Page 51 of Captiva Café

"Two desserts?" Sarah laughed. "We're being thoroughly spoiled tonight."

"As is proper when friends gather," Paolo declared, rising to help Iris with the coffee service. The rich aroma of freshly ground beans soon joined the night's medley of scents as the Italian press coffee was prepared at the outdoor kitchen.

The flame heaters glowed more prominently now that night had fully fallen, creating pools of golden light that held the autumn chill at bay. Each flame danced its own unique pattern, hypnotic and primal, connecting this modern gathering to ancient rituals of community around fire. From the inn's back porch came the sound of laughter as guests enjoyed nightcaps and stargazing. A sense of contentment settled over the table, the kind that comes from good food, fine wine, and the company of cherished friends.

"I propose a toast," Gareth said, raising his glass as Oliver and Iris brought out the desserts—Chelsea's rum cake, rich and dark with spirits, and Oliver's key lime pie, a perfect balance oftart and sweet, both artfully presented on plates garnished with edible flowers from the garden. "To this island that has brought us all together. To friends who have become family. And to many more evenings just like this one."

"Hear, hear," they responded in unison, glasses clinking in the golden glow of the heaters.

Chelsea caught Maggie's eye across the table, both women sharing a moment of silent appreciation for the bonds they'd formed—unlikely friends who had found each other on this small stretch of sand and become something more. Captiva Sisters, as Isabelle had named them. Different threads in the same beautiful tapestry.

As Oliver served slices of key lime pie alongside Chelsea's rum cake, the night wrapped around them like a comfortable embrace—stars above, good friends all around, and the gentle rhythm of island life continuing its eternal dance. The flame heaters sighed occasionally with soft hisses of heat, the koi created ripples of moonlight on the pond's surface, and the distant music wove through it all like a silken thread, binding the moments together into a perfect Captiva evening—one of many they had shared, and many more yet to come.

CHAPTER 17

The night had deepened past the hour when most of Captiva retreated indoors. Ten o'clock on the island was practically midnight elsewhere—a time when even the most dedicated revelers had made their way home, when restaurants had closed their doors, and when only the occasional light remained in cottage windows along the shore.

Merritt walked barefoot along the beach, her footsteps leaving temporary hollows in the damp sand that filled with seawater, then disappeared as if she had never passed. The dinner party at the inn had concluded hours ago, its laughter and conversation fading into the quiet rhythm of nighttime on the island.

The moon hung nearly full above the Gulf, casting a silver pathway across the water—an invitation to somewhere else, somewhere far from Maine and canceled weddings and disappointed mothers. Stars peppered the vast sky, pinpricks of ancient light that had seen countless human dramas unfold beneath their indifferent gaze.

She paused at the water's edge, letting the gentle wavelets wash over her feet. The tide was unusually calm tonight, theGulf almost unnaturally still, as if holding its breath. No distant boats marred the horizon, no late-night swimmers disturbed the surface. Just Merritt and the sea, having a silent conversation.

"I don't know what I'm doing here," she whispered to the water, her voice immediately absorbed by the soft night air.

Captiva hadn't been a destination so much as an escape. After watching countless YouTube videos of people living in their car, she considered the lifestyle for herself. What she craved more than anything was a life so completely different than the one she was living, she felt open to any possibility.

Short of driving to Key West, she chose the Key Lime Garden Inn and Captiva Island to get as far from Maine as possible. She'd pointed her car south and driven until land gave way to bridges and islands, until she couldn't go any farther without swimming.

She waded deeper, her cotton sundress floating around her thighs as the cool water rose to her knees. From this vantage point, the island behind her seemed to recede, becoming less substantial with each step she took toward the open Gulf.

In Kennebunk, they would be talking about her still. The girl who ran away. The girl who left her fiancé a week before her wedding. The girl who abandoned her sick mother when family obligation should have kept her firmly tethered to Maine.

Her mother's voice echoed in her memory: "Merritt Hope Ryan, you've always been a responsible girl."

The water reached her waist, her dress now fully submerged and billowing around her like a spectral jellyfish. The sand shifted beneath her feet with each gentle wave.

She'd been a responsible girl. A dutiful daughter. For twenty-six years, she'd arranged her life around her mother's illness—scheduled her classes to be home for doctors’ appointments, chosen the local college instead of the music program in Boston, watched her friends leave while she stayed. Even herrelationship with Weston had been, in part, because her mother approved. Because Wes was stable, reliable—everything Merritt secretly feared she wasn't.

The water cradled her now, cool but not unpleasantly cold, as she moved deeper still. When it reached her shoulders, she took a breath and slipped beneath the surface.

Underwater, the world transformed. Sound muffled into a distant hum. The weight of her body seemed to dissolve. Her hair floated around her face like dark seagrass, and when she opened her eyes, the moonlight filtered through the water in eerie, beautiful patterns.

She didn't want to drown. That wasn't why she was here. She simply wanted to feel, for a moment, what it might be like to exist in another element entirely. To be a creature of the sea rather than the land, unburdened by expectations and guilt and the weight of being Merritt Ryan.

How simple it would be to be a fish, concerned only with the immediate currents, the next meal, the instinctive movement through water. No past regrets, no future fears, just the eternal present of swimming and breathing and being.

Her lungs began to signal their need for air, but she lingered a moment longer, suspended between worlds. Down here, in the dark water, her mother's illness didn't define her. Down here, Weston’s hurt expression as she returned his grandmother's ring didn't haunt her dreams. Down here, her untouched guitar back in her room at the inn didn't remind her of all the songs she'd written but never played for anyone.

Finally, inevitably, she pushed upward, breaking the surface with a soft gasp. The night air felt shockingly cold against her wet face, reality reasserting itself with each breath.

She floated on her back, staring up at the star-filled sky. The water supported her completely, asking nothing, demandingnothing. If only people could be so unconditional in their holding.

"I should have been stronger," she whispered to the stars. "I should have been honest sooner. I should have been brave enough to disappoint her years ago, instead of waiting until everything was too much."

The words dissolved into the night, neither absolved nor condemned by the silent cosmos above. The truth was both simpler and more complex: she had done what she could until she couldn't anymore. She had bent until breaking seemed the only alternative to bending further.

The soft ping of her phone from the beach, where she'd left it with her sandals, pulled her reluctantly back to shore. Probably a text from Wes back in Maine, the only person who knew exactly where she'd gone. Or worse, another message from her father, alternating between anger and pleading.

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