Sea Salt
A/N: The final chapter of On Loving A Wounded Boy- on AO3 here.
This story would not have been possible without the love and support of @hopefulfridays and @lacomandante both here and on AO3. They, and anyone else who’s read it, have my eternal gratitude.
Chapters 1-10 can be found on AO3 here
Miranda joins the Moreno-Sharpe and Harper families for an evening on the beach
The last lights of evening cast long, low shadows over the sea as they pull up in the twilit silence of the visitor’s carpark later that evening.
Richard had suggested an evening down on the beach, with a fire and a barbeque and the Kelly Kettle to make tea. The wind is light against Miranda’s upturned face, the tide just turning, the sun blazing over the sea.
The tussock grass that rises from the dunes is bent back against the force of the wind, the path a thin, shell strewn line that winds its’ way down onto the shore. Coils of bailer twine litter the path, shells and stones and bottle caps, bottles and cans from midnight drinkers kicked into the grass.
Harper picks up an old aerosol can and snarling unspoken displeasure earns a chuckle from Richard.
A flock of Dunlins take flight over the tide mark, rising together in a flurry of black barred wings, their silhouettes hanging in the vivid fire of the sky.
Miranda sees tangles of rope crowned with plastic bottles, washes of orange Polypheme net. As they clamber down on the shore, their shoes rubbing over shingle, she picks out seals’ vertebra, the bleached starkness of whale bone, a necklace of dry seaweed.
The sea air is sharp and sweet on her face, the wind blowing out a blustering of rain.
She exhales slowly, watching Ramona untangle little Patrick from her arms and letting him clamber the last few rocks down onto the softer sand.
Out in the inky darkness of the horizon she can just make out the distant rolls and peaks of coastline rising and falling as it sprawls out towards the west.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’
Teresa is at her shoulder, hugging herself into her coat, her nose tucked into her collar.
Her eyes are shining in the fading light, soft brown tendrils of hair caught with sparks of sunset framing her face.
Ben and Antonia’s shadows are just visible as they scout the dunes for firewood, a gale of laughter whispering back on the wind.
Sheltered under a dune, Richard and Harper set up the fire, laying out picnic blankets, finding rocks, a length of driftwood and an old blue fishing box for seats.
Little Patrick’s shrieks of laughter carry back from the shoreline, a tiny shadow clinging to Ramona’s guiding hands as they splash into the shallows.
‘Yes,’ Miranda replies, the word simple against her tongue, her mouth filled with salt-sharp sweetness. ‘It is. It’s beautiful.’
She’s about to say more when Ben appears at her shoulder. His hair is wild in the wind, his mouth filled with smiles.
The hand that takes her own is light, fingers running against her palm, pressing deep over her skin.
Behind him, she sees the first licks of flame leaping from the fire, Richard’s shadowed face half lit as he watches it burn.
‘Come on.’
Ben’s voice is soft in her ear and Miranda can’t help but smile as she accepts his hand, watching Teresa’s face soften as she watches them.
The tussock grass sags against their shoes as they climb the dune, Miranda’s fingers brushing against wind-bent flower-heads.
When she finds Richard’s botanical guide to plants back at Birchwood Cottage, their names will be a whispered lullaby against her lips, their lyrical alliteration dancing in her dreams.
Sea bindweed with its’ fuchsia pink flowers.
Lyme grass.
Sea sandwort.
Sand sedge.
She lets Ben lead her into a cleft between the higher dunes, the wind’s whistle rippling over their heads.
They tumble down together, their feet sliding, catching in the soft give of the sand, loosening old shafts of seaweed, disrupting showers of shingle.
His eyes are glimmering in the darkness, the last lights of the sun burning in his pupils.
He comes to her wordlessly, his hands soft and giving in the all-knowing dark.
Her mouth feels dry with an unknown desire, her lips aching for his and he gives them gladly, his hands slowly reaching into her hair. She feels the nip of a fingernail against her scalp, his fingers teasing her hair from the bun that she had tied with such numbness that morning.
His mouth is hot and dry and sweet all at once when she breathes in his scent. Loses herself in the dexterity of his artist hands, the hands that have swapped rifles for pencils, the hands that still harbour secrets which he cannot yet name.
‘Miranda.’
Her name is a husky breath in his mouth, his lips searching, finding, holding her own.
‘Oh, God, Miranda.’
