Page 53 of Captiva Café

"I will. Get some rest, honey."

The call ended, leaving Merritt alone with the sound of gentle waves and her own ragged breathing. She sat motionless, phone clutched in her hand, as the reality settled over her. Amonth. Maybe less. The timeline she'd been both dreading and expecting ever since she'd left Maine.

Returning meant facing everyone—not just her parents, but Weston, their friends, the entire town that had watched her grow up and then watched her run away. It meant explanations and judgments and the weight of being the girl who abandoned her dying mother.

But not going back was unthinkable.

Merritt looked back at the beach. The water had lost its allure now, the momentary peace of floating beneath the surface replaced by the heavy certainty of what lay ahead.

As she turned toward the inn, its windows now mostly dark except for the porch lights and the soft glow from the carriage house, Merritt felt a strange sense of clarity cutting through her emotional turmoil. She would need to speak with Maggie tomorrow, explain that she had to leave. There would be questions she wasn't ready to answer, but she would find the words somehow.

"Just come home," her father had said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. As if crossing the distance between Captiva and Kennebunk were merely a matter of miles rather than the vast emotional terrain Merritt would have to navigate.

But she would go. Of course she would go. Whatever peace she'd been seeking on this island would have to wait. Whatever songs remained unplayed would stay silent a while longer.

It was time to be Merritt Ryan, devoted daughter, once more.

CHAPTER 18

Isabelle stood in the center of what would soon be the main dining area, coffee cup in hand, mentally arranging tables and chairs in the still-empty space. The renovation was progressing—perhaps not at the pace Gretchen had initially hoped, but with a steadiness that reassured Isabelle. The exposed brick wall that would showcase the espresso station was now clean and repainted, its warm terracotta tones exactly as she had envisioned.

"Morning!" Gretchen's voice preceded her entrance as she pushed through the front door, arms laden with fabric samples. "I've got the swatches for the banquette cushions. The supplier had this amazing vintage French blue that screams your name."

Isabelle smiled, grateful for her partner's boundless energy, especially on mornings when memories of Sebastian seemed to hover like ghosts in the peripheral vision of her mind.

"Let me see," she said, setting her coffee down on the makeshift worktable. "The color must be exactly right, not too bright but not too?—"

The sharp ring of her phone interrupted her. Glancing at the screen, Isabelle felt her heart quicken.

"It's Richard," she said, recognizing her attorney's number. "I should take this."

Gretchen nodded, busying herself with arranging the fabric samples. "Go ahead. I'll start categorizing these by weight and durability."

Isabelle stepped toward the front windows, where the reception was better. "Richard, bonjour," she answered, her French accent slightly more pronounced than usual—a tell that she was nervous, though few besides Sebastian would have recognized it.

"Isabelle, good morning. I have news." Richard's measured voice came through clearly. "I've just gotten off a conference call with the attorneys representing Sebastian's children."

Isabelle instinctively braced herself. The months since Sebastian's death had been punctuated by legal challenges and thinly veiled threats from his children, particularly Samantha, who seemed determined to contest every provision of her father's will that benefited Isabelle.

"And?" she prompted when Richard paused.

"And it's over, Isabelle. They've agreed to drop all pending objections to the execution of the will. Sebastian's wishes will be honored in full."

Isabelle closed her eyes, one hand finding the edge of the windowsill to steady herself. "They have agreed? All of them? Even Samantha?"

"All of them," Richard confirmed. "Peter was apparently the driving force. He convinced Samantha that prolonging the legal battle wasn't what their father would have wanted. The Paris apartment is yours without encumbrance, as is your portion of the Captiva property proceeds. The funds Sebastian designated for your design business—or whatever venture you choose to pursue—will be transferred to your account by the end of the week."

"I...I hardly know what to say," Isabelle murmured, watching a pelican glide past the café windows, its ungainly form somehow graceful in flight.

"There's one more thing," Richard added. "Peter asked me to convey a message. He said—and I'm quoting here—'We wish Isabelle well in her future endeavors. Our father chose his own path, as is our right to choose ours. It's time for all of us to move forward.'"

Tears pricked at Isabelle's eyes, unexpected and unwelcome. Not tears of relief, precisely, but of something more complex—a bittersweet acknowledgment that this chapter was truly closing.

"Did they say anything else?" she asked.

"Just that they won't be contesting the cottage sale, either. Jordan still believes the property should have remained in the family, but Peter and Samantha overruled her."

"I see," Isabelle said softly.

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