London Tides

by Carla Laureano

  “However, most of CAF’s donors do not have the opportunities I have—they’ve not seen for themselves the faces of the people CAF serves. The only communication they have about where their money is being spent is through the monthly publications they receive in the post. And frankly, as I told Henry—Mr. Symon—in my initial interview, I believe CAF may be doing more harm than good with the current approach.”

  As Grace spoke, her voice grew more confident. She outlined how she believed CAF seemed to be doing too well from the glossy commercial nature of their publications, discouraging donors from making further donations. Ian couldn’t resist a slight smile when she talked about her vision for a more editorial approach to their communications, a way to make people feel a part of the charity to which they contributed.

  “I believe most people want to help. They just need to be given a reason to do so, and to feel that their direct contribution makes a difference in a child’s life, even if they can’t commit to individual sponsorships or monthly donations. You clearly have both the design and marketing talent to accomplish it, so I believe it’s time for a new vision.”

  A quick glance around the table showed impressed expressions and favorable body language. His heart lifted further. They’d evidently picked up on her passion for the people and CAF’s mission. If the impressed nods were any indication, she had this job locked up.

  “Thank you, Ms. Brennan,” Vogel said, rising to shake her hand. “We’ll be making our decision soon. We’ll be sure to contact you as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you, sir. Gentlemen.” She hoisted her bag over her shoulder with a nod toward the table and excused herself quietly.

  “I believe Ms. Brennan has expressed the reason we should hire her more clearly than I could have.” Henry’s smile said he anticipated as easy a decision as Ian did.

  “Indeed, she’s impressive,” Vogel said. “She’s pinpointed the problem with our current marketing approaches. Looking at her CV, however, I don’t see a university degree.”

  “In this case, I believe that her experience more than makes up for her lack of formal education,” Henry said.

  “I’d have to agree with you.” Vogel flipped through the paperwork. “Have we completed a background check yet?”

  Henry faltered. “Sir?”

  “A background check. It’s required for every hire. Have we completed it?”

  Hesitantly, Henry handed over a sheaf of papers and passed them down the table to Vogel. The chairman skimmed over it, his expression tightening with every page he flipped.

  “I’m afraid this won’t do.” He passed the sheaf to Alvin Keller, the charity’s general counsel. “A year ago, I would have dismissed it, and if this were a field position, I still might. But after the recent scandal, we simply can’t afford to have any more scrutiny directed at our management staff.”

  Ian frowned. “I’m sorry. What are we talking about?”

  Keller shoved the papers down the table. Ian frowned as he flipped the first page and then felt the blood drain from his face.

  Grace had a police record.

  He had known that she had done some things in her teen years that she wasn’t proud of, and she’d alluded to trouble in Los Angeles, but this? Breaking and entering, a misdemeanor drug charge, a theft case that was later dismissed but apparently not expunged from her record.

  He swallowed hard. “This is from fifteen years ago. Are you telling me that none of you have ever made a mistake?”

  “Of course that’s not what we’re saying,” Vogel said. “And we’re making no judgment on her morality. Or even saying we believe she would ever commit another crime.”

  “In this case, the fact she has such a high profile as a photographer works against her,” Keller said. “We can’t guarantee that someone else couldn’t dig this up. At this point, we can’t afford any hint of impropriety.”

  Ian dropped the papers on the table and wiped a hand over his face. “I think you’re making a big mistake.”

  Vogel cleared his throat. “MacDonald, I understand you’re in a relationship with her.”

  That made him sit up straight. “Yes. And?”

  “Henry could certainly call and tell her, but perhaps you’d rather give her the news.”

  Ian gave a sharp nod but said nothing as he gathered his papers and his mobile and shoved them into his briefcase.

  “We’ve still a few matters to discuss,” Keller said.

  “I’m sure you’ll manage fine without me. I’m finished. Excuse me, gentlemen.” He pushed his chair up to the table, then strode from the conference room.

  Only when he was riding the elevator down to the basement where Grace waited for him in the restaurant did he slump against the wall. This was going to crush her. She had made such an impassioned case for the job; how would she react when she knew she’d been turned down because of stupid teenage mistakes?

  What would she do when the job she was banking on to keep her in London fell through?

  He found her sitting at a small table for two in the warmly decorated restaurant, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea. She smiled when she saw him, but the expression faded when he didn’t return it. He sat down across from her.

  “You did wonderfully. They were incredibly impressed by your presentation.”

  “I sense a but in that statement.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about your police record?”

  Her face paled, then flushed pink. “Why do you think, Ian? I was ashamed.”

  “But if I’d known about it, I could have done something—”

  “Done what? You can’t change my past. You knew there were things I didn’t talk about. I just hoped they might see clear to overlook them, based on the fact that they were so long ago.” She delivered the words flatly, dispassionately, as if it didn’t matter to her.

