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He stops the car, turns off the engine, and unbuckles his seatbelt. My laughter ends as abruptly as it began, and I pick up the few items we bought and hug them to me like a shield.
He doesn’t try to touch me, though. “Come on,” he says gently. “It’s cold out here. Let’s get inside.”
We let ourselves in the lighthouse, which is pleasantly warm, as we left the heat pump on when we went out. Marc turns on the lamp while I hang my jacket by the door. My hands are shaking. This is so ridiculous. I’m going to have to do something or he’s not going to be able to get near me for the tremors.
“Hold on a minute,” I tell him as he turns toward me. “I have a present for you.”
I run up the stairs to the bedroom, open my case, and retrieve it, then come back down the stairs. He’s taken off his jacket and is standing by the window, looking out at the moonlight on the ocean.
“Look at that,” he whispers. “A pathway to the stars. How amazing is that?”
“It’s beautiful.” I stand beside him and hold out the present. It’s a sparkly silver paper bag containing a rectangular cardboard box, and as I pass it to him the liquid sloshes from one end to the other.
His eyebrows rise, and he takes the box out of the bag. It’s a bottle of Laphroaig whisky, his favorite.
“Jesus,” he says. “It’s a thirty-year-old.”
“Yeah. It’s supposed to be really nice.”
“That’s the understatement of the year.” His gaze slides to me. He knows his whisky—he must realize it cost nearly fifteen hundred dollars. For a second I wonder whether he’s going to turn it down, but instead his face breaks into an amazing smile. “Thank you.”
“Least I could do for what you’ve offered to do for me,” I say shyly. “Shall we have a glass?”
“You don’t mind? These are very peaty.”
“Oh, Dad’s a big fan of Islay malts. I’ve been well schooled.”
He grins. “Next time I see Charlie, I’m going to shake his hand.”
“He’d like that.” It’s the truth, I think, as I watch Marc retrieve two tumblers from the cupboard above the sink and begin to undo the bottle. Dad’s met Marc several times when he’s come to the Ark. Last time was at Hal and Izzy’s wedding, when he told me, “That Fitz is a solid guy, Poppy,” after Marc gave him a tour of the new buildings with Jack at his heels, then offered to play football in the field with Summer’s two boys. If I’m honest with myself, Dad giving him the okay was the moment the idea sprang into my head about asking Marc to be a sperm donor. I knew right then that if Dad thought he was a good guy, I couldn’t go far wrong in having him as the father of my child.
And then the second realization of the night hits me. If things go according to plan, I could be leaving the lighthouse at the end of the week already pregnant.
“Penny for them,” Marc says, handing me one of the tumblers.
Normally, I don’t say what’s on my mind, because I’m never sure what people’s reactions will be. But he asked me to talk to him, to be open with him, and so I decide to tell the truth. “I was thinking that by the time we fly home, I could be pregnant.”
He smiles. “That’s the plan.” He gestures at my glass. “Is it okay to have alcohol while you’re trying?”
“Obviously, I wouldn’t drink while I was pregnant, but there’s no evidence it’s harmful beforehand. I won’t get plastered, but I could do with a little Dutch courage.”
“Fair enough.”
I lift the whisky glass to my nose and take a sniff. Mmm, sweet fruits—mandarin and mango, and a touch of coconut. I take a sip and taste orange and vanilla—it’s amazing.
Marc runs his tongue across his teeth. “Fantastic.”
“Mmm.” I have another large mouthful. I’ve had two glasses of wine and I don’t want to be comatose, but equally I’m desperate to relax.
He takes my hand. “Come with me.”
My heart racing, I follow him as he climbs the steps. Is he going to want me to take my clothes off straight away? Will he let me put the light out? Oh God, I’m so nervous I think I’m going to be sick.
