London Tides

by Carla Laureano

  When she had nothing left inside to cry, she pushed herself up from the floor, pulled on her clothes, and went in search of her mobile, which had fallen beneath the reception room sofa. Only then did she notice the message from Asha that had vibrated it off the coffee table. Grace, where are you? I’m worried. Call me.

  She quickly texted back I’m fine, then shoved the phone into her pocket.

  Now she could add lying to the list of her failures.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “YOU’RE LATE.”

  “I know, I know.” Ian didn’t meet Chris’s eye as he opened his locker and dragged off his coat. Street clothes came off, Lycra shorts and formfitting 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.’”

  He shot Chris a warning look. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” Chris asked innocently, though his smile grew broader with Ian’s discomfort.

  Ian ignored him. The last thing he needed was the typical “good going, man” thump on his back. As if he really wanted congratulations for breaking his fiancée’s trust and putting their relationship at risk. He rolled the kink out of his neck, shoved his clothes in 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. He shouldn’t have left things the way he had, even if Grace had purposely pushed him away. There was nothing about this outing that was more important than her. But it was too late now. He pulled his wellies into the boat and 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 of 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 and kick 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-TWO

  GRACE FIT HER KEY IN THE DOOR, dry-eyed and numb. Please let Asha already be at hospital, she prayed.

  No such luck. As soon as she pushed through the door, Asha rushed out of the kitchen, still in her pajamas. “Thank God, Grace. I was so worried!”

  “I texted you.”

  “I’m fine 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. We argued and I made him go. I messed this all up, Asha. It was supposed to be different this time. I was supposed to be different.”

  “Grace, nothing is ever going to be perfect. You’re going to make mistakes. And you’ve experienced things that no one should ever have to see, let alone live. So give yourself a break, will you?”

  “That’s exactly what Ian said.”

  Asha took her by the shoulders. “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.

  Her phone rang in her pocket, and she drew it out, her chest involuntarily constricting when she saw the unfamiliar number. Was it more news about Jean-Auguste?

  “Grace?”

  “Who is this?”

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

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

  “From Ian’s phone.”

  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 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 at 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 and 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.”

  “No, no.” Ian reached for her hand. “I just didn’t want you to worry. 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?”

  “Will you be with him then?” the nurse inquired. “He shouldn’t be alone tonight. There could still be a minor concussion.”

  “Grace and I don’t live together—” Ian began.

  “It’ll be fine,” Grace said quickly. “Does he need to be woken in the night?”

  “No, but he’ll likely need another painkiller in four to six hours.”

  A few more brief instructions and they were allowed out on the street to hail a taxi in front of the urgent care entrance. Grace checked her watch. Only ten o’clock. The miracles of private medicine. When at last a black cab pulled up to the curb, Grace held the door open for Ian, then turned to Asha and Chris. “Thank you, both of you. Are you sure you don’t want to be dropped somewhere?”

  “We can find our way home,” Asha said. “Phone me later.”

  Grace climbed in beside Ian and gave the driver his address. After a moment, Ian scooted close to her and put his good arm around her.

  “I’m sorry, Grace.”

  The conflict within her was too deep to form words. He was fine. There was no reason to think this was a bad omen, that the accident was more than mere chance. She looked up at him and saw his eyes were already closed, no doubt a result of the medication. Perhaps the injury was worse than he’d let on.

  When the cab stopped in front of his building, she shook him gently. “Feeling unwell?”

  “No, just tired.” Still, he didn’t object when she confiscated his key ring and opened doors for him. She tossed the keys onto the hall table and led him directly to his bedroom. The rumpled sheets made her stomach toss.

  “Grace, you don’t have to do this. I’ll be fine. I was never unconscious. I didn’t inhale water. I’ll have Chris check in on me later if you want to go back to Asha’s.”

  “Nonsense,” she said briskly. “Now take off your shoes and have a kip. I’ll make you some lunch when you wake up.”

  “Grace, come here.”

  She moved closer to the bed, and he put his good arm around her waist, looking expectantly into her face. “Are we okay?”

