The Journey Home

4

Jack spent Christmas as he usually did—on a plane. Chad, his younger brother, and Marilyn, his sister-in-law, had invited him to spend the holiday with them at their cabin in Aspen. As usual, he’d found an excuse not to go. Though he adored his niece and goddaughter, Molly, it was easier to avoid situations that reminded him of the past.

In the early new year Peter flew to Bangkok and began a month’s tour of all their Asian establishments. Jack headed down to Buenos Aires to meet with his partner, Hernan Carvajal, whom he’d met only briefly during their negotiations in London some months earlier.

After four days he was familiar with the Palacio de Grès project, and discovered Hernan to be both a smart businessman and an excellent host. By the fifth afternoon they’d gone through a long list of remodeling issues, building costs, future projections, and had finally—after various interruptions from engineers and foremen—reached some final decisions.

Jack stretched, ready to go back to the Alvear Palace. It had been a sweltering afternoon, and he was ready for a long cold shower. The old-fashioned air-conditioning unit in the improvised offices of the Palacio de Grès still hadn’t been replaced, and had finally given up its battle with the torrid sun.

He leaned back in the old leather chair and looked over at Hernan. The other man stood gazing at some blueprints, his elbows propped on the huge trestle table that stood perched in the middle of the room, a strange contrast to the ornate chandeliers and gold-leaf wall sconces.

“I guess we’re pretty well set.” Jack gave a final glance at the notes he’d been scribbling. “Of course, there’s still the issue of the interior design to be resolved.” He left the question in the air.

“Mmm—” Hernan was still absorbed by the plans before him. “You know, I’m worried about this garage entrance. I’m just not sure the way it’s been designed is going to be the most functional. Perhaps if we moved the plants a couple of feet over to the left—” He sighed and looked up with a smile. “Oh well, there’s not much point in worrying about it now. You were saying?”

“The interior design. We still haven’t decided who we’re going to hire.” Jack laid down his notes, twiddling his pen thoughtfully.

“You’re right, it should have been done months ago. We’re already running behind schedule. There are various possibilities but none of them quite fill the slot. You see?” He raised his hands. “Another problem. I tell you, it’s never-ending. Of course, it’ll require someone with a deep understanding of art history and a good knowledge of period furniture.” He frowned, blond hair falling over a bronzed forehead. “I wish we could spirit in David Hicks,” he added, grinning, and opened the refrigerator door.

Jack sat up abruptly. He’d been tossing an idea around for some time and sensed that now was the right moment to broach it. India kept popping into his thoughts at unexpected moments, and a few days ago he’d realized why. She was the ideal person to do the interior of the Palacio de Grès. He had already made some discreet inquiries, and discovered that she was here. It was as though fate had placed her in his path.

“Have you heard of the company La Dolce Vita?” he asked.

“The name rings a bell.”

“They did Peter Kinnaird’s hotel in London, the Jeremy.”

“Of course, the one in Belgravia. It was a fabulous job.”

“I was pretty impressed by it, too,” Jack said, casually twiddling the pen between his fingers. “I met the owner when I was last in Scotland, a gal called India Moncrieff. Her family owns the neighboring estate to the Kinnairds’.”

“Really? I thought Peter said something about a Swiss company, but I must have been mistaken.” Hernan took a bottle of chilled Quilmes beer out of the refrigerator. “Want one?”

“Sure.” Jack raised a hand and caught the bottle tossed his way, wiping the frost off on his worn jeans. “She’s here.”

“Who is?” Hernan asked, his eyebrows coming together.

“India Moncrieff, the owner of La Dolce Vita,” Jack replied patiently. “She’s staying with an old school friend of hers, Gabriella O’Halloran.” As he pronounced India’s name, Jack realized how good the words felt. Too good. But he was relieved to know why she’d been on his mind lately. He must have known subconsciously that she was the perfect person for the job. He took a long satisfying draft of beer, thinking it would be nice to see her again. And if she accepted the job, being with her every day in a work setting would help dispel any misguided fantasies he might have inadvertently conjured. The more he thought about it, the more the idea appealed to him. He watched Hernan carefully, gauging his reaction.

“Gabby O’Halloran?” he exclaimed. “She’s my second cousin, once removed—or something like that. We’re such a large family it gets hard to remember what the exact relationship is. I think my mother’s father and her grandmother are—”

“Spare me the details. I’d never remember anyway.” Jack laughed.

