“Things change. You should know that better than anyone. Listen, Grace, I don’t mean to make this any more difficult than it needs to be. I know you’ve been hired as the London creative director. Even though I’m not returning until Christmas, I’ll be coming back and forth for the foreseeable future. It might be difficult to stay out of each other’s way.”
The steel in his voice pierced her heart. She’d been hoping the fact that he was here, in India of all places, might be a sign they could still mend what she had broken, but he seemed to want nothing to do with her. There were still things that needed to be said, though, whether or not he’d be receptive to them. Grace briefly closed her eyes, trying to get control over her emotions, trying to figure out what to do next. God, give me peace.
“I want you to know you were right,” she said at last. “I was denying how bad things had gotten for me. I didn’t want to believe that I was messed up enough to need therapy. But I found someone in London. And she . . . understands. It’s helping.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear that, Grace. I really am.”
She pushed herself out of her chair and reached for the door handle. “I’ll get out of your way, then.”
“Wait.”
She turned and realized his gaze was fixed firmly on her hand.
“You’re still wearing my ring.”
She dared a look into his eyes. “I couldn’t bring myself to take it off.”
Before she could comprehend what was happening, he was at her side, bracing the door shut, blocking her way.
“You’re wearing my ring.” This time a hint of hope colored his voice. “Why did you come back to London?”
Tell him.
Her heart rose into her throat, but she managed to whisper, “I came back for you.”
He searched her face, as if trying to verify the truth of her words. She stood transfixed beneath his gaze, not daring to even breathe.
“Why?” he whispered. “Why did you come back?”
“Because I was scared and stupid and selfish for leaving. I was afraid if I admitted I had real problems, you would only see me as damaged. And instead I just drove you away. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. Both times.”
“True.” A hint of humor colored his words, but his expression remained serious. “But that’s not why you came back.”
He wanted her to say it. She took a deep breath and spilled it all out in one sentence. “I love you, Ian. I always have. I always will. I want to marry you and spend the rest of our lives together. I won’t blame you if—”
Before she could get the rest of the sentence out, his lips were on hers, the fervor of the kiss destroying the rest of the thought as if it had never existed. She clung to him, awash in relief and love and desire so intense, it left her gasping and weak.
“Wait.” She disentangled herself enough to speak. “Does this mean you forgive me? After all I’ve put you through? You still want to marry me?”
“Yes, yes, and yes.” He punctuated each word with a kiss. “Be my wife, Grace Brennan.”
Her brain spun like a whirlpool, tossing her thoughts to and fro like a piece of driftwood in the current. “But how will we make this work? You left your job, and now we’ll both be traveling . . .”
He flashed that tiny, heart-stopping smile. “Does it matter as long as we have each other?”
In that moment, the tide shifted in her soul. She’d thought that God was pulling her away, but she’d forgotten that at the end of the day, the tide always turned, bringing her back. To the man she’d always loved, to the life she’d always wanted.
Home.
Discussion Questions
Grace has a hard time leaving behind her career because of her deep need to draw attention to the overlooked and oppressed. Ian tells her he feels he has an obligation to those who haven’t had his opportunities. What kind of responsibility do we have as both world citizens and people of faith to recognize and meet the needs of others?
The search for home and safety are two central themes in London Tides. How are those two related in Grace’s mind? How does the idea of purpose intersect with those themes?
How are the ideas of unveiling and revealing used symbolically throughout the book?
Why do you think Grace relates so strongly to the oppressed, displaced, and forgotten?
Grace quotes Nietzsche when she talks about why she is leaving her career: she fears the darkness she has witnessed is changing her. What do you think she’s running from?
Grace’s identity is wrapped up so tightly in her career, and then later in her relationship with Ian, that she feels hopeless when it seems like she’s lost both. What is the danger in placing our self-worth in the changeable? In what other things should we find our value?
At the beginning of the story, Grace hides her tattoos from Ian because they’re a reminder of all the things she wants to forget but can’t allow herself to forget. Near the end, she chooses a wedding dress that shows every last tattoo. How might this be symbolic of their relationship?
Both Ian and Grace come away changed from their short reunion without knowing if they will get a chance at forever. Can you think of instances when other people have been used as instruments of change in your life, even if you didn’t see the reason behind it at the time?
Ian realizes that he’d loved Grace with a fervor that surpassed his passion for God. What happens to our priorities and our relationships when we allow things—even good things like love—to become idols?
London Tides uses the familiar “traumatized veteran” story as a framework for a romance, but in this story, the woman is the returning hero and the man has been waiting for her at home. How does flipping the gender roles in the story affect how you view the characters and the trope itself?
About the Author
CARLA LAUREANO is the RITA Award–winning author of contemporary inspirational romance and Celtic fantasy (as C. E. Laureano). A graduate of Pepperdine University, she worked as a sales and marketing executive for nearly a decade before leaving corporate life behind to write fiction full-time. She currently lives in Denver with her husband and two sons, where she writes during the day and cooks things at night.
