Sandy Kisses by the Sea

by Traci Hall

  “Bastard. He should have helped you out!”

  “Ronan, just listen, okay?”

  He exhaled. She did not need a knight on a white horse. “Listening. Got it.” Ronan traced the rose petal inked around her wrist.

  “Nana helped as much as she could, but eventually Mom couldn’t afford our house and we had to move. Nana let us stay with her but Mom went out all the time, and came home messed up. I was six, so I remember a little bit. Mom and Nana yelling, and then her tearing me out of Nana’s arms and leaving the house. It was raining, and I didn’t have my coat. I didn’t want to go. I cried and cried, but Mom told me if I didn’t shut up, I’d never see Nana again.”

  Ronan’s heart bled for the little girl Lucia had been. He tried to understand Lucia’s mother, knowing that drugs and alcohol changed a person’s character, but his fury remained pointed at the adult. Her father, too.

  “Did she leave you at your grandmother’s house?” He gave Lucia a squeeze, grateful that she’d had someone to love her.

  “I wished for that every day of my life, but no. Mom didn’t leave me with Nana. Sometimes Mom had a place for us to stay; sometimes we’d break into abandoned cars or buildings. She’d turn tricks for drugs.” Lucia shivered and Ronan pressed a kiss to the back of her curly head—turning tricks? Oh, hell. “She never sold me, though.”

  “What?” Ronan regretted his outburst but Jesus, he hadn’t even realized that might be an option and his skin pebbled. His ideas of how Lucia had been raised were way off course from the reality.

  “She threatened me with it all the time.” Lucia’s voice was low, almost a whisper and he ached for the scared girl she must have been. “It kept me quiet as she went about her business. But she never did it. Protected me, I guess, in her own weird way.”

  “Lucia…” He felt sick. Tears filled his eyes but he swallowed them down, determined to be strong for her.

  “I told you this was hard to talk about. I never imagined it would be hard for you to hear. But I feel it, from you.” She peered at him then back out the window. “I can stop...” She hugged her knees to her chest, and rested her cheek on her kneecaps.

  “You can tell me.” He gritted his teeth. “Trust me. You’re right, though—listening is tough.” He rubbed her arm—her skin was cold in the warm room. “I want to go back in time and be your hero. Know this-there is nothing about you that I can’t love. No matter what happened. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, a dark curl falling down her back.

  Ronan breathed in the coconut scent of her shampoo, grounding himself in her and offering her his warmth as she gathered her thoughts.

  “There weren’t holidays, or birthdays,” she said. “Sometimes Mom would take us to a place where we could shower, and get a sandwich. The ladies that worked there were always really nice and they reminded me of Nana. Once they gave me a new sweatshirt that still had the tags on it. I didn’t cut them off, I was that excited to have something new. If Mom was in a good mood, I’d get color books and crayons. If she was in a bad mood, there were black eyes and bloody lips.”

  Can’t fix it. “Why didn’t you tell one of the ladies about your grandmother?”

  “I made that mistake once.” She held up a finger. “And Mom moved us to another state. Let me know that it was all my fault that we had to start over again.”

  Ronan absorbed Lucia’s pain, marveling at her strength and resilience. It was a miracle, and a testament to her that she’d come through her childhood not becoming an addict. “It wasn’t, you know that?”

  “Now.” She remained stiff in his arms, her voice monotone. “Like I said, I’ve had a lot of therapy.”

  He brushed his hand over her hair, resting his fingers on her hip. “Did your mom get married just that one time?” Somebody should have taken care of Lucia.

  “No. She married three times. Somehow she stayed pretty, until the end.”

  “The end?”

  “Well, yeah. She died at thirty-six. I tried to support us the best I could, once I turned sixteen and could work legit. I answered phones in a tattoo parlor. Thank you Henry, for giving me the skills! We stayed in a rat-invested apartment for about six months. My only rule was that she couldn’t bring men home. I’d pay the rent and utilities if she’d do her thing where I didn’t have to hear it. One night, she didn’t come home.”

