“You and I had an incredible summer together,” she reminded him. “I loved working on the paper with you and ...”
“Maybe you were more interested in writing the paper than you were in me.” Logan quickened their pace, and, in her condition, Emma could barely keep up. “You only liked me because I gave you what you couldn’t get on the island—an educated man.”
She pulled him to a halt again. “That’s not true! There are plenty of educated men on the island.” She thought of Frank. He’d gone to college before he began his training as a wireless operator. “But you’re right,” Emma conceded. “I admired you because you were intelligent, and we shared the same interests. My father liked you for the same reasons. What’s wrong with that?”
“Don’t bring your father into this,” Logan said. “He’s half the reason you wanted to marry me—because you couldn’t bear to leave him on his own. How convenient that I arrived and provided you with an excuse to stay.”
Suddenly, Emma’s blood began to burn with fury in her veins, but she couldn’t think of how to respond because it was partly true. She’d been conflicted about abandoning her father, who had still been struggling with difficult physical challenges, not to mention his grief over his lost limb.
She forced herself to be honest. “I admit ... staying on the island felt easier in some ways. But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t happy to be your wife. Don’t you remember how in love we were on our wedding night? I thought all my past heartaches were over.” She wiped hot, stinging tears from her cheeks. “But you’ve become so distant lately. It’s like you don’t love me anymore.”
At a standoff on the sidewalk, she and Logan stared intensely at each other. Eventually, his shoulders relaxed. He dropped his gaze and offered his arm, and they resumed walking, but at a slower pace.
Cars sped by, too fast, swishing through slushy, dirty puddles. Water splashed onto the sidewalk, and Logan pulled Emma back a few steps to avoid the deluge.
When they reached an intersection, Emma tugged at Logan’s sleeve and forced him to stop. “Please. We’re about to have a child together. I just want us to be happy.”
He glanced up and down the street, avoiding her gaze. “I want that too.”
Regret, like a cold and terrible ground swell, washed over Emma. She never should have spoken to Ruth about Captain Harris. That had been terribly disloyal. Besides, it was in the past, and Emma had made her choice. She’d chosen Logan, the father of her child, and she didn’t want to lose him.
Emma stepped forward, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pressed her tearstained cheek against the scratchy wool of his wintercoat. She squeezed her eyes shut and let out a breath of relief when his hand cupped the back of her head.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Please forgive me. I love you, and I don’t want anyone but you.”
He hugged her and gave her time to collect herself before he stepped back. “Let’s go home. I don’t want to fight anymore.”
“I don’t want to fight either.”
Logan took her face in his gloved hands and kissed her lightly on the forehead.
Relieved, Emma linked her arm through his and walked with him back to Ruth’s house in silence.
That night in bed, still distressed by her argument with Logan, Emma lay awake with her hands on her belly, staring up at the ceiling.
It was no wonder he was upset. She’d spilled out her heart to Ruth about how deeply she’d fallen in love with Captain Harris and how heartbroken she’d been for months after his departure.
Logan didn’t deserve to hear that. She should have been more careful, more focused on the present and what was ailing her husband. But there was no changing it now. She only wished Logan was more open to discussing it further and fixing whatever was wrong. If only he could allow her to assure him that she loved him and wanted their marriage to succeed.
But sadly, again, when they slipped into bed that night, he rolled over, faced the wall, and went straight to sleep. Emma felt completely shut out of his heart, his soul, and his mind.
It made her wonder if perhapsshewas the one with the problem. Having grown up in a small, isolated community with only books and a few dozen square miles of sand and grass to explore, maybe she was too analytical. She hadn’t known many people in her life. Most cameand went, remaining only briefly, providing a mere snapshot of who they were during that one specific year of their life.
And only a certain type of person agreed to spend a year in a place like Sable Island.
During her adolescence, Emma had read about Sigmund Freud and had become stimulated—intellectually—by the mysteries of the unconscious mind. She’d thrown all her fiery young passions into the study of psychology and human behavior, but it was all just words on a page. What did she really know about life and relationships and the real trauma that people endured in other places in the world? Maybe she knew far less about the human psyche than she believed.
Turning her head on the pillow, she looked at Logan, who was still facing the wall and snoring loudly.
He was her husband. She wanted desperately to understand him. At the same time, she didn’t want him to feel as if he were a research project.
In that moment, her baby kicked. Emma laid her hand on her belly, pressing here and there. It was obvious that the baby’s feet were low; it was not the head that was engaged toward the pelvis.
Emma squeezed her eyes shut and felt a burst of anxiety in all her nerve endings. Or perhapsterrorwas a better word.
Please, God. Help my baby turn in the coming days.
Emma didn’t want to die young like her mother. She wanted to live. There was so much of the world she had yet to experience. She wanted to know life beyond Sable Island, not death. She wanted to hold her baby in her arms, raise her child from infancy, and watch him or her grow through childhood and adolescence, long into adulthood. She wanted to know her grandchildren.