She buries her head into his chest in answer, her hands spanning the width of his shoulder blades. Her lips are caught against his skin, her tongue grazing against sinew and tendon.
Around them the gulls continue to call, the waves slowly pulling back over the shingle, a babble of laughter pulled back on the wind. The sky is slowly darkening, a few stars pricking their light against the clouds.
With tangled limbs, they sink slowly towards the earth.
Somehow, they have shed their coats, now lying in a tangled heap amongst the flattened tussock grass.
His movements are slow, his fingers fumbling slightly against the buttons of her blouse and for a moment she wants to let him. Wants to forget the last time that a man had put taken his hands to her, had caught her top and fondled her breasts, his breath hot in her ear.
This is different.
This- This is Ben.
He’d never- He would never-
But in some dark recess of her mind, his hands are her Grandfather’s hands, his breath her Grandfather’s breath deep in the shadows of the kitchen, the darkness suddenly stifling, and she can’t breathe-
‘No. Benito. Please, please don’t-‘
The words are bitten against her tongue, caught between her teeth.
Instinctively, her hand reaches to push his away, squeezing his fingers until she hears a sharp intake of breath.
‘What- What is it?’
In the shadowed darkness she cannot see the way that realisation crashes against his face like a wave tumbling over the shoreline.
Can only feel his hands wrench themselves out of hers, his breathing suddenly sharp.
‘God- Miranda- I- I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, mi querida. I didn’t- I didn’t think-‘
His voice breaks on the words and she shakes her head mutely, realising too late that he cannot see her.
She feels him draw his hands away until they are quite apart, staring at each other through the darkness.
‘I don’t think I’m ready for it yet.’
The words are spoken to her knees as Miranda pulls them up under her chin, hugging herself.
She feels rather than sees his nod.
All right.
It’s all right.
I understand.
Feels the warmth of his weight tentatively return, his hand resting lightly against her knee, the press of a long, lean body against her own.
‘Lo siento,’ she whispers, the words broken in the quiet.
‘No. Fue mi culpa. No te arrepientas nunca,’ he replies just as softly and her heart breaks at the sound of her childhood language sweet on his tongue.
He pulls his other arm around her shoulder and she leans into his touch, the jut of his chin nestled deep in her hair.
Wrapped in a bed of coats and tussock grass, she watches the last vestiges of light play against the inky line of the horizon, the flames from the bonfire licking the sky.
Watches Richard and Teresa’s shadows draw closer over the fire, sees Antonia stand to wave to them, her hair glowing fire-bright in the flames.
Sees Harper take little Patrick from Ramona’s arms, a whispered conversation that she can’t hear passing between them.
‘We should join them,’ she murmurs.
‘Only if you want to be pulled into any ridiculous last-minute job that Dad and Harper can dream up,’ Ben replies drily. ‘Stay here a little longer, love. They’ll call us when they’re ready.’
~*~
The fire is burning down to its’ embers and the grill assembled by the time they clamber out of their dune and join the rest of the party.
‘Come to join us, you two?’
Richard grins from over the fire, his face shadowed against the flames as they slip onto the one of bleached pieces of driftwood that Harper has found for a seat.
Miranda pushes close to Ramona, leaning over her shoulder to see little Patrick fast asleep in her lap.
‘He wouldn’t go back to the car, but he’s exhausted. Pobre cosita,’ Ramona murmurs over the sleeping head, her face soft with smiles.
Miranda nods, glancing up as Harper comes to join them, squatting on his haunches and resting a hand on his wife’s shoulder, his lips pressing deep into her curls. His smile to Miranda is softly tender, making her think of the quiet congratulations underneath the birch trees in the Cathedral grounds once Ben and Antonia had been pulled away.
‘How’s the little one?’
Ramona’s smile is soft as she looks down at their sleeping son and back up into her husband’s face.
‘Exhausted. It’s been too exciting for him today, I think.’
A smile quivers against Harper’s lips as he reaches over to ruffle the crop of dark curls, a finger lingering over the line of his son’s cheek.
Watching him, Miranda remembers Juan as a baby.
Remembers how his barely-there baby eyes had slowly darkened into the colour of river pebbles, sharply watching everything under a water slick of dark hair.
Remembers her Father holding him in the kitchen when her Mother had been allowed home from the hospital with an almost reverent sense of wonder.
Remembers how his arms had trembled as he had taken in the squalling bundle that had been Juan, eyes glistening with unshed tears.