Chapter One
THREE HOURS into Saturday night dinner service and she was already running on fumes.
Rachel Bishop rubbed her forehead with the back of her sleeve and grabbed the newest round of tickets clattering through on the printer. Normally orders came in waves, enough time in between to take a deep breath, work the kinks out of her neck, and move on to the next pick. Tonight they had come fast and furious, one after another, tables filling as quickly as they were cleared. They were expecting two and a half turns of the dining room tonight, 205 covers.
It would be Paisley’s biggest night in the six months since opening in January, and one they desperately needed. As part-owner of the restaurant, Rachel knew all too well how far away they still were from profitability. There were as many casual fine dining places in Denver as there were foodies, with new ones opening and closing every day, and she was determined that Paisley would be one of the ones that made it.
But that meant turning out every plate as perfectly as the last, no matter how slammed they were. She placed the new tickets on the board on the dining room side of the pass-through. “Ordering. Four-top. Two lobster, one spring roll, one dumpling. Followed by one roulade, two sea bass, one steak m.r.”
“Yes, Chef,” the staff answered in unison, setting timers, firing dishes. Over at entremet, Johnny had not stopped moving all night, preparing sides as fast as they came through on the duplicate printer. It was a station best suited to a young and ambitious cook, and tonight he was proving his worth.
“Johnny, how are we coming on the chard for table four?”
“Two minutes, Chef.” Normally that could mean anything from one minute to five—it was an automatic response that meant I’m working on it, so leave me alone—but at exactly two minutes on the do
t, he slid the pan of wilted and seasoned greens onto the pass in front of Rachel and got back to work in the same motion. She plated the last of table four’s entrées as quickly as she could, called for service, surveyed the board.
A muffled oath from her left drew her attention. She looked up as her sauté cook, Gabrielle, dumped burnt bass straight into the trash can.
“Doing okay, Gabs?”
“Yes, Chef. Four minutes out on the bass for nineteen.”
Rachel rubbed her forehead with the back of her sleeve again, rearranged some tickets, called for the grill to hold the steak. On slow nights, she liked to work the line while her sous-chef, Andrew, practiced his plating, but tonight it was all she could do to expedite the orders and keep things running smoothly.
“Rachel.”
She jerked her head up at the familiar male voice and found herself looking at Daniel Kearn, one of her two business partners. She wasn’t a short woman, but he towered above even her. Her gut twisted, a niggling warning of trouble that had never steered her wrong.
“Hey, Dan,” she said cautiously, her attention going straight back to her work. “What’s up?”
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Now’s not a great time.” Dan might be the rarest of breeds these days—a restaurateur who wasn’t a chef—but considering he owned four other restaurants, he should be able to recognize when they were in the weeds. The energy level in the kitchen right now hovered somewhere between high tension and barely restrained panic.
“Carlton Espy is here.”
Rachel dropped her spoon and bit her lip to prevent any unflattering words from slipping out. “Here? Now? Where is he?” She turned and squinted into the dim expanse of the dining room, looking for the familiar comb-over and self-satisfied smirk of the city’s most hated food critic.
“No, he left. Stopped by my table before he went and told me to tell you, ‘You’re welcome.’ Does that make any sense to you?”
“Not unless he considers questioning both my cooking and my professional ethics a favor.” She looked back at the tickets and then called, “Picking up nine, fourteen!”
“You really need to issue a statement to the press.”
She’d already forgotten Dan was there. One by one, pans made their way to the pass beneath the heat lamps and she began swiftly plating the orders for the pair of four-tops. “I’m not going to dignify that troll with a response.”
“Rachel—”
“Can we talk about this later? I’m busy.”
She barely noticed when he slipped out of the kitchen, concentrating on getting table nine to one of the back waiters, then table fourteen. For a few blissful moments, the printer was quiet and all the current tickets were several minutes out. She took a deep breath, the only sounds around her the clatter of pans, the hiss of cooking food, the ever-present hum of the vent hoods. After five hours in the heart of the house, they vibrated in her bones, through her blood, the bass notes to the kitchen’s symphony.
Her peace was short-lived. Carlton Espy had been here, the troll. Of all the legitimate restaurant reviewers in Denver, a scale on which he could barely register, he was both the most controversial and the least likable. Most people called him the Howard Stern of food writing with his crass, but apparently entertaining, take on the food, the staff, and the diners. Rachel supposed she should be happy that he’d only questioned her James Beard Award rather than criticizing the looks and the sexual orientation of every member of her staff, as he’d done with another local restaurant last week.
The thing Dan didn’t seem to understand was that slights and backhanded compliments from critics came with the territory. Some seemed surprised that a pretty woman could actually cook; others criticized her for being unfriendly because she didn’t want to capitalize on her looks and her gender to promote her restaurant. She had never met a woman in this business who wanted to be identified as “the best female chef in the city.” Either your food was worthy of note or it wasn’t. The chromosomal makeup of the person putting it on the plate was irrelevant. End of story. Tell that to channel seven.