  Ronan felt the rapid beating of her heart, and leaned down to kiss the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat. Dread thickened his vocal chords. “What happened?”

  “Some scroungy dude with a milky eye and no teeth knocked on the door, told me he’d dragged her body to the curb, if I wanted to say good-bye before someone called the cops.” Her eyes stayed dry in the retelling.

  “What did you do?” He couldn’t even imagine what she’d just told him. It didn’t make sense on any level.

  “I left. I mean, I hadn’t turned eighteen yet. Nana was already dead. Nobody cared–who was there to call?” Her voice hitched as she admitted, “I felt relief, Ronan. Relief that she was out of pain, and that she wouldn’t suffer anymore. I could move on–so I did.” Her body was like a block of unforgiving cement in his arms. How could he reach her? How could he make her understand?

  He wrapped her tighter in the circle of his arms, holding her secure, until she gradually relaxed.

  “I was right,” Ronan said, burying his nose in her curls. “You aren’t broken. You are strong. Like a sword forged in the hottest fire.”

  “Is that what you think?” She glanced back at him, then returned to staring out the window.

  “I know it.” He wouldn’t have had the first clue how to survive on his own at sixteen, let alone take care of a drug-addicted parent.

  “I’m not strong.” She lowered her legs to the side, red tulle around knees. “Lightning makes me cry. I can’t tell you how scary it is being in the trunk of a car during a storm. In a junk yard? Everything attracts lightning. I was sure I was going to die before I hit ten.”

  Ronan bowed his head, cursing her dead mother, her father. Loving her. “You didn’t.” Thank God.

  “Henry told me to be tough.”

  “Who is Henry?”

  “The third guy my mom married. He was the one who taught me about tattoos, and he liked my drawing. He told me to learn to take care of myself, stay away from booze, and men, and be tougher than leather. Oh, and to take care of Mom.”

  “What happened to him?” He’d like to meet the guy who’d shown Lucia an ounce of kindness.

  “Mom messed it up. She couldn’t stay straight, and Henry wouldn’t give her money for drugs. She went back to hookin’ behind his back.”

  Ronan felt Lucia’s body tremble though her voice stayed steady. Dull.

  “I had no choice, but to take care of Mom. Henry gave me my first tattoo kit. My first sketching pad. I owe him.”

  “Have you ever gone back to find him?”

  “Dead. Cancer.” She shifted. “He really loved us, but it wasn’t enough. That’s what I keep trying to tell you, about marriage. That piece of paper don’t mean squat when one of the “blessed” couple has a change of heart. And I’ve seen it plenty-someone always feels differently. Usually by the next morning.”

  He got it. Understood her so much clearer. His Lucia had been abandoned over and over. Yet she’d been strong enough to not only learn a valuable, skilled trade, but to take care of herself.

  “I’m proud of you.”

  She eased from his arms, talking to the moving water. “Why do you say that?”

  “You are an amazing person, to survive your childhood and thrive. You’ve made your way in a tough world. What’s not to love?”

  “You don’t get it.” She closed her eyes, long lashes resting against the freckled curve of her cheek.

  “Explain it.” He wrapped his hands around her knees, pulling her back, keeping her close. Feeling as if he were losing his grip on something ethereal.

  “Every man I’ve tried to have a
relationship with seems to think that I am a victim.” She pulled free of his embrace and looked over her shoulder at him. “I’m not.”

  “I know that.” Ronan had never thought of her that way. To him she was vibrant, strong, independent. So beautiful, from her polished toes to the curls of her shiny hair.

  “So you say. I can’t help but wonder if there is some sort of vibe I put out that says, hey, cheat on me, or knock me around a little. I’ve worked extensively on balancing the feminine part of me with being tough. I admit, when things go to hell, it’s easier for me to start over.”

  Code for run off. “What would happen if you didn’t leave?” He held his breath, waiting for her to declare undying love and devotion—damn it, didn’t she realize she could count on him?

  “I’ve never chosen that door.” She shrugged, her demeanor heavy. “I don’t know how.”

  He rested his forehead against the back of her dark hair. “I can show you. Give me a chance.”

