London Tides

by Carla Laureano

  “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. She’d already proven that the latest murder of a Western journalist was all over the news. “Maybe you shouldn’t rush this. I can draw up some designs, e-mail 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.

  And at last, the tears that had remained locked away for days slid down her face, one after another in an endless stream. At that moment, she didn’t know what she was grieving more: the death of her friend or the realization that no matter how far she ran, she would never be completely free of her past.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  IAN PUSHED THE BUZZER on the front stoop of Asha’s building, his heart thudding in his ears. He’d started here first, trying to convince himself that Grace had simply moved her things back to Asha’s flat this morning as planned and fallen asleep. After a minute, a speaker crackled to life. “Hello?”

  Asha. “It’s Ian. Is Grace there?”

  “No. I thought she was at your place.”

  “Has she been home today?”

  “Not that I know. Is something wrong? Do you want to come up?”

  “No, we just probably got our plans crossed.” He let go of the button and stepped off the stoop, rubbing his shoulder as if that were what actually pained him. He chose to walk the mile or so to his flat, steeling himself for the sight of her things gone, her ring on the counter. She had run away again. He should have known this was going to happen as soon as she began distancing herself.

  But when he entered his flat, her duffel bag still sat in the foyer, her camera case on the table. The air rushed out of his lungs in a wave of relief, but a pang of concern followed just as quickly.

  If she hadn’t missed their lunch date because she was leaving him, where was she? Had something happened to her? London was a relatively safe city, and Grace certainly knew how to take care of herself, but accidents still happened. He took out his mobile and dialed her number. It rang several times, then went to voice mail.

  Grace, call me, he texted. Worried about you.

  He sat there for a few more minutes, then rose. He should go grab something to eat for supper and wait for her. He took a moment to change from his suit and hang the pieces neatly in his wardrobe, then slipped into a pair of jeans and a loose pullover that didn’t require too much contortion to get into.

  Thirty minutes later, he was back with a paper bag containing two paper-wrapped Reuben sandwiches from a nearby Jewish deli. He could only assume Grace would come here instead of Asha’s flat. She might not care about her clothes, but she wouldn’t leave her camera behind. He flopped onto his sofa and flicked on the television, keeping one eye on the minute hand of his watch. Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty. Just as he was about to gather their uneaten meal, a key scraped in the lock and the door handle rattled.

  He was on his feet instantly as Grace walked into the hallway, cap pulled low over her eyes and her cardigan wrapped tightly around herself as if it were winter. Something in the way she moved sent up an alarm in the back of his mind. Was she hurt? Ill?

  She looked up at him and blinked slowly. “Ian? What are you doing here? Is it your shoulder?”

  “I left work early. You missed our lunch date. I was worried.” He tried for casual, but even he could hear the undercurrent of tension in his voice.

  “I’m fine. Are those sandwiches?” She nodded toward the bag on the coffee table and set down her rucksack. She wasn’t meeting his eye, and she still hadn’t acknowledged the fact that she’d stood him up today.

  “Grace. Tell me what happened.”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Then why didn’t you come today?”

  She blinked, seeming legitimately surprised. “I’m so sorry, Ian. I completely . . . I got sidetracked and then I forgot.”

  “You’re holding something back. What is it?”

  She slipped out of his grasp and went to the kitchen. She got a glass from the cabinet, filled it with orange juice, and replaced the carafe in the refrigerator before she said anything. She didn’t look him in the eye. Her voice shook as she said, “If you were smart, Ian, you would just let me go.”

  Another spike of fear impaled him. “What are you saying? What’s going on?”

  “I’m saying that I’m beyond help. No matter what I do, I fail. I failed myself. I’m going to fail you.” Tears gathered on her lower lashes and spilled over onto her cheek.

  “Ah, sweetheart . . .” He reached for her and rubbed her arms in what he meant to be a soothing gesture. She winced and squirmed away from his touch.

  “Grace,” he said in a low voice. “What did you do?”

  She pulled down the wide neckline of her sweater to reveal the large rectangular dressing that covered the upper part of her left arm and peeled it away to show the newly inked cross, the skin beneath it pink and puffy.

  “Oh, Grace . . .”

  Her spine stiffened immediately at his tone. “Lots of people have tattoos. More than me.”

  “You know I would love you if you were covered in them from head to toe. I don’t care about what. I want to know why.”

  “Why? You never wanted to know before, Ian. You never asked.”

  Guilt added to the queasy feeling in his stomach. “I’m asking now.”

