London Tides: A Novel (The MacDonald Family Trilogy Book 2) (2 page)

Chapter Two

“You all right there, mate?”

Ian MacDonald stared at the place Grace had occupied moments before, his limbs frozen. It took several moments for Chris’s words to sink in. “Fine. Someone I thought I knew.”

Chris followed Ian’s gaze, but the space between the club’s boathouse and the neighboring building was now vacant. “Nice one today. Still set a good rhythm.”

“If by good you mean sadistic,” Marc muttered from the front of the boat.

Ian grinned at their coxswain, who also happened to be an old Cambridge teammate. “Sadistic? That was barely twenty-five.”

“Thirty-two on the push,” Marc shot back.

Ian’s smile widened. By today’s standards, thirty-two strokes a minute was barely a race pace, but it was close to what they’d managed back in the day. The crew for his weekday outings was made up of men like him—former Oxbridge and British Team rowers whose competitiveness hadn’t diminished with their available training time. Still, seeing the younger crews on the water made him realize how much time had passed since he was in his prime.

Back then the only thing that had mattered to him more than rowing was Grace. He’d abandoned his career, his sponsorships, his dreams of Olympic gold. And she’d disappeared without a word, taking every last possession but her engagement ring.

“Waist, ready, up!”

Marc’s command cut through the memory, and in unison, the eight-man crew lifted the boat to waist level. At the cox’s next command, they pressed the boat upside down over their heads. The familiar routine gave Ian something to focus on, but he barely avoided banging the stern on the doorframe as they carried the shell back to the club’s boathouse.

After that, he managed to keep his mind on his actions, but he still showered and dressed in a daze, letting the jokes of the other men in the changing room flow around him until Chris stopped behind him.

“Coming to breakfast? Or do you have someone waiting?” Chris waggled his eyebrows suggestively while Ian stared in confusion. “Your date last night?”

He finally followed the insinuation. “Ah … no. We wrapped it up early. Not that I’m in the habit of taking home women I’ve just met.”

“You’re not in the habit of taking home
any
women. I’ve set you up on three dates, and none of them have made it past dinner. What’s wrong with this one?”

“Nothing’s wrong with her. She’s a perfectly lovely woman—”

“She’s gorgeous!”

“—who is about as interesting as watching paint dry—”

“So? Did I mention she was gorgeous?”

“—and did nothing but talk about the last case she won.”

Chris shot him a reproving look. “You’re a lawyer too.”

“I used to be a lawyer.” Now he didn’t quite know what he was. “I don’t know why you keep insisting on setting me up.”

“At this point I’m not sure either.” Chris heaved a sigh that made it clear Ian’s lack of interest in casual dating was a disgrace to men everywhere. “Anyhow, breakfast?”

“Brunch at Mum’s. We’re taking out the four on Monday?”

“I’ll be here.”

Ian hiked his kit bag onto his shoulder and clambered down the stairs to ground level. Instantly his unanswered questions crowded in. What was Grace doing back in London? Had she been looking for him? Or had he imagined the petite blonde standing on the bank? The woman he’d seen had much shorter hair than his Grace—

His Grace. The words, even spoken in his head, made his stomach clench. She had made it clear she had no interest in being his Grace when she left. They’d shared a life, a bed, a home for two years, but when it had come time to make it permanent, she’d run. Even in retrospect, there’d been no signs it was coming.

No. He wasn’t going to do this today. He’d already wasted far too much of his life rehashing what went wrong with Grace. Regardless of her location, he was better off without her.

Forty minutes later Ian knelt on the cold cement of an underground car park in Emperor’s Gate to unlock a heavy chamois cover. A smile came to his face for the first time since leaving the club. If he were honest, his dutiful attendance at his mother’s monthly garden brunches had far less to do with the overly fussy food and pretentious conversation than his method of transportation.