As the clock ticked past nine, the orders started to slow down and they finally dug themselves out of the hole they’d been in since seven o’clock. The post-theater crowds were coming in now, packing the bar on the far side of the room, a few groups on the main floor who ordered wine, appetizers, desserts. The last pick left the kitchen at a quarter past eleven, and Rachel let her head fall forward for a second before she looked out at her staff with a grin. “Good job, everyone. Shut it down.”
Ovens, grills, and burners were switched off. Leftover mise en place was transferred to the walk-ins for tomorrow morning. Each station got scrubbed and disinfected with the careless precision of people who had done this every night of their adult lives, the last chore standing between them and freedom. She had no illusions about where they were headed next, exactly where she would have been headed as a young cook—out to the bars to drain the adrenaline from their systems, then home to catch precious little sleep before they showed up early for brunch service tomorrow. By contrast, Rachel’s only plans were her soft bed, a cup of hot tea, and a rerun on Netflix until she fell into an exhausted stupor. At work, she might feel as energetic as she had as a nineteen-year-old line cook, but the minute she stumbled out of the restaurant, her years on the planet seemed to double.
Rachel changed out of her whites into jeans and a sweatshirt in her office, only to run into Gabrielle in the back corridor.
“Can I talk to you for a minute, Chef?”
Rachel’s radar immediately picked up the nervousness beneath the woman’s usual brusque demeanor. Changed out of her work clothes and into a soft blue T-shirt that made her red hair look even fierier, Gabby suddenly seemed very young and insecure, even though she was several years older than Rachel.
“Of course. Do you want to come in?” Rachel gestured to the open door of her office.
“No, um, that’s okay. I wanted to let you know . . . before someone figures it out and tells you.” Gabby took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I’m pregnant.”
Rachel stared at the woman, sure her heart froze for a split second. “Pregnant?”
“Four months.” Gabby hurried on, “I won’t let it interfere with my work, I swear. But at some point . . .”
“You’re going to need to take maternity leave.” In an office setting, that was hard enough, but in a restaurant kitchen, where there were a limited number of cooks to fill in and new additions disrupted the flow they’d established, it was far more complicated.
Gabby nodded.
“We’ll figure it out,” Rachel said finally. “And congratulations. You’re going to make a wonderful mother. I bet Luke is thrilled.”
Gabby’s words rushed out in relief. “He is.”
“Now go get some sleep.” Rachel’s instincts said to give her a hug, congratulate her again, but that damaged the level of authority she needed to maintain, made it harder to demand the best from Gabby when she should probably be focusing more on her baby than her job. Instead, Rachel settled for a squeeze of her shoulder.
Andrew was the last to head for the back hallway, leaving Rachel alone in the kitchen to survey her domain. Once again, it gleamed with stainless-steel sterility, silent without the drone of vents and whoosh of burners. It should probably bother her more that she had no one to go home to, no one waiting on the other side of the door. But Rachel had known what she was giving up when she set off down this career path, knew the choice was even starker for female chefs who had to decide between running their own kitchens and having a family. Most days, it was more than a fair trade. She’d promised herself long ago she wouldn’t let any man stand between her and her dreams.
Camille, Paisley’s front-of-house manager, slipped into the kitchen quietly, somehow looking as fresh and put together as she had at the beginning of the night. “Ana’s waiting for you at the bar. I’m going to go now unless you need me.�
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“No, go ahead. Good work as always.”
“Thanks, Chef. See you tomorrow.”
Rachel pretended not to notice Camille slip out with Andrew, their arms going around each other the minute they hit the back door. The food service industry was incestuous, as it must be—civilians didn’t tend to put up with the long hours, late nights, and always-on mentality. There had been plenty of hookups in her kitchen among waitstaff and cooks in various and constantly changing combinations, but they never involved Rachel. On some points at least, she was still a traditionalist—one-night stands and casual affairs held no appeal. Besides, she was an owner and the chef, the big boss. Getting involved with anyone on her staff would be the quickest way to compromise her authority.
Rachel pushed around the post to the dining room and crossed the empty space to the bar. A pretty Filipina sat there, nursing a drink and chatting with the bartender, Luis.
“Ana! What are you doing here? Did Dan call you?”
Ana greeted Rachel with a one-armed hug. “I worked late and thought I’d drop by to say hi. Luis said it was a good night.”
“Very good night: 215.”
Ana’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s great, Rachel. Way to go. I’m not going to say I told you so, but . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, you told me so.” Rachel grinned at her longtime friend. Analyn Sanchez had been one of her staunchest supporters when she’d decided to open a restaurant with two Denver industry veterans, even though it meant leaving the lucrative, high-profile executive chef job that had won her a coveted James Beard Award. And she had to give part of the credit to the woman next to her, who had agreed to take on Paisley as a client of the publicity firm for which she worked, even though the restaurant was small potatoes compared to her usual clients.
Luis wiped down an already-clean bar top for the third time. “You want anything, Chef?”
“No, thank you. You can go. I’ll see you on Tuesday.”
London Tides Page 31
