London Tides: A Novel (The MacDonald Family Trilogy Book 2) (11 page)

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 and 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.

With every pull, his mind felt a little clearer. Maybe Grace had it right. He had lost something of himself, too, but maybe that something wasn’t her. He’d abandoned all his own goals, first for Grace, then for Jamie and his mum. And for what? To end up almost forty years old and alone, in a job that more than paid the bills but bored him to tears?

Grace’s words came back to him, defusing some of his anger. She had been searching for meaning, too, the reason she existed on this earth. Rather than stay in London and let herself stagnate, she’d gone out and found her sense of purpose. He could have used her departure as a challenge to do the same, but instead he’d let himself be smothered in a meaningless, rote existence. Wake up, row, go to work, lift weights, go to bed. Repeat, maybe with an occasional trip to the pub or a family visit. It was as if the uniformity of his rowing had permeated every part of his life. Precise. Measured. Do everything the same way each time. Get the results you expect by the technique you put in. No room for uncertainty or creativity or thought, no room for anything but perfection.

Grace wasn’t perfect. She was messy, passionate, unpredictable. That’s what he’d always loved about her. That’s why his life had never felt complete without her.

Ian stopped abruptly after the monitor registered one kilometer, then collapsed onto his back on the floor. The sound of his own panting and the whir of the erg’s fan as it slowed closed in around him. He stared at the ceiling as if some divine answer were written there.

Maybe Grace had been right to leave. Had she stayed, she would have been smothered by his boring, bleak existence, doing nothing of importance. The niggling feeling grew to a crushing weight, squeezing out a bitter laugh.

Ironic. Stay or go, Grace was once more in the center of the wreckage of his life.

Chapter Twelve

Asha’s flat was far too quiet. Grace flicked on the television for company, then turned it right back off. She paced a few times between the door and the kitchen, a sick feeling in her stomach.

She’d screwed it up. No doubt about it. Yes, she was still ambivalent about giving up conflict photography—okay, heartbroken. But the dream this morning had said it all. Her issues weren’t going to resolve themselves anytime soon. Her therapist had been useless, and as she told Ian, antidepressants and antipsychotics only made her alternately anxious and suicidal, the two things she’d been trying to avoid. Likewise, church hadn’t helped. It had made her feel more broken and alone. She knew God felt her pain. She knew Jesus cared. But the people, even the priests … There was no way they could possibly understand.

Like it or not, that part of her life was over. The sooner she accepted it, the sooner she could begin building a new one. A life she had hoped might include Ian.

And it could have, had she not so artlessly conveyed that he wasn’t reason enough to leave her former life behind.

In the past she would have sought to relieve this terrible feeling in a self-destructive way. But it wasn’t an option. That life was dead, even further in her past than the death of her career. It was one thing she didn’t want back.

Her eyes fell on her duffel bag, which lay open from her preparations this morning. Near the top was an ugly green-and-yellow tote bag, from which peeked an even uglier ball of red, blue, and white yarn.

Therapy. Or at least that was the idea. She’d picked up the yarn and needles on a whim and never looked at them again, even though her Irish grandmother had taught her to knit as a girl. God only knew why she had brought them.

Well, maybe that was exactly right. She climbed under a fuzzy blanket on the sofa and dragged the tote onto her lap.

That was how Asha found her hours later, holding the beginnings of a sock from which pointy sticks jutted in all directions. Asha tossed her keys on the table and hung up her coat. “What on earth are you doing?”

Grace looked up and forced a smile. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m wrestling an octopus by one leg.”

Asha chuckled and flopped down on the sofa beside her. “I never took you for a knitter.”

“Makeshift therapy,” Grace said with a grimace. “It’s supposed to help control the impulse toward stupidity.”

“I can see that. What I can’t understand is why you’d choose wool that looks like clown vomit.”

“It’s patriotic! The color is called Union Jack.”

“You’re not British.”

“Would you rather I have gone for my own patriotic colors of orange, white, and green?”

Asha pretended to shudder. “No, thank you. Color choices aside, why the sudden need for wool therapy?”

Grace lowered the porcupine in her hands to her lap. “Ian took me to Salisbury this morning.”

“How’d it go?”

“Complete disaster. They could write self-help books about this relationship. Not that there is a relationship.”

“Oh, there’s a relationship, whether you want to acknowledge it or not. That tends to happen when two people are still in love with each other but refuse to admit it.”

