London Tides: A Novel (The MacDonald Family Trilogy Book 2) Page 22

  And prove that a woman without a university degree could do the job.

  Grace sat on the edge of the sofa, taming her stomach’s sudden backflips. It was all coming together so fast—first the engagement, now the job. Good things, but ones that drove home the truth: her career as a war photographer was well and truly over.

  Don’t talk yourself out of what you really want.

  Asha was right. What she really wanted was Ian, London, a second chance at life. It was right in front of her—all she had to do was reach out and grab it.

  Second chances didn’t come easy.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  For the first time in longer than he could remember, Ian woke up nervous.

  It didn’t make sense that he should be nervous when it was Grace’s job that would be decided today, but in a sense it was also their future being decided. Settling into a desk job versus continuing to travel as a photographer. A new start together versus making their existing lives bend around their togetherness, their marriage.

  Fortunately he had his morning outing to take his mind off it, though which one was diverting him from the other was somewhat in question. Chris slanted him a curious look when they climbed the stairs to the locker room.

  “What’s going on with you? I haven’t seen you this distracted in the boat since Grace showed up. Everything all right?”

  Ian smiled. He’d taken out his scull on Wednesday, so he hadn’t had a chance to share his news. “Grace and I are getting married.”

  Chris ground to a stop. “Whoa. Really? That’s … quick.”

  “You don’t approve?”

  “I didn’t say that. Given everything she’d dealing with, I didn’t expect you to jump into things so fast. Not giving her a chance to get away again?”

  “We’ve been over this already,” Ian said, his tone nearly a growl.

  “Okay, okay, I didn’t mean anything by it. Congratulations, mate.”

  Chris held out a hand, and Ian shook it, his irritation abating a degree. He couldn’t blame Chris for his surprise. He’d already expressed his concern over her mental state, and he’d seen what her leaving had done to Ian the first time. He didn’t want to see Ian go through the same thing again.

  This time when she leaves, it will break you.

  He shook off his mother’s voice in his head. Grace was coping well; she was happy with him in London, making the effort to put down roots.

  Except Grace had seemed happy with him the first time, right up until she left.

  Curse his mother for putting the thought into his head. This time it would be different. He knew that as surely as he knew anything. And today’s board meeting would prove it.

  The meeting had been scheduled at CAF’s office to begin at half past nine, which meant he would be cutting his arrival close. He showered, shaved, and dressed in a dark suit—with a tie—and shoved his kit bag into his locker. Exactly forty-eight minutes later he punched the Up button on the lift in the posh Canada Square building and checked his watch. Three minutes to spare. At least no one could complain about his punctuality.

  The office’s efficient assistant, Alice, smiled at him warmly and held up a finger while she transferred a call. “Good morning, Mr. MacDonald. You can go straight through to the conference room. You’re the last to arrive.”

  “Thank you, Alice.” Maybe they wouldn’t be as impressed by his punctuality as he’d thought.

  At the end of the hallway on the exterior side of the office was the conference room, a small space with an oval-shaped table and an expansive view of the square below. Philip Vogel was engaged in an animated discussion with one of the other board members, but he gave Ian a nod of acknowledgment as he took his seat. In the corner, Vogel’s assistant, Cecile, set up her laptop in preparation for recording the meeting minutes.

  If Ian was asked later, he knew he wouldn’t be able to recite any of the decisions made. Most of them had little to do with him anyway; while he kept generally informed of CAF’s endeavors, the big topic of conversation had to do with donation shortfalls from the American branch of the charity, which had apparently taken a hit in the wake of a scandal. Americans tended to be far more critical of those involved in the organizations to which they donated than the English, so having a megachurch pastor step down from leadership because of accusations of impropriety had heavily impacted the bottom line.

  Finally Vogel tapped his pen against the page. “The matter of the new creative director. Cecile?”

  Cecile leaned over to the intercom beside her and pushed a button, “Alice, has Ms. Brennan arrived?”

  “Yes. Shall I send her in?”

  “Please do. And send Henry down as well.” Cecile clicked off and then rose to wait for them by the door.

  Several minutes later Ian glimpsed Henry Symon and Grace through the glass wall. Henry gestured for Grace to take a chair to the side while he pulled up a seat at the table and greeted the board.

  “The position of creative director has been open for several months now,” Henry said by way of introduction. “We’ve narrowed the position down to two candidates. I’ve asked my first choice, Grace Brennan, here to speak to you directly because I feel her vision for CAF’s publications is best expressed in her own words. Even if you don’t know her, you probably know her work. She’s a renowned photojournalist who has worked for Life, Time, and Newsweek among others—including us. She has won numerous photography awards over the last ten years, and two years ago she was named NPPA’s Photojournalist of the Year.”

  Henry took a stack of papers out of a folder and passed them around. When they circled to Ian, he saw it was her CV along with a selection of her more iconic photographs. His heart pricked with pride.

  “Ms. Brennan, would you like to address the board?”

  Grace rose smoothly and moved to the head of the table beside the whiteboard. He could tell from her slightly stiff expression that she was nervous, but anyone who didn’t know her well would think she was merely serious.

