London Tides

by Carla Laureano

  But that wasn’t his concern, and despite the fact he’d managed to ignore what really was weighing on his mind all day, he couldn’t any longer. He picked up his phone and dialed.

  CHAPTER TEN

  FOR FIVE NIGHTS, Grace dreamed about London, Ian, and photography. On the sixth, she dreamed about war.

  She sat straight up, strangling in her blankets and drenched in cold sweat. The thin blue light through the louvers suggested early morning, but the fact she heard nothing from the bedroom meant either Asha was already gone or for once Grace had made it through a nightmare without screaming.

  Grace fell back against the pillows and lifted her watch in front of her face to read its glowing dial—7:30. Asha had left hours ago, and she wouldn’t have to put on a happy face. She’d hoped her streak of flashback- and nightmare-free nights might be a sign that coming to London was loosening her memories’ hold.

  She should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

  As her heartbeat slowed and she concentrated on the air moving in and out of her lungs, the nightmare’s grip loosened enough that she remembered why she’d been anticipating this day.

  Saturday. Her “second date” with Ian.

  A smile came to her lips, banishing the rest of her lingering dread. It seemed he’d developed a taste for surprises, because even though he had called on Monday to ask her out for Saturday, he’d refused to give any hint as to what they were doing. His only instructions had been “Dress warmly and comfortably and bring your camera.”

  Grace had spent the next four days trying to figure out what he might have in mind, while Asha nagged Jake to wheedle the information out of Ian. But Ian was apparently being tight-lipped even with his mates, because Asha turned up nothing helpful.

  By the time Ian buzzed the intercom at 10 a.m., Grace’s stomach had rejected butterflies in favor of stampeding water buffalo. She pressed the button to let him up and spent the next two minutes lecturing herself on how silly it was to feel nervous. When the knock finally came, she counted to five to gather herself, then opened the door. “Hi there.”

  Ian shut the door behind him and automatically flipped the knob on the latch. He was wearing his weekend uniform of chinos and a light pullover, the clingy knit emphasizing his lean, muscled physique. Grace tried not to linger on the thought as she breathed in his spicy aftershave. He’d probably come straight from his club. She barely resisted the impulse to run her fingers through his hair to see if it was still wet. Why it should matter to her if it was, she couldn’t fathom.

  His eyes swept over her, his expression appreciative, though she didn’t know what he could find to appreciate in her faded jeans and plain T-shirt. Then his gaze was back on her face, and he smiled. “Ready to go?”

  She pulled on a cabled sweater draped over the back of the sofa, settled her cap on her head, and picked up her camera bag. “Ready if you are. Where exactly are we going?”

  He opened the door for her. “Not telling yet. But I hope you don’t mind a drive.”

  “A drive? When did you buy a car?”

  His smile widened. “A few years ago. Just wait.”

  They emerged from the front door of her building onto the pavement, and Grace stopped short, her mouth dropping open at the roadster parked at the curb. “No. You didn’t.”

  “I did.” He positively oozed satisfaction. He probably thought she’d forgotten.

  She circled the car with a slow smile, trailing a finger along the glass-like surface of the pristine black-and-silver paint job. “Sixty-six, right? Like we always talked about? Wherever did you find it? There can only be a handful of these left.”

  “It had been sitting in a farmer’s barn in Yorkshire for thirty years. Took it off his hands for a song, even though it cost me half my savings to restore.”

  “Somehow I doubt that. Unless you plated it in gold.”

  “Once again you overestimate my net worth.”

  She laughed and went back to her giddy examination of the restored roadster. When she finished her circuit, he had the passenger door open for her. She slid into the seat and flashed him a smile. “She’s a beauty, all right. Let’s see how she runs.”

  When Ian climbed into the driver’s side, she raised her eyes significantly to the soft-top roof. “Aren’t you forgetting something? Roadsters are not made to be driven with the hood up. Everyone knows that. It’s a universal rule.”

  “Still my Grace,” he murmured, the sudden light in his eyes out of proportion with the statement, but he climbed out and retracted the top, clipping it into place behind the narrow rear seat. Then he was sitting beside her again, twisting the key in the ignition, and the engine rumbled to life.

  “Nothing like these old carbureted beasts, huh?” Grace ran a hand reverently across the dash. “They may be a little short on horsepower by modern standards, but they make up for it in character. You’re going to let me drive it, right?”

  “Not a chance. I’ve seen you drive.”

  “I’m an excellent driver! I learned on the LA freeways.”

  “And if that weren’t reason enough to keep the keys from you, you perfected your skills in developing countries where the concept of lanes is optional. Don’t count on it.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him, but as he navigated west through the London streets, she had to admit it was both a spectacular car and a beautiful day. This was the type of trip she’d always envisioned when they’d talked about restoring a classic. If he were to have a car in London with all the associated expenses, he’d said, it must be purely frivolous. No saloon or estate or petrol-sipping subcompact, only pure British muscle, something with enough thrill to make it worth the time and effort.

  Earlier, seeing him in his tuxedo mingling with London’s high society, she’d wondered if that man still existed. The surprise dinner date had been her only indication that he’d not gone completely staid and conservative on her.

