“Indeed. Your online portfolio had photos of the cathedrals at Saint 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 people on the street 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 camera surfaces 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 end of 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 again, 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 again, clearly uncomfortable being the subject of her shot, strange considering how he had once welcomed the press 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.
She 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 time line, 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 of conflicts 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 how 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 amidst 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 reckless, 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.”
Pain flashed over his face, 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 that 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 the 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.”
“No. But I’m done with that. They’re from part of my life I need to leave behind if I’m going to move forward.”
He studied her face as if he was trying to discern the truth in her words, then stood and held out his hand. “Come on.”
She took his hand automatically, and the warm strength in his fingers as they closed around hers did something strange to her chest. They backtracked through the cathedral into the cool af
ternoon air, where a breeze ruffled their clothing. Clouds had begun to slide over the clear blue sky. Grace itched to take out the camera and snap a few shots.
“Go ahead. I know you want to.”
“How do you—” She broke off when she realized her free hand was already curled around the camera grip.
He made a gesture to proceed and stepped back, his arms crossed over his chest. With an abashed smile, she knelt so she could vary the angle of the clouds and the trees in the viewfinder. When she glanced up again, he was watching her with a thoughtful look that made her stomach turn flips.
But he only asked, “What do you think? Lunch now?”
“Sure.”
He tugged her across the cathedral lawn and back into Market Square, where he guided her into a two-story restaurant. The hostess led them through the clubby bar area and up a narrow staircase into the half-filled dining room above, where they took their seats at a table that overlooked the market below.
“I have to hand it to you, Ian. You’re really good at this.”
“At what?” he asked innocently.
“This.” She waved a hand. “Twice now, you’ve managed to put together the perfect date. It’s not really fair. How is a girl supposed to resist you?”
“I wasn’t under the impression you wanted to.” Ian gave her a mischievous expression that was more dangerous than the outing itself. “Seriously, Grace, you deserve a little fun. A reminder of why you loved England in the first place.”
“So it’s a public service again?”
“No. This is all quite personal.”
She suppressed a smile and opened the menu, scanning the offerings before she closed it again. “Old standby. Fish-and-chips.”
“Ale?”
“Pass. I think I proved with the sangria last week that my tolerance has gotten shockingly low.”
“So that’s why you were flirting with me.”
“I was not flirting!” She chuckled at his raised eyebrows. “Okay, I might have been flirting a little. But I can assure you, it had nothing to do with the wine.”
A server came to take their order, then disappeared again. Grace watched the people milling about below, buying fresh fruit and vegetables from the farmers’ stands, looking over handcrafted art pieces and garden ornaments. “This is why I love photography.”
“Because you love zucchini?”
Grace made a face. “Look at it. This moment will never happen again. All these people, together in one place. Change a single thing, and it wouldn’t be this moment. Wait five minutes and everything is different. But a photo—it’s the only way you can stop time. It’s proof of a moment you can never get back.”
“You have a unique way of looking at the world, you know that?”
She shook her head, embarrassed. “Too much time alone, thinking. Too much time looking through a viewfinder.”
They moved on to other topics, nothing too serious, nothing significant, until their food came. All the while, Grace’s thoughts were spinning. This was lovely. Normal. Utterly unremarkable. She felt more relaxed and happy than she could remember being in years. Even in Paris, she always felt on edge, as if she was waiting for the next excuse to leave. It might have been headquarters, but it had never felt like home.
When their meal was at last finished, Ian paid, and they made their way down the stairs to the pub below. As they wound between the polished oak tables, a scatter of newsprint caught her eye.
She paused and lifted a section, the blood draining from her face. On the front page, above the fold, a photo and headline proclaimed an outbreak of violence in Syria. She automatically checked the photo credit. Sergio Medina.
Ian peered over her shoulder. “What is it?”
She swallowed. “I would have been here. This was supposed to be my assignment. Sergio took my place.”
Ian’s brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you go then?”
Because I froze. I had a panic attack in the airport and couldn’t even get past the ticket counter. It was the first time she’d admitted it to herself, even in her head.
“Grace?”
She realized he was still waiting for an answer. She dropped the paper on the table and sidled away from it. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Clearly it does. Why won’t you tell me?” Ian caught up with her in a few long strides as she broke out onto the pavement. “What am I missing?”
Grace swallowed down the lump in her throat and rounded on him. “I’m not quitting because I want to. I’m quitting because I have to.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m not capable of doing it anymore.” Until now, she’d almost believed if she avoided saying it aloud, it wouldn’t be true. “I thought I was dealing with it. Thought I could go back. But I couldn’t get on the plane.”
