London Tides

by Carla Laureano

  He stood and walked up the steps. Before he stepped inside, she called, “Wait!”

  He turned. She’d hoped to see some hint of hope in his expression, some indication that his mind was not made up, but she saw only resolve. “That’s it? You’re letting me go? Without even asking me?”

  “Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be. It’s what you want.”

  “What if it isn’t?” Panic built in her chest. He couldn’t be doing this. Not now. Not when she saw her future clear for the first time in her life.

  “Then maybe it’s what I want.” He let himself in the door of his building, pain evident in the way he held himself, though she didn’t know whether it was his body or his heart.

  Grace stared down at the ticket, choking back sobs until she could force herself to her feet. So there were limits to what he could endure after all. She had discovered the edge a day too late.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  IAN WOKE BEFORE HIS ALARM the next morning and glanced at the clock. Five thirty. Late for his outing. He jerked upright in bed before the pain knifed through his shoulder and pushed him back down on the pillow.

  He didn’t have an outing this morning. He’d be lucky to get back into a boat anytime in the next month. The only thing that could help him deal with the knowledge that Grace was gone had been taken away from him as cruelly as his hopes for his future.

  He willed the sick feeling in his center to go away. It had been the right thing to do. They would have just continued on in this pattern: Grace refusing to admit there was anything wrong while she went through the motions of their relationship. But always he would be waiting for that day when he would come home to an empty flat. The first time had nearly broken him. He couldn’t survive a second.

  He breathed in and out for several minutes until he summoned the will to swing his legs over the side of the bed. He moved his shoulder experimentally and winced. As tempting as it would be to swallow one of the narcotics in the bathroom, he needed to be alert, wanted to feel the pain. Some grief was too deep to numb. Sometimes it had to be embraced so it didn’t tear you apart from the inside.

  A quick glance at his reflection in the bathroom mirror convinced him that it would take more than a couple of painkillers to get him ready for work today anyhow.

  A long, hot shower eased a bit of the ache in his shoulder, though it did nothing for the feeling in his chest. He wrapped a towel around his waist and leaned over the sink, running a hand along his scratchy jaw. He had his face lathered and the razor in his hand when he caught his reflection again.

  Strange that he should look exactly the same when his whole life had crumbled around him.

  He set the razor down and washed the shaving foam from his face. What was the point? He could keep on with the way he’d been going, but for what? He was turning forty years old next month. All the things he possessed were just empty reflections of wealth that couldn’t buy him what he really wanted. A partner. A life. A sense of purpose.

  You had ten years to get a life and you didn’t. That’s not Grace’s fault; that’s yours. What does it say about you that she’s the only meaningful part of your existence?

  Wherever the words came from, they struck with the sting of truth. He ignored the gray flannel suit hanging on the back of the door and instead yanked on a pair of blue jeans and yesterday’s pullover. Then he picked up his mobile phone, found his brother’s number in the contacts list, and dialed. He knew Jamie was still in London, even though he hadn’t seen him since he returned from the honeymoon.

  “If someone isn’t dying or a restaurant isn’t burning down, I’m hanging up on you.” Jamie’s sleepy voice didn’t sound annoyed, just matter-of-fact.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  He could practically hear Jamie snap to alertness on the other end of the line. “What’s wrong?”

  “Not over the phone.” He cut himself off before his voice could break.

  “Meet me at the Regency Café at eight. And for heaven’s sake, next time wait until it’s light outside, would you?”

  Ian hung up without saying good-bye and tossed his mobile onto the bed. He walked automatically to the kitchen, filled the electric kettle, and flipped it on without thinking. Then the memory of Grace standing there doing the same thing just days before knifed through him and he couldn’t breathe.

  He was the worst kind of idiot. He’d known what he was risking when he got involved with Grace, knew what it would do to him when she left, and he’d done it anyway. The fact his mother had been right about her was almost worse than the heartbreak. Almost.

  He arrived at the Regency a few minutes before eight, but Jamie had already claimed a corner table, looking as put-together and self-satisfied as he always did. “You look terrible.”

  “Thanks. I feel even worse.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your accident. You’re in that much pain?”

  Ian just stared at him, and the truth seemed to seep into Jamie without words. “Oh no. Grace. You two—”

  “Are no more. She left. Or rather, I told her to leave.”

  “Why?”

  Ian stared out the window at the busy pedestrian traffic. He’d been asking himself the same thing all morning. “She needs more help than I can give her. And until she comes to that conclusion on her own, we’re doomed to failure.”

  Jamie just studied him from across the table. “I can’t decide whether you need sympathy or a swift kick in the rear.”

  “You think I shouldn’t have done it?”

  “It’s really not my place to say. I’m just surprised. When Grace came back, you seemed—”

  “Like my old self. I know.”

  “Right. But maybe that’s the whole problem.”

  Ian frowned and searched his brother’s expression. “What do you mean?”

  “Come, Ian. Your family cares about you. You think no one noticed that you just stopped . . . living . . . after Grace left?”