  His positively wicked smile when he “accidentally” grazed her thigh while reaching for the gear lever was another.

  “So this is how you impress the ladies these days?” She wasn’t particularly easy to impress, but so far he’d managed it rather well.

  “You are the first lady who has been in this car. Except for Mum, briefly, and she was less than enthralled.”

  “That’s to be expected. She doesn’t seem like the convertible type. Besides, you’re not dating your mum.”

  “I’d certainly hope not.” Then he sent her a teasing glance. “Is that what we’re doing? Dating?”

  “Considering this is the second surprise trip you’ve concocted and you kissed me good night last time, what else would you call it?”

  “Showing you all London has to offer?”

  Something in his eyes, even in the brief moment he looked away from the road, made her insides go jittery again. But she put on an understanding expression. “I see now. So this is all just a public service.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then I suppose it’s a good thing you’re not in charge of the tourist board. You wouldn’t be able to keep up with demand.”

  “Winning you over that quickly, am I?”

  You have no idea, she thought. She swiftly changed the subject. “So, I’m curious. You asked me all about my job, but you never said how you ended up working for James.”

  “Well, you knew I was getting my graduate diploma in law. After that, I did a postgrad degree for my law concentration and went to work for a multinational firm for a few years. Then Jamie opened the restaurant and got the cookbook deal. At first he just wanted some advice on business structure and legal matters. Eventually, he opened more restaurants and got the BBC program, so he needed someone reliable to oversee the corporate aspects. That’s when I came on as his chief operating officer.”

  Grace watched Ian’s face as he delivered the summary as if it was an explanation he’d given over and over. His tone was calm, but she saw the tension in his jaw, the way he held the steering wheel a bi
t too tightly. “If you hate it so much, why do you keep doing it?”

  He seemed legitimately surprised. “I don’t hate it. What gave you that idea?”

  “Ian, I know you better than that. I remember how you used to talk about rowing as if it were the most fascinating topic on earth. Obviously, this isn’t what you would have chosen for yourself. So why do it?”

  “For the money. I’m grossly overpaid.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true. Jamie would feel far too guilty about it otherwise. Lots of zeros.” His casual smile felt put-on, forced, despite his light tone.

  “No, I don’t believe you’re in it for the money. You’ve never cared about that, and you always said you’d rather scrape by on what you could earn honestly than cave to your mum’s demands. So why?”

  “Because it makes Jamie and Mum happy.”

  “What about what makes you happy?”

  “You made me happy, Grace.” His tone was low, barely audible. “The rest was just something to do.”

  He might as well have struck her—it would have knocked the wind from her all the same. “Ian, you know I—”

  “Shh, Grace, no. I didn’t mean . . . Can we start over?” He reached for her hand and squeezed it before bringing it to his lips, an unconscious gesture that still managed to feel natural after all these years. “I wasn’t trying to pick a fight, especially not today.”

  The vise eased up a degree, and she managed to take a breath. “You know you don’t have to go to all this trouble for me.”

  “This may come as a surprise to you, but I like you. I want to spend time with you. And if I get to take the Healey out at the same time—”

  “It’s a win-win situation.”

  “Precisely.” He grinned at her, the dark mood of moments before sliding away like thunderclouds before a brisk wind. “You can begin guessing at any time, by the way.”

  “No idea yet. Obviously we’re leaving London.” She stretched her hand out the window and let the wind slide through her fingers. “Do I get a hint?”

  “This is your hint. Tell me when you’ve figured it out.”

  Grace paid more attention to the road signs and realized they were headed southwest. By the time they gained Basingstoke and kept going, the most logical possibilities were Southampton and Salisbury. When they passed the turnoff to Southampton, she murmured, “Salisbury it is.”

  “Indeed. Your online portfolio had photos of the cathedrals at St. Paul’s, Canterbury, and Salford, but no Salisbury. You’ve never been here, have you?”

  “No. I had a print of the Constable painting in my reception room at one time, though.”

  “I know. I remember. Framed in that awful red metal frame, above that equally awful brocade sofa.”

  “That was twelve years ago! I can’t believe you remember that. I barely remember that.”

  “We had some good times, didn’t we?”

  “We did.” She smiled at the recollection. “Some young and foolish times too.”

  “Does that make us old and wise now?”

  “Speak for yourself,” she retorted playfully. At his raised eyebrow, she said, “I’m still waiting on that wisdom.”

  “Aren’t we all?” He delivered the last with a smirk, and for the first time, she thought they might be able to truly be free from the specters of the past.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SALISBURY WAS A CHARMING medieval village that combined the old architecture of the city with the typical English high street storefronts—many upscale and modern, with a handful of chain stores. After finding a spot in the multistory car park at Old George Mall, they emerged into the throngs of people covering the pavements around Market Square. Grace paused occasionally to take photos, snapping quick candids of pedestrians or kneeling down to change the perspective of the frame. Ian waited patiently, not speaking, but she felt his eyes on her. Her skin prickled, not unpleasantly, from the attention.

