Chapter 16 Where the Sea Kept Our Secrets #2
A wave washes over our feet, colder than the last, and I shiver slightly. Leon notices and starts walking us back toward the blanket.
"There's something else," I say as we go. "About the baby."
"What about the baby?"
"I'm not staying because of it. I want you to understand that. I'm not choosing to forgive you because I think our child needs two parents in the same house or because I feel trapped."
"I never thought that."
"Good. Because this is my choice. Mine. I'm choosing you because I want to, not because I have to."
We reach the blanket and sit back down. I brush the sand from my feet, taking my time, letting the words settle between us.
"I missed you," I say quietly. "Even when I was angry. Even when I thought I hated you. I missed having someone who knew which side of the bed I sleep on and how I take my tea and that I talk in my sleep when I'm stressed."
"And which biscuits you save for last," he says.
"The slightly burnt ones."
"I used to think you were leaving me the good ones."
"I like the crisp edges."
"I know that now."
I smile despite myself. It is such a small thing to remember, and it is mine.
I reach out and take his hand again, lacing our fingers together. The yarn necklace is still in my pocket. I feel the small knot of it against my leg as I turn toward him.
"We should talk about the next few weeks," I say. "Work out how to make time for each other around everything else."
"Whatever you need. I'll rearrange my calendar."
"Don't rearrange it for me. Just make sure I'm actually in it."
He nods. "You will be. I promise."
"Leon."
"Yes?"
"I've been thinking about us. About the marriage. About everything."
He goes still beside me. "And?"
"And I want to try again. Really try. Not just waiting to see if you'll disappoint me, but actually believing that things can be different."
He turns to look at me, and I see something in his eyes that might be hope or might be disbelief. "You mean that?"
"I mean that I'm going to call the solicitor tomorrow and tell him to stop the separation process. I mean that I want to come back to the estate with you, eventually, and build a life there that includes me instead of hiding me. I mean that I forgive you, Leon. For all of it."
"Ysabel."
"I'm not saying I've forgotten. I haven't.
And I'm not saying you don't have more to prove.
You do. But I've watched you work my father's farm.
I've watched you stand in the rain for hours waiting for me.
I've watched you make a necklace out of yarn because you wanted to give me something that came from your hands instead of your wallet.
" I reach into my pocket and pull out the necklace, the uneven knots warm from being close to my body.
"I believe you're trying. And I want to try too. "
He takes my face in his hands, gently, like I'm something precious. "I love you. I've always loved you. And I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never doubt it again."
"That's a big promise."
"Then I'll start with today. And tomorrow, when we're home and this isn't easy."
He kisses me, soft and slow, and I lean into it, letting myself feel everything I've been holding back. The love, the longing, the hope that's been growing despite my best efforts to keep it contained.
When we pull apart, I'm crying, though I'm not sure when the tears started.
"Happy tears?" he asks.
"I don't know yet. Maybe."
He wipes my cheeks with his thumbs, still holding my face. "Can I put this on you?" He nods toward the necklace still clutched in my hand.
I nod, and he takes it from me carefully. I turn so he can fasten it around my neck, his fingers gentle against my skin. When I turn back, he's looking at me with an expression that makes my heart ache.
"It's beautiful," he says.
"It's lumpy and uneven."
"It's perfect. Because you're wearing it."
I laugh, and he laughs too, and for a moment everything feels simple. Just two people on a beach, in love, with a whole future stretching out ahead of them.
We eat the lunch he brought, sitting on the blanket with the sound of waves as our only company. The bread is fresh, the cheese sharp and good, and the almonds are from my parents' farm, shelled and wrapped in a small cloth.
"I've been thinking about your bakeshop," Leon says.
"Have you?"
"I want to help. Not with money, unless you want that. But with whatever you need. Finding a location, dealing with suppliers, anything practical."
"I'm not ready to open a shop yet. But I've been thinking about starting smaller. Taking orders, maybe having a stall at the market like we did before. Building something gradually instead of all at once."
"That sounds smart."
"It sounds terrifying. But also exciting." I pop an almond into my mouth. "I've spent so long thinking about it as something that might happen someday. It's strange to imagine it actually being real."
"It can be as real as you want it to be. And I'll support whatever you decide."
