Consequences of a Hot Havana Night

For a moment she thought he was going to say something, or that she should. It seemed as if something should be said, but what was the correct choice of words for this situation?

‘I’ll use the bathroom,’ she said unnecessarily.

Closing the bathroom door, she breathed out raggedly. Her hands were shaking a lot now, and she tore at the box clumsily. The instructions were written in English—not that she needed them. She’d taken dozens of tests when she’d tried to get pregnant before, but she still read them through carefully, just to make sure. She’d been careless enough already.

There—it was done.

She gazed down at the stick. It seemed unreasonable that such a small disposable object should carry such heavy expectations: hope and despair, excitement and disappointment, all wrapped up in a tiny piece of plastic.

Her heart was beating erratically, and suddenly she badly wanted to ring Lizzie—only her phone was in her bag, and her bag was wherever she’d left it last night.

But even as she reached for the door handle she knew this wasn’t something she could share with anyone but the man who was waiting patiently in her kitchen...

He was standing where she’d left him.

‘We have to wait now,’ she said quickly, putting the stick down on the counter. ‘For three minutes.’

His face was impassive. But then he didn’t love her, and this hypothetical baby wasn’t planned. It didn’t stop her wondering, though, how he would have looked if the situation was different? Would he have held her hand as they waited? Or discreetly checked his watch to check the time.

Her throat tightened. And when it was negative would he have pulled her into his arms and told her that it didn’t matter? That next time would be different.

‘Why did you become a distiller?’

She glanced up at him, startled. Why was he asking her that now?

‘I have a chemistry degree.’

‘The two aren’t necessarily connected,’ he said gently.

She stared at him in silence. She’d been planning to do a Masters in polymers after graduating, but then Jimmy had been diagnosed with cancer and it had been a struggle even to finish her degree.

Naturally everyone had wanted to help, and she had been happy...no, grateful...to take a step back, to let other people—doctors and nurses, her friends and of course her family—make the decisions and take charge of the situation. They had helped her care for Jimmy, and then to grieve for him.

But after time she’d realised that somewhere along the line she had taken one step back too many. She had never been an extrovert like Lizzie—never been bold or loud. But after Jimmy’s death she’d felt diminished, defeated, and so very tired of life. No amount of coaxing and cajoling could persuade her to leave the house.

And then Bill had asked her to help him at the distillery. Lizzie had set it up, of course, guessing correctly that she would always put other people’s needs above her own.

Remembering that first winter when she’d started working for Blackstrap, she almost smiled. The former salt shed was made of stone, and the distillery had been freezing. But she hadn’t cared. She had been too busy playing with spices, pulling on the knowledge acquired from her degree, blending and tweaking and chasing that elusive perfect flavour.

And working on the rum hadn’t just woken her taste buds, it had woken her from a kind of self-imposed hibernation. It had reminded her that she was still alive, and that even if she was alone she needed to live that life. Only now there might be a new life growing inside of her.

‘My brother-in-law asked me to help him. It was Bill’s idea to set up Blackstrap, but he was having a few problems with the flavour profile. He’s got the technical know-how, but he’s not very good at focusing.’

‘Luckily for him, you are.’

She stared at him in confusion. Why were they talking about her sister’s boyfriend? Surely he wasn’t interested in Bill and his lack of focus.

And then, as he glanced casually at his watch, she knew why. He had been trying to distract her.

‘I think it’s probably been three minutes,’ he said quietly.

Her heart contracted. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe.

‘It’s okay.’ Reaching out, he took her hand and squeezed it. ‘Do you want me to look first?’

‘No.’ She shook her head and picked up the stick.

Her throat tightened and suddenly it was hard to balance on her feet without gripping the counter. For a dizzying second she pictured Jimmy’s face, his smile, his tears.