Grace picked up her needles again and focused on the tiny stitches. “I don’t think admitting it is the problem.”

“Then why are you sitting here and torturing yourself with your knitting, pining for a man you could have if only you weren’t so stubborn?”

“It has nothing to do with being stubborn. I screwed things up. It was a beautiful day, everything was going great, and then I basically told him he had nothing to do with my return to London—that I was only back because I was forced to retire.”

“Oh, sweetie. Why didn’t you tell me that’s why you came back?”

Grace held up her knitting in response.

Asha sighed. “So, what now?”

“With Ian? I don’t know. He wants a guarantee, some sort of commitment, and I don’t know if I can give that. I’m still figuring out where to go next, what to do with my life.”

“Did he tell you that?” Asha asked, eyes narrowing. “Or are you assuming?”

“It’s pretty clear he wants me to commit to staying in London.”

“Well, of course he does. Why wouldn’t he?” Asha abruptly pushed off the sofa and wandered to the kitchen. She returned with an open bag of crisps and tilted them in Grace’s direction.

Grace shook her head

“Listen, I don’t know if all this ridiculous back-and-forth is your twisted courtship ritual or what. But two weeks ago you were desperate for him to give you a second chance, and now that he gives you one, you sabotage it?”

Grace didn’t look at her. “I thought you’d be on my side.”

“I’m on the side that’s going to make you happy, Grace. I love you.”

“You’re acting like I’m not trying. I am. But how can I reassure him I’m going to stay when I don’t even know myself?”

Asha perched on the edge of the seat and took one of Grace’s hands. “Sweetie, tell me what you’re really afraid of here.”

A lump rose in her throat. What was she afraid of? Why was she so reluctant to give her life here a second chance? “I already ruined things with us once. What if I try again and it’s not enough? I can’t do that to him again. I can’t do that to me again.”

“Grace, if I know Ian, he’s not asking you for forever right now. Why are you overthinking this?”

Asha made it sound simple.

Well, why couldn’t it be?

Asha smiled, obviously seeing that she was getting through to her. “I tell you what. I’ll get takeaway, and then we’ll combine our feminine wiles and figure out the best way for you to grovel your way back into his good graces. Which do you want, fish-and-chips or shawarma?”

“Shawarma, definitely. I’ve had enough fish-and-chips for one day.”

“I’ll be back, then.” Asha grabbed her coat and pocketbook and paused near the door. “It’ll work out, Grace. You’ll see.”

Grace picked up her mangled knitting, then tossed it aside. Yes, she’d take a chance. But after what happened today, would he?

The next day, Grace hesitated outside Ian’s flat, her hand poised inches away from the door. Maybe she shouldn’t have come unannounced. He was usually home on Sunday evenings, but who was to say he hadn’t gone out?

Cowardly thoughts, all of them. She rapped on the door with more confidence than she felt, shifting the heavy insulated containers to her other hip. She and Asha had decided dinner was safest. He would never turn down her cooking.

But no scrape of chains or rattle of deadbolts came on the other side. She’d never been to his new place—had she gotten the address wrong? She knocked harder the second time. Nothing.

She was a fool, not just for coming unannounced, but for thinking he was sitting around waiting for her. She turned back to the stairs, but before she could set foot on the first step, the door opened behind her. “Grace?”

She turned and paused midstep on the landing. Ian stood in the doorway, shirtless and breathing hard, an MP3 player strapped to one arm and earphones dangling from his hand.

She stared at him for several seconds before she could manage words. “Am I interrupting you? I knocked a few times.”

“I was on the erg. I didn’t hear you over the music. What’s up?”

Grace’s stomach did a backflip. He wasn’t acting as if he harbored any ill feelings toward her, but she wouldn’t have called his tone welcoming either. She held up the containers. “I brought dinner. Call it a peace offering.”

He frowned as if considering, then straightened and nudged the door all the way open. She stepped inside.

Their place in Islington had been the typical bachelor pad with its mismatched furniture and bare walls. The Gloucester Road flat, on the other hand, was elegant and sophisticated, decorated in a spare, clean-lined Scandinavian style—grays, whites, and black with pops of color here and there. Framed photography and modern art decorated the pristine ivory walls. Somehow it surprised her. Not that his tastes had matured but that a traditionalist like him would favor such a restrained contemporary style.

