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“Tell me what you plan to name him.”
With another burst of energy, the pup leapt from Courtney’s arms and tore off, this time upsetting papers off a small end table before dashing partway up the stairs, then back down.
Both women began to laugh. “How about Tyrant?” Courtney suggested, gathering up the pages that had fallen. “I think the name’s fitting, don’t you?” She glanced at the papers she held, her brows arching in surprise. “I didn’t realize Mr. Scollard was building himself a cottage.”
“He isn’t.”
“But look: these are sketches, not far from the water’s edge, it appears.
He’s obviously planning to build this cottage.”
“He is.”
“But you just said—”
“I meant he wasn’t building it for himself.”
“Then who is he building it for?”
“I’ll let Mr. Scollard tell you. Oh, here he is.
Good morning, Mr. Scollard.”
“Good morning, ladies.” With a warm smile, the lighthouse keeper approached them from the kitchen, placing a tray of tea and cakes upon the table. “Happy birthday, Courtney. Ah, I see you’ve found your gift.”
Courtney blinked. “Oh—you mean Tyrant.” She glanced over to where the pup was now contentedly chewing on a biscuit that had definitely not been there before. Then, again, in Mr. Scollard’s lighthouse, one expected magic.
“No, I didn’t mean your new friend—although he is a charming devil. I meant the drawings.”
“I don’t understand.”
Mr. Scollard pointed. “The cottage. Do you like it?”
“It looks lovely. But why would…?”
“A place to call home when on land. ’Tis most important, wouldn’t you agree?”
Courtney felt a slash of pain as she remembered having used those words to describe what she’d wanted for herself and her father. “Of course I agree. And I don’t mean to appear ungrateful. I’m just puzzled.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll be residing at Pembourne with Slayde and Aurora.”
“Of course you will,” Mr. Scollard said patiently. “I don’t expect you to live in the cottage, only to accept it as a gift.”
“But then, who…?”
“Happy birthday, Courtney.”
It was Slayde’s voice, deep and resonant, that reached her ears, and Courtney looked past Mr. Scollard to see her future husband emerge from the bedchamber, guiding a weak but beaming man into the room.
All the color drained from Courtney’s face. “Papa?” she choked out.
Arthur Johnston took the remaining steps on his own, holding out his arms to his daughter. “Courtney—” His voice broke. “Happy birthday.”
“Oh, God—Papa.” She rushed to him, hugged him fiercely, tears of joy coursing down her cheeks, drenching his shirt. “You’re alive. Dear God, you’re alive. Not just alive, but here. With me.”
Amid her emotional litany, she heard her father’s murmured assent, felt the trembling of his hand as he stroked her hair. Desperately, she focused on that reassuring motion, the gentle pressure of his palm tangible evidence that she wasn’t dreaming, that this impossibly wonderful illusion was in fact reality.
