London Tides

by Carla Laureano

  She should have been prepared. Chemistry had never been an issue between them.

  She gathered her courage. “Ian, we need to talk.”

  “Not here.” He gently guided her back through the ballroom doors, ever the gentleman, his stiff posture seemingly meant to cut off any possibility of conversation.

  “Then somewhere else. Let me buy you a drink upstairs at the bar.”

  Ian stopped and looked seriously into her eyes, unsmiling. “You don’t have to play me, Grace. I meant what I said. If you come up for consideration at CAF, I’ll vote in your favor. I think you would be excellent in that role.”

  “You think that’s what I’m doing? Trying to make amends so I can get a job? Clearly you don’t know me at all.”

  “Clearly I never did.”

  His composure cracked for the briefest time, and in that moment, she saw the hurt that lingered behind his eyes. He might not have spent the last decade pining over her, and he was obviously mature enough to separate their past from his business considerations, but that didn’t mean the wounds she’d inflicted had completely healed. “Ian, I’m sorry. I . . .”

  His eyes flicked uncomfortably to an approaching couple, who smiled and nodded at him. He was right. This wasn’t the place to have this discussion, but as reluctant as he was to even have a conversation with her, she might never get another chance. She glanced around and pulled him into an intersecting corridor, pushing her way through the first door she came to. It was a meeting room of some sort, empty but for the stacks of chairs around the perimeter.

  “Grace, this isn’t necessary,” he began, but she cut him off.

  “It’s absolutely necessary.” Her heart pounded in her chest, and despite the fact it had been her idea to have it out, she suddenly had no idea what to say. “Ian, I’m sorry. I know it’s a shock to have me show up after ten years. I should have stayed and talked to you at the club. I panicked.”

  A faint, humorless smile crossed his lips. “Somehow I don’t believe that.”

  “Believe that when I realized how much anger you still harbor toward me, I’d have rather faced a firing squad than you.”

  “I wasn’t angry; I was stunned. Ten years, Grace. Ten. Not a phone call, not a letter to say you were okay. If it weren’t for your photo credits, I wouldn’t have known you were alive.”

  “You’ve followed my work?”

  “Of course I have. Unlike you, I can’t cut people out of my life that easily.”

  He knew where to strike to inflict the deepest wound. She closed her eyes for a moment, absorbed the impact of the blow. “I deserved that. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it like that.”

  “You shouldn’t have done it at all, Grace.”

  The words came out low, barely audible, and against all reason, sent a little shiver down her spine. She tried to gather her dignity around herself again, but she only succeeded in blinking away tears before they could do more than swell on her lashes. “You’re right. And by the time I realized the mistake I’d made, it was too late.”

  She didn’t stay to see the impact her words had on him, just pushed blindly by him and back into the hallway, nearly plowing over a woman draped head-to-toe in sequins. Grace mumbled an apology and threaded her way toward the crowded entrance doors, where she got caught in the throng of people waiting for drivers and taxis at the curbside rank.

  That whole exchange had been pointless. Nothing she said could ever change that she’d promised to love him forever and hadn’t stuck around to prove it. Not even the fact she had, in her own way, kept her promise. A man had his pride, after all. That he could still be cordial—and even more shocking, recommend her for a job—was a sign that he possessed far more character than she’d given him credit for.

  Wrapped in her musings, she nearly jumped out of her skin when a hand touched her elbow. “At least let me see you home.”

  Grace jerked her head up and looked directly into Ian’s face. He didn’t look angry. If anything, his slight smile seemed self-deprecating. She swallowed while her mouth caught up to her brain. “That’s not necessary. Asha should be around somewhere.”

  “I believe Asha left with Jake.” He nodded toward a flash of fuchsia as it disappeared into a hired sedan. Asha probably thought she was doing Grace a favor, leaving her to work things out with Ian.

  “Even so, London is far safer than most of the places I’ve lived.”

