Page 2 of Captiva Café

Her degree in education with a minor in music hadn’t led her to exactly where she wanted to be—though she couldn’t quite say where that was. But after seven years of teaching elementary school and one particularly miserable Maine winter, she realized she was more than ready to trade in her snow tires for something that smelled like the ocean and sounded like guitar strings strummed slowly at sunset.

She glanced at her guitar case wedged into the backseat, peeking out from under her duffel bag. She hadn’t performed publicly since college, and even then, it was mostly in dorm stairwells or the occasional coffeehouse open mic. It wasn’t something she led with when she told people about herself. It was something she did for herself—on quiet nights, or on mornings when the coffee hadn’t quite hit yet and the world still felt unformed.

As she crossed onto Captiva proper, the narrow road wound past quaint shops, clusters of bikes, and a faded wooden sign welcoming visitors with a splash of hibiscus red. She passed The Tween Waters Inn she’d heard about in a travel blog and a scattering of kayaks leaned up outside a watersports shop.

Her phone buzzed in the passenger seat, vibrating against the notebook she’d been using to jot down “potential future life goals.” She ignored it.

All she knew was that a friend of her cousin’s had mentioned a small restaurant on Andy Rosse Lane—something small and local, not a corporate chain, the kind of place where regulars would linger over food and local kids might read poetry on open mic nights. There wasn’t a job listing, no website, just a vague, “I think they’ll need staff soon.”

It was enough.

“I’ll find it,” she told herself as she took a slow turn past a shaded bike rental kiosk. “I’ll figure it out.”

She didn’t know the street names but, her GPS would find the Key Lime Garden Inn. She could already tell the vibe was slow and low-key. Something about the air—the way it moved like warm silk—told her she’d come to the right place.

As the screen door eased shut behind Chelsea, the sound of her flip-flops faded down the shell-covered driveway and out to the street. Lexie returned to the porch swing as if reclaiming her throne, now that the social hour was officially over.

Maggie wiped her hands on a towel and stepped inside the inn’s main office. The air was cool and scented faintly with lavender from the sachets Millie insisted on tucking into every drawer. She crossed to the antique registration desk, a carved mahogany piece Paolo had rescued from a Naples estate sale years ago and flipped open the guest book.

A few names had already checked in that morning—returning guests mostly, one couple celebrating their anniversary, and a mother-daughter duo from Wisconsin who came every June without fail. Maggie’s eyes scanned the next reservation and paused at the unfamiliar name.

There were no notes attached. No mention of a special occasion, a referral, or any prior visits. Just the simple email correspondence she'd received a few weeks back requesting a quiet room, preferably one with natural light and “a bit of breeze, if it’s not too much trouble.”

She had the sense the woman didn’t quite know what she wanted, only that she needed to be somewhere new.

“Well, that’s what we’re here for,” Maggie murmured, tapping her finger on the page. “A place to land while life decides what to do with you next.”

She glanced at the clock.Merritt Ryan should be arriving any time now.

Pulling a brass key from the hooks behind the desk, she slipped it into a small envelope marked with Merritt’s name and added a handwritten welcome note. A soft knock on the office door pulled her attention, but it was just Millie with fresh towels and a question about the new guests upstairs.

As Maggie gave instructions and tidied up the desk, she couldn’t shake the quiet curiosity she felt. There was always something a little mysterious about first-time guests. You could tell a lot from how people unpacked: whether they brought books or binders, beach towels or laptops, flip-flops or fitness gear. Some came looking for a fresh start. Others were escaping something they didn’t yet have the words to explain.

Maggie had seen it all over the years.

Still, there was something about the name Merritt Ryan that tickled the back of her mind. Maybe it was just the Maine address. Or maybe it was that sense, small and certain, that this guest’s arrival might be the beginning of something they’d all remember.

She gave the front parlor one last glance, smoothing a throw pillow on the wicker loveseat, and returned to the porch to wait. Lexie’s ears perked up as the sound of an unfamiliar engine rumbled in the distance, growing louder as it made its way down the driveway toward the inn.

Maggie shaded her eyes against the sunlight.

“Looks like we’re about to find out.”

Just two blocks away from the Key Lime Garden Inn, the clatter of drills and the low rumble of machinery blended with the distant call of gulls. Isabelle stood just outside the taped-off perimeter of the Captiva Café construction zone, staring at a stack of reclaimed wood samples, dropped off earlier that morning.

Gretchen approached, wiping her forehead with a bandana and holding two cups of cold brew from the pop-up coffee stand that seemed to be making a killing off the work crew.

“Pick your poison,” she said, holding one out. “This one’s got oat milk and a splash of whatever that cinnamon syrup is. The other’s straight-up rocket fuel.”

Isabelle took the cinnamon one without looking. “If we use the darker beams for the service counter, it’ll frame the display wall better. But I’m worried it might make the room feel heavy.”

Gretchen sipped. “Heavy? No. Rich. Like a library. Or one of those fancy chocolate stores with imported truffles and velvet chairs no one actually sits in.”

Isabelle let out a breath. “That’s oddly...helpful.”

“You’re welcome.” Gretchen grinned, about to launch into a theory on ambiance when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. “Uh oh. Incoming. You haven’t said anything to anyone about what we found, have you?”

“Of course not,” Isabelle said turning to see Linda St. James marching down the sidewalk like a woman on a mission, her pale pink linen blouse fluttering behind her like battle regalia. Her large tortoiseshell sunglasses were perched atop her head, though the glint in her eyes had nothing to do with sunshine.

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