  “I didn’t stop living. I realized that it was time to be responsible. You haven’t seemed too upset about it while it worked in your favor.”

  “No, I’ll admit, it’s worked out quite nicely for me. But when you got your law degree, I figured you’d finally go join some human rights group like you’d planned. Instead you did corporate contracts for a few years and then came to work for me.”

  Ian’s first impulse was to deny it, but he couldn’t. Not anymore. He’d known that to his family, it must have looked like Grace’s departure had turned him bitter, shattered his idealism. And there was some truth to that.

  But the full story was far more pathetic.

  He’d been waiting. Somewhere inside him, he’d always believed Grace would come back to him. If he was off in the Netherlands working at the International Criminal Court as he’d once dreamed, she wouldn’t be able to find him. And the longer he’d waited, the more he’d had at stake. His pride. His future.

  Then when Grace had reappeared, it was like he was being rewarded for his patience—or his refusal to move on. That’s why he’d rushed things with her, proposed when he knew there were still obstacles to their life together. If she left again, it would make him a fool. Worse, it would prove he’d wasted the last decade of his life on a futile dream.

  But he was done with that. He wasn’t going to waste another second. “That’s why we’re here. I came here to tell you I quit. I’m happy that I was able to help you when your business started growing, but you don’t need me anymore. In fact, I think I’ve already found my replacement.” He proceeded to tell his brother about Ms. Grey and her capabilities, his belief that she was far more qualified for the position than he was.

  “She sounds very qualified, and I’m happy to interview her. But first . . . have you prayed about this?”

  Ian jerked his head up. Jamie was the last one he would expect to get spiritual. But his brother had changed. Andrea had made him think of things, including his faith, in a completely different way.
Not just something for church holidays, but to live every day.

  When was the last time Ian had thought of God in more than the most superficial light?

  He’d been raised to have faith. He went to church. He’d lived a temperate, celibate life for a decade, because that’s what Christians did.

  Or maybe that’s just because you had no other temptations. No greater priorities.

  Had church or God or his faith even crossed his mind since Grace came back into his life? He’d loved her with a fervor that he could only call religious. When was the last time he’d served Jesus with that same level of passion? Had he ever?

  Jamie must have sensed the tumult inside him because he leaned across the table to clap Ian on the shoulder. “Seems like you’ve got a lot to think about. I won’t consider the resignation final until I’ve got it in writing.” He smiled down at him, seeming to enjoy the role of older, wiser brother. “Take your time. You’ve waited this long; the future isn’t going anywhere.”

  Ian watched his brother stride from the café, even more unsettled than he’d been when he arrived. He’d come in ready to take charge of his life, and now all he could think about was what a mess he’d made of it on his own. Was that the point of all this? That it was time to get over his self-centeredness and start listening?

  For better or for worse, God had used Grace to get his attention. He couldn’t go back to the way it was before she’d come. He could never look at the world—and his life—in the same way again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “ABOUT THREE INCHES TO YOUR LEFT,” Grace said in French, peering through the viewfinder. She made a quick focus adjustment and snapped the picture. “Perfect. C’est fini. Merci, mademoiselle.”

  Her subject, a lovely Québécoise woman in her thirties, unfolded herself from her perch on the lushly upholstered stool and flashed Grace a pretty smile. “Et vous aussi.”

  “If you’ll give us a few moments, we’ll be out of your home so you can continue with your evening.” Grace dipped her head and unscrewed her lens from the camera body, then placed them in their respective cases as a man approached from behind her.

  “Should I take down the reflectors and lighting now?” he asked quietly in French.

  Grace nodded, and her assistant turned to the studio lighting they’d brought in to illuminate the tiny space. René was young and capable, and he more than earned his keep, with both his efficiency and his knowledge of Montreal. She would never have survived the last month in the bustling city if it had not been for her young Québécois companion.

  The project Monique had promised would make her the next Annie Leibovitz hadn’t quite panned out as she expected. It was a magazine feature on the ten most influential people in Montreal. Among others, she had shot a fashion designer, a software programmer, a chef, the owner of a minor league hockey team, and today, the French-speaking movie star Alicia du Longue. Pretty standard fare, except they had been chosen not for their career accomplishments, but for their dedication to philanthropy. Grace’s job had been to capture the essence of their personalities, their public personas, and their charitable activities, which explained why she was currently shooting in a walk-in closet filled not with designer clothes but with hundreds of pairs of plastic clogs—shoes for children in Ethiopia.

  Not for the first time, Grace wondered what she was doing here, cataloging the efforts of others when she should be out there herself.

  When she and René had all the gear packed and loaded into Grace’s rental wagon, René paused with his hand atop the roof. “That was our last shoot together. You have time for a drink to celebrate?”

  Grace considered for a moment. René was nearly a decade younger than she was, but so far he’d shown nothing but the general friendliness she would expect from a coworker. She gave a nod. “Have any suggestions?”

