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 at eight. And for heaven’s sake, next time wait until it’s light outside, would you?”
Ian hung up without saying good-bye, then 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’d gotten 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 Café 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 like hell.”
“Thanks. I feel worse than hell.”
“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. But something tells me that’s not why you’re here.”
“It’s not. I came here to tell you I quit.”
Jamie blinked, then nodded. “It’s about time.”
“You expected me to leave?”
“I knew you wouldn’t be doing this forever. What are you going to do?”
Ian had been mulling that question all morning, and while he had some ideas, nothing concrete had come to him yet. “I don’t know. But I know it’s time I do what I want instead of trying to please everyone around me. Jamie, 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.
“I’ll speak with her. Are you sure this is when you want to be making big decisions? 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.
Just like Grace did. What was that scripture about religion being caring for widows and orphans? That’s what she did through her photography. That’s what she was trying to continue doing with the job at CAF. If he wanted an example of someone living what they believed, he had to look no further. She’d accused him of loving only the glamorous parts of her job, of not caring about all the hurting souls she encountered, all the voiceless who nonetheless had stories to tell.
Was that the point of all this? Was that what he was supposed to learn? That it was time to get over his own self-centeredness and start listening?
“Ian?” Jamie prompted, reminding him of the question.
“This is exactly the time to be making decisions.” For better or for worse, God was using Grace to change him. He couldn’t go back to life the way it was before she’d come. He could never look at the world in the same way again.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“About three inches to your left,” Grace said in French, peering through the viewfinder. She made a quick focus adjustment, then 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, both with 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’d 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 have been 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 a 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 profes
sionals 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 her. 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 answer 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?”
She shook her head. “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. She 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.
But she wouldn’t know if she stood here all day. Please, she prayed, unable to put together words with any more eloquence. She took a deep breath and climbed the stairs, where she stood with her finger over the intercom button.
“Just do it,” she whispered. She pressed the button.
Silence.
She pushed the button again, even though her hopes had already crashed somewhere around her feet. Still no answer.
The front door of the building opened, and a gray-haired woman stepped out, covered in a faded raincoat and holding an umbrella.
“Sorry, ma’am. Do you know the man who lives on the first floor? In number six?”
The woman stopped and looked her up and down. Grace must have looked at least somewhat trustworthy, because she finally gave a nod. “The Scottish lad, you mean?”
Grace’s heart thumped against her ribs. “Yes, that’s the one. He’s a friend of mine.”
“Haven’t seen him in weeks now.” She frowned. “Come to think of it, I saw him put a fair bit of luggage and some boxes into the boot of that flashy car of his.”
“How long ago was that?”
“A month, maybe more? I didn’t pay it much mind.”
“Thank you,” Grace said faintly. A chill started at the top of her head and crept downward to her toes. She sank down onto the steps. Gone, with what sounded like a good portion of his possessions. What could that possibly mean? Had he moved? Taken a long vacation?
She dug for her mobile in her pocket with trembling hands and dialed his office number. A woman’s voice answered. She racked her brain for his assistant’s name. “Ms. Grey?”
“May I say who is calling?”
“Grace Brennan. I’m actually calling for Ian MacDonald.”
“Just a moment, please. I’ll connect you with Ms. Grey.”
The line went quiet for a moment, then a professional, Scottish-accented voice answered. “Ms. Brennan? This is Abigail Grey.”
“Um, hi, Ms. Grey. I was looking for Ian.”
Another long pause. Her stomach took another dip.
“Mr. MacDonald resigned his position a month ago. I’m the new COO. Is there something I might help you with?”
Grace felt as if she’d been slugged. All the air rushed out of her lungs in a whoosh.
“Ms. Brennan? Grace?”
“Thank you, Ms. Grey,” she whispered. She ended the call and clutched her mobile as if it was her last connection with Ian.
Whatever had happened after Ian let her go, he didn’t seem to want to be found. For the first time since she had left her parents’ house, she sat on the front steps of a place she’d thought of as home and cried.
Grace was halfway down to the Underground platform before she remembered Asha was already in India. She stood there, unable to move from her sudden paralysis, while she watched train after train stop and then speed on, crowds of travelers moving about her like water around a rock.
London had begun to seem like home, but she now knew that had more to do with the people who lived there than the city itself.
She managed to break free of her indecision and boarded the eastbound train with the next wave of passengers. Almost without thinking, she disembarked at Westminster and found herself at t
he same spot along the Thames where she had come to the conclusion that she should marry Ian.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to work. In all the romantic books and films, the girl would be standing out in the rain, thinking that nothing would ever work out again, and here came the hero, ready to take her back with open arms. They’d run to each other and kiss and vow to never be apart again.
She’d been deluding herself to think that kind of thing happened to people like her.
Or maybe it had, and she’d been too scared and blind to see it. She’d hurt the one person she had always loved completely, hurt him so badly that he felt the need to drastically alter his life. God had given her a second chance for a new life in London with Ian, and she’d wasted it.
Why would either of them give her a third?
She climbed atop the stone platform and sank into one of the wet benches, her arm curving over the wrought-iron curlicue support. The cold of the metal bit into her skin, but she didn’t take her hand away. That required some feeling, some reaction. And right now she wasn’t sure there was anything left inside but emptiness. She slumped against the backrest, watching the colors trace across the London sky.
Elsewhere in the city, where the shadows fell early between buildings, streetlights winked on in clusters, little bright spots in the steadily darkening evening. The river churned around a handful of sightseeing boats and pleasure vessels, the tide about to ebb again. She imagined the vessels that were floating leisurely with the tide now having to rev their engines, put more power into just staying at the same speed. It was a fine metaphor for her life. Just when she thought things were flowing in her direction, the tide changed, and she had to work harder and harder just to stay still.
She might be able to bear the knowledge that she had ruined her chance with Ian if there was anything else left for her. Her career hadn’t simply been a job to her; it had been a calling. Shining light into the dark places of the world that had been forgotten, illuminating the people whose tragedies were somehow deemed less important, simply because of a quirk of birth and geography. Even when it seemed like the world didn’t care, she cared. She bore witness to their lives through her photographs, commemorated their place in the world through the marks on her skin. It might not have made her happy, but it had given her a purpose, a reason for her existence.
London Tides: A Novel (The MacDonald Family Trilogy Book 2) Page 28