“I know.” Hernan grinned back at him. “But now I also understand why my great-aunt Dolores has been so insistent I come for a visit to the estancia. Tell me, is this India tall, beautiful, talented, and wealthy to boot?”

Jack felt a stab of irritation. “As a matter of fact, now that you mention it, she is. Beautiful, I mean. I don’t know about wealthy though. From what I’ve heard, her dad’s fortune has pretty well dwindled. I’d guess she makes a good living with her business.” He resumed his study of the pen. “She’s a very talented professional.”

Hernan was still laughing. “You don’t understand. My aunt’s and my mother’s primary objective in life is to marry me off to someone they consider suitable. Apparently they feel your friend more than fills the spot.” He shook his head, then sat down on the table and watched Jack attentively. “But tell me where your mind’s at, Jack.”

“Well…” Jack drank some more beer, measuring his words. “I figured that, since she’s here and is certainly one of the best designers we could hire, it might be worth contacting her, to see if she’d be interested. What do you think?”

Hernan nodded, swinging himself down from the table with an enthusiastic smile. “It makes a lot of sense. Let’s get in touch with her immediately. I’ll call my aunt. She usually has a parilla at the Estancia Tres Jinetes on Saturdays. Or perhaps I should ask Gabby to arrange…” He paused, met Jack’s eyes across the room, and seemed to change his mind. “Or maybe you should just call your friend? I can give you the number of the estancia.”

“Thanks, maybe I’ll just do that.” Jack tossed the beer bottle in the trash and hoisted his legs off the desk. “If she’s interested, it might be easier to have her come into town.”

“True. I think I’ll go and take a dip at home, then, if you like, I can pick you up at the hotel and we can grab some dinner. By the way,” Hernan said, grinning like a mischievous schoolboy, “I have two models—great-looking girls, one’s twenty-one and Swedish, the other twenty-two—both dying to meet you.”

Jack grinned. “Thanks, but I’ll take a rain check. I’m beat. I need an early night.”

“As you wish. If you change your mind call me on my cell.”

“Sure thing.”

They left the construction site, Hernan roaring off in his Testarossa, Jack wandering down Alvear, enjoying the languid laziness of the late afternoon. He smiled to himself. Although they were close in age, Hernan often made him feel old and worldly-wise. They’d had very different lives. While Hernan had been leading a privileged existence, playing polo in Palm Beach, studying in Europe and skiing in Gstaad, he’d been on those crazy missions into El Salvador and Nicaragua. Hernan was good for him though, his youthful enthusiasm refreshing. But the scene he still found fun had grown old for Jack. Lately he’d begun to realize just how old.

But the thought of seeing India again put a spring in his step. He crossed the mezzanine to the gift shop to buy the Herald Tribune, pleased that everything was falling into place. He glanced at his watch, wondering if he’d still catch Quince, his attorney, or his brother, Chad, at the office in Miami. He needed to be brought up-to-date on the dealings with Dunbar since his visit there with Serena. She’d done her homework well and had had the information he’d asked for on hand. Yet once again he’d felt that same strange sensation as on his first visit, and he’d left the property even more convinced that he would meet Serena’s asking price and get the deal moving. It was a pity he hadn’t had time to consult with Peter, but he’d decided to acquire the property in any case. He let himself into the suite, laid down the paper and headed immediately for the phone.

Mr. Ramsey cleared his throat while Serena waited impatiently for him to speak. It was imperative she keep calm. If the man had the slightest suspicion of what she was up to, the whole plan would fall through.

“I sent Miss India all the latest figures,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “But I haven’t heard back from her yet.”

“That’s because she’s in South America,” Serena answered brightly. “We’ve talked several times on the phone,” she added casually.

“Really?” Mr. Ramsey looked surprised. “South America. That would explain her silence. I would imagine the telecommunications are not too reliable over there.” He gave a stiff smile and Serena immediately responded, realizing it was his idea of a joke. She sat eyeing him across the large mahogany desk. He reminded her of an owl, peering from behind those odd tortoiseshell glasses, his thin hair combed carefully over the balding patch on his head. She stifled a sudden desire to giggle and concentrated.

“In fact, that’s one of the reasons I’m here,” she continued. “India and I have—Well we’ve made up our differences, if you know what I mean.” She did her best to look modest and embarrassed. “Based on your fax, she has agreed we must sell the property and has promised to send you a full-fledged power of attorney as soon as she returns to Switzerland. There seemed to be some difficulty about having it done in English over in Buenos Aires. But she definitely wants us to get on with the negotiations. As you know, the American buyers are anxious to set things in motion. They will require complete confidentiality as to their identity as they are buying the property through an offshore company.” She was pleased at how professional she sounded.

