London Tides: A Novel (The MacDonald Family Trilogy Book 2) (25 page)

Down on the pavement, the damp air clung to her skin and slowly peeled away the fingers of panic from her lungs. In the blue-black of the London night, she could finally breathe, even if it made her feel more acutely the hole in her universe left by Jean-Auguste’s death.

She had been a fool. She had somehow thought that removing herself from her career would make her immune to tragedy. It was a child’s perspective, the hope that staying huddled beneath a blanket in her bed would keep the monsters away. But even as Jean-Auguste had encouraged her to escape, he’d stayed in danger. He’d been mistreated and then killed before a silent, watching world, while she tried on wedding dresses and dreamed of a new life, pretending a new start was hers to claim.

Grace’s phone buzzed in her pocket, but she ignored it. No doubt it was Ian, but she didn’t have it in her to respond. There were no words to express how she felt. No way to say that she had been shaken to her core, that the once-gleaming future she’d seen stretched out before her now lay beneath a fog. It sounded like madness, even to her, so she ignored his increasingly urgent calls and texts. Instead she let her angry strides carry her down the pavement, while the digital camera she always kept stashed in her purse found its way into her hand.

When she stumbled into a twenty-four-hour diner in Soho just after sunrise, her camera’s memory card was as full as her phone’s voice-mail box. She numbly placed her order and claimed a corner booth where she wouldn’t have to make eye contact with the living. Instead she scrolled through the shots she’d taken as she wandered the night-shrouded city. They were the inverse of the London she had so far experienced: in place of the flower markets and cathedrals was Soho’s red-light district and the late-night bars. Her London in place of Ian’s—flipped upside down, inside out, positive to negative.

She paused before an image she didn’t remember taking: a tarted-up teenager with a cigarette dangling from her lips, mascara tracking down her cheeks as if she’d paused her crying in order to step out for a smoke. Something in the girl’s pained yet vacant stare raised an answering twinge inside her. However much she wished it weren’t true, Grace had far more in common with this Soho party girl than Ian’s Westminster elite.

Grace pulled out her mobile and sent a message to a number she hadn’t used in years. Just as she had expected, she got an answering text within minutes.

Come over at 9. I’ll open the shop early. Bring coffee.

Chapter Thirty

Ian awoke to the sound of silence. He didn’t need to look to know that Grace was gone. The blanket she had been sleeping beneath had been thrown back, her shoes were missing, and the table that had held her handbag stood empty. Still, he checked the other rooms in the flat, unsurprised when they came up empty.

She had probably gone back to Asha’s and not wanted to wake him. If that were the case, she’d not thank him for rousing her if she were already home in bed. He dialed anyway.

After a few rings, the call went to voice mail. He sent a text message—
Grace, where are you?
—and pretended that the worry wasn’t building inside him. She had been distraught, disoriented by her grief. That was hardly a state in which to be wandering the London streets at 2:00 a.m.

Beneath it all, though, there was another possibility he couldn’t even bring himself to consider.

He busied himself by straightening the reception room and picking up the forgotten Chinese food, then dialed her again on the off chance she had missed his first call. This time the phone cut off after the first ring and sent him to her voice mail again. That meant either her phone was dead, or more likely, she’d rejected the call. She didn’t want to talk to him.

The thought made him more ill than angry. She’d been talking about the wedding dress she’d chosen, playfully considering eloping so they could start their new life together even sooner. Had Jean-Auguste’s death changed her mind? Was she having second thoughts?

He sent her several more text messages, even though he knew how desperate it seemed. The last one said,
Even if you don’t want to talk to me, I need to know you’re all right. You owe me that much.

So he might be a little angry after all.

When sunrise rolled around with no sign of her and no communication, he strode into his bedroom and yanked fresh kit from his drawer. He wasn’t going to sit around waiting for her all day in the hopes she’d finally return his messages. The rest of his Wednesday-morning crew was counting on him to show up. They’d never be able to get a sub to sit stroke at the last minute. Still, he lingered at his flat long past the time he should have been on his way, and by the time he reached the club, the locker room stood nearly empty.

“You’re late.”

“I know, I know.” Ian didn’t meet Chris’s eye as he opened his locker and dragged off his coat. Yesterday’s street clothes came off, Lycra shorts and form-fitting T-shirt went on, then waterproofs. He thrust his feet into his Wellies, knowing that he’d blown his chance for a proper warm-up this morning.

“That’s interesting, Mr. I-Always-Wake-Up-Alone.”

Chris’s assumption was so far from the truth, it was almost painful. “Don’t.”