A 1966 Austin-Healey BJ8, a classic piece of British automotive history, and the one car he’d dreamed of owning since childhood. It had taken him two years and considerable expense to restore her, from the rusted-out, two-tone paint job to the ripped, black leather interior. The classic car always served as an excuse to avoid the gossip and slip away with the other auto enthusiasts, including his uncle Rodney. In fact, Rodney was solely to blame for the vehicle’s existence. He’d been the one to take Ian and his younger brother, James, to races at Silverstone and the occasional classic car meet. Jamie had never latched on to the idea, but those outings had been the highlight of Ian’s childhood.

Now that Ian owned his dream, the trouble was finding time to enjoy it. London’s traffic and its congestion zones made it hardly worth the effort to drive, and work and rowing kept him well tied to the city. Maybe he should take another trip to Scotland and check on the progress of the Skye hotel. Completely unnecessary, of course—Jamie and his fiancée, Andrea, had matters well in hand—but it would be a useful excuse for a short escape.

The twenty-five-minute drive to Hampstead went much too quickly, and he’d barely managed to settle the tension from Grace’s unexpected appearance before he turned off to his mother’s estate. He punched in the gate code and waited for the wrought-iron gates to swing inward. Somehow the opulence of the house struck him as even more excessive than usual as he navigated through the newly landscaped allée to the front of the spectacular Georgian-style manor, all heavy red brick and mullioned windows. He might have spent school holidays here while at Eton, but he’d never dared call it home.

He left the car beside several other expensive vehicles, shrugging his suit jacket on as he went, and headed to the center of the parterre, where several tables had been set up. At least a dozen people milled about, glasses already in hand. Almost immediately, an elegant, dark-haired woman in a cream-colored suit and matching hat caught sight of him and made her way over.

“Ian, darling!”

“Mum.” Ian accepted her embrace and kissed her on the cheek. “You look lovely.”

“And you look quite dapper yourself, Son.” Marjorie took a surreptitious look around. “You didn’t bring anyone, did you? Good. I want you to meet Rachel Corson. You remember the Corsons, don’t you? The father is in shipping, and the mother—”

“Mum, stop.” He cut her off before she could go further in her description. Knowing her, she already had them married in her mind. She’d been fairly vocal about his inability to accomplish it himself. “The last time I met one of your friends’ daughters, it was a disaster. Let’s not repeat history, shall we?”

Marjorie leveled a look at him that managed to fall short of motherly concern. “Five minutes.”

“No.”

“I knew you’d see it my way. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

Ian sighed and tugged on his tie, which had already begun to feel too tight. Twenty-five minutes in the Healey did not in any way make up for this.

“Run while you still have the chance.”

Ian twisted toward the voice at his shoulder. “Rodney, you startled me.”

“Bloody Mary?”

Ian took a glass from his uncle and looked him over. If Marjorie was impeccably put together, her younger brother always had a studiously mussed air, as if he had been rudely summoned away from a game of snooker. His suit was expensive but rumpled, and he might have forgotten to comb his hair that morning. His eyes, however, missed nothing. Unfortunately.

Ian sipped the cocktail and barely covered his cough. “Might you add some tomato juice to the vodka next time? It’s not yet noon.”

“Only way I can get through these events of your mother’s. And you’ll need it if you plan to stick around for her latest matchmaking attempt.”

“That bad?”

“Pretty, but insipid.”

Ian took another sip, intending to fortify himself for the inquisition, but the trail it burned down his throat convinced him to set the glass on a nearby table. He decided to cut to the chase. Rodney would get it out of him eventually anyway. “Grace is back.”

“Ah.”

“That’s all you’ve got to say?
Ah
?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“That I’m mad to be thinking about her after what happened.”

Rodney shrugged.

“You don’t think so?”

“You were happy with Grace right up until she disappeared.”

“We were too different. Look at Mum and Dad. They were happy for a while; then Mum left.”

“There’s much more to that story than a few differences.” Rodney tossed back the rest of the cocktail, then set his glass down beside Ian’s. “And you are not as much like your mother as you think. You drive the Healey?”