Remembers watching them kicking a ball together in the garden when Juan was older, their Father cheering as Juan scored goal after goal.
Remembers Juan’s sharp eyes, noticing everything around him with a softly questioning gaze that was only for their Father.
Even at the age of six, Juan had been the only one who was able to cool their Father and Grandfather’s rages with laconically, smooth smiles. The only one out of all of them who spoke with his head before his heart, listening until he could swerve the conversation back onto safer ground.
He’d just had his sixth birthday when she’d left, too young to really understand why she had been forced to leave.
With a pang that feels like homesickness, she hopes that her little brother is safe and loved, wherever he is.
Wordlessly she reaches for Ben and he draws her closer as she tucks her head into his chest, the rise of chest a comfort against the pull of the waves on the shore.
‘I can take him back to the car if you like, Ramona?’
Little Patrick blinks at Harper’s question, slowly uncurling himself out of Ramona’s lap.
Miranda cannot help but smile at the sight of his little hand reaching blearily for his Father, eyes widening at the sight of the fire.
‘Da-‘
‘Come back to the land of the living, have ye ceann beag?’
Harper chuckles, taking the searching hand and giving it a soft squeeze.
Ramona nods, sitting back as she admires her boys.
‘Right my lad, it’s time for your bedtime I think. D’ye want to be a big boy and walk or shall you be carried?’
A stubborn shake of the feather-dark head at the idea of being carried earns a collective chuckle as Harper nods gravely before turning to the others, his face cast in shadows from the flames.
Richard looks up from the grill and Teresa pauses turning over the red pepper halves that are about to burn to listen, Antonia pausing midway through pouring another drink.
Miranda feels the warm weight of Ben’s arm slip around her waist, his head resting on her shoulder.
‘I have been selected to accompany the young and very gallant little Patrick on a quest to the car.’
Harper’s voice startles a late flock of sand pipers in a flurry of shadowed wings. The birds weave in and out and around each other, their calls stark against the sounds of the sea.
‘We can save a sausage for you if you’d like, Patrick?’
The question is soft from Teresa and little Patrick nods excitedly, all appearances of exhaustion suddenly vanishing as he tugs at his Father’s hand.
Miranda watches them go, leaning back against Ben’s chest.
‘You all right?’
Ben’s voice is a murmur, his nose buried in her shoulder and she nods; sipping her drink.
‘Are you?’
His reply is caught in the weight of his fingers losing themselves in her hair.
‘Never better.’
Overhead a cloud passes, the first glimmers of starlight just visible.
A hissing tail of sparking embers flies into the night as Richard shifts them with a stick, their brightness caught against a deeply indigo sky.
‘Almost there,’ she hears him say to no one in particular, shifting the charred red pepper halves to one side and flicking sausages into the centre of the flames.
With a murmur to her Father, Antonia finds plates and cutlery from one of the picnic bags nestled behind the fire, her hair a mane of burnished gold as it catches the flames.
Out in the open water the great breakers continue to barge down to them, their white horses just visible in the dark.
A guttering orange light winks and glimmers on the horizon, belonging, Miranda imagines, to a fishing boat, its’ hull sharp with salt and expectation as it rides out the night on the waves.
And then a crash of returning footsteps disturbs the quiet and Harper’s shadow shutters the fire, his feet falling over shell and stone and seaweed, rubbing his hands at the thought of food.
‘All tucked up and quiet,’ Miranda hears him murmur to Ramona in answer to an unasked question.
Ramona is about to reply when Richard’s exclamation that the food is ready cuts through the chatter.
Plates are passed over the glowing embers, drinks are refilled, and Miranda leans back against Ben’s chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart.
The fingers of his free hand are sticky with grease as they tangle themselves in her hair, his breath smelling of salt and sausage and charcoal.
‘Are you happy, mi querida?’
The question is simple and sincere and for a moment she looks at him, his face caught against the firelight, contemplating her answer.
His eyes are shining, the shadows that have clung to them for so long slowly beginning to fade.
There are ghosts there still, ghosts that she has not found a way to banish, but the time to face them will come.
Turning back to the firelight, she sighs, half listening to Richard telling a joke that she hadn’t heard the beginning of, catching a wink from Teresa.
Sees Antonia get up from her place and weave around the fire, her curls glowing in the firelight.
Feels the warm weight of the younger girl’s hand slipping into hers and squeezing lightly.