Chris seemed to understand he’d misread the situation and fell silent, which was just as well. Ian had no intention of letting on that Grace had run out on him in the middle of the night and was refusing his calls, especially after Chris had warned him. Ian rolled the kink out of his neck, shoved his clothes into the locker, and slammed the door shut.

“So, are we going to row or are we going to talk?”

“You gonna warm up?”

“You my mother?”

Chris raised his hands. “Fine. If you pull a hamstring or throw out your back because you’re an idiot, don’t cry to me.”

Ian slowed. Chris was right. He couldn’t let his bad mood get the better of him. He had always prided himself on his focus in the boat. His crewmates depended on him to have his head together, especially considering their lack of a coxswain on the weekday outings.

Still, by the time he took his place at the stern, marginally warmer and only slightly less likely to injure himself, he couldn’t shake the knot of dread in his middle. What if this wasn’t a matter of Grace disappearing of her own volition? What if she’d had a flashback? Could she be in danger?

But that was being reactionary. If she wouldn’t respond, he had no way of finding her, even if he were willing to play the desperate, frantic fiancé. He thrust his feet into the shoes on the foot stretcher, then shrugged off his jacket beside him in the hull.

The Tideway was crowded this morning, the clubs and university crews out in full force, pleasure craft glutting the center lanes. Ian forced his mind off Grace and onto Chris’s voice as the bowman guided them out into the Middlesex lanes, rowing with the tide. He started them with some easy strokes, warming them up, before he kicked up the pace. Ian focused on the effort of his muscles, the sweep of the oar, the angle of entry into the water. Unaccountably, his heart lifted with the growing burn in his lungs and the increasing strain on his body. It was hard not to believe that everything would work out when he was out on the river.

“Heads up, Oxburn!” Chris shouted, flicking the rudder to avoid collision with an overtaking crew that had drifted into their lane. Ian winced as he caught sight of the blue hull out of the corner of his eye. Too close. A junior squad out for a turn on the Tideway.

The farther they moved up the river, the worse the chop became. Chris’s flawless technique in the bow was keeping them on course, but Ian felt the instability of the boat when they started their second piece.

Ian never saw the boat; he only heard the thrum of its motor and felt the chop of its wake against the shell. From the bow end, Chris shouted, “Hold her hard!” and immediately the crew squared their blades into the water for a rapid stop.

Too late. A sickening crack rang out behind him. The impact shuddered up through the boat, jerking Ian’s hand off the oar and throwing him aside at an odd angle. Before he could fully comprehend what had happened, the shell tipped strokeside into the murky water.

Ian sucked in a breath just before he went under. It wasn’t his first time capsizing on the Thames. He stayed calm, twisting and lifting his feet to release the shoes from the foot stretcher. His right foot came out easily, but the left stuck in place. He tried again. Jammed.

His lungs burned as he bent double, reaching for the laces. Just as his breath was about to give out and his calm turned to concern, he managed to slide his foot free of the shoe, then kicked upward.

He broke the surface to chaos. Pieces of the shattered shell floated around them with lost oars, other members of the crew bobbing in the water.

“Oi there!” someone yelled. He twisted his head toward a man leaning over the edge of a coaching launch, his hand outstretched. As Ian took his first overhand stroke toward him, however, he knew something was wrong, and not just because of the pain in his shoulder.

He couldn’t move his arm.

Chapter Thirty-One

A few minutes after nine, Grace climbed a dirty, dingy stairwell to the first floor of a disreputable-looking building near Camden Market. She juggled her two paper cups while she tried the door—unlocked, even though the sign clearly stated Closed—and pushed through into a space that looked far more like the Putney art gallery than a tattoo studio. Bright-white walls bounced light within the open area, with blond wood floors and sleek, Scandinavian-style furniture in the reception room. The front desk, which would have looked at home in one of London’s expensive boutique hotels, stood empty.

“Hello?” she called out. “Mika?”

A door opened in the back, and a man strode toward her. “Grace!”

She smiled. Anyone expecting a biker-looking bloke with a beard and more ink than an art store would have been sorely disappointed. Mika Havonen was almost painfully good looking, in that brilliant blond Scandinavian way that brought to mind tales of Viking gods: hair cropped short, model-perfect muscles shown off by a tight white T-shirt and artfully whiskered blue jeans. His only body modifications were a small, discreet diamond in each ear, and he wore a plain, brown leather cuff on one wrist. The overall effect was much more like the heartthrob lead singer of a Finnish boy band than one of London’s most renowned tattoo artists.

She accepted his kiss on both cheeks, then handed him one of the coffee cups. “It’s been a while, Mika.”

“Indeed. There are exactly two people I’d open early for, and you’re the one who doesn’t wear a crown.”

