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"Yes, those things too," Ruby agrees. She makes eye contact with Harlow, who nods at her that it's time. "What do you say we get comfortable in the living room and get back to the story?" she says, turning to Molly. "We're all eager to hear what happens next."
Molly flushes, pleased as ever at the level of attention that the other women are paying to her. She'd demurred only momentarily when Ruby called her to pitch the idea of a cocktail party/story hour, and it had been relatively easy to get her to agree to an evening as the guest of honor.
"I'm ready if you all are," Molly says, tipping her head towards the living room. "Shall we?"
The women all make their way into the front room, perching on chairs, couches, and the brick hearth of the fireplace, plates of sushi perched on their laps or resting on the coffee table next to glasses of wine, bubbly Prosecco, or mixed drinks. Ruby passes through the room with a bottle in each hand, filling up everyone's glasses as she goes.
Molly has been given the overstuffed arm chair near the picture window that looks out onto the beach. The sun has disappeared, and the sky is darkening behind her, stars twinkling to life above the horizon of the ocean.
"I guess we're all ready for the next bit, right?" Molly holds up her wine glass as Ruby passes by, and Ruby tops it off with merlot.
The women nod eagerly, taking bites of sushi and holding their drinks with anticipation. They all look like they're waiting for a movie to begin.
Molly relishes the moment and resettles herself in the chair, uncrossing and recrossing her legs as she switches her wine glass from one hand to the other. "Okay, we were on the Indian Ocean that July, sailing towards Cape Town and making our way to Europe on my little boat. Helena was an excellent deckhand and she never complained about anything I asked her to do. Things were going well, and the wind was in our favor. I should have known that it was all going too smoothly to last, but you never do in the moment, do you?"
Molly pauses, looking around the room. Ella is sitting on the couch between Harlow and Sunday, all three women leaning forward like they're on the edge of their seats.
"It was shortly after we'd made a pitstop in Cape Town that Helena started to throw up."
Athena sucks in a sharp breath. "Helena was sick?" she asks, eyes round with worry.
Molly gives a single, terse shake of her head. "Helena was pregnant."
Molly
"Are you okay?" Molly asked Helena as they pitched and rolled on the waves. The day was windy and the water was choppy.
Helena was hanging over the edge of the boat, dry-heaving and looking as green as anyone Molly had ever seen. She stood up and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, nodding grimly. "I'll be fine."
But she didn't look fine. She was able to help Molly manage the boat and the sails that day, but there was an underlying fatigue to everything she did that made Molly worry that she'd soon be caring for someone with a fever and a flu like the one she'd suffered through alone on her way to Fiji.
That night Helena slept on the couch so as not to wake Molly, and though having the narrow bed to herself was a treat, Molly slept fitfully, waking more than once to peer over at the young girl who was sleeping curled up on her side with a frown on her pretty face.
The vomiting continued on, tapering off until it was mostly a morning thing and frequently stimulated by canned green beans and the very mention of the condensed milk that Molly liked to pour over canned peaches and pears for a treat.
Finally, one afternoon as she was looking at a map and holding it firmly against the wind, Molly's head snapped to attention.
"Helena!" she called out, rousing her friend from her state of repose on the deck.
Helena had taken two towels and spread them out so that she could soak up a little sun after lunch. She lifted her head, squinting at Molly. "What?" she asked, sounding very British and very perturbed.
"Are you pregnant?"
Helena continued to squint, putting a hand on her forehead to shield her eyes. She blinked a few times. "I think I am," she finally said, her voice full of wonder. "Oh god."
Together the women sat at the small table in the galley, doing the math and piecing together the puzzle.
"So you haven't had your monthly in how long?" Molly asked, holding a pen in one hand.
Helena counted on her fingers. "Maybe ten weeks? I don't know..." She looked troubled.
"Is that normal for you?"
Helena shook her head, forlorn. "Not really. I was just stressed about everything and forgot, honestly. I thought maybe it went away from the stress."
"It can," Molly agreed, writing on the paper. "When my husband died I didn't have a period for a couple of months and I thought I might be pregnant, but the doctor said it was the physical stress of it all. It's amazing what can happen to your body when you have something major going on. But let's think," she said. She tapped the pen against the table, gazing out the small window over the kitchen sink. "Would this be...Professor Puffin's?"
Helena's eyes grew watery and large like saucers. "Yes," she said. "A few of his friends touched me, but not like that," she whispered, looking at her hands on the table. "I told them no."
