The Journey Home

“I know she is. It’s not that.”

“Tell me.” Dolores glided to a large rattan armchair where she arrayed herself among the white cushions, a picture of serene elegance and breeding.

India smiled, embarrassed, not quite knowing what to say. “It’s a chap I met in Scotland. A long story really. Well, actually it isn’t. What I mean is, I met him when Mummy died, and he almost shot me by mistake, then he came home for tea and—” She stopped, flushing, realizing she was making a complete hash of it. She looked up and met Dolores’s amused but understanding eyes.

“Do go on, my dear, he sounds delightful.”

“Well, to cut a long story short, he’s bought into a hotel in Buenos Aires—you know the old Palacio de Grès that belongs to one of your relations.”

“Of course I know it. Hernan inherited it. He’s my great-nephew, a charming boy. I think I’ve already mentioned that you should meet him,” she added with a conspiratorial smile. “He’s single, handsome and very good company.”

India laughed, “Don’t matchmake, Dolores.”

“Well, darling—” Dolores made a moue with her well-defined lips “—there’s no harm in bringing two nice young people together is there? But tell me more about…?”

“Jack Buchanan.”

“British?” she asked casually.

“No, American.”

“Ah,” Dolores said, “American. Is he a handsome American? I’ve always had a faible for American men ever since I saw Gary Cooper in High Noon—there’s something so very masculine about them.” She lifted a perfect eyebrow and leaned forward. “You know what I mean, don’t you? That air of A man has to do what a man has to do, as though they’d conquer the world sans problème.” She waived an elegant bejeweled hand.

“Well, there’s also something very annoying about this one.” India plucked a gardenia viciously from its stalk and twiddled it between her fingers. “He almost shot me in the glen, then made out it was my fault. He even made me faint,” she finished crossly, blocking out the image of Jack reaching for her hands at the cemetery gates.

“Do go on, darling, he sounds fascinating.”

Dolores curled up among the cushions, her eyes sparkling and expectant. India realized there would be no escape until Dolores had been fully regaled with all the details, so she summarized them briefly. “He’s seen the work I did on the Jeremy, in London, and now he wants me to take a look at the Palacio de Grès.”

“It sounds an excellent idea to me, dear,” Dolores replied thoughtfully. “After all, you’re here, and it would do you good to get involved in something nice. I’m sure you’d enjoy working with Hernan, too. You did say this Jack is leaving for the States again?”

“That’s what he said.”

“It can’t do any harm to look,” she said encouragingly. “Why not go to Buenos Aires and see the Palacio? You can stay in the apartment if you like, it’s empty during the summer.”

“Thanks. I suppose I should go and see it at least.” India mulled over the idea, lifting the wilted gardenia to her nose. “Professionally it would be a great opportunity.”

“Go,” Dolores said firmly. “Don’t be afraid of taking chances. If you don’t, you’ll grow into a regretful old lady. Believe me, I know too many of them. But then look at me,” she said, smiling, her eyes mischievous yet nostalgic. “I’ve had my ups and downs, buried three husbands, and had my aventures along the way. But if I could go back, I wouldn’t change a thing. Life is to be lived, not looked at from a distance. I only wish there was more of it. Time seems to fly by so quickly. Before you know it, you’ll be sitting on some veranda, proffering excellent advice to a lovely young person like yourself.” She gave a tinkling laugh, the laugh of a young girl. “Stop being afraid, India,” she chided. “Why not bring the boys over sometime? We can have a big asado, and your American friend will enjoy seeing a real estancia.”

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