London Tides: A Novel (The MacDonald Family Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  Her words seemed to hit him like a bucket of cold water. He froze and dropped his forehead against the wall behind her. “I’m sorry, I—”

  “No. Don’t say anything for a second.” She was breathing as hard as he was, and it took her several moments to gather her thoughts enough to speak. “There are some things we should talk about.”

  He pushed away from the wall, and that little bit of distance felt like a mile. Still, the look he gave her was filled with tenderness. “You don’t have to explain anything. We just got … a little carried away.”

  Did he actually look a little abashed? That was not something she would have expected from him. She stretched up on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his lips. “It’s been an emotional night—”

  “And we shouldn’t take advantage.” He passed a hand over his face. “Grace, really, it’s okay. I didn’t come here expecting anything.”

  “Will you hush?” She softened the words with a rueful smile and hooked a finger through his belt loop to pull him closer again. “And if you could, stop looking so ruddy attractive so I can think for a minute.”

  That earned a smile. “I’m listening.”

  She let out a breath. This wasn’t anything she had expected to be discussing right now, but it had to be said. “Ian, there’s something you need to understand. My life over there, it was different.”

  His eyebrows drew together slightly, but he didn’t say anything.

  “You’re in danger much of the time. People you know and respect die. For that matter, strangers die, and rather than helping, you keep your distance through the lens and keep shooting. And sometimes, at the end of the day, it’s just too much to go back to your hotel room alone. You know?”

  He exhaled slowly. “Grace, I never had the expectation that you lived like a nun. If you think that bothers me—”

  “No. It’s not something I’m proud of, but it’s not something I can change either. I just … I don’t want this—us—to be out of reflex or habit. I don’t want that other life to bleed over and taint what we have now. Does that make sense?”

  He trailed a finger down her cheek, and even now, the tingle of that simple touch put cracks into her resolve. “I love you, Grace. I never want you to do anything out of fear of disappointing me. I wasn’t pushing for anything more than a good-night kiss.” His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “I seem to forget how hard it is to keep my hands off you.”

  “Well, you’re not that easy to resist yourself.”

  His hands closed on her waist, and his head dipped to kiss her softly. It took an effort not to move closer. “I promise you, there is no pressure, no expectation. And if the right time involves a wedding ring and a white dress—”

  She let out a breath in a puff. “That’s even more terrifying than getting shot at. Did you have to mention the w word?”

  “That’s supposed to be my line, remember?” He lifted her hand to his lips, his expression turning serious. “I’ve spent most of the last ten years wondering what my life would have been like with you still in it. I’m not about to ruin our chance to find out. No need to rush decisions—about anything.”

  His expression was so tender, it made her insides ache. “I love you, Ian.”

  “And I will never get tired of hearing that.” One more kiss, just a touch too heated to be called sweet, and he was backing away from her. “Good night. Get some rest.”

  “Not a chance.”

  She smiled as he let himself out. Then she locked the door behind him and took a moment to sag against the wall before she pushed herself up and retrieved her T-shirt and flannel shorts from her duffel. She didn’t regret sending him home or explaining her reasoning behind it. It was what she needed—what they needed—to make sure they didn’t follow their previous path. They’d already seen where that ended.

  Still, even after she climbed beneath the soft, well-worn duvet and flicked off the light, sleep didn’t come. The sofa bed felt cold and empty without him, even if what she craved was simply his presence beside her, pillowing her head on his shoulder as they fell asleep. But she knew herself well enough to recognize it wouldn’t end there, and she didn’t want Ian to be just another regret. They needed a chance to have a real relationship, without … distractions. She needed time to see if Ian was the one, beyond her physical connection with him.

  Grace had already confessed her mistakes to God. She had vowed that she would be different, that she would honor the second chance she’d been given. And she wanted to keep that promise. She was determined to keep that promise.

  But she had never felt so weak.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “So, what was all that about last night?” Chris sat down on the changing-room bench after their outing, dressed in a navy blue suit that seemed incongruously polished on his large body.

  Ian shrugged and fastened his shirt cuffs with a pair of onyx links, a slight smile surfacing as he remembered Grace’s suggestion that they were his Kryptonite. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You kissed her in the middle of a crowd. I’ve never known you to even hold a woman’s hand in public.”

  “Psychoanalyzing me now?”

  Chris pushed himself up. “Come on, I’ll buy you breakfast. Surely you have time for breakfast.”

  “For some posh investment analyst, you don’t seem to spend much time in the office.”

  “I spend all my time in the office that I’m not here.”

  “Which I’m sure Sarah is thrilled about.”

  Chris winced. “Coming or not?”

  Ian glanced at his watch. Nearly eight. Technically the office didn’t open until nine, and with Ms. Grey in charge, it hardly mattered as long as he arrived by his ten o’clock conference call. “All right. If you’re buying. Where to?”

  They ended up where they always ended up, the greasy spoon at Putney Bridge where Ian had brought Grace the morning of their first date. It was crowded today, packed with locals and holiday-goers filling up on EBCB—eggs, bacon, chips, and beans.