Ian’s expression softened to one of sympathy. “How long has this been going on?”
“Three months.” Ever since Brian died in front of her. She started walking again, not wanting to see the look on Ian’s face, whether sympathy or disappointment. She didn’t want either.
His hand found hers, and she didn’t pull away, even though she didn’t grip it back. “Have you seen someone about it?”
“You mean a shrink? Or a priest? Because I’ve seen both. Neither were any help. The first put me on a bunch of medication that made me feel worse. The other told me I would get over it when I had enough faith for God to heal me. So I did the only thing I could do. I ran away.”
“Surely you don’t blame yourself. Grace, after all you’ve experienced—”
“You don’t understand. I’m a war photographer who can’t photograph wars. What does that make me?”
“It makes you exactly what you’ve always been. Your talent is in your way of looking at the world. It doesn’t matter if you’re shooting conflicts or market scenes. Just because you’ve always photographed war doesn’t mean you can’t do something else.”
“What if I don’t want to do something else? It’s not like I’m giving up some boring office job to go to another boring office job. What I did was important. It had meaning. And now …” She shook her head. “You couldn’t possibly understand.”
“So what? Everything you said to me was a lie? All the talk about doubting your path, questioning the cost? That was what you thought I wanted to hear? Tell me, Grace, because I feel like I’m seeing two different people here.”
She realized their raised voices were drawing attention, and she tugged him down the street. “No. That’s all true. I’ve questioned it for years. I’ve wondered if the sacrifices were worth it.”
“Then I don’t understand why it hurts you so much to think about leaving it behind.”
Grace pressed her fingers to her eyes, trying to find the words to explain. “If I quit, it’s like they’ve won. They killed Aidan and they killed Brian, and they made me leave. And no matter what I do from now on, I’ll feel like a failure.”
Too late she saw the hurt in his eyes, realized how it must sound to him. She’d built him up, made it seem like she was back for him, and now she was telling him once more he was not enough. “Ian, I didn’t mean—”
“No. You meant it. You meant it now, just like you meant it when you left.” He released her hand, a muscle pulsing in his jaw. “I may not know what it’s like to live in a war zone. But I know what it’s like to let go of something I loved. For someone I loved more. And that’s apparently what you can’t understand.”
A flush of shame heated her cheeks. “Ian—”
“Come on. I’ll take you home.” He didn’t reach for her hand this time, and the foot of space separating them might as well have been a mile. By the time they reached the car park, Grace felt as cold as the wind that whipped around them. He unlocked the Healey for her and opened the door, but he left the top up. Grace clasped her hands in her lap, staring blindly through the windscreen.
They spent the drive back to London in silence, with only the drone of the radio a
nd the snap of the wind against the roadster’s soft top for company. When he pulled up outside her building, they both sat silently.
“Ian, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
He silenced her with a slight shake of his head. “I’m not mad at you, Grace. Not really. I just thought—” He cut himself off with another annoyed shake. “You need to decide what you want. I’m not going to try to convince you. I’m not going to chase you.”
It was so much kinder than she deserved. She swallowed and chewed her lip to keep the tears from coming. “Thanks for the trip. The car’s a beauty.”
“Yes, she is.”
Grace gave him one more nod, then climbed the steps to the door without looking back. She heard Ian put the roadster into gear and pull away from the curb into traffic.
He may have said it was her decision, but somehow it felt like he had made it for her.
Ian returned the Healey to the car park, the tension in his clenched jaw making his face and neck ache. He drew the cover over it, careful to let only the chamois lining touch the mirrorlike paint job.
Looking at the car had given him hope that not all damage was permanent, that broken things could be restored with time and love and attention. Maybe that only went for cars, not people. The attraction between him and Grace was still there, but maybe that was all it was, the gleam of varnish over a rusted shell of a relationship.
He should have expected as much. Maybe Chris and his mum were right. Maybe his refusal to date normal, ordinary women was just a refusal to commit. If he really wanted a relationship, wouldn’t someone like Rachel or the barrister be a better choice? No drama, no traumatic past, no need to prove her worth. With that sort of woman, he could have a perfectly happy life. Pleasant. Undemanding. Safe.
And yet in the two weeks since Grace had returned to London, he’d felt more alive than he had in the past ten years.
He walked back to his Gloucester Road flat, where he changed into a pair of shorts and headed straight for his spare room, which housed his weights and rowing machine. Despite his furious energy, he forced himself through stretches before he climbed onto the ergometer.
London Tides: A Novel (The MacDonald Family Trilogy Book 2) Page 10