  She pulled her sweater off over her head and stood before him in her tank top. “Take a good look, Ian. It’s all there. All my hang-ups, all my trauma.” She pointed to a tattoo of a cross and an old-fashioned camera on her upper arm. “Right there is the first one I got for my brother.” She pointed to a shaded key. “
There is the one I got when my parents kicked me out of the house. And these, all the crosses for the colleagues I’ve lost in the field.”

  He crouched down to pick up the sweater and paused, giving himself time before he handed it to her. She pulled it on over her head, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Grace, I’m sorry I never asked. I thought I was protecting your privacy. Tell me why. Make me understand.”

  The fight left her abruptly. She slumped against the counter and rubbed her hand across her forehead. “When I got my first, it was to make my parents angry. They thought if they pretended Aidan had never lived, it would be like he never died. All the photographs, put away. But I had to remember. I wanted proof that he had existed. After that, it was a way to show the things I’d experienced really happened. Bad things. Good things. Everyone I’d loved and lost.”

  Her voice dropped even lower. “Sometimes the pain of the needle was the only thing I actually felt. Other times, it was the only thing that could relieve the pressure.” She lifted her eyes to his. “You don’t know what it’s like to feel like you’re suffocating, to never draw an easy breath. Or to go around in a fog, detached.

  “So I kept going back. Looking for some kind of relief. I’d been okay recently, since I rededicated my life to Christ. He’d taken that compulsion, I thought. Then Brian died on the anniversary of Aidan’s death, and I had to do something to honor them both.” She fingered the green dragon that finished the sleeve around her right wrist. “I said once the sleeve was done, I was done. No more holding on to the memories. But today I panicked. I was afraid I wouldn’t ever be able to feel anything again. So I did this.”

  Ian didn’t know what to say, gripped by guilt and pain and sorrow. That the woman he loved had struggled so much and he’d never known . . . he’d thought he was respecting her space, but in reality, he hadn’t wanted to know. He’d been content with the way things had been years ago, perhaps even smug about her insatiable appetite for him. But that hadn’t been about him. It hadn’t even been about love, and he’d been too dumb or selfish to realize it.

  Just like her giving herself to him a few days ago had far less to do with love than her need to forget.

  He gathered her to him, carefully avoiding the new tattoo, and buried his face in her hair. “I’m sorry, Grace. Forgive me. I should have known. Maybe if I’d pushed you to get help back then—”

  She jerked away from him. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’m broken. Like I’m something that needs to be fixed. I told you I don’t want to be defined by my issues.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.” He kept his voice gentle despite the dread in his chest, squeezing with each heartbeat. “I’m just saying that ignoring it isn’t making things any better. If anything, it’s getting worse.”

  “I tried!” she shouted. It was so out of character, so out of the blue, he stepped back. Tears brimmed on her lower lashes. “Don’t you think I’ve tried? It. Didn’t. Work.”

  “One therapist, Grace. That doesn’t mean it didn’t work; it just means you had the wrong one.” He sighed. “I just want to see you get better.”

  “That’s just it.” Her tears spilled over. “There might not be a better me. You want the version of me who can tell your friends brilliant stories about firefights and exotic locations. But you don’t want to know about the dead children and the raped women and the death squads.”

  He reached for her with his good arm, but she twisted away. “I know I can’t fully understand,” he said. “And I’m sorry if I haven’t been as supportive as I should have been. But that’s why I want you to talk to me. And to get help. Will it make it go away? No. Nothing will ever change the past. But it could at least be bearable.”

  “Bearable,” she said with a laugh. “Do you really want to be saddled with a wife for whom life is just bearable?”

  “Good, then. Life can be good. You’ve seen it yourself. You’ve been happy with me up until now. It’s just been too much, one thing on top of another. It won’t always be this hard.”

  “Ian, you’re being naive again. Whatever you think you see in me—I’m not that woman. We’ve been fooling ourselves to think otherwise.” She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, weariness evident in every movement. “I think I’m going to go now.”

  “Grace, please, don’t do this.” He grabbed her by the elbow, but this time she didn’t flinch. Her gaze was back to that distant, numb look again. “Just wait a bit. Don’t make any decisions now.”

  Slowly, she nodded. She opened her mouth to say something, but her mobile phone rang in her pocket before the words could emerge.

  He let her go.

  “Grace Brennan,” she said quietly, flicking a glance in his direction. “Yes, Monique. How are you?”

