The Journey Home. Fiona Hood-Stewart

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