“This is quite surprising.” Mr. Ramsey took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with his handkerchief. “Quite surprising indeed, in view of…er…the last encounter.”

“Oh, that!” Serena gave a high-pitched laugh. “That was just me being silly. But that’s all behind us now. I realized myself how important it was for us to work together on this matter. I suspect my behavior was due to delayed shock over Mummy’s sudden death,” she said demurely, looking down.

“Well, well, I’m very pleased to hear you tell me this, Lady Serena. A spirit of cooperation will make matters much simpler to deal with. Much simpler indeed.”

“My sentiments exactly.” Serena flashed him another bright smile. “So you can be expecting news from the American attorneys any day now.”

“Very well. I must say it’s a most generous offer, and one that will not likely be repeated. Under the circumstances, I can only advise you to take it. You’re sure Miss India is in agreement?” He seemed suddenly doubtful.

“Absolutely. She says she’s tried to get through to you, but as you so rightly pointed out, these remote places are not well connected. I could barely hear her at one point during this morning’s conversation. I don’t know how people actually live in those places.”

“I don’t know if it’s quite as bad as that, Lady Serena, but I would imagine the efficiency which we’re used to here at home is probably sadly lacking there.”

“Exactly. So no need to worry about India, she’s in agreement with everything. And by the time the closing comes through she’ll be back anyway.”

“Quite true. Then I will wait for the lawyers to get in touch, and take it from there.”

“Perfect. Well, I think we’ve covered everything. I’d better be going, as I’ve already taken up far too much of your time.” She smiled graciously as she got up.

“I’ll see you out, Lady Serena.”

When they reached the front door, Serena thrust out her hand and smiled with what she hoped was a beguiling expression. “Thank you again, Mr. Ramsey. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“No, no.” Mr. Ramsey gave an embarrassed cough. “May I just say, Lady Serena, that I am delighted you and your sister have made up the…er, rift. A family should stand united.” He shook her hand.

“That’s exactly how we feel. Goodbye, Mr. Ramsey.”

“Goodbye.”

Serena stepped out into Charlotte Square and put up her umbrella. As she headed for George Street, a blast of wind nearly blew it inside out, but she was so elated the meeting had gone so well, she didn’t care. Maxi would be pleased, too.

With business out of the way she headed toward Jenners. A little shopping was exactly what she needed, especially now that she would have unlimited funds to spend. She might as well get into the habit right away.

India stretched out lazily on a chaise longue at the estancia, idly daydreaming, as the hot afternoon shifted gently into evening. The subtle scent of the gardenias surrounding the veranda was intensifying with the approach of dusk, and the bougainvillea, so colorful during the day, had taken on a softer hue. A soft breeze blew in gently from the pampas, and the tall eucalyptus trees bordering the earth track that led to the corrals and the stables swayed gently to and fro. Only the occasional croak from the frogs in the pond, the chant of the crickets commencing their evensong and the distant shouts of gauchos bringing home the cattle disturbed the tranquillity.

India had arrived in Buenos Aires in time to spend a somewhat nostalgic Christmas with the O’Hallorans. But soon afterward she and Gabby had thrown themselves wholeheartedly into the task of redecorating the casco, choosing fabrics and new sofas, and refurbishing some of the present furniture. It had been fun and distracting, but her mind often wandered to Dunbar. She knew that as soon as she returned home a decision had to be made. Mr. Ramsey had sent her a fax only a few days ago. The news was not encouraging. Slowly, but sadly, she was getting used to the idea that keeping Dunbar was a virtual impossibility. At least if it was bought by a family, or someone who would appreciate it, she would not feel quite so bad.

But what if it was transformed into some dreadful tourist trap? Or turned into a hotel? This last thought turned her mind to Jack Buchanan. She’d thought quite a bit about Jack over the last few weeks. In fact, he’d been making constant appearances in her subconscious ever since he’d stood at the cemetery gates on that gray Scottish afternoon.

She wondered suddenly what he was up to, and how his hotel project was going. She must go by there one day. Apparently Jack’s partner was some relation of Gabby’s whom the family wanted to introduce her to.

“Señorita India.” Her thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of Severina, the maid.