“Nice flat,” she said. “Not what I expected.”

He was still looking at her with that same cautious expression—neither angry nor open. “You didn’t come to admire the flat. Why are you really here?”

He was going to make her say it, standing in the foyer while holding two hot bowls of food. She looked around for rescue and finally off-loaded them onto the small table that held a stack of mail. “I came to apologize. You did something nice for me, and I ruined it. I was insensitive and didn’t think about what I said before I said it. You deserve better than that.”

He wiped a hand over his face in what could have been weariness or exasperation. “Here’s the thing, Grace. I’m not angry with you. I told you that yesterday. But I don’t want to be anyone’s consolation prize. I don’t want you to be with me just because you can’t do the thing you love most. I deserve more than that.
You
deserve more than that.”

The words pierced as they struck. “Ian, I could have gone anywhere in the world to start over, but I came to London. Because of you.” Her heart thumped so hard, she was pretty sure he could see it. “I’m still figuring out what my life should look like now, but you’re not my consolation prize.”

His eyes darkened, and he took a step toward her. He’d only kissed her once, but the anticipation was enough to send her pulse into overdrive. She closed her eyes as his head dipped toward hers, aching for the proof that reality was as good as her memories.

But the kiss never came. Instead the latch of the door clicked near her ear.

Grace’s eyes snapped open. “What—”

“We’re going to finish this conversation, but first I need a shower.” He flashed a wry twist of a smile. “And proper clothes.”

“You’re a tease.”

He bent again, and this time his breath brushed her cheek, raising a shiver on her skin. “Not a tease. Just not in a hurry. Make yourself at home.” He stepped away from her, then strode toward his bedroom.

She chewed her bottom lip to stop her grin, allowing herself an appreciative look before he disappeared. No, he wasn’t nearly as staid and conservative as he liked to pretend. But the hot-blooded athlete she remembered would have pushed her against the wall and kissed her senseless after that declaration. And they probably wouldn’t have gotten round to dinner at all.

Maybe it was good they’d both developed some restraint. Their first relationship had progressed so quickly, it had become easier to fuel their connection with the physical rather than own up to the emotions beneath it. Clearly, if they were going to have a second chance, it had to be based on more than chemistry.

She moved into the small, modern kitchen, taking stock of the space, then opened a cabinet above the dishwasher. Sure enough, the plates and glasses were there, just as they’d been in the Islington flat. That would mean the flatware was to the right of the sink. She smiled when she found the neat array of cutlery. Some things didn’t change.

She set the table and unpacked the two containers of food onto ceramic trivets, then wandered back into the reception room. A short hallway led to the bedrooms and bath. She bypassed Ian’s room and wandered into the spare he had set up as a gym. A weight bench with a rack of free weights stood in one corner, while his rowing machine took up the center of the room. On the far side lay his trophy wall, displaying a collection of shadow-boxed medals and framed photos.

There were several pictures of Ian with his Cambridge crewmates in their iconic light-blue blazers, along with framed newspaper articles showing the outcomes of the five Oxford and Cambridge Boat Races he’d rowed in—four wins, one loss. Five world-championship gold medals from his time on the British national team, one in the juniors and four more in men’s and veterans’ classes. And in the place of honor in the middle, his framed Olympic silver medal.

Grace remembered when he had won that, or lost the gold, as he regarded it. Three full boat lengths ahead of bronze, and yet it was the half second behind gold that had haunted him. He felt he’d let down his teammates, even though it had been years since Great Britain had won an Olympic gold in rowing.

He’d been brilliant back then: driven, confident in his own skills, maybe a little cocky. But he’d also understood how fortunate he was to succeed at something he loved. And then he’d proposed to Grace and decided he needed to do something steady and responsible. The nonstop training wasn’t conducive to a happy marriage, he’d said, as if he weren’t giving up something he’d worked for his entire life.

Had it not been for her, there might have been an Olympic gold on that wall.

“Ready to eat?”

Grace started at Ian’s voice over her shoulder. She’d been so enwrapped in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard the shower turn off or noticed him enter the room. He put a tentative hand on her waist, and she leaned back against him, the faint, masculine scent of his favorite soap and aftershave enveloping her. It instantly brought back the memory of late nights years ago when he’d slip into bed after she’d fallen asleep, wrapping his arms around her beneath crisp sheets. She closed her eyes and inhaled the memory.