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

by Carla Laureano

  “Does it? Feel like home?”

  She turned her head to look at him, taking in his profile in the dim light. There it was, that little twinge in her heart, the confirmation she had been waiting for. “It does. It really does.”

  Ian stretched out next to her, then propped his head on his hand. The way he was looking at her made her heart stutter. “What?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Now? I thought we were going to wait for the stars to come out.”

  “No. I mean, in the future.” He ran a finger across the little bit of skin that showed at her waistband where her top had lifted, then dropped his hand to the turf. “Are you going to look for another job? Or do you want to continue to travel?”

  She shifted her gaze to his face. No judgment, no pressure. “I don’t know. I want to stay here in London, but what’s to say the same thing won’t happen the next time I apply for a position?”

  “Start your own business, maybe?”

  “Doing what? Shooting weddings? No.”

  “Not necessarily weddings. Commercial, perhaps?”

  She exhaled, the heaviness from this morning’s failure returning. For a time she’d escaped reality, but it was time to face it again.

  “I hesitate to mention this, Grace, but you don’t have to work if you don’t want to. Or you can do whatever you want, regardless of how much money it brings in.”

  “When we’re married, you mean.” Ian could more than support them, clearly, and she did have a sizable bit tucked away, but that wasn’t what this was about. For so long her identity had been wrapped up in her career. She’d enjoyed a level of autonomy that came with having her own money. Ian didn’t understand what it would mean for her to give up her independence. She hadn’t asked anything from anybody since she was nineteen, when she’d learned what happened if you pinned all your hopes on a man.

  “It wasn’t a stranger,” she said suddenly.

  Ian’s brow furrowed at the change of subject. “What are you on about now?”

  “The house I broke into. It wasn’t a stranger’s. I can’t bear the thought of you thinking I’m a thief.”

  “Grace, sweetheart, I told you, I trust you. You don’t have to tell me.”

  She pushed herself up on her elbows. “I want to. You know I left Europe to be a photographer’s assistant when I was nineteen. That was my boyfriend. We got to LA, and everything was fine for a few months. I suspected he was seeing someone else, but I had no proof. Then one day I came home, and he’d changed the locks on me. Wouldn’t even let me in to get my things. The landlord wouldn’t help me because my name wasn’t on the lease. So I broke a back window and climbed through.”

  “Hence the breaking and entering that was later dropped.”

  “Right. The judge saw my boyfriend was committing a crime by keeping my things.”

  “Why wasn’t the theft charge dropped, then, if it was all your belongings? I assume that’s what that was from.”

  Grace grimaced. “I had just given him an expensive camera lens for his birthday, so I took it back. Had I returned it, they would have dropped the charges, but I denied I ever took it. I would have rather had a misdemeanor conviction on my record than let him keep it.” She peeked up at him, gauging his reaction. “So now you know. What are you thinking?”

  He seemed very serious for a moment; then he chuckled. “This is why I love you, Grace.”

  “What?”

  “That is so very you. Taking a theft charge rather than letting that prat get away with taking advantage of you.”

  “So you’re not disappointed in me?”

  “It’s not really my place to be disappointed, is it? You were young. God knows we have all done things that were ill-advised when we were young.”

  “You’re not going to ask about the other charge?”

  “You never seemed like the type to take drugs.”

  “Not after I got caught smoking a joint some friends gave me. They ran; I didn’t. There you have it. Never touched anything mind altering again. Well, except for alcohol, but that’s never held much interest for me anyway.”

  He stared into her eyes for a long moment, then trailed a finger down her cheek. “Marry me, Grace.”

  “Wasn’t that the idea behind this enormous diamond?”

  “I mean, marry me now. Soon. Let’s go to the register office and sign the papers and run away from London for a month. We can go to Vienna or Prague or Florence and be tourists, just like this. Sightsee. Live off room service. Spend entire days in bed and venture out at sunset to the most romantic little cafés we can find.”

