London Tides: A Novel (The MacDonald Family Trilogy Book 2) (26 page)

“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. When 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.

“Thank you for coming.”

The conflict within her was too deep to form words. He was fine. There was no reason to think that this was a bad omen, that the accident was more than mere chance. She looked up at him and saw that 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, then led him directly to his bedroom.

“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 something to eat 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-Two

When Ian woke, the light through the bedroom window had deepened, and the scent of curry drifted from the kitchen. Unfortunately the ache 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.

He didn’t know what to think. She’d come to the hospital when he needed her, but she hadn’t explained why she’d disappeared and refused his calls. 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.”

“I did call you, Grace. And texted you. Eleven times. You never picked up once. Do you have any idea how
I
felt, not knowing where you were, not knowing if you were all right?”

She pulled out of his arms and returned to her stirring. “London is perfectly safe—”

“That’s not the point! The point is, you ran away, and you didn’t think I had the right to know where you went.”

“So now I’m accountable to you for my whereabouts?”

Ian tamped down his burst of anger. “You know that’s not what I’m saying. Stop acting like I’m trying to control you.”

She set the spoon down carefully on the trivet, then turned. “That’s the thing, Ian. You seem to think as long as you do the right things, make sensible decisions, you’re guaranteed that happily-ever-after. But life doesn’t work that way. We don’t control it. Somewhere along the way, I let myself forget that.”

“I don’t believe that, Grace. Maybe we can’t control all the details, but God does. I have to believe—”

Grace laughed bitterly, tears welling on her lower lashes. “Jean-Auguste believed in God, but that didn’t save him in the end.”

He reached out and took her by the shoulders, but she flinched away. “Grace, are you hurt?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Grace.”

She sighed and tugged the neckline of her sweater off her shoulder to show a white surgical dressing. Slowly she peeled away the bandage, revealing pink skin newly inscribed with a detailed cross. He didn’t need to see the lettering near the bottom to know what it meant. In an instant, all the anger drained from him, and he wrapped his arms carefully around her.

“Sweetheart, I know you’re grieving. I know you’ve had more than your share of tragedy. But you can’t live life just waiting for the other shoe to drop. If you spend all your time waiting for the bad, you’ll miss everything good in the meantime.”

She didn’t say anything, just stood there stiffly, not returning his embrace. Lifeless. Distant. Finally he dropped his arms, weariness overtaking him. “I’m going to lie down for a bit.”

He didn’t storm across the reception room to the bedroom, nor did he slam the door. He didn’t have the energy—or the heart—for it. He simply pushed it closed with a soft click, sealing her out.

When he woke some time later, more clearheaded, he expected the flat to be empty. Instead Grace was curled on the sofa beneath a blanket, the television turned down low, knitting something in hideous multicolored wool.

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” he said.

“The nurse said you shouldn’t be alone tonight, so I had Asha bring over some things. I’ll sleep on the sofa.” She swung her legs down and pushed her blanket and knitting aside. “Can I warm up some curry for you?”

Even though his stomach rumbled, he didn’t much feel like eating. But he sensed this was her way of making peace, so he nodded. She went to the kitchen and scooped out rice and curry into the bowl. His heart gave a little clench at the sight of her barefoot and in her pajamas. Was he wishing for things that in the end he couldn’t have?

She sat beside him while he ate, stealing glances at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. Finally she said softly, “Just give me some time. It’s all too much to take in at once. I need to get it sorted for myself.”

He didn’t know if she meant Jean-Auguste’s death or their relationship or her past traumas, but he nodded anyway. “I won’t push you. Just … tell me I’m not losing you again.”

She forced a smile and picked up her knitting. “You’re not losing me again.”

Somehow, taken with the angry movement of the knitting needles in her hand, the words were less than reassuring.

Grace’s presence in his flat over the next four days felt not like a relationship but like a business arrangement. She cooked for him and helped him pull his arm through T-shirts, made sure he took his medication on time, and fielded phone calls while he was sleeping, but anything approaching personal contact had vanished, along with the easy rapport they had shared.

No matter what she said, she slipped a little further away from him each day.

Ian quit the painkillers on the second day. The throb was just this side of bearable without it, but the medication made his memories and perceptions go soft around the edges. There might also have been a bit of masochism involved. The drugs didn’t dull only his physical pain, and if he were going to lose Grace, he wanted to experience every agonizing minute of it.

He woke up on Monday morning to find her cooking breakfast. “I’m going back to work.”

“Already? You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. And if I’m well enough to go to work, I’m well enough to be here on my own without help.”

For a second, something like hurt flashed through her eyes, though that made no sense. She’d made it clear she was here out of duty, nothing more. “Just eggs and toast this morning. If you’re not going to be rowing for a while, I figured you would want to cut back your calories. It will make it easier to go back if you don’t gain weight.”

“I’m touched that you’re so concerned about my girlish figure.”

She didn’t seem amused as she slid the poached eggs from a spoon to his plate. “I know how you get.”

“Have I been that horrible already?”

“That’s not what I meant.” She retrieved the toast, which she’d fried in the pan, and placed it next to the eggs. “Here. Are you going to need help with your suit?”

