London Tides: A Novel (The MacDonald Family Trilogy Book 2) Page 4

  “On you, the weight goes to all the right places. On me, it gets lost in the middle and meanders about aimlessly for a bit.”

  “Oh, don’t make me laugh. It’s too early.”

  Grace threw her a grin and retrieved a carton from the refrigerator. “You eat the pastries. I bought yogurt for me.”

  “So, from the looks of the refrigerator, I owe you an apology,” Asha said. “I had no idea you were making dinner, or I would have come home early.”

  Grace waved off the apology. “Busy night at hospital?”

  “Understaffed, as usual.” The kettle clicked off, and Asha poured water into each of their mugs. “How about you? What did you do?”

  “Dropped by the gallery to see Melvin. Who apparently thought I needed an intervention, because he brought in Henry Symon to see me.”

  “What?” Asha plopped into the seat across from Grace and shoved a mug of tea toward her. “The journalist, right? The one who nearly got you killed in Kandahar.”

  “He nearly got himself killed in Kandahar. I was just along for the ride.” Despite the dodgy situation the journalist’s bad intel had gotten them into, she could look back on the situation with a chuckle. They’d gotten out with their lives and relatively whole, even if she’d ended up losing a thousand euros in equipment. “Besides, I think that experience is what soured him on his career choices. He is apparently now living a quiet and very safe life in London as the communications director for CAF.” Grace sipped her tea and watched Asha over her mug. “And he wants me to come work for him.”

  “Are you considering it?”

  “I don’t know. Possibly. He invited me to the benefit on Friday.”

  “Oh good. That saves me from having to scrounge you up a ticket.” Asha tore into her croissant, then paused with a piece of the pastry halfway to her mouth. “You’re actually doing it, aren’t you? Moving back. Quitting.”

  “I don’t know, Ash.” Grace had spent most of the previous night turning that very question over in her mind, and she was no closer to an answer than she had been before. “It all depends, I guess.”

  “On Ian?”

  Grace let out a harsh laugh. “Hardly. He made it pretty clear he has no interest in talking to me. If I’m staying, it will have nothing to do with him.”

  Asha didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t argue as she finished the rest of her tea and croissant. “You mind if I take the bathroom first? I have to be at work in forty-five minutes. No, scratch that. Thirty-five.” Asha put her mug in the sink, then headed for the bathroom, turning when she reached the door. “Grace, if you need someone … call me, all right?”

  Grace nodded, glad that Asha didn’t feel the need to elaborate. “I will.”

  As soon as Asha closed the door, Grace tossed the barely touched yogurt into the bin, then turned to packing her gear bag with the lenses and filters she would need for the Sunday-morning flower market. A few minutes later Asha emerged from the bathroom in a pair of slacks and a button-down blouse, her damp hair fastened into a knot at the back of her head. Even without makeup, she was one of the prettiest women Grace had ever seen.

  Asha grabbed her handbag from the hook by the door and fixed Grace with a serious look. “I mean it. Call me.”

  “I will.”

  The first strains of sunlight peeked through the louver shades, nudging Grace in the direction of the bathroom. If she waited too long, she’d miss the peak lighting for the stalls. Shower first, though. If you could call it a shower. The claw-foot tub had never been plumbed for a showerhead, so she had to settle for a handheld sprayer attached to the tub filler by a rubber hose. She wasn’t complaining, though. Considering all the places it was standard practice to fill a bucket in order to flush the toilet, London’s reliable municipal water supply seemed nothing short of a miracle.

  Fifteen minutes later she was bounding down the building’s staircase to the pavement, wearing a light pullover, jeans, and a newsboy cap pulled on over her cropped hair. The short walk to the Earl’s Court Tube station helped clear the last ghosts of the nightmare, building anticipation for her morning outing. Of all the locations in London she’d shot, the flower market and neighboring Brick Lane were among her favorites.

  She plugged her earphones into her mobile while she waited on the platform, staring at the bills pasted to the opposite wall of the tunnel. Somehow she’d always loved the dusty, dank underground smell of the Tube, the rush of warm air, and the clatter of rails as the train approached.