  “Should have known this was where you’d go if you were paying,” Ian cracked when they took one of the few remaining tables.

  “Where else?” Chris dumped half the sugar shaker into his tea, then stirred it with a clank of cutlery against ceramic. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “You know I like Grace. I always have.”

  “I sense a but coming.”

  “But surely you can see the effect that job had on her. I know PTSD when I see it. She had a flashback because of the food last night, didn’t she?”

  Ian stared at his friend. Chris was clearly speaking out of concern, but the things that Grace had told him were confidential. How much was too much to reveal? “I know what Grace is going through. She’s dealing with it.”

  “I don’t think you do. And I don’t think she’s dealing with it at all. My brother served in the Balkans, and you know how long ago that was. Still has nightmares. Can’t walk down the street without checking his sight lines and escape routes. Sleeps with a knife under his pillow. Craig’s wife hung in there for a while, but after a few years, she couldn’t take it anymore. The drinking, the women—”

  “That’s combat stress,” Ian said. “Grace hasn’t been in combat. She hasn’t killed anyone.”

  “Do you think that’s any better? The things she’s seen—even soldiers don’t deal with that sometimes. You only have to look at her pictures, mate. She’s carrying around some heavy baggage.”

  “So what are you saying?” Ian stuffed down the anger that threatened to spill into his voice. “Are you saying she’s damaged and I should write her off? You know me better than that.”

  Chris leaned back against the booth and spread his hands wide. “I’m not telling you what to do. I’m telling you that these things don’t disappear overnight. You need to understand what you’re getting into.”

  Before he got too attached to cut her loose. The subtext was clear. Completely understandable, and yet the wrongnes
s of it all made him feel a little ill. Grace herself had said she didn’t want to be his rehabilitation project.

  Was Chris right, though? So far she’d referred to her problems as “issues” and “episodes.” She’d refused to go to another therapist, didn’t think she needed one. And yet she was self-aware enough to recognize her own self-destructive coping mechanisms, to not want to repeat the same mistakes. That had to be a sign of progress.

  Chris could evidently see his comments had thrown Ian into a tailspin. “Listen, you know I’m behind you whatever you do. But I’ve seen it firsthand, and I thought you needed to be prepared.”

  Ian gave him a slow nod.

  “Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk about today. You hear about Nik?”

  “No. What about him?”

  “Fractured his collarbone playing rugby with his boys in the garden. He’s going to be out indefinitely.”

  Ian winced. There was a reason they had avoided playing contact sports while rowing. The training scheme took its own toll on the body without adding the possibility of major injury on top of it. Recovery was a solid eight to twelve weeks for a fractured collarbone. “So Henley’s out. Pairs too. What about it?”

  “There was some talk about you as a replacement.”

  “I’m no longer competitive. You know that.”

  “I don’t know that. You could have been stellar, you know, one of the best, had you just stuck with it. Your name would be up there with Pinsent and Searle. You don’t lose those instincts.”

  “But you lose the hunger,” Ian said.

  “So you’re not interested.”

  Of course I’m interested, he wanted to say, but he had to be sensible. No matter how flattering it was to be considered to sub for a rower like Nik, he’d have to dedicate himself completely to training for the next several months. And for what? A chance to relive the glory days? Stroking a veteran boat in a second-string race? He pushed back his unfinished meal and stood. “No, sorry. Thanks for breakfast, though.”

  “You would have done it a few months ago, wouldn’t you?”

  “Whether I would have or not is irrelevant.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Chris gave him a wry look. “Listen, some of the lads are having supper and a pint at the local after workout tonight. You might as well come along. And bring Grace.”

  It was Chris’s way of checking if they were still okay. Ian gave a quick nod. “I’ll ask her.”

  “Good. And don’t be too hasty on that decision. I still think you’d make a good sub for Nik.”

  “I’ll think about it.” But his mind was made up. He’d already spent too much time living in the past.

  An hour later Ian made his way back to the Tube, kit bag on one shoulder, briefcase in hand, while Chris’s words tumbled over in his mind. What he had said about Grace and her issues, the offer to sub on the veteran crew: things he would have once given serious consideration.

  But he’d meant what he’d said. His rowing career was over. And he wouldn’t abandon Grace because of what she’d endured for the sake of what she believed was right. The two were linked somehow in his mind. Once, he’d had as much passion for his rowing as Grace had for her photography, but somewhere along the line, it had become rote. Something to fill the time, a way to keep his mind busy and his body active. Something that defined him beyond the daily routine of going to his brother’s office, minding his brother’s business. When he was on the water, his problems seemed distant. The familiar clunk of the oars in the locks, the swish of the water against the hull, metaphorical barriers against his regrets.

  But now that Grace was back, he could see how empty his life had been.

  Actually, it had started earlier than that, watching his brother fall in love with a woman he hardly knew, seeing the changes that Andrea’s presence had made in Jamie’s life, small at first, and then greater. Jamie had always been driven, successful, outgoing. But now he actually seemed happy. A little sickening at times, but more settled than Ian had ever imagined seeing him.

  It made it harder to claim that some men just weren’t suited to the domestic life.