  “If it hadn’t been for a recent scandal, they would have. I’m sorry, Grace. You are absolutely the right person for the job. We all agree on that. This makes me ill.”

  She set her cup down firmly on the table with a thud. “Go ahead and ask me.”

  “Ask you what?”

  “What I did. I know you’re curious. I know you’re wondering what kind of woman you’re marrying.”

  “I know exactly what kind of woman I’m marrying. A passionate woman who made some mistakes. I don’t care what happened.”

  “Well, you might be the only one.” Grace rose from the table and lifted her shoulder bag. “If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to be alone. Go for a walk, maybe. I’ll call you later.”

  Ian sighed and slumped back into his chair, watching her walk away from the restaurant with a decidedly defeated slope to her shoulders. Before she made it to the door, though, he leaped from his seat and followed her.

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her to a stop. “No.”

  “Ian, please. I feel like being alone.”

  “I know you do. But you’re not alone anymore. We’re in this together, remember? You and me.” He slid his hand down her arm and gripped her hand firmly. “So, the question is, what are we going to do?”

  “You have to go to work.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Pretty certain I don’t. It’s lunchtime on a Friday, and everyone will be plotting an early escape.”

  Grace arched an eyebrow, but he could tell her spirits were lifting. “Change first, and then hit one of the street markets?”

  “All right, then.” He loosened his tie, tugged it over his head, and tucked it into his pocket. “I didn’t get breakfast after my outing this morning. I’m famished.”

  “Then come on, Superman. Let me show you how to play hooky.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  IT WAS ONE OF THOSE GLORIOUS, sunny August days that seemed to only come every five years or so, with fluffy clouds skittering across pale-blue skies. In honor of the occasion, Grace abandoned her usual trousers and boots in favor of cutoff jeans, sandals, and a tank top that showcased most of he
r ink and more of her curves than she was used to flaunting. The light in Ian’s eyes when she emerged from the bathroom communicated his approval.

  “I did mention that you had a cruel streak, didn’t I?” He kissed her shoulder, then her neck, and finally her lips.

  She leaned into him and twined her arms around his neck, encouraging him to continue. “You might have said it once or twice. But I can’t turn down the opportunity to catch a little sunshine.”

  “Sure.” His tone said he didn’t believe her. Rightly so. Grace liked that look on his face, the way he managed to layer reverence with hunger when he touched her. Tempting fate, perhaps, but she knew Ian well enough to know that this side of him he reserved for her alone. He brushed his hands down her arms before he let her go, the longing clear on his face. “Where do you want to go?”

  “I want to be a tourist.”

  “A tourist?”

  “Right, like we’re on holiday in London. I’ll bring my camera, and we’ll ooh and ahh over the sights and kiss in doorways and eat fabulous food from dodgy-looking street vendors.”

  “I like the kissing part.”

  “I thought you might. First question would be Portobello Road for paella or Brick Lane for Bangladeshi?”

  In the end, they settled on sticky sweet jerk chicken and plantains bought from a Jamaican food van not too far from the famed Electric Avenue in Brixton, then wandered through the Friday market featuring offbeat crafts and food. Somehow, they made their way back to Westminster, where Grace talked Ian into jumping onto a double-decker bus for a tour, then back off to ride the London Eye. By that time, the sun was beginning to dip in the sky, and the jerk chicken had worn off enough for their stomachs to grumble. Ian stepped up behind Grace at their vantage spot on the Tower Bridge, watching water rush beneath it, and wrapped his arms around her. “Have you had a good holiday?”

  She leaned against his chest and closed her eyes for a moment. “Lovely. So lovely I’m not ready to go home.”

  “Then what do you want to do now? It’s going to get cold eventually, and you’re not dressed for that.”

  “I’m sure you can keep me warm.” She thought for a moment. “If we really were just visiting, I would want to stargaze on Hampstead Heath.”

  “Sunset picnic on the Heath it is, then.”

  That was how they found themselves sitting at one of London’s iconic landmarks, eating Chinese food from paper takeaway containers, open fizzy drinks worked into the long grass beside them so they wouldn’t tip. She fed him chow mein with expert motions of her chopsticks while he gave her tastes of his kung pao chicken with a plastic fork.

  “What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever eaten?” he asked.

  She didn’t even have to think. “Bubble and squeak.”

  He’d probably been expecting her to say deep-fried grasshopper or the like and instead she’d picked an iconic British food. “Why is that?”

  “It’s odd, don’t you think? Beans should be refried. Not vegetables.”

  “You spent too much time in America.”

  “Don’t blame that on America. We have something similar in Ireland called colcannon, and I never liked that either.”

  “What else do you find mystifying about England?”

  She set aside her empty container and stretched out on the grass. “I don’t know. I don’t think there’s anything mystifying about England at all.”

  “And that’s the problem with it, isn’t it?”

  “No. That’s what makes it feel like home.”

  “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 and 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 fading 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—”