“Sí, Severina, qué pasa?” She twisted her head around.

The wizened little woman approached. “Teléfono para usted, señorita.”

“Quién es?” she asked, wondering who could be calling her at this time.

“Señor Djabugan,” Severina answered.

India rose and went inside, mystified, for few people knew she was here. She picked up the receiver.

“Aló, India hablando.”

“India?”

Her stomach lurched. Immediately she recognized the deep American voice coming down the line.

“It’s Jack Buchanan, how are you doing?”

“Uh…fine.” She faltered nervously. It was uncanny. Only moments ago she’d been daydreaming about him.

“I got your number from Hernan Carvajal, my partner. He seems to be related to your friend Gabriella. So, how are things?” There was a moment’s hesitation, neither knowing where to go next.

“Fine, thanks. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you,” India replied, her heart racing. “How is your project going—the Palacio de Grès, wasn’t it?”

“It’s going fine. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I’m calling you. Hernan and I are ready to plan the interior renovations, and the decor of the new building, and I was wondering if perhaps you might be interested in taking a look.” He sounded casual yet professional.

India swallowed, disappointed. It was merely a job proposal, and one she might even consider. She hadn’t taken any projects on since her mother’s death, wanting to give herself some time, but the Palacio de Grès was tempting.

“I wasn’t planning to take on anything new for a while, but it certainly sounds interesting.”

“Why don’t you come into town and take a look? I think it’s right up your alley. I mentioned to Hernan that you’d been to the place as a little girl. He says it hasn’t changed much.”

The idea was growing on India by the minute, but what about Jack? Was he staying or leaving?

The answer came soon enough. “I’ll need you to come this week if you’re interested. I have to be back in Miami in a few days. I wondered, if you’re not too busy, if you might be able to come in, say, Friday? Would that suit you?” He sounded businesslike, as though he was flipping through his agenda.

India decided it couldn’t do any harm to look at the place. After all, it was a fabulous opportunity, and she had time on her hands before heading to Rio for the opening of the La Perla hotel.

“Is there somewhere I can call you back?”

“Sure. I’m staying at the Alvear Palace. If you want I’ll give you the office number, too.”

She grabbed a pen from the desk next to the phone. Her hand shook as she wrote down the numbers, and she chided herself for being absurd. “I’ll call you back tomorrow once I know what my plans are.”

“Okay. I guess that’s it then. I’ll expect your call.” There was a moment of pregnant silence, as though he wanted to say more.

“Fine. I’ll be in touch. Goodbye, and thanks for calling.” She laid down the receiver, then leaned against the cold, whitewashed wall. What was it about the man that made her tingle from top to toe? The mere sound of his voice had a disturbing effect on her. She wandered back to the veranda, watching in the distance as the shorthorn cattle made their way slowly home, across the red and dusty darkening horizon.

Her mind drifted back to Christian, her ex-husband. Had she felt anything like this for him? she asked herself. The answer came loud and clear. No. Everything between them had been so measured and well behaved. When they’d made love, he’d directed, and she’d followed obediently, accepting that he knew how it was supposed to be. At the time she’d believed it was love. That’s why it had hurt so much when he’d left. And what had she gotten for her pain, for trusting him?

She sat down on the edge of the balustrade, remembering Chloë’s assertion that India would have been miserable if she’d continued being married to Christian, that she was damn lucky he’d backed out. And, India realized ruefully, Chloë was undoubtedly right.

But she’d vowed to herself that never again would another man make her feel so vulnerable, or hurt and humiliate her again. The sudden awareness that Jack might have that power sent a streak of fear through her.

Perhaps it would be better to refuse the offer and not court trouble. On the other hand, his tone had been professional and he had said he was leaving for Miami in a few days. Anyway, before she could even consider the job, she needed to take a good look at the state of the building.

A flutter of ivory silk accompanied by a whiff of Shalimar interrupted her thoughts as Gabby’s grandmother, Dolores, wafted gracefully through the French doors out on to the terrace.

“Ah, there you are, dear girl.” Dolores O’Halloran smiled brightly. “I was wondering where you and Gabby were.”

“She’s out riding with Santiago. They went to take a look at the newborn foals.”

“Ah, yes, and you?” Dolores asked, approaching India and lifting up India’s chin, her expression concerned. “What are these misty eyes I see? I hope you are not still mourning your dear mama too deeply, my love. I am certain Lady Elspeth is at rest,” she added quietly.