  He leaned back against the counter, knowing he should give her privacy but unable to make himself move.

  “No, I can’t, I’m sorry. I’m still finishing up some things here in London. I couldn’t possibly come this month.” Her voice was still flat, emotionless, but when she glanced at him, he almost thought he saw disappointment in her face.

  “Sure. If something changes, I’ll let you know.” She clicked off the line and stared at the phone in her hand, silently.

  “She wants you to go to Montreal.”

  “Yes. But I promised you. No decisions right now.”

  He searched her face for some sign of peace, something to spark hope in the suddenly dark space in his chest. But he found nothing.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  GRACE STARED THROUGH THE viewfinder of her camera, snapping pictures of the muddy waters of the Thames as it slid silently beneath Westminster Bridge. She scarcely saw her subjects, too conflicted to concentrate on her work. She had barely eaten, hardly slept in the week since she’d faced off with Ian. It was as if pouring out the whole truth had opened the floodgates. She scarcely passed a night without waking in a cold sweat from another reenactment of the horrors in her past. She lost parts of her day without explanation, sometimes minutes, other times hours.

  She said nothing to Ian, though. She had promised him she would stay, and she was staying. They ate supper together, watched films at his flat, kissed good night, but it was nothing more than routine. She wasn’t a good enough actress to sell emotions she couldn’t feel.

  Except when she found the business card for a therapist on his dining room table. That she’d felt—a fury disproportionate to the offense. She’d ripped it up into tiny pieces in front of him and then burst out crying. To his credit, he’d simply held her, and for the first time in days, she felt a flicker of love stir in her.

  And yet she could still see the pain in Ian’s face. He knew she was pulling away from him, knew she was considering leaving him again, and he wasn’t going to hold her here if she didn’t want to stay. Not just because he had too much self-respect to cling to a woman who didn’t want him, but because he loved her too much to force her into something she didn’t want.

  Except she did want him.

  The thought broke through the numbness that had been her constant companion like a ray of light through the clouds. She loved Ian. She knew she loved him, because even when she was broken and miserable, he was the only thing that felt safe. When she wanted to run away, she didn’t, because she couldn’t bear to think what that would do to him.

  When she thought about leaving, it was like the whole world was falling to pieces again.

  She was shattered, make no mistake. But he had stood by her even when she pushed him away. Why was she so determined to face her problems alone when he had told her over and over they were in it together?

  If she didn’t marry him, it would be the stupidest thing she’d done in her life, and she had a long list already.

  For the first time in days, a smile touched her lips.

  Yes, she would marry him. As soon as they could manage it.

  Grace considered going straight t
o Ian’s flat, but she didn’t want to show up in a wrinkled T-shirt and faded black trousers. When she asked him to elope with her, and soon, she wanted to look decent. More than that, pretty. Years from now he should remember the way she looked in that moment and smile.

  She chose her clothes with care and took a few extra minutes to put on her makeup. Before she left for Ian’s flat, she sent a text message: I need to talk to you. Are you home?

  I’m home. Need to talk to you too.

  The trip seemed to take forever, and she slowed as she approached the historic building. Ian sat on the steps, his right arm cradled to his body in the sling, his jacket thrown loosely around his shoulders. He said nothing, just patted the step beside him.

  Her stomach lurched. She sank down and pressed her clasped hands between her knees to keep them from trembling.

  Silence stretched. Then he said, “When we were children, my parents used to take us to the Edinburgh Zoo. Jamie loved it. He would’ve sat and watched the big cats for hours if they’d let him.

  “I hated it, though. The way they paced their enclosures made me sad, as if they were just looking for a way to escape. But no matter how they paced, day after day, they would die behind those barriers.” His voice lowered, roughened. “Some creatures aren’t meant to be caged, Grace.”

  Her heart swelled into her throat, choking off her air as she realized what he was saying. “Ian—”

  “Don’t.” He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a long, slender folder. She recognized the British Airways logo as he tapped it on his knee. “I want to be here for you, Grace. I do. But I can’t watch you pace the boundaries of our life together any longer.”

  She took the plane ticket from his hand and flipped open the folder. First class for Grace Margaret Brennan, London to Montreal. One way. “Why?”

  “Because you need to decide what you really want, and I can’t be the person standing in your way.” Pain shone in his eyes as he leaned over and pressed his lips to her forehead, lingering long enough that she felt the hitch in his breath. Tears rose in her eyes, threatening to spill over. “Take care of yourself, Grace.”