  Her heart gave a little hiccup at the earnestness in his expression, the way his eyes devoured her. “You make that sound so appealing. But you have responsibilities—”

  “Hang my responsibilities. I’ve done everything anyone has asked of me my entire life. It’s time I get to decide what I want to do. And now, the only thing I want is you. No responsibilities. No work or worries or concerns about the future.” Somehow he had moved closer to her on the grass without her noticing, and his arm was draped over her waist, while his lips lingered inches from hers. His lovely blue eyes, made dusky gray in the darkening light, bored into hers. Her breath caught.

  “What if I say I want a real wedding?”

  “Do you?”

  “I know it’s stupid, but I’ve always thought that when I got married, I’d have the white dress and flowers and all that.”

  He pulled back a little. “If that’s what you really want, then that’s what you shall have. Set a date and we’ll do it.”

  “There’s something else.”

  “Yes, love?”

  “I want Jean-Auguste to walk me down the aisle. He’s been more of a father to me than my own, and he’s the only reason I made it this far. Somehow it only seems right for him to walk me from my old life into my new one.”

  “Then call him. If it’s that important to you, we’ll schedule it so he can be here.”

  She eased herself back down onto the grass and touched his face. “Thank you. But not now. Not tonight. Tonight we wait for the stars and talk about—”

  “Room service?”

  She laughed. “Room service. And then you kiss me—”

  “In public—”

  “In public, no matter how uncomfortable it makes you.”

  Ian dipped his head to the space between her neck and shoulder, brushing a light kiss there that made her shiver.

  “Oh no. I am a changed man. You before everything else.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Grace dialed Jean-Auguste first thing on Saturday morning, but the call went straight to voice mail. She wasn’t surprised, even if she was a little disappointed. Who knew where he was right now? Half the time they worked in areas without reliable mobile signals, relying on crew and escorts’ satellite phones for communication. He’d call her when he returned to the city.

  Still, she couldn’t resist leaving a cryptic message: “Jean-Auguste, it’s Grace. Call me please? I have some news I want to share with you.”

  She hung up, then as a second thought, tapped out the same message via text. There. She’d done all she could for now. As soon as he called her back with his schedule, she and Ian would set a date.

  It was a good nervousness, she told herself, but still she pulled out the ugly red-white-and-blue knitted socks so she wouldn’t be tempted to manage her anxiety in other ways.

  Fortunately the last-minute preparations for the showing—and Ian—distracted her from the future unknowns. She spent every day at the gallery, helping decide the placement of the newly framed photos, and every evening at Ian’s flat, cooking to settle her nerves. He didn’t seem to be complaining.

  Friday night came almost as a surprise then, so focused had she been on ignoring it. She slipped on the new blouse Asha had badgered her into buying, then sat on the bed to let her roommate do her hair and makeup.

  “You should let me do the makeup
for your wedding,” Asha said as she mixed eye shadow on the back of her hand. “I’m getting good at this.”

  “Did you have to mention the wedding? I’m already nervous.”

  “But not about the gallery showing.”

  Grace laughed. “That’s true. Hurry up, will you? I’m supposed to make a grand entrance, but there’s a difference between fashionably late and just plain late.”

  “Okay, okay,” Asha muttered good-naturedly. “Stop moving, then.”

  Grace managed to keep her nerves at bay all the way to the gallery, her gaze focused on the lights flickering to life as the sun slid behind the buildings in a blush of pink and orange. Streetlights, neon, headlights. By the time the cab had navigated rush-hour traffic and pulled up on the street, full dusk had at last set in.

  She froze with one leg out of the taxi, paralyzed. Bright light spilled out of the front of the space, illuminating elegantly dressed guests holding flutes of champagne while uniformed waiters circulated trays of hors d’oeuvres. It was far more refined and upmarket than Melvin had led her to believe, probably because he knew she would have this very reaction.

  Asha gave her a little push from the cab, then linked arms with her as they entered the gallery. She steered Grace into the center of the room, where guests milled about, drinking champagne and discussing her photos as if they were art.