  He threw her a grin. “There’s a decent Irish pub in Ville-Marie we could try.”

  “Sounds good. You navigate. I still can’t find my way around Old Montreal.”

  Grace pulled the car out onto the narrow street, following her assistant’s confident directions through increasingly heavy traffic. Ville-Marie was a centrally located borough containing downtown and most of the cultural happenings in Montreal, which also meant that it was the most heavily traveled area of the city. “We should have left the car at my hotel and taken the bus,” she said as she stopped at yet another traffic light.

  “Not much farther. You’ll need to look for a metered space on the street.”

  Grace tried not to grumble beneath her breath. Miraculously, another car pulled away just as she paused for a light, and she swooped into the empty space. René hopped out of the car, dropped several coins into the meter, and then pointed to their destination: a neon harp in the window of the upper floor of a small brick building.

  “That is not a proper Irish pub,” Grace muttered to herself.

  “We’re in Quebec. What do you expect?” René threw back in perfect English.

  “You never told me you spoke English!”

  He shrugged and stepped off the curb. “You never asked.”

  Young professionals and college students crowded the interior of the pub, well on their way to inebriation at five o’clock on a weekend. Grace wound her way through the throng and snagged a tiny table with two chairs in the corner.

  She picked up a plastic menu. “You hungry? What’s good here?”

  “The Guinness,” he replied, flashing that charming grin.

  Grace wondered suddenly if she had misread him. Was he flirting with her after all? Or was four weeks away from London merely reminding her how much she missed having Ian in her life?

  She studied René across the table. She had hired him because he seemed like a kindred spirit. Spiky black hair stood away from a passably handsome face, and as he always did when he was working, he wore a conservative button-down shirt and jeans. Right now he had his sleeves rolled up, showing off the tattoos that marked his forearms, and there was no hiding the gauge piercings in his ears. He was the type of guy that, once upon a time, she would have taken up with without a thought. But those had been in her dark days, and attractive as he might be, she had no interest in going back.

  A waitress sauntered over to her table, and Grace’s ears perked up at the Irish accent, discernible even in her French. They each ordered a Guinness, and then Grace decided to ask for fish-and-chips as well. René leaned back in his chair and studied her in a way that made her slightly uncomfortable.

  “Tell me the truth, René. Are you trying to take me home?”

  He leaned forward again, his smile fading. “Not with that ring on your finger.”

  The way he said it made Grace flush with shame. She automatically hid her hand in her lap to conceal the engagement ring she still wore. It made her ill to look at it. Funny thing, it made her feel even more ill to take it off.

  “You’re clearly attached, ring or no ring,” he continued. “What I want to know is, where’s the guy who bought you that flashy rock?”

  “London.”

  “Are you going back there?”

  His tone was soft, sympathetic even, and that surprised her. “I don’t think so. He made it pretty clear we were over.”

  “So clear you’re still wearing his ring?”

  Grace ran a hand through her cropped hair as the waitress set their glasses down before them. She ignored hers. A headache had just begun pulsing behind her eyes, and alcohol would only make it worse. “He let me go.”

  “So it was your choice to leave.”

  “Not really. I was ready to get married, and instead he gave me a plane ticket to Montreal.” She twisted her glass around on the table, watching it make rings on the scarred and polished surface.

  “That doesn’t sound like someone who was trying to get rid of you. That sounds like someone who thought you wanted to go. So why did you?”

  How many times had she asked herself that same question?

  The an
swer was simple. Because she was hurt. Because he reminded her that she was damaged. And because just when she had finally thought she could give all of herself to someone, he had decided she wasn’t worth the pain.

  But had she really given him any indication that there was a payoff on the other side? She’d refused to go to therapy, thrown all his efforts to help in his face. What man would want the dysfunctional life she offered? Hadn’t she told him he didn’t care enough to understand what she was going through? She twisted the ring around her finger, so lost in thought that she didn’t realize René had switched seats to the one beside her.

  “Will you just answer one question?”

  She looked at him quizzically, and before she could do anything, his lips were against hers, his hand holding her head lightly. Grace waited to feel . . . something . . . but all she could think about was how quickly she could pull away without completely destroying his feelings.

  In the end she didn’t have to. He broke first and gave her a rueful smile. “Nothing?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Go back to your Londoner, Grace.” He took his Guinness and sauntered off toward the bar, where a group of girls immediately made room for him.

  Grace shook her head in amusement, suddenly feeling old and staid. “Go back to your Londoner.”

  Even René knew she didn’t belong here.

  Forty-eight hours and one sickeningly expensive plane ticket later, Grace stood in front of Ian’s building, wrapped in a trench coat against the fine October rain. She hadn’t thought this through, not wanting to give herself time to talk herself out of it, but it meant finding herself on his street with absolutely no idea what to do.

  Who was to say their four weeks apart hadn’t made him realize their relationship was too much work, that she had too much baggage? She wouldn’t blame him if he slammed the door in her face. It was nothing less than she deserved.