  At last they were in front of the cathedral, its expanse of manicured green lawn stretching out around the towering Gothic structure, so much taller than it looked from a distance. More photos from different angles, and then they entered into the nave of the church with a handful of other Saturday visitors.

  The inside possessed a hush, a sense of history undisturbed by time, broken only by soft whispers and the click of shoes on the stone floor. Grace had photographed cathedrals from the Vatican to Notre Dame, all as much tourist attractions as churches, but this magnificent structure also served as a neighborhood place of worship. She stepped aside to switch lenses and clean the glass before she began taking shots of the soaring ceiling, then the left transept. When she lowered the camera, Ian took her hand and tugged her out the door into the cathedral’s cloisters, where a long series of Gothic arches formed a repetitive geometric vista down the corridor. More pointed arches framed the garden close in the stone square.

  “This is my favorite part,” Ian said as the camera went back to her eye, the shutter clicking softly in the quiet.

  They made their way around the square, much of the same view, but Grace took advantage of the varying lighting to frame more shots. When Ian lowered himself onto the low ledge that supported the pillars of the arches, she turned the camera on him. “Stay right there.”

  He leaned back against a column, clearly uncomfortable being the subject of her shot—strange, considering how he had once welcomed the press’s attention. She focused on his face, her heart beating a little harder in her chest. She never got used to how handsome he was. It only seemed to highlight their differences. He belonged on that side of the camera, while she preferred to stay behind it. And yet the way he looked back at her now, even through the separation of the lens, made her feel special. Valued. Wanted.

  Grace lowered the camera, surprised by the strength of those feelings. She couldn’t be thinking this way already, getting invested so soon. She cleared her throat. “Thank you. This was a lovely surprise. It’s been years since I’ve done something like this. I’ve been working in war zones for so long, this feels like a holiday.”

  Ian took her hand as they headed back around the cloister to the cathedral, and rather than feeling strange, it seemed comfortable. Right. “Tell me how exactly you ended up photographing wars.”

  “You know I always felt pulled to documentary as a career like my brother. It wasn’t as easy to break into back then as it is now. These days, journalism students show up on the fringes of war zones with iPhones and manage to sell shots to major news outlets. But when I started out, you had to have an in. I built my portfolio doing editorial work in southeast Asia and India, but the Middle East was where freelancers were making their careers. So I developed my contacts in England, waiting for my chance. And when I got the call from a friend to go to Israel for the summit talks, I couldn’t pass it up.”

  He seemed to be putting together the timeline, the pieces of the story. “That’s why you left London.”

  She nodded, then moved on before they could dive back into uncomfortable topics. “I tagged along with him for a couple of years, shooting on the fringes before I felt ready to be in the thick of things. That’s when I met Jean-Auguste.”

  “Your mentor.”

  “Yes. He was the one who taught me I had to be measured and careful if I wanted to live long enough to build a career in conflict.”

  Ian flinched, once more reminding her of the difference in their lives. To anyone accustomed to a normal existence, her attitude must have seemed callous. How could she explain that the need to capture the truth only increased with the danger? That the only way to change what happened in the world was to shine light on it amid the predictable, safe lives of people back home? At least that’s what she’d believed.

  “He helped me make the leap to serious journalism, introduced me to his contacts. Taught me both the craft and the business. I don’t think I realized how much I owed him until I started seeing other young photographers show up, rash and reckl
ess, hell-bent on getting themselves killed. Until then, I didn’t understand what I—what all of us, really—were chasing after.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Meaning. A reason God put us here on earth.”

  Surprise flickered over his face, she assumed because she’d never been particularly religious in her younger years, depending on the brash assurance of youth and stupidity rather than the care of an almighty Father. The pain that quickly followed took her aback, though, and too late she realized what he must think—that she had left because she wasn’t happy with him, because he wasn’t enough.

  She stopped walking. “Ian, you know what Aidan’s death did to me and my family. I left Ireland with something to prove, and I couldn’t go back until I’d done it. I thought that was something I couldn’t do in London.”

  “So, this was all because you had to prove your father wrong?”

  “Maybe a little. But I saw what Aidan did. He believed the truth was important enough to die for. And at some point it became less about proving Dad wrong and more about proving Aidan right.”

  Ian nodded quietly. He wouldn’t push. He never had, just accepted her, neuroses and all. It was no wonder she’d fallen for him. It was no wonder she was dangerously close to doing it again. She felt suddenly light-headed and sank down onto one of the wooden benches against the cloister wall.

  “Grace, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” Ian’s hand stretched out, but instead of taking hers, his fingertips gently traced the inked designs on her forearm. She yanked her sleeve back down.

  “You’ve never tried to hide them from me,” he said quietly. “Why now?”

  Because it was a catalog of things she wanted to forget and yet couldn’t let herself forget. “I’ve never understood why you were so fascinated with them. I always figured someone like you would think they were repulsive.”

  “Someone like me,” he murmured. His fingers slid beneath the cuff of her sweater and caressed her skin. His touch sent a shiver straight up her arm and back down her spine. “It’s a way to know you, Grace, to understand the things you won’t speak of. I know they’re not merely decorative.”