London Tides: A Novel (The MacDonald Family Trilogy Book 2) Read Free Page B

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.
    “What did you think?” Marjorie asked when he said his farewells.
    “She’s practically a child, Mum.”
    Marjorie fixed him with a reproving look. “I’m trying to help.”
    “I know you are. But this is the sort of thing a man needs to work out for himself. Right?”
    She didn’t answer, a sure sign the subject was far from dropped, but she made him bend so she could kiss his cheek. “Don’t work too hard.”
    “I won’t,” he promised, aware it was somewhat of a lie. Besides rowing, what else was there?
    He turned the Healey back to Southwest London, but he couldn’t even take his usual pleasure in the trip. By the time he let himself into the first-floor flat of his historic Gloucester Road building, his resigned mood had turned downright foul.
    It was completely irrational, of course. The brunch at Leaf Hill had been fine. His mother’s meddling had resulted in a rather pleasant conversation, even if Rachel hadn’t sparked the least bit of interest besides the acknowledgment that she was a very pretty girl.
    Why exactly was that? Age aside, she was one of the more interesting women he’d met recently. And yet it hadn’t even crossed his mind to get her phone number.
    The beginnings of a headache throbbed in his temples as he crossed the modest reception room into the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of orange juice from the refrigerator and stood in the wash of cold air, his fingers clenched around the tumbler. Blast Grace. He’d been doing fine before she showed up on the bank this morning with her camera, looking …
    … like Grace. The mere sight of her was enough to bring up long-buried memories—the smell of her skin, the taste of her mouth, the way her body fit against his. The brogue that her years away from Ireland hadn’t completely eradicated, a lilt that surfaced whenever she was angry or upset. Those last months, her eyes had lost their haunted look. She had smiled more freely, laughed more often. And then she had simply disappeared without a word. How could he have been so wrong about her?
    Let her go.
    As if he had any choice. No matter how hard he’d tried to move on, the past still held him by the throat.
    Ian went to the shallow drawer by the sink and lifted out a stack of publications. Ten years of newspapers and magazines, Grace’s career documented in print. Photos from the Times and the Guardian that had been picked up from the AP wire. Beautifully composed essays on African farmers or bush hospitals from the magazines of humanitarian organizations. The National Geographic story about Ugandan