  “I’m the equivalent of an emotional third grader when it comes to relationships.” She tensed and he wished they were having this conversation in their hammock on the beach. “I watched my mother make mistake after mistake.”

  “People make mistakes,” Ronan said. “Your mom had other issues. Addiction takes over the person.” He would save Lucia, no matter what demons pulled at her feet.

  “That person still needs to take responsibility for their deeds.” She sighed. “I made my peace with my mother years ago. Out of necessity. I chose not to have relationships. Out of fear? Self-protection?” Again with a shrug. “I shared my story because you asked. It doesn’t change who I am. Which is not marriage material.”

  He finally heard her words, and held her close. He didn’t blame her for viewing marriage as a sham. “You might be right.”

  Chapter Three

  Surprised, relieved, Lucia turned around on the window seat, drawing her knees to her chest. She met Ronan’s compassionate gaze. “You understand?” No marriage!

  “I can’t begin to understand completely–but because you’ve been brave enough to share your story with me, I realize that trying to force you into the role of happy bride to a bar owner isn’t cool. I still love you. I rushed you, when I should have been patient and waited.”

  “You’re wrong, Ronan. You didn’t get it.” Sharing her past made it very clear to her that they did not belong together at all. “I don’t even have a goldfish. Haven’t you noticed my inability to commit?”

  “You’ve committed to this apartment. You have a lease.”

  “I don’t have a lease,” she confessed, her thumbnail to her lower lip. “I rent month to month.”

  His expression darkened. “Why did you lie?”

  “I felt cornered!” Which wasn’t the whole truth, though she’d worked on her feelings since then. His suggestion that they move in together had brought a spurt of panic that she’d diligently acknowledged and put aside to look at later.

  Then he’d gone and proposed, which meant later had to happen now. No lying to herself, of all people.

  “You can always tell me the truth.”

  She refrained, barely, from rolling her eyes. “You don’t listen.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  Because it was a matter of his happiness, she pointed toward the door. If it was just her, she could take the pain, roll the dice and hope for a chance to tweak fate’s nose. But Ronan came with family and seventy years of traditions.

  “I can’t marry you. I do not want to marry you.” She got up from the window seat, curling her toes against the chill of the tile. “But hey, you’re welcome to shack up with me for a while–just until I leave. Make the most of the time we have left, you know?” She rested her hand on her hip, doing her best to act like a floozy.

  Honorable Ronan did what she’d never seen from a man in all her life. “Not good enough, Lucia. I want the whole package. Dad was right–I should have waited a few days before talking with you. Right now I want to yell, shout, or punch a wall.”

  “Go ahead,” she said, knowing he had more self-control than that.

  “No. I’m going for a run on the beach. Think about what you’ve said, and what it means for me. Marriage is forever with us O’Neills. Love is not something we take lightly. It’s a gift, Lucia. Not a curse.”

  She wanted to believe him, but couldn’t. “You didn’t grow up the same way I did, and that matters more than you’re giving it credit.”

  “Bullshit.” Ronan’s blue eyes blazed. “You are an amazing woman. You don’t drink, or smoke, or have a crack addiction. You turned challenges into opportunity, cruel twists that many other people have used as justification for a crappy life. Not you. You took the worst and made the best.”

  Lucia could hardly see, her vision was so blurred with tears she didn’t let fall. He walked to the door. She wanted him to stay, with all of her heart, she wanted to throw herself into his embrace and rest her cheek against his chest. The safe, resounding pounding of his heart called to her like home.

  “You have a way with words that I don’t, Ronan. You made me think I could fit in your world, but it’s a lie. You deserve a woman who wants the same things. Family, children, community. I’ve got the urge to travel–I need the ability to pick up and go. You wouldn’t love me so much then, if I left you with a handful of kids while I took off to satisfy my need for wanderlust.”

  “You wouldn’t abandon your family,” Ronan said, his voice bolstered with conviction.