“Of course.”

“Let’s go have a look, then.”

Ian cast a glance back at Marjorie, but she had been waylaid by a group of her guests, none of whom could possibly be Rachel. He hoped. A judge with his family, or maybe an MP. They all looked alike to Ian. He followed his uncle back around the side of the house to the drive.

“How’s work?” Rodney asked.

“Work is … work.” It wasn’t that Ian disliked his job exactly. His brother, Jamie, was a renowned chef who had built his first restaurant into an empire that now included six locations, several cookbooks, and a recently completed television cooking program. There was no way he could handle the details himself, and Ian was good at details. But it wasn’t exactly the career he’d envisioned for himself

Fortunately Rodney didn’t press, instead stopping next to the Healey to give it an admiring once-over. “Beautiful car, this is. Shame the only time you bring it out is for your mum’s brunches.”

Ian crossed his arms over his chest. “Say what you really want to say.”

“Am I that transparent? Fine, then. I want to know when you’re going to give yourself permission to do what
you
want to do.”

“I am doing what I want to do.”

“Are you? Just because Grace left doesn’t make your mother right. Not about who you are, what you do, who you love.”

“You’re telling me that I should give Grace another chance.”

“I’m telling you that you don’t need anyone’s permission. Your life is between you and God. And don’t give me that look. I know I’m a drunk. God loves me anyway.” Rodney circled the car, squatted down to examine the grille, stood back up again. He winked at Ian. “If a beauty liked that belonged to me, I wouldn’t be spending my Saturday here with the rich and boring.”

Rodney wasn’t entirely talking about the car. Ian loosened his tie and strode resolutely back to the gathering, hoping his mum wasn’t yet looking for him. She’d more willingly excuse murder than rudeness. A sign of poor breeding, she’d say, which was ironic considering most of her English friends thought Ian’s Scottish upbringing made that a foregone conclusion.

Sure enough, his mum wore a look that told him his escape had not gone unnoticed, and she unleashed the full force of her glare as soon as he got within shouting distance. Fortunately one of her staff drew her off before she could head his direction. A reprieve, if only temporary.

Outdoor brunch at Leaf Hill was distinguished from indoor brunch only by the location: the china, crystal, silver, and linen were simply transported onto the patio in their entirety. Ian followed the flow of guests to the patio table and found his designated spot to Marjorie’s left. The judge stopped on his mum’s other side. When the older man leaned down to whisper something in her ear, Ian’s eyebrows reached skyward. Was this more than just a political connection?

“Ah, I should have known.” A pretty, young woman—ginger hair, pale skin, warm brown eyes—appeared beside him. She held out a hand. “Rachel Corson. And let me apologize in advance for however my matchmaking mother set this up.”

This was Mum’s mystery woman? He briefly shook her hand, then pulled out her chair. “Ian MacDonald. And I rather think we have my mother to thank for it.”

“Or they’re in collusion together.” A hint of wry humor lit her eyes. “Mum’s been after me to give her grandchildren, and she’ll take any excuse to foist me off on an unsuspecting bachelor. Embarrassing, isn’t it?”

At least Rodney had been wrong about one thing. Rachel wasn’t insipid. She chatted amiably about various topics as they devoured the impressive brunch spread: scrambled eggs with salmon, eggs Benedict, and truffled brioche with sautéed mushrooms. Only when she began talking about her studies at the London School of Economics did he figure out she must be nearly twenty years younger than him. Mum must have been getting desperate if she was thrusting girls not even out of uni at him. As if that wouldn’t make him feel ancient.

By the end of the meal, he just wanted to make a quick escape. Climb into his car and drive, watch the speedometer climb, and enjoy the wind-up of the roadster’s throaty engine. But he knew he would sedately navigate the heavy traffic back to the garage in Emperor’s Gate and walk the handful of blocks home to his flat.