  “Will you stop arguing, please? I’d feel better knowing you made it home safely.”

  She found herself nodding her agreement, even while her mind whirred through questions. Why was he going to this trouble for her? Were there things he wanted to say without an audience? Or did his gentlemanly streak really run that deep?

  The latter, she decided. Even as a cocky, boisterous twentysomething athlete, he’d opened doors for her, pulled out her chair, and helped her on with her coat. To do anything less would have been unthinkable. She imagined he would probably make sure a murderer got home safely, just so he didn’t have to have it on his conscience. He certainly didn’t seem all that interested in making small talk now.

  When they came up next at the taxi rank, he climbed into the cab after her and immediately gave the driver Asha’s address.

  “How do you know where I’m staying?”

  He didn’t look at her. “Jake told me.”

  So he had known where she was, but had chosen not to pursue the conversation she’d run away from at his club. She supposed she couldn’t blame him. But as the taxi pulled away from the curb, an uncomfortable silence enveloped them. She had spent her career interacting with victims and witnesses who had experienced things she couldn’t even fathom, conversing with varying degrees of fluency in French and Arabic and Urdu. Yet now, facing a man with whom she’d once shared everything, the only thing that came to mind was stark terror.

  Ian broke first. “You impressed them tonight, you know. You impressed me. And I think I understand now.”

  It was the last thing she expected from him, this gentle, resigned tone. She frowned. “Understand what?”

  He threw a wry smile her direction. “When I heard you talking tonight, I realized you weren’t running away from me; you were running toward something you needed more. I suppose that’s why I don’t understand why you’re back in London.”

  Grace wanted to tell him the truth, but she didn’t know the answer. Tonight had reminded her that her work mattered. The people whose stories she told in photos mattered. How could she weigh her own pain more heavily than theirs? And yet how could she not, when the results of her experiences were taking her apart a bit more each day?

  And so the only thing that came out was a canned answer, a pitiful ghost of the truth. “Looking for a new direction, I suppose. It’s time.”

  His expression closed as if he recognized the evasion, and even though his disappointment shouldn’t have wounded her after all this time, she still winced. Mercifully, the cab slowed and pulled to the curb in front of Asha’s building before the silence could turn awkward again. She pressed the fare through the window to the driver, then slid out of the backseat, aware of Ian following. She fumbled for the key in her sequined clutch.

  “Grace.”

  She turned to where he stood on the pavement, his expression raw as he watched her. “I forgave you the moment you left,” he said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten.”

  Grace couldn’t find her voice, couldn’t do anything but nod. Still he didn’t move. It took several seconds to understand he was waiting for her to get inside safely. She shoved the key into the lock on the third try and burst into the foyer. By the time she turned back, the cab was already pulling away from the curb.

  “That doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten.”

  Neither had she.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “DO YOU EVER SLEEP?”

  Grace looked up from the hob to where Asha stood in the doorway. “Sorry, did I wake you? I thought you might like some
breakfast before you head to hospital.”

  “I would, were it not my day off. I’d kind of hoped to sleep in past six.” Asha pushed a messy handful of black hair out of her eyes and stumbled to Grace’s side. Despite her grumpy tone, her face perked up a bit at the contents of the pan. “Is that chorizo?”

  “Longganisa. You eat it with rice and eggs. Think of it as a Filipino fry-up.”

  “Mmm.” It wasn’t quite acknowledgment or appreciation, but at least Asha was being a good sport about being awoken early on her day off. She stifled a yawn and flipped on the kettle before collapsing into a chair at the table. “When were you in the Philippines?”

  Grace paused midway through giving the garlic fried rice a stir. “Fifteen years ago, maybe? After I left Los Angeles, I traveled with a friend who was shooting freelance stories on prostitution. We rented a room in Manila from this sweet little lola for a few months, and she taught me how to make this.”

  “Sounds cheery.”