  Only a few people waited on the platform this morning, older people dressed for church, younger ones looking as if they were dragging themselves in from clubbing the night before. Grace climbed into the nearest carriage—heeding the warning to “mind the gap”—and settled into one of the gaudy-colored seats. The Rolling Stones blared through her earphones. Perfect. She tapped her foot along to the music until it was time to hop off at her next station and change lines for the last leg of the trip.

  Her mood was lighter and her nerves more settled when she emerged onto street level and headed toward the short, packed street that was the Columbia Road flower market. She backed into the shelter of a shop awning to unzip her gear bag and affixed a 20 mm lens to her Canon camera body before she let the crowd swallow her again. Flower vendors lined each side of the street, leaving barely enough room for pedestrians to squeeze by the pitches marked out by rolling racks and open barrels, awnings both solid and striped. Around her, the hum of voices made a pleasant counterpoint to the deep, harsh shouts of the vendors hawking their wares.

  “Fresh roses!” one shouted. “Peonies. Two for a tenner!”

  Grace smiled at the vendor to her left and wove her way to his stall. Tall and beefy, with sunbaked skin, he looked more like a dock worker than a purveyor of delicate blooms.

  “Morning,” she said. “Lovely selection. Have you any tulips, or is it too late in the season?”

  His weathered face cracked into a smile. “No tulips, dear, but I’ve Belgian roses. Come have a gander.”

  Grace squeezed between a barrel of carnations and two gawking women. She looked over the cellophane-wrapped bouquets for a moment before she selected a small bunch of yellow roses streaked with red. They’d be lovely on Asha’s kitchen table. “I’ll take these.”

  The vendor pulled the bunch from the water and dropped them into a cone-shaped bag, which Grace tucked into the string sack over one shoulder. She handed over a five-pound note and asked, “Do you mind if I take some photos?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  Grace smiled her thanks as she backed away and knelt for a different angle. The Columbia Road vendors had a reputation for being unfriendly to photographers, but they really just wanted to be treated with respect. Photographing their stands without permission would be like walking into a shop and snapping pictures without asking. She’d never been turned away, and she always came home with a string bag full of flowers and a memory card full of images. It was more than a fair trade.

  “Cheers.” She waved to the vendor and moved on, getting swept up in the relentless flow of pedestrians amidst the perfume of thousands of flowers and blooming plants. She’d forgotten how much she adored London. The sights, the sounds, the jumble of accents. And yet, despite a handful of visits in the past decade, she’d never stayed long, moving on instead to assignments on the continent or in Asia, Africa, the Middle East. How strange to find it was still the only city that felt remotely like home.

  She continued to shoot market stands and street scenes until the sharp angle of the morning light forced her to put her camera away for the day. Her rumbling stomach reminded her she’d never finished her breakfast or managed to get herself a cup of coffee. She wandered toward Hackney Road and her favorite Parisian-style café, tucked between a shoe store and a used-book shop. Coffee and a pastry—regardless of what she’d told Asha about swearing off the croissants—would be just the thing to finish off her morning before she headed back to the flat.

 
Patrons holding paper cups of coffee and glassine pastry bags jostled her on her way into the tiny shop. Apparently she wasn’t the only one in desperate need of a midmorning pick-me-up: the queue wound haphazardly through the space, twenty patrons deep.

  Grace found a spot behind an elegant-looking blonde in high-heeled boots and a trench coat. The woman spoke rapid-fire French into a mobile phone, her voice occasionally rising in pitch above the hiss and puff of the espresso machine behind the counter. Something about a winter issue and a certain Jacques’s inability to make a deadline.

  Québécoise? Her accent wasn’t Parisian, even if her style was. Grace bit her cheek to keep from smiling when the woman let loose a particularly creative string of insults, then snapped her phone shut midsentence to order.

  Grace perused the pastry selection through the glass-fronted case until the woman began to rummage frantically through her satchel.

  “Oh là là! I can’t believe I left my wallet in the hotel.”

  The cashier gave an impatient sigh and swept the woman’s coffee off the counter.