  “There’s Ian,” Asha said, nudging her.

  Her eyes immediately tracked to the tallest man in the room, and involuntarily her breath caught. He was dressed in one of his beautifully cut suits, one of many similarly attired men, and yet he managed to stand out. The warm expression in his eyes when he spotted her melted the last bit of tension inside.

  Asha squeezed her arm, then drifted away as Ian approached. He bent to kiss her cheek, but no more. “You look lovely. And the photos are magnificent. Such talent, Grace.”

  “You’ve been here long?”

  “Long enough. But I was hoping you would show me around personally. Perks of being engaged to the artist.”

  “I suppose that does earn you a private tour.” Before she could make good on the offer, though, she saw Melvin threading his way through the crowd toward her.

  “Ah, there you are, Grace. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” Melvin’s attention shifted to Ian. He held out his hand. “Melvin Colville. I’m the gallery owner.”

  “Ian MacDonald. I’m the fiancé.”

  “So I assumed. You don’t mind if I borrow her?”

  Caught between the desire to say Ian didn’t speak for her and the wish he would say he did mind, Grace said nothing. Ian simply gave her another kiss on the cheek and made a gesture of acquiescence.

  “Who are we meeting?”

  “The editor in chief of Beau Monde.”

  “What?” Grace would have stopped had Melvin not taken hold of her arm. Based in Quebec, Beau Monde was a peculiar hybrid of art photography, high fashion, and social commentary. A controversial, often incongruous mix, it nevertheless garnered attention—and secured many a photographer’s career. She’d heard from others that it was easier to score a spread in French Vogue than in Beau Monde. And its editor in chief was here?

  “Relax. She is impressed. Wants to make your acquaintance personally.”

  Melvin led her to a tall, slender woman with her back to them, her blonde hair twisted up into an elegant knot. When she turned, Grace realized she was no stranger. “Monique.”

  “Bonsoir, Grace.” She ignored Grace’s outstretched hands and took her by the shoulders to kiss each cheek. “This is beyond what even I expected, and I’ve followed your work for some time.”

  Grace’s brow furrowed. “You knew who I was when we met at the café?”

  One elegant shoulder answered for her, very French. “When I saw your card. But of course, I did not know about the showing then. I had no idea we would meet again.”

  “I suppose you’re right. It’s a pleasure to have you here.”

  “No, no, no, the pleasure is mine. Melvin tells me this is a personal project it has taken him over a decade to convince you to exhibit. Why now?”

  “I don’t know,” Grace said honestly.

  “Perhaps it was time to let go?” Monique asked, something sympathetic shining in her eyes. “The memories and the pain.”

  Grace stood there, frozen by the insight. Twenty years since her brother died. Twenty years of photography, even if those early teenage attempts weren’t represented here. Somehow she’d never noticed the significance of the dates, her return to London, her decision to let Melvin exhibit the photos. Maybe Monique was right. Maybe twenty years was long enough to let go of all of it.

  “But I did not come to speak of such things. You’re a rare photographer, Grace. You approach your subjects like a photojournalist, and yet you possess an artist’s eye. Truly unique. Evocative, but not sentimental. Are you familiar with Beau Monde?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you know we only work with the best. I’d like you to do a feature for us.”

  Grace could barely force out an answer. “I’m flattered. But I’m not sure I could leave London right away.”

  “I respect that. And it won’t be a problem. I wouldn’t need you until later this autumn.”

  “What’s the project?”

  Monique smiled mysteriously. “Portraits. But not just any portraits. Are you quite prepared to be the next Annie Leibovitz?”

  “Not at all,” Grace answered honestly. “But I’m intrigued by the idea.”

  “Good. My office will be in touch with the details.”

  “Thank you for the opportunity,” Grace managed, somewhere between puzzled and stunned.