  It was why Ian had made the cursory attempts at dating, even when he knew at first sight none of those women would ever elicit more than vague affection and admiration. They had never stolen his breath, never kept him up nights, and he would have said that was a good thing. Look what his passion for Grace had done to him once before.

  He’d been lying to himself.

  Which is why rather than head to the office as he should have, he found himself returning to his flat. When he emerged from the Underground onto street level, he pulled his mobile from his pocket and called the office.

  “Ms. Grey, it’s Ian.” Even if she refused to call him by his first name, he wasn’t about to get into the habit of addressing himself as “mister.”

  “I’m going to take my ten o’clock at home. Will you please conference me through when it comes in?”

  “Of course, sir. I’d be happy to. Should we expect you later?”

  “What’s on my calendar?”

  “Just a three o’clock status update with Bridget. I can reschedule it for tomorrow if you’d like.”

  “Hold off on that. I’m not sure how my day is going to play out yet. I’ll let you know if I’m not coming in.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll talk to you at ten.”

  When he pushed through the door of his flat, he tossed his kit bag in the foyer, dropped the briefcase on the hall table, and went straight to the old-fashioned phone book he kept in the drawer with Grace’s clips, a remnant of days when mobile phones were the size of bricks. He flipped through to find the one contact he’d been fairly certain he would never call again. Then he dialed.

  “This is Ian MacDonald. I’d like to make an appointment with Mr. Segal for today if possible.”

  “Of course, sir,” the faintly German-accented voice said on the other end of the line. “Mr. Segal would be pleased to meet with you. Design or purchase?”

  “Design. Or I suppose I should say redesign. Mr. Segal made a piece for me a number of years ago.”

  “I understand, sir. Would half past two at the Old Bond Street boutique suit you?”

  “It would, thank you.” He said his good-byes and clicked off, his pulse feeling oddly unsteady.

  He went to the walk-in wardrobe in his bedroom and knelt before the small safe bolted to the floor. It was empty but for his passport, a small stack of banknotes, and the insanely expensive gold Patek Philippe watch his mother had given him for his thirtieth birthday but he hated too much to actually wear.

  Plus a small, gray velvet box.

  He took the box out and flipped open the lid. He hadn’t looked at the engagement ring since Grace had left it on his kitchen countertop. Even when he’d moved house, he’d left the box closed, simply shoving it back into the safe and not questioning why he couldn’t bear to let it go. Now, looking at the cushion cut diamond set in a flashy pavé band, he wondered why he’d ever thought she would wear something so ostentatious.

  He snapped the box closed and returned to the living room, where he intended to prep for the conference call with the first of the law firms he was considering to replace Barrett. No matter how much he tried to concentrate, that gray box drew his attention. It was rash, coming so soon after they’d revived their relationship. It wasn’t as if he planned on asking her to marry him right now. He simply believed in being prepared.

  Prepared to do whatever it took to convince her to stay this time.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next day passed more slowly than any other day of Grace’s life. She’d always prided herself on her good sense and her independence, but now she checked her phone every three minutes to see if she’d missed a call or text from Ian. It made her feel pathetic and clingy. Melvin had asked her to come by the gallery in the late afternoon, but that still gave her hours in which to mark every single minute until the clock turned over to thr
ee thirty.

  Melvin greeted her with a smile. “Grace—I’m glad you came. I wanted your opinion on this particular photo.”

  Curious, Grace followed Melvin back to the workroom, where a single print was pinned out. Grace smiled when she saw it. It was one of her favorites, an African woman standing before a burned-out building, cradling a tiny baby. Despite the background’s gloomy subject matter, the photo had captured the woman’s total adoration for her infant. To Grace, it perfectly summarized the theme of the collection.

  But she could also see why Melvin had singled it out as problematic. The balance between the woman’s dark skin and the brightly lit background would be difficult to get right. She moved closer to the photograph, inspecting it, noting the areas where the contrast was too low or the print too light.

  Melvin came up beside her. “I can dodge the woman in the foreground and expose the rest a bit more. You have some time to join me in the darkroom?”

  “Sure.” Grace gathered her gear, then followed him through the connected doorway.

  The small ventilated room was barely large enough for both of them, so Grace pressed her back against the wall while Melvin refilled emulsion trays and checked supplies. He turned off the lights, and a red overhead came on in its place.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t want to do these yourself,” he said. “This used to be an interest of yours.”

  “I’m out of practice. A darkroom necessitates a permanent address. Besides, why would I go to the trouble when I have you?”

  Melvin chuckled. “When you have time, I’ll show you some large-format platinum prints I’m working on. The platinum gives the images a depth you just can’t get with silver.”

  “I’d love to.” She smiled as she watched him expose the negative through the enlarger, wishing she had been able to shoot some of these portraits medium format. But the larger camera didn’t lend itself to trekking into the villages and up the mountainsides where she’d taken most of these. Besides, part of the appeal had been using Aidan’s Leica on a project he’d always talked about but wasn’t able to attempt before he died. The practicality of printing 35 mm for gallery exhibition had never occurred to her.