  Grace stepped forward. “Just ring us up together, please. I’ll have a café au lait and one of those chocolate croissants.”

  The woman looked at Grace, startled. “Please, that’s not necessary.”

  “Morning caffeine is very necessary. Besides, it’s the least I can do for teaching me a few new phrases in French.”

  The woman chuckled. “I’m Monique. And merci.”

  “Grace. De rien.” The woman behind the counter exchanged the coffees and pastry for a handful of pound coins, and Grace took her order. “Have a lovely day, Monique.”

  Monique scooped up her coffee, then fell in with Grace, dodging oncoming patrons as they wound toward the door. “Won’t you sit with me for a moment? I can at least offer you a few more amusing French phrases.”

  “I’m heading back to the Tube if you’d like to walk with me.”

  “Which way?”

  “Bethnal Green. Do you know London well?”

  “Well enough. I’m in town for a conference, but I like to come here if I stay over on a Sunday.” Monique indicated the paper-wrapped bouquet sticking out of her shoulder bag.

  “So do I,” Grace said.

  “You’re clearly a photographer. What’s your spécialité?”

  “Conflict. The street photography is just for fun.”

  Monique’s eyebrows lifted. “Impressive. Do you have a business card?”

  Grace retrieved one from the outside pocket of her bag. Monique smiled and tucked it into her purse. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Grace. Stay safe. And thanks for the coffee.” Monique turned on her heel, her boots clicking on the pavement as she walked away.

  What an odd woman. Grace shrugged and proceeded to the Tube station, already thinking through her morning’s shots. She would spend the rest of her day on her computer, processing images and uploading the best shots to her online portfolio and social media accounts.

  Stay safe. Monique’s words came back to Grace as she descended to the platform. The most danger she faced at the moment was pricking herself on the thorns of her roses. Why had she identified herself as a conflict photographer? Why hadn’t she corrected herself?

  Maybe she wasn’t as ready to give up her old career as she thought.

  Chapter Five

  It was only 10:00 a.m., and he already had a headache.

  Ian dragged off his wire-rimmed reading glasses and massaged his temples with his fingertips. He’d skipped his outing this morning, choosing instead to do his workout at home, then headed to the office just after seven. Mondays tended to be busy, especially considering Jamie hadn’t been back to London in well over a month. The hotel renovation in Skye was finally drawing to a close, in time for Jamie and Andrea’s summer wedding. Unfortunately that meant Ian was left to take up the slack in London. As usual.

  He sighed and slipped the glasses back on. That was an excuse. He never let anything dissuade him from taking out the single scull he kept racked at the club’s boathouse. The river was his favorite spot to think, a way to work through his troubles without having to worry about the technical skill his crewmates expected from him. But he’d done enough thinking for one weekend.

  And part of him didn’t want to know if Grace would show up looking for him.

  He didn’t want to see her, plain and simple. He hated how quickly she’d taken over his thoughts. How she’d invaded his dreams the past two nights. It had taken the mere knowledge that she was back in London to dredge up uncomfortable questions. Why had she left, and why was she back?

  Maybe if they’d done more talking ten years ago, he wouldn’t have been blindsided when she left her engagement ring on their kitchen counter while he slept.

  “Sir, you have a visitor.”

  Ian jerked his head up to the pretty blonde woman standing in the doorway. “Yes, Dena. Who is it?”

  “Oh, um …”

  Ian repressed a sigh. How was it that Jamie could maintain the same efficient assistant for seven years, and he seemed to be retraining a new one every three weeks? Apparently he didn’t have any more luck keeping employees than he did keeping fiancées. And considering the current assistant had managed to forget the name of his visitor between her desk and his door, he suspected he’d be searching for a replacement in about a week.

  “Never mind. Send him—or her—in.”

  “No need. I’m here.” Jake Hudson appeared in the doorway, holding up two paper cups while he wove around the still-gaping Dena. “Coffee delivery.”

  Ian waited for a moment, and when the girl didn’t move, he said, “Thank you, Dena. You may leave us now.”

