London Tides

by Carla Laureano

  “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 to the curb, 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 like 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 hand 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. 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 teenaged 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 a painter’s sensibility. 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 in Quebec 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 and 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 pride on Ian’s face when he spotted her—his eyebrows lifting as if to question whether he could approach—d
id 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 she still would never have imagined her photographs would 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 flowed 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.

  When the last attendee departed, Grace sank into a white leather sofa near the front of the gallery and kicked off her ballet flats.

  Melvin flopped onto the sofa beside her and stretched out his long legs. “Long night?”

  “Overwhelming.” She glanced at him. “Thank you, Melvin. You did a lovely job on the exhibit. I hope by the end, we sell enough to cover the cost of production.”

  “You can’t be serious, Grace.” His sharp features twisted into incredulity. “You sold several pieces, and I expect we’ll see more next week.”

  “How many?”

  “Four tonight. Interest in three more. To move 30 percent of a showing as a result of a single event—that’s almost unheard of.”

  “Even so, considering the prices we discussed—” She broke off at the look on his face. “What?”

  “I might have revised the price list since you last looked at it.” He handed her a printed white sheet.

  Grace scanned it. Five thousand pounds? Eight thousand? Impossible. “Who in the world would pay that? It’s mad!”

  “Apparently, plenty of buyers disagreed. That’s far below market rate for a one-off print by someone of your renown, simply because you wanted to raise money for the charity. Of course, it didn’t hurt that your editor friend was talking you up. She’s a better saleswoman than I could have been.”

  Grace put down the price list. If the other sales came through, even considering the cost of production and Melvin’s cut, the exhibition would raise forty or fifty thousand pounds. It was hard to feel as if she wasn’t doing enough, knowing the kind of good that money could do in a developing country. “Thank you for pushing me to do this, Melvin. It felt good. And Aidan would be happy to know the money is going to benefit those who truly need it.”

  “Go home, Grace. Have a glass of wine and savor the moment.” Melvin stood and retrieved his keys to unlock the front door. “I’d offer to call you a cab, but I think someone might have beat me to it.” He nodded his head toward the street, where Ian leaned casually against a waiting taxi.

  Melvin practically propelled her out of the gallery, locking the glass door behind her. Ian straightened immediately and enfolded her in his arms. He buried his face into the side of her hair, his lips near her ear. “I’m so incredibly proud of you, Grace.”

  She soaked up his warmth and his compliment for a minute. “See me home, then?”

  He took her face in his hands and kissed her, then opened the cab’s door for her. Grace slid into the car, a strange feeling of contentment stealing over her. When Ian climbed in beside her, she sighed and leaned against him.

  “Successful night?” he murmured.

  “Very. It’s what I needed, I think. To put the past to rest. To move on.” She felt the sudden thread of tension winding through him, even though he said nothing. “I’m going to call Jean-Auguste again tomorrow.”

  The tension melted. “And then a wedding date?”

  “And then a wedding date.” She smiled up at him in the dark, her heart suddenly full. “Marry me?”

  “Yes. Always yes.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  JEAN-AUGUSTE DIDN’T ANSWER his mobile on Saturday.

  Or Sunday.

  Or Monday.

  On Tuesday, Grace couldn’t deny that her tiny niggle of concern had grown to full-blown worry. It wasn’t unusual to be out of mobile coverage for a few days, but the workflow of modern photographers usually meant downloading and processing photos each night, then e-mailing them off to their editors. Even the photographers like Grace who preferred to linger over their work before culling their submissions never went more than a few days out of contact.

  Grace sat down at her laptop and fired off a few quick e-mails to editors that both she and Jean-Auguste had worked with recently, men she’d be more inclined to call friends than colleagues. I
f they’d heard from him, she’d know by the end of the day.

  “Are you ready?”

  Grace looked up from the screen to where Asha stood, a trench coat over her blouse and trousers, her handbag over one shoulder. “What?”

  “For your appointment at the bridal salon. You didn’t forget, did you?”

  “No, of course not.” Grace closed the laptop with a snap and reached for her own bag, glad that she’d already dressed. “I’m ready to go.”

  But her mind wasn’t on the parade of white dresses the consultant brought out in the posh Westminster shop; it was half a world away. When Asha caught Grace checking her e-mail on her mobile for the fourth time, she pulled her aside into one of the lushly upholstered changing cubicles.

  “Grace, what’s going on? Your mind is clearly not on wedding gowns. Are you having second thoughts?”

  “About marrying Ian? No, of course not!” Grace sighed, then told Asha her worries about Jean-Auguste in barely more than a whisper. It was not exactly the kind of topic she wanted to voice around a handful of glowing, blissfully innocent brides.

  “Surely you’re just being paranoid,” Asha said, but a note of concern had crept into her voice too. “Maybe he took a week off to sit on the beach in Bora-Bora.”

  “Maybe. Probably. You’re right. I’m just anxious to set a wedding date. He’s all we’re waiting for now.”

  “Well, stop worrying. All will go off as planned—if we can get you focused on the dress for a few minutes. You know it will be weeks before another slot opens up here.”

  So Grace wrestled her mind back to the dresses, all of which were too full or too sparkly or too . . . wedding-like. “I don’t know, Ash. All these frills are the reason I don’t wear dresses in the first place.”

  “Can we see something simpler?” Asha asked Madeline, the perfectly coiffed blonde bridal consultant. “Think along the lines of vintage Halston, not Marchesa. And stop trying to cover her tattoos. Her fiancé loves them.”

  “Ah! I know just the thing.” The woman brightened and hurried off with renewed enthusiasm.