggie assured her, returning to her flower arrangement. "Chelsea just has a new hobby—amateur matchmaking disguised as investigative reporting."

"Oh." Merritt nodded, clearly not understanding but too polite to pry further.

"Did you enjoy your exploration? Sunburn aside, that is."

Merritt brightened. "I did. I walked all the way to the construction site everyone was talking about last night. The café?"

"Ah, Captiva Café." Maggie nodded. "Isabelle and Gretchen's new venture. Did you get a peek inside?"

"Not really," Merritt admitted. "There were workers everywhere, and a woman with a clipboard who kept asking if I was the 'university person.' When I said no, she looked disappointed and went back to what she was doing."

"That would be Linda St. James," Maggie explained, carefully placing the last stem in her arrangement. "Island newspaper editor and self-appointed guardian of all things Captiva. She's quite focused on the historical artifacts they found at the site."

"Historical artifacts?" Merritt's interest was clearly piqued.

"Apparently they discovered some items during the renovation—Native American pottery, Spanish coins, that sort of thing. The café is becoming quite the archaeological site."

"How fascinating," Merritt said, her face lighting up in a way Maggie hadn't seen before. "I almost majored in history before switching to education with a minor in music. I've always loved the stories behind places."

"Well, you're in luck." Maggie smiled, enjoying this glimpse of genuine enthusiasm. "Captiva is full of stories. Some factual, some embellished over generations of telling. If you're interested, I know the café owners are expecting an archaeologist tomorrow to examine the artifacts. I could mention to Isabelle that you'd like to observe, if you want."

Merritt hesitated, her natural reticence visibly warring with her curiosity. "I wouldn't want to impose..."

"Nonsense." Maggie waved away the concern. "Isabelle would probably appreciate having someone genuinely interested in the history, rather than just looking for newspaper headlines like Linda."

"If you're sure it wouldn't be an imposition..." Merritt's voice trailed off, but her eyes betrayed her excitement.

"Consider it done," Maggie said decisively. "Now, let me get you some aloe for that nose before it starts to really sting."

As Maggie headed to the kitchen to retrieve the aloe from the refrigerator, she smiled to herself. Perhaps this was the nudge her mother had intuited Merritt needed—a connectionto something that sparked genuine interest, a reason to engage rather than observe from a distance.

And if the café connection led to new friendships, new possibilities, perhaps even a part-time job once they opened...well, that would just be serendipity, wouldn't it?

Sarah Hutchins balanced her grocery bags in one arm while fishing for her house keys with the other. The humidity had transformed her normally manageable hair into a wild tangle, and she could feel a bead of sweat trickling down her spine.

As she finally located her keys, her phone began to ring from somewhere in the depths of her purse. Sighing, she set the groceries down on the porch and dug through the bag, catching the call just before it went to voicemail.

"Hello?" she answered, slightly breathless.

"Were you running a marathon or something?" Emma Thurston's familiar voice came through, amused and warm.

"Emma!" Sarah's frustration melted into delight. "No, just wrestling with groceries and this ridiculous humidity. How are you feeling?"

"Like I'm smuggling a watermelon under my shirt," Emma replied dryly. "A watermelon that enjoys practicing kickboxing against my internal organs at three in the morning."

Sarah laughed, unlocking her front door and shouldering her way inside with the groceries. "That sounds about right for the eighth month. Little Maggie did the same thing—I swear she was training for the Olympics in there."

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