  Thankfully she got the hint and scurried out of the office. Ian rubbed the side of his nose ruefully. Make it thirty-six hours.

  “Another new assistant?” Jake folded his lanky frame into the chair across from Ian’s desk and shoved one of the cups toward him. He wore jeans and a battered canvas jacket with a woven scarf looped around his neck. He looked every inch the foreign correspondent, never mind the fact he covered political news in London. Hard to believe he’d once been a green, overeager writer reporting on local sporting news.

  Ian took an experimental sip of the coffee. Strong and black, the way he liked it. He lifted his cup in salute. “God has a special reward for you in heaven, Jake.”

  “If you stopped hiring the pretty ones, you might get someone who could make a pot of coffee.”

  “She’s not that pretty. What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve a favor to ask.”

  “Sounds ominous. Especially when it requires a trip to my office and a coffee bribe.”

  “I tried to call, but—Dena is it?—disconnected me three times. It seemed easier to show up.”

  Ian almost spit coffee onto his desk blotter as Dena’s job expectancy plummeted to twenty-four hours. So much for the staffing agency. He wanted his money back. “All right then; what’s the favor?”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have an extra ticket to the CAF fund-raiser on Friday, would you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Why?”

  “Asha gave away my ticket because I thought I wouldn’t be able to make it, but I’m now free, and she’s a bit miffed at me.”

  Ian chuckled. Asha was one of the most good-natured women he’d ever met, but she had little patience for inefficiency. “I’d thought I might bring a date, but …”

  “None of them lasted that long?”

  “Something like that.”

  Jake sat thoughtfully for a few moments. “By now you know Grace is back.”

  “Yes.”

  “Asha said she came to the club to see you.”

  “She did.”

  “So …”

  Ian tapped his pen against the edge of the desk. “So what? She ran off without saying anything. Seems to be her speciality.”

  “You know she’s staying with Asha, right? You don’t want to see her?”

  “
No. We have nothing to say to each other.”

  “Even if she wants to apologize?”

  Ian’s eyes narrowed. “Did Asha put you up to this?”

  Jake didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to—his guilty expression said it for him.

  Ian stopped his tapping and tossed the pen onto the desk. “Listen, if she wanted to apologize, she’s had ample opportunity. England is not the only country with phones, post, and email. If she wants to talk to me, she clearly knows where to find me.”

  “Okay. Consider the subject dropped. I just never understood what happened between you two.”

  Me neither. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got five hours’ worth of work to fit in before lunch, which is in about ninety minutes. I’ll messenger you the ticket. I don’t have it on me.”

  “Cheers, mate.” Jake raised his cup in half salute, half wave, then slipped out the door, almost bumping into Dena on his way out.

  “Sir, your ten thirty is here. Waiting in the conference room.”

  “I don’t have a ten thirty.” Ian frowned and brought up his schedule on his computer. His morning showed an empty block between the nine o’clock with marketing and his two o’clock with Jamie’s publicist.

  “Okay, sir, I’ll tell him we need to reschedule.”

  “No! Please don’t. Who is it?”

  Dena scrunched up her nose, as if it would help her recall the correct name. “Um, a Mr. Barnett? Barnes?”

  “Barrett? Andrew Barrett?”

  “Mr. Barrett, yes! That’s it!” His assistant beamed as if he’d unraveled an impossible equation.

  Ian repressed a sigh, rose from his desk, and reached for his suit coat. “Mr. Barrett is one of James’s solicitors. And you have his appointment on the schedule for tomorrow at one.” He took one last sip of his coffee and steeled himself for the unpleasant conversation to come.

  Some days he actually did hate his job.

  And at the rate she was going, Dena would be lucky to last the day.

  Twenty minutes later Andrew Barrett left the offices of MacDonald Enterprises looking considerably less smug than he had when he’d entered. Ian couldn’t find it in himself to feel bad about firing the law firm. Ever since the elder Barrett had retired and passed responsibility for the firm on to his son, their work had been shoddy and overbilled. Only after Barrett botched two contracts had Jamie finally signed off on a change.