  “You know how it is.” Most of Grace’s subjects had been fairly distressing, but there had been lightness too. The Filipino people were welcoming and hospitable, and their devotion to their Catholic faith reminded her of home—if she could still call Ireland home, considering she’d not been back since she turned eighteen.

  “All right, give this a go.” Grace packed rice into a little bowl, then upended it on the center of each of their plates. A sunny-side-up egg went on top, with several of the longganisa links on the side. She plopped into the seat across from Asha and slid one of the plates toward her.

  Asha took one bite and sighed. “Okay. This might have been worth waking up for.”

  Grace grinned. “Aren’t you glad I cook to work out my problems?”

  “Very glad. You know, times like this I wonder if you didn’t go after the wrong MacDonald brother.”

  “That would have been too many cooks in the kitchen. Literally. Besides, back then James was 24-7 about work. Ian was the one who liked to have fun.”

  “So, I take it my breakfast is due to a blue-eyed rower sort of problem?”

  Grace popped up out of her chair. “Hold that thought. Tea’s ready.”

  “You’re avoiding.”

  “And you’re pushing.”

  “Well, I butted out last night, and look where it got us—you’re taking a culinary stroll down memory lane. Not that I mind being the beneficiary of your angst, but what happened?”

  Grace poured their tea, then brought the mugs back to the table. “Nothing happened. Ian was nice. Reserved. Saw me home. He might not exactly be sticking pins into my voodoo doll, but he’s also not thrilled to see me. He’s . . . indifferent.”

  Asha chewed, her expression thoughtful. “He saw you home?”

  “Said he wanted to make sure I was safe.”

  “That doesn’t sound indifferent. Had he merely been concerned for your safety, he would have put you in a cab. This is London, not Lebanon or wherever you just came back from.”

  “It would almost be easier if he shut me out, instead of telling me he’s forgiven me and then leaving. You know him better than I do these days. What do you think?”

  “He’s cautious. Can you really blame him?”

  “Cautious. That doesn’t sound like the man I knew at all.” Her Ian had been impetuous, daring, spontaneous. Yes, there was discipline involved in his rowing, but he and his crewmates had shared the same kamikaze attitude: leave it all on the water, no matter what. Better to die than to let your teammates down. Give everything for the people who depended on you.

  Give everything for those you loved.

  Grace let out a groan and buried her face in her hands. “I did this to him, didn’t I? He gave up rowing for me, and then I left him, and he decided it wasn’t worth taking risks anymore.” She lifted her head. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “I don’t know, Grace. Ian’s never been the sort to blame other people for his own decisions. And he doesn’t mince words. If he said he’s forgiven you, then he’s forgiven you.”

  “But he hasn’t forgotten what I did to him.” Grace pushed her food around on her plate, no longer hungry. “What do I do?”

  Asha folded her arms on the tabletop and leaned over them, a sure sign she was going into doctor mode. “What do you want? I mean, honestly. If you just want to make amends, I’d say you’ve done what you can. Leave it alone and move on with your life. He has.”

  “And if I don’t want to move on?”

  “Then you need to show him that you’ve changed, that you’re not going to run away this time if he gives you another chance. Just be sure you’re doing it for the right reasons, yeah?”

  The right reasons. She wasn’t sure she even knew what those were anymore. After ten years, it was ridiculous to think she knew anything about him. Foolish to think they even had a hope of rekindling what they once had. But they’d never find out if they didn’t have the chance to get to know each other again, and Asha was right: he’d never take that chance if she didn’t show him she had changed.

  The first step would be to not run away.

  Of all the things Ian expected to see when he climbed out of the boat, Grace was the least likely. In fact, he was fairly certain he’d imagined it, a sort of visual déjà vu, or maybe early senility. Given Grace’s usual avoidance of confrontation, it certainly couldn’t be her.

  But no, when he flicked a glance over his shoulder, she was still there, her hands thrust into the pockets of a black army jacket instead of holding a camera. When she saw him looking at her, she raised a hand in tentative greeting.