She smells of smoke and sea salt, her dimples creasing as she settles herself.
‘You OK, ‘randa? How does freedom feel?’
Miranda nods wordlessly, pulling herself away from Ben.
‘Good,’ she replies simply.
‘I’ll have to come and visit you now that I’ve got more time. You can give me that secret grand tour of London that you’ve been promising!’
Playfully, she jabs Antonia in the ribs, making her squeal and look appealing at Ben, who nods sagely in agreement, eyebrows quirked.
‘You did promise, ‘tonia,’ he murmurs, taking a swig of his beer.
The younger girl rolls her eyes in an expression that reminds Miranda acutely of Mathilde when she was turning thirteen and discovering the strange world of teenage rebellion.
‘But I’ll have to come and visit you! Get away from London! See all of Ben’s artworks!’
‘The ones that I’ll let you see, hermanita. You’re not going through my sketch books! Hey!’
Ben breaks off, dodging Antonia throwing something that Miranda can’t make out in the dark.
‘Ugh, fine. I’ll make sure that you two gets first dibs on visiting when I move into my new flat, after Mum and Dada.’
The exasperation in her voice makes Miranda chuckle.
‘Naturally,’ Ben replies with a sardonically charming smile.
‘Muchos gracias, querida,’ Miranda murmurs, pulling Antonia closer and tucking her chin into her shoulder, her other arm reaching for Ben.
He gives it gladly, pressing his nose into the pit of her shoulder blade; unseen kisses lost through the fabric of her coat.
She takes his face in her hands, her thumbs pressing against the rise of his cheekbones, stroking out the skin.
He reaches with his free hand to rest it against her own. Turns it up so that his thumb rests lightly over the pulse point on her wrist.
For a long moment, they stay there, listening to the rush of the waves on the shoreline, the steady thrum of their united pulse.
‘Thank you,’ she whispers finally.
The words sound impossibly loud in the quiet, dancing over the whistle of the Kelly Kettle, the hiss of flying sparks as Harper stokes the dying embers.
‘What for?’
Ben’s eyes are dancing as he accepts two steaming mugs from Teresa with a grin, passing one over.
The warmth of the tea seeps into Miranda’s palms, curling up around her fingers, diving deep into her thumbs.
‘For-‘
She pauses, running the words over in Spanish in her head and then back into English.
Por creer en mi.
Por darme una segunda oportunidad.
‘For believing in me,’ she says simply.
He chuckles softly at that, the sound rich and deep in the base of his throat.
‘I suppose I could say the same about you,’ he replies, appraising her with soft eyes. ‘I hope I haven’t given you cause to regret it, mi querida.’
She takes a sip of her tea and shakes her head, turning from the fire to look down the dark shore towards the sea.
The little fishing boat out on the horizon has vanished, but she can just imagine its’ light flickering in the darkness as it plunges and rises through the waves; a lifeline for battered souls.
Ben follows her gaze, his hand draped over her shoulder.
‘What’re you looking for?’
It is a smiling question that is soft in the quiet, whispered in a breath against her ear.
‘The fishing boat I saw earlier,’ she replies, still scanning the horizon. ‘I thought it might be giving a lifeline for anyone who’s out there.’
‘Probably,’ he reflects, gulping down the tea from his own mug.
She answers him with a kiss, laying her half-drunk mug aside and taking his face in her hands.
His lips are soft and giving, the skin over his cheekbones taut under her touch.
Her fingers lose themselves in his curls, as his lips reply, smiling behind the kiss.
‘Mi querido niño,’ she murmurs and he chuckles, the sound a breath against her mouth.
Around them the waves continue to break against the shoreline, the stars a glittering blanket against the sky and she realises that she’s home.
She’s home and home is here on this beach with the song of the sea in her ears, the rustle of the Lyme grass on the dunes.
Home is Richard, Teresa and Antonia with cream on the tip of her nose as they eat raspberries that were picked from the fruit cage that afternoon.
Home is Harper and Ramona toasting the night in Irish Gaelic and Spanish, their laughter ringing across the sand.
And home is Ben.
Home is her wounded boy who is trying so hard to mend himself.
Trying to knit together shattered memories and a fractured soul that is courageously shining despite everything the world has thrown at him.
Leaning into his weight, watching the moon slowly slip out from a cloud and bathe the sea in a shimmer of silver light, she realises that she does not want to ask for more.
~*~
Fin