“No. But I would really like help finding my fiancée. Someone replaced her with a home-health aide.”

She grimaced and fell back against the counter, rubbing a hand through her hair. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Isn’t it? Because I don’t know what else to think.”

“Maybe … maybe we need some distance. It’s been a difficult few days.”

“No, distance is what we have now. I would like to see some feeling from you.”

She swallowed, but she didn’t look up at him again. “I can’t right now, Ian. Either you understand that or you don’t.”

Disappointment arced through him, sharp and biting. He pushed the untouched plate away from him. “Thank you for breakfast. I find I’m not all that hungry.” He strode to the bathroom and flipped the water on in the shower. He ripped the sling over his head with too much force and had to bite down on his cheek to avoid a cry of pain. So maybe his shoulder wasn’t healing as fast as he’d implied. But he couldn’t sit imprisoned with Grace and her vacant stare any longer.

Once more he assumed she would be gone, but when he got out of the shower, he heard the water running in the kitchen along with the clank of stoneware. That made no sense. If she was so miserable here, why did she stay? Was her sense of obligation that strong?

He struggled into his trousers and shirt, buttoning them one-handed, but the tie proved to be too much for him. He pushed down his pride and walked out into the reception room. Grace was in front of him in an instant, taking the tie from his hands and looping it around his neck. Even the brush of her fingers as she flipped up his starched collar ignited a yearning in him that he barely tamped down in time. She tied a full Windsor with surprising ease and smoothed down the two ends against the front of his shirt. Then she took his cuff links from his pocket and fastened them into the holes without asking. When she at last looked into his face, he saw the reflection of his own longing there.

He couldn’t help himself. He bent to kiss her, and to his surprise, she returned the sentiment as good as he gave.

“Oh, Grace, I’ve missed you.” He kissed her again, not willing to let her slip away from him again, not even an inch. When she slid his arms around him beneath his jacket, he nearly sighed with relief. “Now I hate the fact I’m going to work. Meet me for lunch?”

Slowly she nodded, even managed a smile. Though it contained underlying sadness, a glimmer of his Grace emerged.

“Do you want me to pick up something on my way?” she asked. “You’ll be busy after being out of the office most of the week.”

“That would be nice. I love you, Grace. Don’t forget that, please?”

She stretched on her tiptoes for a farewell kiss. “I know. I love you too. Just give me time.”

“Okay. I’ll see you around noon.”

His light mood lasted as long as the cab ride to the Westminster office—he hadn’t wanted to risk the press of the morning commute on the Tube with his injury. Dread hit him as he punched the lift’s Up button in the foyer. What would await him when he arrived? He’d never taken more than two days off from the office the entire time he had worked for Jamie’s company. Would he be spending the next month catching up on whatever disasters had managed to occur in his absence?

No one waited for him outside his office, though, which was a miracle, considering he’d left word with Bridget that he’d expect an update from various employees when he came in. Ms. Grey sat at her desk in front of her computer screen as she had every day since he hired her. She looked up and smiled pleasantly. “Welcome back, Mr. MacDonald. I trust you’re feeling better?”

“I am, thank you, Ms. Grey. Give me a moment to get settled, and then I’ll want an update.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ian moved into his office, expecting to find a pile of paperwork on his desk. It looked as neat as it had when he left on Tuesday afternoon. He popped open his briefcase on the surface, then realized that he hadn’t taken any work home. He’d just stowed the case under his desk when Ms. Grey reappeared in the doorway, a stack of files in her hands.

She settled in the chair opposite his desk, then arranged the files neatly in stair-step fashion on the polished surface. “We need to discuss budget, contracts, and some vendor changes for the restaurants in England.”

“Vendor changes? That’s James’s department.”

“Yes, but I noticed the Knightsbridge and Notting Hill locations have incurred a twenty percent increase from their seafood vendor that doesn’t correlate to menu changes or receipts.”

Surprised, Ian nodded. “I’ll speak with the chefs in James’s absence. What’s next?”

“Budget, sir.” She flipped open the second file. “The other employees have submitted their budget requests for next fiscal year as you requested. I’ve flagged areas that I thought could be a problem.” She paused, uncertainty crossing her face. “I’m sorry. Have I crossed a line? I just thought—”

“No, no. Your thoroughness is very admirable. I’ll take a look at your notes. Thank you.”

“Of course. The next matter is the network contract. It looks like Mr. MacDonald’s”— she paused, apparently uncertain how to distinguish the two Mr. MacDonalds and still maintain her formality—“your brother’s show is going into syndication. Since you haven’t replaced Mr. Barrett yet, I thought you’d want to look over the contracts yourself.”

“Yes, thank you, Ms. Grey.”

“I’ll leave you to it then. Please let me know if you need anything.”

Ian watched her go, then looked down at the stack of files on his desk. Each had been annotated with sticky notes in her precise handwriting, pointing out areas of concern, even on the network contract. His eyebrows flew up when he saw the specificity of the comments. Ms. Grey had contract knowledge as well?

Perhaps there wouldn’t be as much to catch up on as he thought. She was clearly the perfect assistant for him. For once, he had done well in his hiring.