  “Gentleman, thank you for the privilege of addressing you today. As you know, I’ve worked as a photographer for the past fifteen years. I’ve had the opportunity to visit some of CAF’s missions in the field, from wholly sponsored feeding centers and medical missions to refugee camps where CAF was just one of many international aid organizations. I have seen firsthand the good this organization does. It is one of the few that puts the money on the ground where it is most needed.

  “However, most of CAF’s donors do not have the opportunities I have—they’ve not seen for themselves the faces of the people CAF serves. The only communication they have about where their money is being spent is through the monthly publications they receive in the post. And frankly, as I told Henry—Mr. Symon—in my initial interview, I believe CAF may be doing more harm than good with the current approach.”

  As Grace spoke, her voice grew more confident. She outlined how she believed CAF seemed to be doing too well from the glossy commercial nature of their publications, discouraging donors from making further donations. Ian couldn’t resist a slight smile when she talked about her vision for a more editorial approach to their communications, a way to make people feel a part of the charity to which they contributed.

  “I believe most people want to help. They just need to be given a reason to do so, and to feel that their direct contribution makes a difference in a child’s life, even if they can’t commit to individual sponsorships or monthly donations. You clearly have both the design and marketing talent to accomplish it, so I believe it’s time for a new vision.”

  A quick glance around the table showed impressed expressions and favorable body language. His heart lifted further. They’d evidently picked up on her passion for the people and CAF’s mission. If the impressed nods were any indication, she had this job locked up.

  “Thank you, Ms. Brennan,” Vogel said, rising to shake her hand. “We’ll be making our decision soon. We’ll be sure to contact you as soon as possible.”<
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  “Thank you, sir. Gentlemen.” She hoisted her bag over her shoulder with a nod toward the table, then excused herself quietly.

  “I believe Ms. Brennan has expressed the reason we should hire her more clearly than I could have.” Henry’s smile said he anticipated as easy a decision as Ian did.

  “Indeed, she’s impressive,” Vogel said. “She’s pinpointed the problem with our current marketing approaches. Looking at her CV, however, I don’t see a university degree.”

  “In this case, I believe that her experience more than makes up for her lack of formal education,” Henry said.

  “I’d have to agree with you.” Vogel flipped through the paperwork. “Have we completed a background check yet?”

  Henry faltered. “Sir?”

  “A background check. It’s required for every hire. Have we completed it?”

  Hesitantly, Henry handed over a sheaf of papers and passed them down the table to Vogel. The chairman skimmed over it, his expression tightening with every page he flipped.

  “I’m afraid this won’t do.” He passed the sheaf to Alvin Keller, the charity’s general counsel. “A year ago I would have dismissed it, and if this were a field position, I still might. But after the recent scandal, we simply can’t afford to have any more scrutiny directed at our management staff.”

  Ian frowned. “I’m sorry. What are we talking about?”

  Keller shoved the papers down the table. Ian frowned as he flipped the first page and then felt the blood drain from his face.

  Grace had a police record.

  He had known that she had done some things in her teen years that she wasn’t proud of, and she’d alluded to trouble in Los Angeles, but this? Breaking and entering, a misdemeanor drug charge, a theft case that was later dismissed but apparently not expunged from her record.

  He swallowed hard. “This is from fifteen years ago. Are you telling me that none of you have ever made a mistake?”

  “Of course that’s not what we’re saying,” Vogel said. “And we’re making no judgment on her morality. Or even saying we believe she would ever commit another crime.”

  “In this case, the fact she has such a high profile as a photographer works against her,” Keller said. “We can’t guarantee that someone else couldn’t dig this up. At this point we can’t afford any hint of impropriety.”

  Ian dropped the papers on the table, then wiped a hand over his face. “I think you’re making a big mistake.”

  Vogel cleared his throat. “MacDonald, I understand you’re in a relationship with her.”

  That made him sit up straight. “Yes. And?”

  “Henry could certainly call and tell her, but perhaps you’d rather give her the news.”

  Ian gave a sharp nod but said nothing as he gathered his papers and his mobile and shoved them into his briefcase.

  “We’ve still a few matters to discuss,” Keller said.

  “I’m sure you’ll manage fine without me. I’m finished. Excuse me, gentlemen.” He pushed his chair up to the table, then strode from the conference room.

  Only when he was riding the elevator down to the basement, where Grace waited for him in the restaurant, did he slump against the wall. This was going to crush her. She had made such an impassioned case for the job, how would she react when she knew she’d been turned down because of stupid teenage mistakes?

  What would she do when the job she was banking on to keep her in London fell through?

  He found her sitting at a small table for two in the warmly decorated restaurant, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea. She smiled when she saw him, but the expression faded when he didn’t return it. He sat down across from her.

  “You did wonderfully. They were incredibly impressed by your presentation.”

  “I sense a but in that statement.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about your police record?”

  Her face paled, then flushed pink. “Why do you think, Ian? I was ashamed.”

