The Journey Home

India hesitated, thinking perhaps he’d come for Serena. But as she approached and he walked toward her, she knew why he was there.

He was there for her.

As Chloë and she passed through the wrought-iron gates, he reached silently for her hands.

“Are you okay?” His voice was low and concerned, his thick dark hair ruffled by the wind, his tan incongruous among the pale British faces surrounding them.

“I’m fine. Thanks for coming,” she whispered, keeping a grip on herself.

“I wanted to.”

She realized that Ian and his wife, Francesca, were watching, uncertain whether to approach. But Chloë smiled at them.

“Let me introduce you to Jack Buchanan, Peter’s partner.”

“Nice to meet you. Sorry it’s on such a sad occasion.” Ian shook hands with Jack. “I hope we’ll have the chance to meet again. India, are you coming with us or are you—”

“Yes, I’m coming with you,” she replied, glancing at Jack.

“I’ll walk you to the car.” He drew her arm into his. India was bewildered, her thoughts as muddled as her feelings. Here she was, at her mother’s burial, her pulse racing because of a man she barely knew. It was almost sacrilegious.

The others had moved away but Jack’s eyes never left hers.

“I’m on my way to the airport, but I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Thanks, it was awfully kind of you.”

“Take care of yourself,” he said, leading her to the car where Ian, Chloë and Francesca were waiting. He opened the door and for a moment they faced each other, eyes locked.

Then India felt her throat constricting. “Thanks for coming, Jack, I—Thanks.” She tried to smile, not knowing what else to say, and got quickly inside.

Slowly the cars began the return journey, followed by the haunting strain of the pipes. India could still feel the warmth of Jack’s comforting grasp. Suddenly the tears she’d been holding back fell silently down her cheeks, loss and loneliness overwhelming her as she gazed blindly through the window. The vehicles moved gently down the country lane, off toward Dunbar.

Jack watched the rain streaming down against the plane’s windows, drenching the tarmac as the Gulfstream readied for takeoff. He’d removed his coat and taken out the papers he’d be working on. As usual, Jonathan, his steward, had brought him a Glenfiddich on the rocks.

He stretched his legs as the plane picked up speed, reflecting upon what could have prompted him to go there this afternoon. Why had he gone to a cemetery—a place he avoided on principle—to see a woman he barely knew, and whom he might never see again? He smiled to himself. It was rare that he acted out of sheer impulse. Would they ever meet again? Possibly. There were a number of places their paths could cross. He might even be in Buenos Aires at the same time she was. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything. She’d looked so sad, he’d felt like taking her in his arms and holding her close. The thought made him jerk his head up.

The plane took off, rising swiftly into the leaden sky, the rain beating harder as they gained height.

Soon they were traveling south. Jack looked down at the countryside below, peering closely, trying to distinguish through the blur what he was sure must be Dunbar, standing like a dollhouse below. Excitement stirred in his veins. Dunbar was quite distinct now, even through the rain. It was magnificent. He could hardly wait to get hold of the specs Serena had promised him.

Taking a sip of whiskey, he began making some ballpark estimates of what the renovation might cost. By the time he reached London he was in a fair way to having a game plan together, and his determination to acquire Dunbar increased. Something deep inside told him he couldn’t let it go. And all at once Jack knew he’d go every inch of the way to making it his own.

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