“You can never lose me, Liza,” he’d said, brushing my tears away.
“I already have,” I said, “you have to go be a hero. I respect that. But I can’t be the girl the hero leaves behind. The one who puts her life on hold and prays the rosary six times a day, hoping it’ll keep you alive. I need you here with me. You can’t do that. Just like you need me to wait and believe it’ll eventually work out and everything will be okay. I can’t do that. Nothing has ever been okay, not in the whole history of my life, Tommy,” I had broken down.
“I’m not your dad. I’m not leaving you and never coming back. I wish you could see that. I wish you could know how much I love you, how my heart is so full of you there wouldn’t ever be room for anybody else. That anytime it got too hard and I wanted to quit, wanted to collapse during Hell Week, I thought about you and wanting to make you proud. Wanting to be strong enough to fight for you and protect you.”
“I don’t want you to fight for me. That’s the thing. I want you to stay with me. We just want different things out of life. It’s nobody’s fault,” I had said, voice quivering. I had half wanted him to convince me I was wrong. To make me believe we could make it despite the fear and the distance.
He had kissed my cheek, “What I want most out of life is you,” he had said, “but I guess I made a choice somewhere along the line that means I can’t have you. I enlisted. I can’t back out. I worked so hard—"
“No, I’d never ask you to! I don’t want you to give this up. You’ve wanted it for so long. I just wish things were different or I was the kind of girl who could deal with this. And not think every phone call was the worst news possible, and not cringe when the doorbell rings that it’s some soldier with a folded flag telling me how brave you were even to the last.”
“They only do that in movies,” he had teased fondly. He had folded me in his arms on my little green couch from Goodwill and held me.
“I can’t. I’m sorry,” I said, face buried in his chest.
“So, I guess this is it. One long kiss goodbye,” he said, heaving a sigh.
Then I had let it all go and just cried my heart out, soaking his shirt while he held me, so steadfast and caring despite the fact that I was breaking his heart. Tommy stroked my hair, cradled me in his arms, pulled me into his lap. Before long we were kissing. First, he kissed my tear-stained cheeks, then my lips, softly at first, lingering and sad. I had felt his sadness, tasted his disbelief, his devastation that I was breaking up with him. I had clung to him for so long. We had outgrown each other, I told myself. Ignoring the voice that insisted I could never outgrow Tommy O’Shea.
Once his hands had moved under my shirt, I felt the familiar tightening in my stomach, the slow throb of heat and desire pooling between my legs, the hunger, the need for him to fill me up. Just one last time. I choked on a sob, knowing this would be the last time Tommy and I would ever be together like this.
I had broken away from him then, face in my hands, wanting him so much, grieving so much at the same time.
“What is it, Liza?” he’d asked, bewildered.
“You’ll c—come back years f-from now. I’ll s-see you someplace, and it’ll be like we say hi or wave, but we don’t even stop. I’ll just be a girl you used to date. We’ll be so far apart, like this never happened. Like we were never this close. God, for so long I thought you were the other half of me, like you were what made up for everyone who had left me, everyone who hadn’t loved me enough to stay. I needed you so much, and you were always there for me, and you taught me how to trust someone and how to really love someone. I can never forget that. But I can never ever look at you like you’re just a guy I went to school with. Like this was nothing—" I had broken off, crying again.
“I swear to God, right now, I will never love anyone the way I love you. And if I see you in the street, I’m gonna kiss you. I don’t care if you’re with some other—with some guy.” He had to stop and take a breath because his voice broke. This was hurting him, hurting both of us so much. “You’re gonna belong to me then just like you did the night I took you to ride the Ferris Wheel.”
I hadn’t been able to answer. I had gulped down my tears, wiped my face hastily. I flung myself into his arms, desperate to show him one last time how much I loved him. How even if he didn’t mean it, he’d managed to make me feel better, to make me feel like I’d been important to him, even if I hadn’t been patient enough or mature enough to handle a long separation.