“Somehow I don’t see the queen getting inked.”

“The queen didn’t lend me rent for my first year either.” He leaned casually against the desk while he sipped his coffee. “So, this was a nice surprise. What are we doing? A new project?”

He never called them tattoos. Only projects. And he was booked four months out, unless you were Grace Brennan or a handful of other close friends.

“A new one. Left arm.”

“Come to my office, and we’ll take a look.”

Mika led her to a room in the back that reminded her of a university professor’s office, overflowing with books from every nook and corner. Only the drafting table, with its computer and light box, was clear of literary debris, and a small leather sofa sat on the opposite wall. He gestured for her to take a seat and pulled up a stool opposite her. “So what have you been up to, Grace?”

Grace held out her arm, knowing what he was really asking. He slid on a pair of black-framed glasses and gripped her wrist in strong fingers, turning it to examine her last “projects.”

“Good work. Who did it?”

“Olivier.”

“Very nice. He still in that little place in the Eleventh Arrondissement?”

Grace nodded.

“You starting a new sleeve?”

The question took Grace aback. She’d said the dragon on her right wrist would be her last, but that was before Jean-Auguste. It wasn’t right to leave him uncommemorated, and she wouldn’t rework an existing design for him. He deserved more than that.

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “For now, just a cross with a fleur-de-lis element.”

His forehead furrowed. “With dates?”

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

“I’m sorry, Grace. I’d hoped never to do another one of these for you.”

Grace chewed her lip and forced back tears. Mika had done her very first tattoo, the one on her right shoulder that memorialized Aidan. In fact, it had been his idea to drape a replica of Aidan’s camera over the cross. “I’m thinking iconography … French heraldry, maybe.”

Mika’s expression changed, and she knew he was putting the details together. No doubt the latest murder of a Western journalist was all over the news. “Maybe you shouldn’t rush this. I can draw up some designs, email them later.”

“Can we just … get it over with?”

Mika sighed. “Whatever you want,
kulta
. You look tired, though. Why don’t you lie back here while I work up the design? I’ll wake you when I’m done.”

Grace stretched out on the sofa, only intending to close her eyes for a few minutes, but the next thing she knew, he was shaking her awake. “I’m finished. Take a look.”

She rubbed sleep from her eyes and moved to the drafting table, where a piece of paper lay among a scatter of open art books. He’d drawn a small stone cross with fleurs-de-lis at the end of each arm, his fine-arts background evident in each stroke of the pen. “It’s perfect.”

“Good. Let’s go out front, then.”

Grace dragged her sweater over her head, then stretched out in the adjustable chair at one of the studio’s six work spaces, chewing the inside of her cheek to keep from focusing on the hollow feeling in her middle. Mika scrubbed up and pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, then began to set up his station with surgical precision.

When he’d finished his prep, he took his seat silently beside her. He knew she didn’t like him to talk while he worked. She closed her eyes, felt the swab of alcohol wipes, the scrape of a razor, the press of the transfer as he positioned the design on top of her left arm. Only the buzz of the machine warned her that he was about to begin.

The first sharp stabs of the needle took her breath away before she remembered to relax into the pain. Despite her best efforts, the silent tears she had held back all night slid down her face. At that moment, she didn’t know what she was grieving more: the death of her friend or the realization that her new start in London was simply a fantasy.

Grace fit her key in the door sometime later, dry-eyed and numb.
Please let Asha already be at hospital
, she prayed. She’d gotten a glimpse of herself in a store window, and she knew she looked even worse than she felt. No way to deflect the inevitable questions.

As soon as she pushed through the door, though, Asha rushed out of the kitchen. “Thank God, Grace. I was so worried! I’ve been texting you all morning, and Ian called here at dawn looking for you!”

“Sorry. My mobile’s dead.”

“
Sorry
doesn’t really cut it after you don’t come home, you know.” She looked Grace over, settling on her tearstained face. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Grace opened her mouth to say something casual. Instead she started to cry.

“What happened?” Asha put an arm around her and guided her to the sofa. Even through her tears, Grace noticed her looking for the ring on her left hand. “Grace, sweetie, you can tell me. Is it about Ian?”

Grace wiped her eyes, but it did no good, since the tears were still falling. “Jean-Auguste is dead. He was killed in Iraq.”

“Oh, Grace.” Asha put her arms around Grace again, cradling her like a child. “What can I do?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I’m just numb. I can’t believe it. Aidan, then Brian, now Jean-Auguste. It’s all so surreal.”

“Where’s Ian? I know he wouldn’t want you to be alone.”

