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“But you don’t want to give up your clinic, do you?” asked Natalie. “Amanda and you have been building it for ten years.”

Jenny gave out an uncomfortable laugh. Suddenly, it was all becoming too serious and too much to the point. Through the roar of the boat’s engine and the noise of the waves crashing against its sides, the voice of her ex-husband was trying to break through in her mind. Deep down, deep, deep down, men want to take care of women and women want to be taken care of. If only you worked less and spent more time with me…if only we’d started a family earlier…

And he had started on a family—only, without Jenny. He had a two-year-old daughter now and his new wife was a stay-at-home mom. Exactly how he wanted his relationship to be.

And Jenny…Jenny had zero little girls, only a handful of eggs left, one empty apartment, and a terrifying, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that she was too late. That she’d never have her own baby to hold and to adore, to inhale that dear, sweet baby smell.

That Tom had been right. That it was all her fault. All of it. Had she given in and let him take charge and sold her part of the clinic to Amanda, she could have spent more time with him. He wouldn’t have cheated on her. They’d still be together. Had she started trying to get pregnant at thirty-two, like he’d suggested, she’d have her own little girl or boy to love and to spoil. A little girl or boy with Jenny’s naturally pale red hair and Tom’s green eyes.

“And I admire you so much,” said Kyla. “You and Amanda achieved what I have dreamed of but didn’t dare. And yet the four of us went to the same medical school.”

Jenny sighed. “I’m the one envious of what you have,” she said. “All of you have kids. Even if your marriage didn’t work out, Amanda, you still have a son. And you, Natalie and Kyla, you have happy families. It’s most likely too late for me.”

“Don’t say that,” Kyla said. “Women get pregnant in their late thirties and early forties all the time. Cameron Diaz had a baby at forty-seven. Naomi Campbell gave birth at fifty.”

The boat jumped over a wave and Jenny’s chin rattled. “Yes, but—”

Amanda linked her arm through Jenny’s. “Here’s what we’ll do.” She pointed at the sea. “The moment we step on that Irish coast, we go to a pub. And this time, you will come.”

“I came to the pubs in Scotland.”

“Yeah, right. I mean, this time, you will flirt with hot Irish men, and you’ll have lots of sex with them—yes, multiple them—and if you get knocked up…well…oops.”

The ladies giggled. “Amanda, don’t be silly,” said Natalie. “She won’t get knocked up by an Irish guy.”

“Because she should get knocked up by one of those Highlanders back in Scotland…” said Kyla over the glass of champagne.

They all laughed. It seemed Jenny was the only one who didn’t feel the humor.

“Oh yeah,” Amanda said. “As someone who’s tried the local cuisine multiple times…and tasted multiple dishes, if you get my meaning…I can highly recommend it.”

“We can even extend our holiday!” cried Natalie, raising her glass. “Yes, we have one week left, but we can just return to Scotland for a few more days…”

“Actually, we can’t,” said Jenny. “I have an appointment in two weeks to start the hormone treatment for egg extraction.”

The smiles on the girls’ faces fell. “Really? Has it come to that?” Kyla asked.

“Yeah. I only have ten more eggs left, and this is my last chance to have my own baby. And I’d still need to use a surrogate.”

They were all silent, looking at her with pity.

“Come on,” Jenny forced out with a smile. “Cheer up. Enough about me. We are celebrating Amanda’s divorce. Even if it’s not in warm and sunny Hawaii.”

“That’s the spirit!” cheered Natalie.

Amanda rolled her eyes. “I picked Scotland and Ireland because I wanted ‘real men’ who will take charge and call me ‘lass’ and make me forget everything. And let me tell you, Highlanders do exactly that.”

Jenny giggled. “Oh yeah? I’ll stick with Hawaii, where men are gentler and take care of you.”

“Oh, believe me, Scottish men can take care of you very well.” Amanda winked.

The roar of the ferry motor huffed and puffed. The boat jerked to a halt. Then started again. Then the roar turned to a weak droning and the boat stopped. As they rocked gently on the waves and the vibration of the motor that she had felt for the past hour died down, Jenny had the disorienting feeling of the floor moving under her feet.

There was nothing but open sea all around them, except for a small island with a lighthouse that rose above the water about five hundred feet away. The island was rocky, with an oval top, like a giant head sticking out of the sea. It must be about three hundred feet high and five hundred feet long. Typical for Scottish landscapes, green and yellow moss covered the steep slopes.

“What’s going on?” muttered Amanda.

The motor started again, and the boat moved but then died. Then again. This repeated six or seven more times before the captain’s door opened and the boatswain stepped onto the deck. He was a man in his sixties, with a balding head of gray hair and a short, gray beard over a sullen, deeply wrinkled face.