  “You are more than welcome, chérie. And may I say, you have fine taste in men.” Her gaze dipped to Grace’s left ring finger, then found Ian across the room, where he spoke with a small group of people. She winked, then sauntered back into the crowd.

  “Beau Monde,” Melvin said approvingly. “A coup for any photographer. I’d trust her with your career, even if I wouldn’t trust her with your fiancé.”

  “I’m not worried on either count,” Grace said. The warm look on Ian’s face when he spotted her—his eyebrows lifting as if to question whether he could approach—did more to assure her of his devotion than any words could. This was her night, and he was here to support her in whatever way she needed. How could she not love the man?

  When she nodded, he crossed to her side immediately. “Who was the VIP?”

  “The editor of Beau Monde. She wants me to come to Quebec this autumn to shoot a feature for her.”

  “That’s incredible. You always said Beau Monde was nearly impossible to land.”

  “It is. But it would mean more traveling. From the sound of it, I might be gone for a couple of weeks.”

  He didn’t even hesitate. “Of course you should do it. It would be a huge boon to your career. If we time it right, we could honeymoon in Quebec. Maybe spend some time alone in Nova Scotia? I’ve always wanted to visit. Did you know there’s a large Scottish community there?”

  “There’s a large Scottish community in Scotland, but you rarely go there.” She grinned at him so he wouldn’t see the sudden rush of panic that had occurred the second he mentioned the word honeymoon. This was all happening so fast. She could barely process the fact she was standing in the middle of her first gallery showing, let alone the leap from estranged to honeymoon in a mere two months.

  Before they could discuss it any further, Melvin was at her side again. “Grace, are you ready to say a few words?”

  Ian nudged her, then leaned down to give her a quick kiss. “Go. You’ll be great.”

  Grace grimaced, but she let Melvin drag her off to the front of the gallery, where guests were beginning to gather. Her heart knocked painfully against her rib cage. They were here because of her. Yes, also because of the renown of Melvin’s gallery and the charity angle, but somehow she would never have imagined her photographs woul
d command the attention of London’s art scene.

  Grace cleared her throat and found Ian in the crowd. He gave her a confident nod that bolstered her courage. Even so, her voice sounded shaky to her ears. “The photos you see here are a collection I’ve worked on for over a decade, but they were never intended to be displayed. Such are Melvin’s persuasive powers.”

  Soft laughter rippled through the gallery, and she relaxed a little. “You see, it shouldn’t be me showing these photographs tonight. My brother, Aidan Brennan, was a talented photojournalist. He was the one who taught me the basics of photography when I was just a girl. Twenty years ago he was killed in a nationalist riot while freelancing in Northern Ireland.”

  Murmurs of sympathy rippled through the crowd, but Grace hurried on. “My brother was a journalist and an artist, but most of all, he was a humanitarian. He believed that God had granted him his gift to give voice to the voiceless and to advocate for justice. With that goal, he began this project, but he never had the chance to complete it. I vowed that I would take the photos he never could with his prized camera. It seems appropriate to dedicate this collection to Aidan’s memory.”

  Tears clogged her voice then, and she gave a decisive nod to indicate she was finished speaking. She focused on Ian’s face to steady herself as she walked back through the applauding crowd. She’d never told him the story behind the photographs, even though he knew the part her brother played in her choice of careers. Would he understand that this was why it was doubly difficult to leave this life behind?

  He put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed her briefly. “Aidan would be proud of you if he were here.”

  “I think he would. There’s something of him in these. He was a traditionalist. He loved black-and-white portraiture.”

  “If it means anything, I’m proud of you.”

  She smiled up at him, grateful for his unwavering support. “That means more than anything, actually.”

  The rest of the evening passed in a blur. It was only when Asha caught up with her to offer her final congratulations and good-byes that Grace realized she’d lost track of Ian in the crowd. After Monique’s open invitation to work with one of the world’s most prestigious photography showcases and the uniformly positive response to her portraits, she had been too stunned to think of anything more than smiling and answering the guests’ questions with something approaching thoughtfulness.