"Even if I decide to stay at the farm and sell biscuits at the market forever?"
"Even then." He takes my hand. "I married you, Ysabel. Not an idea of who I thought you should be. You were that woman before we married. I should have asked more about what you wanted instead of assuming being my wife answered it. That's who I want. That's who I've always wanted."
I squeeze his hand. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For finally seeing me."
The afternoon passes slowly, the way good afternoons do. We walk along the edge of the water, our shoes in our hands, letting the waves wash over our feet. We talk about the baby, about names we like and don't like, about what kind of parents we want to be.
"I want our child to know both sides of who they are," I say. "The Rosciano side and the Cabral side. The estate and the farm. All of it."
"Agreed. And I want them to see their parents loving each other. Not just in private, but in front of everyone. I want them to grow up knowing that their mother is someone their father is proud to stand beside."
"That's what I want too."
We stop walking and turn to face each other. The sun is starting to drop toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and pink.
"Ysabel," Leon says. "Will you come back to the estate with me? Not forever, not right away, but tonight. To start facing everything together."
"Tonight?"
"We don't have to stay if you don't want to. But I think we should go together. Show up as a couple. Let my mother and anyone else see that we've made our choice."
I think about it.
The estate, with its golden stone and its watchful staff and Vera somewhere inside, still able to make my stomach tighten just by entering a room.
The rooms I lived in for two years, the table I set for an anniversary dinner that never happened, the alcove where I finally told Leon I was done being hidden.
"Yes," I say. "Let's go."
But neither of us moves toward the path.
Leon looks at me as if the word has undone something careful in him.
The cove holds us the way it always did: pale gold sand between the rocks, water a deep blue-green darkening toward the horizon, the picnic blanket still holding the day's warmth, waves folding soft and steady against the shore.
Light is beginning to lean gold and pink. The yarn necklace sits uneven against my throat, his knots resting on my pulse like a promise I can feel.
"Ysabel." My name comes out rough. He glances once at the path up to the car, then back to my mouth. "If we go right now, I will drive us to the estate and I will do this properly later. If we stay…"
"Stay." I fist the front of his shirt and pull him down with me onto the blanket. Sand shifts under the edges. "We already said yes to tonight. To trying. Now I want you. Here. Where it was never about hiding."
He kisses me as if he has been waiting the whole afternoon for permission.
The first press is soft, familiar. The shape of his mouth after bread and cheese and almonds, after walking in the shallows, after forgiveness. I taste salt on his lips and something sweeter underneath that is only him.
For a few heartbeats I only hold him there, grateful and shaking with it.
Then grateful becomes hungry.
Leon’s mouth opens over mine and I answer him with everything I held back on the walk, in the water, through every careful sentence about solicitors and mothers and public claiming.
His tongue slides against mine, slow at first, then deeper when I make a sound the waves almost cover. His thigh slides between mine and I grind up against him without shame, chasing friction through our clothes until the pressure turns wet and urgent.
"Fuck," he whispers against my mouth, already wrecked. "Feel you. Already… already moving on me. Perfect. My wife, my brave girl. Do that again."
I do. Harder. My hands fist in his hair, then slide down his back under his shirt, nails scraping lightly. He groans into me for that, dominant patience fraying, and kisses my jaw, my cheek, the corner of my mouth like he cannot pick one place to stay.
"Leon…"
"I've got you." Tender and absolute.
He tips my chin and puts his mouth on my throat, open along the side where the necklace doesn't cover. Warm breath then suction. He sucks hard enough to leave a mark, soothes it with his tongue, then does it again lower, slower, filthy with intent.
A hickey blooming under fading daylight. Another closer to my collarbone. Claiming I can wear into the estate tonight without flinching.
"Let them see. Let everyone see you're mine because you chose it."
I grab his hair and hold him there. "Harder. If you're going to mark me, mark me."
He groans like the order undoes him and gives me harder, teeth and suction, while I rock against his thigh until I am soaked and restless, whining into the open air of the cove.
Making out turns filthy in layers: wet sounds, his hand under my sweater, palm hot on my ribs, thumb brushing the underside of my breast, my nails in his scalp.
When he finally lifts his head, my neck throbs sweet and marked, and his mouth is red with it.