“Rowing, I assume. I woke up on his sofa and … panicked, I guess. I couldn’t breathe, I just had to get away. I left without saying good-bye. I messed this all up, Asha. It was supposed to be different this time. I was supposed to be different.”

“You’ve experienced things that no one should ever have to see, let alone live. So give yourself a break, will you?”

“Ian’s going to be furious with me. I just couldn’t … I couldn’t let myself fall apart in front of him again.”

“Grace, he loves you. And you love him. There’s a reason why he’s the one you want with you in your worst moments. Don’t push him away.”

Grace twisted the engagement ring on her left hand, watching the diamond glint in the setting. Asha was right. She loved Ian. She was letting her grief and her helplessness spill over into the one good thing she had found in her life, pushing him away rather than letting him walk beside her. But her behavior hadn’t been rational. It had nothing to do with him. Could he understand that?

A phone rang in the other room, and Asha extricated herself to retrieve it. A moment later she returned with a puzzled look on her face. “It’s for you.”

Grace took the phone and pressed it to her ear. “Hello?”

“Grace?”

“Who is this?”

“Chris. Chris Campbell. Ian’s friend?”

Grace’s gaze connected with Asha’s in alarm. “How did you get this number?”

“From Ian’s phone. It was the last number he dialed, and you weren’t picking up your mobile.”

A sick feeling crept into her middle. “Chris, what’s going on? Where’s Ian?”

“There was an accident on the Tideway. He’s at Princess Grace. He’s okay—mostly. But I think he would like you here.”

Awful scenarios flashed through her head. The Tideway was crowded, not just with oared craft, but with motorboats, tugboats, pleasure vessels. What on earth had happened?

“I’ll be right there.” She ended the call, too stunned to even ask where she should go or what kind of condition he was in.

“Grace?” Panic tinged Asha’s voice.

“Accident on the Tideway. Ian’s at Princess Grace. I’ve got to go.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No. I’ll be okay. I need to go now.”

She stood, but her trembling legs wouldn’t hold her, and the room swam around her. From a distance, she heard Asha calling her name, telling her to breathe. She sucked in a lungful of air, and it yanked her back from the edge of unconsciousness. The fact Ian was at a private urgent-care facility and not the nearest A & E should have reassured her. But it still didn’t cut through the sudden, overwhelming feeling of panic.

She couldn’t lose him. He was all she had left.

Grace held her breath the entire cab ride to hospital. It was impossible not to think the worst. Most people were so far removed from tragedy that they automatically denied anything so terrible could rip their lives apart. But Grace knew better. Terrible things lurked just around every corner, and it was a miracle that they didn’t collide more often.

Aidan. Brian. Jean-Auguste. Please, God. Please don’t add Ian to the list.

“He’ll be fine.” Asha found her hand on the seat next to her and squeezed. Grace held on hard and said nothing.

The taxi dropped them off outside the hospital’s urgent-care entrance, and while Asha paid the driver, Grace stared at the glass entry enclosure. It didn’t help that she knew this was not the type of place to which one arrived by ambulance. The sick, helpless feeling was all too familiar.

“Come on,” Asha said quietly, taking her arm. “It’s better that we go inside and find out for ourselves.”

The waiting room was clean, bright, and nearly empty, without the usual queue of emergency-department patients. The advantages of having money, Grace supposed. She let Asha do the talking with the nurse at the glass-topped reception desk, unable to do more than concentrate on her breathing and stare at the hospital logo on the wall behind the woman’s head. Asha had to nudge her before she realized that the older woman was talking to her.

“You’re family?” the receptionist asked again, not unkindly.

“I’m his fiancée.” Grace held up her left hand, as if her ring proved she was telling the truth.

“If you’ll have a seat, I can check for you.”

Grace nodded numbly, then walked toward one of the banks of chairs, but she heard her name before she managed to sit. She spun to find a nurse pushing Ian in a wheelchair, Chris several steps behind.

In a flash Grace was at Ian’s side, searching him for any sign of his injuries. He was fully dressed, with his right arm in a sling, but otherwise he looked no worse for the wear. “What happened? I feared the worst when Chris called!”

Ian’s startled expression said it all.

“He didn’t tell you he called, did he? You didn’t want me here.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to be here.” Grace recoiled at the bitterness in his tone, and Ian sighed. “I’m fine. We were hit by another boat, and I dislocated my shoulder. Minor rotator cuff tear. Nothing to be concerned about.” He worded his answer carefully and precisely, but his accent softened around the edges and let some of the Scottish slip in.

“Why are you in a wheelchair then?”

“Mite unsteady on his feet from the drugs,” Chris said, amused. “Thought it best he didn’t walk under his own power at the moment. Do you want to see him home?”