  She gave him a quick smile. “We’re okay. Now get some sleep. We’ll talk later.”

  He kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the bed. Grace helped him remove the sling and propped a pillow under his arm, then pulled up the duvet. Even she was aware of how cold and mechanical her movements seemed. His eyes closed immediately, and she shut the door behind her as she slipped from the room, her chest tight.

  Thank You, Jesus, for keeping him safe. God had answered her desperate prayers, had saved Ian from something that could have been far worse.

  And yet she could not deny that in two days, her faith had been shaken. She had naively thought that London could be a haven from trouble. But in reality, there was nowhere far enough to outrun it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  WHEN IAN WOKE, the light through the bedroom window had deepened and the scent of curry drifted from the kitchen. Unfortunately, the pain in his shoulder had escalated from a twinge to a dull throb. He turned onto his good side and found the amber bottle and a glass of water waiting for him. He tossed back a pill and drained the glass.

  “Thank you, Grace,” he murmured before a sick ache overtook gratitude.

  She was angry at him and trying not to show it, out of consideration for his injury. Slowly, he pushed himself to an upright position, grateful that his headache was dimmer than the shoulder pain, and struggled back into the sling.

  When he emerged, Grace stood at the range, humming to herself while she stirred something in a pot. The image was so cheerily domestic that he hesitated to interrupt it with his presence.

  But she sensed him anyhow. When she turned, her expression immediately shuttered. “How are you feeling?”

  “Not terrible considering. You let me sleep?”

  “It’s about time for another pill. They’re on your nightstand.”

  “I took one, thank you.”

  “Then you should probably eat. You never did well with painkillers on an empty stomach.”

  Something about the way she delivered the words, brusque and unemotional, broke through his fuzziness. “Grace, we need to talk.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  Ian pulled her to him with his left hand, ignoring her sound of protest, and rested his cheek against her head. “Talk to me, Grace.”

  She was quiet for so long, he thought she might refuse. “When Chris called and said you were at hospital, I thought I was going to lose you.”

  He swore softly under his breath. “That’s why I didn’t want him to call you.”

  “But you should have.” She finally looked up at him. “Had you called, I wouldn’t have panicked. I wouldn’t have nearly fainted in Asha’s reception room.”

  “Grace, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think it was that big of a thing. Just a minor in
jury. I’ve had worse in capsizes. The doctor says with a little physical therapy, I’ll be back to rowing in six weeks.”

  “That’s not the point. The point is you didn’t trust me to handle the news. You didn’t think this was something you should immediately phone me about.”

  She was right. Once more he’d taken the cowardly way out, not because he didn’t want her to be part of his life, but because he thought she was angry with him. “I’m sorry. You’re absolutely right. I didn’t want to pile anything more on you, and I only made it worse. But that’s not why you’re angry.”

  “I’m not—”

  “You are.”

  “No, Ian, I’m upset with myself. I’m ashamed of myself. And I really don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I think it’s a little late for that. We made love, Grace. Did you think it wasn’t going to happen after we got married?”

  “That’s different.”

  “It’s not that different. We’ll be married in a matter of weeks.”

  “It’s just . . . I get this terrible news about Jean-Auguste—” she choked up for a moment and blinked away tears—“and I immediately went back to my old ways of dealing with it. I can’t stand the thought of my old life following me into my new one. I can’t stand thinking of you like . . .”

  “All of the other men.” There was the root of his failure. He’d acted just like the others, taking advantage of a grieving woman with a traumatic past. It didn’t matter what his intentions had been, didn’t matter that he’d tried to dissuade her, didn’t even matter that what they shared went far beyond the physical. In her eyes, he was just another man who had failed her.

  But no, he couldn’t accept that, wouldn’t. He placed his hands on her arms and looked her in the eye. “Grace, I am deeply sorry that I hurt you. But it’s not as if you went home with a stranger from a bar. I love you. I’m going to be your husband. Will you please stop treating me like I’m just some bloke you picked up on holiday?”