The Pregnancy Discovery

‘Yeah. I’m afraid my eyes are boring, boring.’

Hardly boring, Sam, she thought, but didn’t dare say so. She lifted her feet out of the suds and rested her toes on the end of the bath, wondering if she should apply some nail polish to make them more glamorous and, the very next second, wondered why they needed to look glamorous.

‘OK,’ he added, ‘try this. While you’re soaking in the tub, practise saying, “Yes, Sam, I’d love to join you for dinner.”’

To her amazement, Meg heard herself purring a reply in her very best attempt at an American accent. ‘Yes, Sam, I’d lurve to join you for dinner.’

‘Wonderful. I’ll meet you at your place at seven.’

She nearly dropped the phone. ‘Hold on! I was only copying your accent! That wasn’t a real acceptance.’

‘Oh, but Meg,’ he replied, his voice warm and hinting somehow that he was smiling his hottest smile, ‘it was a very, very real invitation.’

When he didn’t hang up but waited in silence for her response, Meg closed her eyes and willed herself to be strong. She was furious with this man. She should have hung up as soon as she’d heard his voice.

Letting out her breath on a gusty sigh, she told him, ‘Nice try, Sam Kirby but, as I said at the start, give up.’

‘Now, that,’ he replied in a husky baritone, ‘is a distinct challenge. I can warn you now, Meg Bennet, if I set myself a goal, I never give up.’

‘And what goal are you aiming for?’

There was a long pause and Meg thought she heard a faint chuckle. ‘I’d settle for your acceptance of my apology. For yesterday.’

Meg closed her eyes. ‘OK. Apology accepted,’ she whispered.

‘Good,’ he said simply. ‘And dinner?’

After a beat, she answered, ‘Dinner declined.’

She disconnected the phone and let it drop onto the bath mat and, sinking beneath the sudsy water, she wished she felt more pleased about turning Sam down.

CHAPTER THREE

AS SHE ate her simple supper of cheese on toast, Meg tried not to think about what it would have been like to be dining with Sam. She kept reminding herself that he and the bottle would soon be going home to the United States and she was wise to stay well out of the way. How silly she’d been to imagine that somehow her own destiny was linked to that bottle.

The only connection she had was stumbling across it on the beach and giving way to natural curiosity.

Finishing her meal, she carried her plate through to the kitchen and decided she’d seen too much significance in finding the bottle. Perhaps she’d been grasping at straws. There was a good chance she’d been looking for anything that would help her out of the depressing loneliness she felt these days. Ever since her father had died just three months ago.

It had been bad enough giving up her postgraduate studies in marine biology to nurse her dad through the last horrible months of his illness. But nothing had prepared her for the bereft emptiness of her life after he’d died. He was all the family she’d had. Her mother had died when she was only little and her father had meant everything to her. Since his death, Meg thought she had discovered the utter depths of loneliness.

But tonight she felt more desolate than ever.

The sand crunched beneath Sam’s shoes as he walked towards the water. By the light of a glowing white moon, Florence Bay looked beautiful. On either side of the bay, dark rocky headlands curved out to protect the deserted beach. Hoop pines, rising majestically from between granite boulders, were silhouetted in inky black strokes against the gun metal sky.

The dark water lapped gently.

Somewhere out there in the wider ocean beyond the reefs, Tom Kirby lay at rest. Thinking about his grandfather and the bottle, he hunkered down on the sand and stared ahead. These past few years, he’d been working so hard he hadn’t stopped to contemplate anything deep or meaningful—like death and the hereafter. Or life for that matter.

Lately, he’d been sensing an uneasy awareness that his own life was hurtling forward like a runaway train and he wasn’t at all sure he was heading in the right direction. He was doing the right thing by his family—carrying on the Kirby tradition—and working damn hard to keep it successful—and playing hard, too, when time permitted. But he knew deep down that neither his work nor his play was really making him happy.

Lost in thought, he didn’t hear footsteps so, when a voice suddenly sounded close behind him, he jumped to his feet.

‘Sam, what are you doing here?’

‘Meg!’

She was standing a metre or so away from him, her face pale and her eyes wide with surprise. She was wearing a soft blue sweater and white jeans and, in the moonlight, her hair had a silvery sheen and she looked breathtakingly lovely.

He turned and extended an arm towards the sea. ‘It may sound a little weird, but I’m paying my respects.’

‘To your grandfather?’

‘Yeah.’ Sam shoved his hands in his pockets to prevent himself from reaching for her. ‘I rang my lawyers this afternoon. They’ve been doing some research for me and I couldn’t believe what they told me.’ He kicked at a knob of bleached coral lying on the sand. ‘Tom Kirby died on this day—this very day—in 1942. In the Battle of the Coral Sea.’

‘Oh.’ She sounded suitably shocked.

‘Weird coincidence, isn’t it?’ He swallowed the constriction in his throat. Then he smiled at Meg. ‘But maybe an even better coincidence is that I am seeing you this evening after all,’ he murmured huskily. ‘You never know, maybe we’re destined for each other, Meg.’

Meg was sure Sam was teasing and she felt more than a little miffed that he might be making fun of her. Lifting her chin defiantly high, she shifted her concentration from his strong, handsome face to their surroundings—the little bay and the moon and the rocky headlands.

Time to leave, or to come up with a quick change of subject. Reluctant to hurry back to her lonely cottage, she changed the subject. ‘For some reason, those rocks always remind me of shelled Brazil nuts.’

Sam’s eyebrows rose. ‘That’s an interesting association of ideas. I wonder where it comes from?’

She smiled. ‘I know exactly where it comes from. I’m crazy about Brazil nuts.’ And for a moment she was absorbed by memory. She was sitting once more at a dining table, laden with Christmas fare, and she could see her father’s strong hands wielding the silver nutcracker, breaking open the hard shell and handing her a pure smooth Brazil nut.

‘My father always used to crack them for me and, when he gave me one, he would joke… “Would you like a nut, Meg?” Of course, his nickname for me was Nutmeg.’

‘Nutmeg,’ Sam repeated. ‘I like that.’ He turned to look at her. ‘Does your father live here on the island?’

‘My father’s dead,’ she told him in a shaky whisper.

‘I’m sorry.’ His hand reached out and rubbed her shoulder gently.

‘You know he used to warn me that there are no guarantees in life. He reckoned the only thing you can be sure of is that the angles of a triangle will always add up to one hundred and eighty degrees.’

‘Sounds like he got one or two nasty shocks along the way.’

‘Well, yes. He worked as a draftsman for the same company for thirty-five years and then suddenly they made him redundant.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Just like that. Downsizing they called it. Profits were more important than loyal and talented employees.’

Sam’s jaw clenched and he swung away so that he no longer looked at her. ‘Sometimes the guys running big companies have to make difficult choices.’

‘And their answers are always about money,’ she responded bitterly.

‘Money,’ he repeated grimly. His hand was still resting on her and suddenly he smiled at her again and obviously decided to have his own stab at changing the subject. ‘As you accepted my apology so nicely this afternoon, we can start afresh, can’t we?’

Meg was sure she should have clarified exactly what Sam thought they were starting. But perhaps it was the setting, or her loneliness, or even moonlight madness, but she suddenly didn’t want to be wary or cautious any more. ‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘I guess we can.’