His t-shirt, damp from my tears, came off and my mouth found the anchor on his chest, the dark blue ink stark against his smooth, tanned skin. His breath caught in the good way and I knew he liked it. His fingers tangled in my hair and my arms went around his back. He had the most gorgeous back, muscular and broad, his six-foot-two frame built perfectly.
I kissed my way up to his neck, sucked the spot I knew made him groan, and relished the sound and the fact I had the power to please him like that. I had pushed up on my knees and straddled his lap, my skirt pooling around us. His big hands snuck under my dress and moved up my legs. I wound my arms around his neck. I loved giving him this slow, seductive kiss, letting him know in no uncertain terms that I still loved him and that losing him was the worst thing I had ever had to do.
At the recollection of what happened next between us, I was powerless to resist the urge to run my hands all over my body. I was aching for him, for the people we’d been when we were younger, for the way he had touched me and cherished me as no one else ever had. My body was aflame with the memory. So I gave in.
All alone, thousands of miles from my home and with no safe harbor in sight, I lost myself in a memory from a decade ago. A memory of Tommy O’Shea wanting me so intensely that he couldn’t wait to get me to the bed. My questing hand slid down my sweat-damp body in the dark, humid room and burrowed between my legs. I squeezed my eyes tight shut and imagined it was him.
I remembered the night we parted, how urgent and bittersweet every kiss and caress had been. Desire coursed through me just as it had when his hot mouth trailed down my sensitive neck. My handsome boyfriend, home from the Navy, on the cusp of his first deployment, had branded me as his own, made me cling to him and beg. I had begged for more. I had wept and begged him to stay, to my eternal shame. I had known he would refuse, and it had been the right thing for him to do. I had sworn I wouldn’t ask it of him. He had been within me, his cock driving into me with that wild rhythm that had me arching my back, grinding against him, tears leaking from my eyes. I couldn’t bear the thought of a life without this, without him. I debased myself by begging that night. The shame washed over me even as I rubbed hard between my legs, swallowing the lump in my throat, the sorrow and the guilt I felt.
Every second of that night was vivid for me, blinding in its clarity. The way his calloused fingers skated up my inner thigh and parted my outer lips, the way he had inserted first one long finger, then another inside me, working me, opening me so his massive, thick erection wouldn’t hurt me. My tender lips parted for him, hungry for him. I had ridden his hand as he ground his palm against my clit, making me see stars as I came, crying his name. I had collapsed against his shoulder to catch my breath, and he had shamelessly fingered me until I splintered again with an orgasm that made my breasts ache and my stomach cramp with its intensity. He had covered his mouth with mine, swallowed my whimpers and my screams, grinning against my lips. My whole body clenched at the recollection, of how pleased he was at satisfying me so fully.
As I rubbed myself to orgasm with thoughts of the gorgeous, incomparable man who got away, I may have choked back a sob. I wasn’t going to feel sorry for myself. This was a hell of my own making. It was only natural to revisit every major regret of my adult life, I guess.
I slept badly, dreaming of Tommy walking away from me, of trying to run to catch up with him and having him ignore me. It was frustrating and I woke up pissed off by it. I needed to take charge of my situation. I’d start by finding a job. I couldn’t use my own
name or job record, so I just figured I’d look for something low level that I could work under the table—fry cook at a diner, something where I didn’t have to face the public in case the Mob had sent people looking for me.
I used the spotty free Wi-Fi at a nearby diner to look for a local job. My cheap prepaid phone didn’t have the best browser, but I found some possibilities. And one of them was for a line-cook at O’Shea’s Pub. I shouldn’t have felt excitement bubble in me. I shouldn’t have wanted to work there, near people who knew him and maybe even see him from a distance. It filled me with warmth to think of it. It could be a sign of better things to come, stumbling across this job opening.
I called the number, nervousness riding in the pit of my stomach. A man answered. “Connor O’Shea,” he said, “O’Shea’s Pub. How can I help you?”
“I’m calling about the cook job,” I said. “I just moved here, but I’ve worked in restaurants before. And I really need the job.”
“All right. I’m going to start doing interviews tomorrow morning. Name?”
I paused. Then I gave him my fake name, the one I’d registered at the motel with.