  “But if I’d known about it, I could have done something—”

  “Done what? You can’t change my past. You knew there were things I didn’t talk about. I just hoped they might see clear to overlook them, based on the fact that they were so long ago.” She delivered the words flatly, dispassionately, as if it didn’t matter to her.

  “If it hadn’t been for a recent scandal, they would have. I’m sorry, Grace. You are absolutely the right person for the job. We all agree on that. This makes me ill.”

  She set her cup down firmly on the table with a thud. “Go ahead and ask me.”

  “Ask you what?”

  “What I did. I know you’re curious. I know you’re wondering what kind of woman you’re marrying.”

  “I know exactly what kind of woman I’m marrying. A talented, kind, and passionate woman who made some mistakes. I don’t care what happened.”

  “Well, you might be the only one.” Grace rose from the table and lifted her shoulder bag. “If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to be alone. Go for a walk, maybe. I’ll call you later.”

  Ian sighed and slumped back into his chair, watching her walk away from the restaurant with a decidedly defeated slope to her shoulders. Before she made it to the door, though, he leaped from his seat and followed her.

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her to a stop. “No.”

  “Ian, please. I feel like being alone.”

  “I know you do. But you’re not alone anymore. We’re in this together, remember? You and me.” He slid his hand down her arm and gripped her hand firmly. “So, the question is, what are we going to do?”

  “You have to go to work.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Pretty certain I don’t. It’s lunchtime on a Friday, and everyone will be plotting an early escape.”

  Grace arched an eyebrow, but he could tell her spirits were lifting. “Change first, and then hit one of the street markets?”

  “All right, then.” He loosened his tie, tugged it over his head, and tucked it into his pocket. “I didn’t get breakfast after my outing this morning. I’m famished.”

  “Then come on, Superman. Let me show you how to play hooky.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  It was one of those glorious, sunny August days that seemed to only come every five years or so, with fluffy clouds skittering across pale-blue skies. In honor of the occasion, Grace abandoned her usual trousers and boots in favor of cutoff jeans, sandals, and a tank top that showcased most of her ink and more of her curves than she was used to flaunting. The light in Ian’s eyes when she emerged from the bathroom communicated his approval.

  “I did mention that you had a cruel streak, didn’t I?” He kissed her shoulder, then her neck, and finally her lips.

  She leaned into him and twined her arms around his neck, encouraging him to continue. “You might have said it once or twice. But I can’t turn down the opportunity to catch a little sunshine.”

  “Sure.” His tone said he didn’t believe her. Rightly so. Grace liked that look on his face, the way he managed to layer reverence with hunger when he touched her. Tempting fate, perhaps, but she knew Ian well enough to know that this side of him he reserved for her alone. He brushed his hands down her arms before he let her go, the longing clear on his face. “Where do you want to go?”

  “I want to be a tourist.”

  “A tourist?”

  “Right, like we’re on holiday in London. I’ll bring my camera, and we’ll ooh and aah over the sights and kiss in doorways and eat fabulous food from dodgy-looking street vendors.”

  “I like the kissing part.”

  “I thought you might. First question would be Portobello Road for paella or Brick Lane for Bangladeshi?”

  In the end, they settled on sticky-sweet jerk chicken and plantains bought from a Jamaican food van not too far from the famed Electric Avenue in Brixton, then wandered through the Friday market featuring offbeat crafts and food. Somehow they made their way back to Westminster, where Grace
talked Ian into jumping onto a double-decker bus for a tour, then back off to ride the London Eye. By that time the sun was beginning to dip in the sky, and the jerk chicken had worn off enough for their stomachs to grumble. Ian stepped up behind Grace at their vantage spot on the Tower Bridge, watching water rush beneath it, and wrapped his arms around her. “Have you had a good holiday?”

  She leaned against his chest and closed her eyes for a moment. “Lovely. So lovely I’m not ready to go home.”

  “Then what do you want to do now? It’s going to get cold eventually, and you’re not dressed for that.”

  “I’m sure you can keep me warm.” She thought for a moment. “If we really were just visiting, I would want to stargaze on Hampstead Heath.”

  “Sunset picnic on the Heath it is, then.”

  That was how they found themselves sitting at one of London’s iconic landmarks, eating Chinese food from paper takeaway containers, open fizzy drinks worked into the long grass beside them so they wouldn’t tip. She fed him chow mein with expert motions of her chopsticks while he gave her tastes of his kung pao chicken with a plastic fork.

  “What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever eaten?” he asked.

  She didn’t even have to think. “Bubble and squeak.”

  He’d probably been expecting her to say deep-fried grasshopper or the like, and instead she’d picked an iconic British food. “Why is that?”

  “It’s odd, don’t you think? Beans should be refried. Not vegetables.”

  “You spent too much time in America.”

  “Don’t blame that on America. We have something similar in Ireland called colcannon, and I never liked that either.”

  “What else do you find mystifying about England?”

  She set aside her empty container, then stretched out on the grass. “I don’t know. I don’t think there’s anything mystifying about England at all.”

  “And that’s the problem with it, isn’t it?”

  “No. That’s what makes it feel like home.”