  “Wouldn’t I?” Lucia didn’t think so–but what if? What if she had some genetic predisposition for being a bad mother? “I don’t know how you can be so sure, when I don’t even know. Think about that while you’re running your angst into the sand. You want a loving mom for your children, and I was raised by an alley cat. You want a partner in your life, and I was taught to play solitaire in the trunk of a car.”

  Ronan opened the door, his shoulders stiff. He was finally hearing what she had to say. He didn’t look at her as he left, pulling the door gently closed behind him.

  Lucia waited for a few minutes, her hand pressed to her belly. He didn’t come back. Nerves and anxiety made her stomach roll. Going to her tiny kitchen, she pulled a warm ginger ale from the cupboard and poured a glass. She sipped, her insides frozen.

  If she thought about what happened, she’d fall apart–and there was no time for that.

  She had things to pack.

  Ronan left Lucia’s apartment, walking the mile to his place near the bar. Born and raised in Ft. Lauderdale, he’d never left the state of Florida—graduated with a bachelor’s from Florida State University. Inheriting the bar with his siblings meant he’d taken business courses, and creative writing. The accounting to help his parents, the writing for his soul. He’d been raised on the ocean, taught to handle anger with exercise. Swimming, paddle boarding—and playing basketball in the front bar parking lot when it wasn’t too hot or humid.

  He unlocked the door to his third floor apartment, walked inside and went directly to his bedroom. Changing into shorts and running shoes instead of pressed jeans and a button up shirt, Ronan stretched and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. His heart ached at Lucia’s story.

  She’d had none of the advantages he’d had while growing up, and yet she’d made a name for herself as a tattoo artist. Remarkably reserved considering her peers, Lucia personified beauty and grace. Talent. Drive.

  Usually armed to the teeth with self-confidence, without arrogance, he’d gotten a peek inside her soul today, at her inner fears and doubts. God, if only she’d let him help. How to make her see she wasn’t her mother?

  He stepped outside, primed to outrun his own doubts but came nose to nose with his brother Jaime.

  Jaime had green eyes, red hair and a mischievous grin to put a leprechaun to shame. His brother’s eyes dimmed as he clapped his hand on Ronan’s shoulder. “Want to grab a beer and talk about it?”

  He looked at Ronan’s shoes, shorts
and the water bottle. “What?” Ronan asked, taking a drink. “No, man. I don’t need a beer.”

  “You’re giving the O’Neills a bad name, bro. Let me borrow a pair of shorts and we can shoot a few hoops. I hate to run. It’s pointless. At least with basketball I can kick your ass, which makes the effort worthwhile.”

  Ronan shook his head. “I’m fine–but you know where they are.” He stepped back to let his brother pass. Ronan was thirty, Jaime thirty-two. Married his high school sweetheart, who’d died in a hit and run three years back. No kids, and he swore he’d never marry again. That he’d had his love of a life time.

  Jaime appeared within moments, the basketball from the hall closet twirling on his finger. While he’d been changing, Ronan had brought the engagement ring from his pocket and opened it on the kitchen counter, his heart heavy as the diamond shimmered from his unshed tears. “Let’s go, bro,” Jaime said. “Should we call the others?”

  “I don’t even want to play with you,” Ronan grouched, averting his face from his brother’s sharp gaze. “So, no. Thanks.”

  “So she doesn’t want to marry you,” Jaime said. “It stings the pride, but what of it? Does she want out of the relationship now, too?”

  Ronan followed Jaime out of the apartment, locking the door behind him. “She says it isn’t personal. She doesn’t want to marry anybody.” Her childhood was a horror story, yet an ode to survival. What would he do if she really left the beach?

  “Listen, Ronan, what kind of woman works as a tattoo artist? Her tattoos are hot, don’t get me wrong. Lucia could give Kat Von D a run for her money, but still–she’s not room mother at the local Catholic school material. She knows it, which I’m guessing is part of the reason she said no. It isn’t because she doesn’t love you.”

  Ronan glared at his brother. “This is your pep talk?”

  Jaime spun the ball and started dribbling once they hit the uneven sidewalk outside the building. He passed the ball to Ronan. “Yeah. Is it working?”