  “Got a fan, MacDonald?” Marc asked from the stern end.

  “I have absolutely no idea.” He didn’t look her way again. Maybe if he didn’t acknowledge her, she’d give up and leave. An admittedly childish plan, but it was better than acknowledging the way his pulse had accelerated at her arrival.

  No, much better that she leave of her own volition.

  When he exited the clubhouse half an hour later to find his plan had worked, he didn’t feel even the slightest prick of disappointment. Not at all.

  Then he rounded the corner and saw her sitting on a green wooden bench, earphones plugged into her ears while she scrolled through something on the screen of her mobile.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Grace removed the earphones and quickly shoved her phone into one of the jacket’s pockets. “Hoping you might let me buy you breakfast.”

  His no stalled on his lips. What had caused the deviation from the regular script? “Where?”

  “Your choice.”

  “All right, then. This way.”

  She didn’t even blink, just fell into step with him on the pavement. “Was that Chris I saw down there?”

  “It was.”

  “How much of the old squad rows here?”

  “Only a few. Chris is a regular, rows bow in my four a few days a week. Marc coxes for us on the weekends for kicks with the other lads. We see Nikolai around the boathouse, but he’s still competitive, so he rarely joins us. He’s a dentist now, if you can believe that.”

  Grace’s smile flashed, and it did strange things to his gut. “Nik, a dentist? That’s the last thing I would have expected. I thought he’d read accounting at Cambridge or some such.”

  “Well, he turned out to be rubbish as an accountant, but I’m not exactly sure of the thought process that brought him round to teeth as a career option. I suspect he did it so he could set his hours around his workouts.”

  “I’m glad to see you stuck with it,” Grace said softly. “Or rather, went back to it. Do you compete?”

  “No. I don’t have the time to stay in race shape. But I’ve done too much damage to my body over the years to stop, and it’s more entertaining than physical therapy.”

  “Your physical therapist probably thanks you. You were always a terrible patient, and somehow I doubt time has changed that much.” She threw him a wry grin, and he returned it despite himself. In the l
ight of day, side by side on the pavement chatting like old friends, the awkwardness of the night before disappeared. She might be able to pull off the evening wear and stiletto heels with aplomb, but the regular Grace—the one in faded jeans and boots with a newsboy cap pulled low over her eyes—was still there.

  When they stopped in front of his choice of restaurant—a greasy spoon near Putney Bridge—she broke into a laugh that was as damaging to his distance as her smile. “You can choose anywhere, and you pick this dive?”

  Ian held the door open for her. “Best fried slice on the West End, as you well remember. And I’m starving.”

  He saw her amusement fade to curiosity, but he didn’t delve into the reason he’d chosen one of their old haunts. The interior was still the familiar polished ceramic tiles and cheap Formica tables, not a surprise since they hadn’t changed since 1972. She flicked a glance to the corner booth, her teeth pulling the edge of her lip. That had been their table, the site of hours of laughter and conversation and more than a few stolen kisses. After they placed their order at the counter and took their mugs of tea, Grace made a beeline for the opposite side of the café, as far from their usual spot as she could get.

  Probably a wise idea, if he still thought of the table as their spot.

  Ian leaned back against the booth and draped an arm over the backrest while he studied her. “So what’s this really all about? I’m thinking you didn’t wander down here on a whim for breakfast.”

  She toyed with the salt and pepper shakers for a moment, then set them firmly on the table in front of her and looked him in the eye. “Last night, you asked me why I was back in London.”

  “I did. And you lied to me. Not very convincingly, I might add.”

  She flinched and fidgeted with the zipper of her jacket. “I didn’t lie, exactly. I just didn’t tell you the whole truth.”

  He said nothing, just continued to wait.

  “You said you understood that I was running toward something, not away from you. You’re right about that. At the time, I was young and idealistic and not a little bit stupid. I thought I had an obligation to change the world.”