“Adriana Thomas,” I said. I winced a little, knowing why I’d chosen Thomas for my passport. Because of Tommy.
“I’ll see you at 9:30 then,” he said. I thanked him, nervous, and started making notes for the interview, knowing I couldn’t give an authentic resume, but I needed to give him a list of experience. This wasn’t going to be easy. Nothing had been easy in so damn long I couldn’t even remember.
Chapter 5
Tommy
The sky was clear, and the waves were perfect. It was the kind of day that even a single picture of it would make people dream of coming here for a vacation. Or to stay. I’d known I would stay before I ever set foot in the place. My four brothers had settled here. I trusted their judgment in such matters, and I wanted to be near them when I started over. That had been the real gift of my military career—retiring so young to start another life.
St. Martin was postcard-perfect, and the living was easy. My brothers were already established by the time I got there, and things fell right into place. I fit in as a bartender, easygoing, gregarious and ready to make people laugh. Truth was, it was Connor’s pub, but a lot of the regular crowd came back because of me. My wild drink recipes that changed every month on special. My Irish jig lessons. My samples on the line outside the door, and my personality. Locals like to be recognized and treated like family, not like the tourists who were just a paycheck—although they like to feel seen and be charmed as well. Most days I got to sleep in and then stay up late, which suited me. It was a fun job, and I didn’t have all the responsibility of owning a business. I wasn’t opposed to going out on my own that way, I just hadn’t been inspired by the kind of idea that made me want to start my own place. And as far as I could tell, a lot of life was knowing how to be happy where you were in the moment.
In the moment, I was surfing with Brendan. The whisper of cool spray off the waves kept me from being too hot in the scorching sun, and the easy shift of my balance on the board as I flexed my legs and abs kept me alert, not dozing off on the beach or floating along aimlessly. I liked the way the board sliced through the curl, and I liked the satisfaction of a clean ride all the way to shore. I tipped my chin up at Brendan who nodded his approval.
“You could always pick up hours here teaching lessons,” he offered.
“Not everything has to be business,” I pointed out. “If you need the help I’ll pitch in, but I’m not looking for extra work.”
“I love getting to teach surfing for a living. And I like the people who work for me. I just wish I didn’t have to be away from Elise so much.”
“She has a job, right? The ad agency? I mean, she’s not sitting at home, like, crying for you to come back.”
“No,” he said, rolling his eyes, “you’d understand if you had a wife.”
“Afraid she’ll cheat?” I said in mock sympathy.
“No, asshole,” he said good-naturedly, “I just miss her. I miss my kid. All of it. That’s my real life. For years, this was my real life. Out on the water. It wasn’t enough.”
“Where is this going?” I asked, suspicious.
“Con told me what you talked about.”
“Jesus, men are the worst gossips around,” I groaned.
“It’s about time you came to your senses about settling down,” he said. “I know I was the only one of us who went looking for what I found. I always wanted a wife and a family. The rest of you thought I was nuts, if I remember correctly. But I knew what I wanted. I knew not to let her go. That I’d regret it for the rest of my life.”
“Good for you. I’m glad you have what you wanted,” I said, bristling a little. “But I’m not eating my heart out for a woman. I don’t think it’s as simple as saying I want to find someone. Which I’m not saying I do. I like my life the way it is. I go surfing with you or diving with Mick. Billy’s hikes are boring, and you can tell him I said so,” I laughed.
“I will,” Brendan chuckled.
“Come on. I have been walking since I was one year old. I gotta pay a guide to tell me how?” I laughed. “Oh look there’s a bird. Now I’ve given you the tour.”
“Shocking that he doesn’t ask you to help when he’s shorthanded,” Brendan said sarcastically.
“True. I’d be brilliant at it. He’s probably intimidated. Afraid I’d get so many mentions in his yelp reviews that he’d have to pay me the big bucks to work there full time. Because obviously everyone who made a reservation would ask for me.”
“I’m sure. They’d all say, ‘I want the guide who points out one bird and then acts proud of himself’,” Brendan said.
