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

the first publications to print Grace’s photography. Her long and eccentric friendship with Melvin had spanned years and multiple changes of career direction, but it was the only reason she had considered his request to open her archives.
    He unbuttoned his blazer as he settled behind the desk and gestured for Grace to take one of the chairs. “I have to admit, Grace, you shocked me. What you sent me was not at all what I expected.”
    Grace’s stomach immediately took a nosedive into the soles of her green Doc Martens. “I told you, Melvin, it’s a personal project. I didn’t shoot them to be exhibited—”
    “No, you misunderstand me.” He leaned forward and folded his hands on top of the desk. “They’re fantastic. I’ve only seen your editorial work, your war photography, which is very good. Poignant, painful, often shocking. But these …” He stood, then slid a whiteboard out of the way of a wall-mounted corkboard. “These are incredible.”
    Grace twisted around and then rose, amazement swelling in her chest. He had printed two dozen of the photos she’d sent him as black-and-white four-by-sixes and pinned them out in what she assumed was the order he’d want to display them in the gallery. She’d taken the photos, scanned the slides, viewed them on a screen, but somehow seeing them this way gave them heft. Importance even.
    “See what I mean? These are art, Grace. I can’t believe you’ve never shared them before.”
    She stepped forward to view each of the photos close up. Men, women, children from around the world, captured in the midst of their normal activities. Mourning. Celebrating. Living. Even she could admit there was a melancholy beauty to them, a common thread between composition and style that seemed to unite people across cultures and countries.
    “Hope,” Melvin said softly. “Even in the ones that show someone’s worst moments, you somehow captured hope.”
    Grace flicked her gaze to his face, then away, too embarrassed to see the admiration in his expression. “Are these your final selections?”
    “No. But I thought we’d start here. Which of them must you absolutely have exhibited?”
    “I trust your editorial vision.”
    Melvin rubbed his bearded chin thoughtfully. “You did these on an M3, yes? Thirty-five millimeter?”
    “You know I did.”
    Melvin’s expression softened then. “How are you doing? I heard about Brian. It must be very difficult for you, especially coming on the anniversary of Aidan’s death.”
    Grace swallowed hard and bit her lip in a vain attempt to stem the swell of tears. Each time she thought she’d made peace with the incident, the grief came back in full force. The timing had seemed like the universe’s sick joke. Every year she commemorated the day her photojournalist brother had been killed during a Northern Irish nationalist riot, and every year the grief rushed back as keen and sharp as the day it happened. To lose another young man on that day—especially one close to Aidan’s age—had felt as if God was trying to tell her something.
    Maybe he was.
    She forced a watery smile. “Let’s just say it will never be my favorite day.”
    “I can understand that.” Melvin seated himself behind the desk again and slipped on a pair of black-rimmed glasses. “Did you bring me the slides?”
    Grace fished a small box from her rucksack and pushed it across the desk to him. He lifted the top and thumbed through the mounted negatives, then placed the box in his drawer. “I’ll take good care of these, Grace. I’ll start on some tests this week, and then we can fine-tune the final prints. Eight weeks feels like a long time, but I can guarantee you we’ll be working up until the last minute. What are you doing with the photos once the exhibit is over?”
    “I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I’m still trying not to hyperventilate over the thought of people viewing work I’ve hoarded for the last decade or two.”
    “Oh, I wouldn’t