The Journey Home. Fiona Hood-Stewart

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      “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.”