“The one who doesn’t bore them with naming plants and shit. They’re here to see the pretty scenery and take some pictures. It’s not like they want to get their botany degree afterward. I mean, the guy knows his stuff. That’s great and all, but you don’t have to tell everyone everything you know about, like, ferns.”
“Wow,” Brendan said, “You’re really stuck on Billy pissing you off.”
“Doesn’t Billy piss you off?”
“All the time, but that’s who he is. All of you piss me off.”
“That’s our job, big brother,” I said.
I paddled out and rode another wave before sitting down by him on the sand and drinking some water. The sun was baking me, and I guzzled down my cold water with relief.
“So have you met anybody lately that gets you thinking about the future?” Brendan asked.
“No. Is this an interrogation?”
“No. I’ve done those in the past. Nasty business,” he said. “Let’s just say I take an interest because you’re family.”
“We’re not in the Mob,” I reminded him.
“You know what I mean. We’ve always been close, all five of us, and even more so after we all moved down here. We look out for each other. So it’s natural that I’m interested in whoever you’re seeing that’s got you thinking about giving up the playboy lifestyle.”
“Playboy lifestyle? I tend bar. I don’t sit around in satin pajamas with half-dressed blondes draped all over me. I’m not saying I’d mind—it sounds like fun—but it’s not my lifestyle as you call it. I don’t even date that often. I’m at the pub six nights a week and some days too.”
“You’re a hard worker. I know that. I just mean—out of all of us, you seemed like the least likely to want a woman for longer than a week or two. I mean, what’s your relationship record?”
“Longest relationship? Three years, ten months.”
“Liza,” he said, almost groaning.
“What about her?” I said, teeth gritted.
“Nothing. But it’s been a long time. I don’t think a girlfriend from high school counts.”
“Whatever,” I said, resisting the impulse to argue with him about it. There was no point.
“You’ve got to start going out with a diff
erent kind of woman. No more eager tourists. Find a local, somebody over twenty-five for a change.”
“Not my fault young women love me,” I said.
“Set your sights a little higher. Someone with a brain, someone you can talk to. Have a life with,” he advised.
I shrugged. I didn’t need his advice on what to look for. I’d know it when I saw it. I’d known when I was seventeen years old, the first time I kissed Liza. I’d found it. She’d broken my heart. I broke hers. I knew what to look for. I just wasn’t crazy about taking the chance. It had been a long road back from her, to a time when I could even look at a woman. As long as I kept things light and everybody had fun, I was fine. If I considered getting serious, that gut punch of losing Liza came back like it was just yesterday. I had to get in the frame of mind that it was worth the risk. That I would find somebody new that made me feel even a shadow of what I felt for her. That I could find somebody I liked well enough to get married and have kids. I couldn’t hope for real love. That kind of thing only happened once in a lifetime, and I’d found and lost mine way too young to have any hope of lightning striking a second time.
After a few more waves, I toweled off. My phone rang and I looked down to see Connor’s name on the display.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Found us a new cook. We can start training her tomorrow. That way nobody burns out and quits. She’s about your age and made some damn fine homemade mozzarella sticks. Used special breadcrumbs and shit.”
“Panko?” I said, the memory from another lifetime.
“I guess,” he said, “They were crunchy and had some heat.”
I shook my head to clear it, “That’s great,” I said. “See you tonight.”
Chapter 6
Liza
There was literally no reason to be nervous about starting the job. I’d made way more gourmet food than what they wanted. I could make cheeseburger sliders and beer-battered onion rings and their working-class Irish meat and potatoes or stew just fine. I looked forward to it, to getting back in the kitchen again. I was nervous because I knew why I’d chosen O’Sheas. I’d wanted to see Tommy. I needed it like air, the sight of him, the sound of his voice. He’d hate me. I knew that, and I didn’t even blame him. But seeing him would bring me back to myself, or that’s what I believed. It would give me back the piece of me he’d taken when he left for Iraq years ago. The pieces I never got back. Maybe that’s what I’d been looking for all these years, fragments of myself.
Tommy’s Baby Page 3