The Lost Dreams

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  “What if it’s a girl?” Charlotte quizzed him.

  “Then she’ll be as bonnie as her mum,” he answered, white teeth flashing.

  Brad bit back a grin as Armand sighed regretfully.

  “To the baby.” Charlotte raised her glass and others followed.

  “To Ben’s bairn,” someone murmured to Brad’s right.

  “Aye, to the bairn.”

  “How’s Janice doing?” Charlotte asked, once they’d toasted the future heir several times. Janice was Ben and Rory’s sister, and a subject of contention just now.

  “Okay.” Ben’s face closed and he busied himself behind the bar.

  “Still with the boyfriend in Glasgow?”

  “Aye, more’s the pity.” The Gaelic lilt in his voice made even the terse comment lyrical.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Charlotte cocked her head. “I mean, beside the fact you don’t like the football team he plays for.”

  Ben let out a long huff and stared witheringly at her. “Ye’d nae understand if I tried to explain, so I’ll keep ma’ peace and save us a two-hour discussion, Charlie.”

  “You’re such a chauvinist, Ben. Poor Janice. No wonder she fled the island.”

  “Fled, ma’ foot. Gallivanting all over the country with a good-for-nothing piece of slime is what she’s doing.”

  “Goodness me,” Armand murmured, clearly titillated by the show of masculine temper.

  “Live for today and let tomorrow take care of itself,” Charlotte remarked philosophically. Brad squinted at her, then decided the blithe comment couldn’t go unchallenged.

  “Not exactly a philosophy you live by, is it?” he remarked. Why, all she ever did was worry about the past, usually to the detriment of her future.

  “What do you mean?” There was a glint in her eye that he recognized of old.

  “That you’re still stuck in your yesterdays. You’ve put your emotional life on hold, Charlie, by staying with John.”

  “Well, if I have, it’s nobody’s business but my own.” She gulped her wine, fingers white and strained around the glass. Why couldn’t they understand that her husband’s situation was probably her fault? Just as Genny’s leg was her fault, and a number of other things. She took another sip and glanced around the pub, determined to banish the looming black specter.

  “One day you’re going to have to face the truth.”

  “Look, this is hardly the time or the place,” she retorted, slamming her glass down. “And you’re hardly one to be doling out advice. For as long as I can remember, all you’ve ever done is put your own life on hold for Dex and the rest of them. You still are, since Strathaird landed in your lap because of him. And I suppose you kowtow to Sylvia’s every wish and fancy.”

  Where had that come from? he wondered, surprised at her acid reply. “Let’s leave Syl out of this, shall we?” he responded in an even tone. “It’s your life we’re talking about.”

  “You were talking about.” She pulled the bowl of complimentary chips toward her and began munching. “I’d rather talk about today’s special, thank you very much. Ben, what’s in the kitchen?” she called.

  “Steak and kidney pie with mashed potatoes.”

  Brad watched Armand shiver dramatically behind his plastic-sheathed menu. “Perhaps,” he ventured in a small voice, “you might have foie gras on toast?”

  Brad rolled his eyes, and turned back to Charlotte. She seemed as taut as a bowstring, and automatically he slipped a hand over hers and squeezed. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Then shut up and leave me alone.”

  “I can’t,” he replied simply, feeling the hand under his twitch nervously. “I care too much about you. I don’t want to see your life wasted. If the circumstances were different, if he’d been a good husband and treated you right, then I’d understand. I’d even applaud what you’re doing. But that wasn’t the case. Maybe you have to realize that even though he’s in a coma, he’s still the same person you finally stood up to that last day before the accident.”

  “Don’t go on and on,” Charlotte begged, a deep flush spreading across her cheeks as she pulled her hand away. Brad looked up, suddenly aware that Ben was watching them both with a strange look.

  As they placed their orders, Armand settling, with some misgivings, on a cheese and fruit plate, the local villagers began drifting into the pub.

  In the corner two old men played cards. To their left, the younger generation threw darts and drank beer, and on a low stool near the hearth, Fergus MacDowell played a merry Scottish air on his accordion while Mary MacAllister, the village nurse, sat at a nearby table, drumming her foot contentedly. An American couple with Midwestern accents were trying to convince their two small sons that the only McDonald’s within a hundred miles were human, not the fast-food kind.

  Soon Jamie MacPhee would arrive with his fiddle, and the place would fill up and the evening begin. Charlotte was talking to a blond girl to her left, and Armand offered a running commentary on the customs of the lower classes, to which Brad paid little attention. As he soaked in the convivial atmosphere, glad that attention seemed finally to have shifted from him, he took note of a debate heating up at the end of the bar. A very old man and a sandy-haired lad in a suit and tie were involved in an intense exchange.

  “Who are they?” Brad asked Charlotte as heads began to turn and voices hushed.

  “That’s Rob MacKinnon and his grandson.”

  “Why are they fighting?” He had no doubt Charlotte knew. She seemed current with all the village gossip, the births and deaths and latest romantic entanglements.

  “It’s always the same old issue,” she sighed. “Old Rob claims his ancestor lost his land to the MacLeods, our ancestor.”

  “And did he?”

  “That’s a moot point. Nobody knows anymore. But there are legends.”

  “This isn’t a recent affair?”

  “No, not very. I think it all took place sometime in the late 1700s.”

  “And they’re still arguing about it?” He almost burst out laughing, then, seeing her face, thought better of it and sipped his whiskey instead.

  “I wouldn’t laugh, Brad, it’s a serious matter that’s very nearly caused significant damage over the years.” She paused. “I hate to tell you this, but it’s an issue you’re going to end up having to deal with.”

  “Me?” Brad set his tumbler down with a bang and sent her an astonished glance. “What does it have to do with me?”

  “Everything. He’s the MacKinnon, you’re the MacLeod. That’s the way it goes.” She shrugged, glancing at Ben, who had an eye trained on the scene at the end of the bar, ready to intervene if necessary. Rob MacKinnon was sending fulminating glances down the counter in their direction.

  Brad listened attentively, acutely aware that the entire pub appeared to be awaiting his reaction.

  “Just drop it, Granddad. For goodness’ sake,” the young man implored, looking embarrassed.

  “I’ll not. It’s our right. The MacLeods betrayed us and I’ll nae’ rest until justice is done.”

  “This is ridiculous.” His grandson, a thin lad in his mid-twenties, cast an apologetic glance down the counter.

  Armand shifted nervously on his stool. “Charlotte, if there is to be a scene I would rather depart.”

  “Armand, do shut up,” Charlotte muttered.

  “Leave now and you’ll regret it,” Ben commented, leaning over the counter and topping up Brad’s empty glass.

  Brad sent him a speculative glance. Apparently everyone present expected something of him.

  A hush reigned, broken only by the monotone murmur of the television and the American family who continued to chat, oblivious of the drama taking place.

  Brad weighed his options; he could pretend to be unaware and retreat, or he could confront them. Their turf, he mused, on high alert behind his calm front, and their advantage. Not by a twitch did he give anything away. There was a choice to be made. Either he s
howed his colors and set the tone for the future, or it might be years before the air cleared. Taking a long sip he swirled the liquid in his glass, stared at it a moment, then, taking a deep breath, got to his feet and started down the bar.

  The voices at the end of the counter were rising steadily. Charlotte’s hand flew out and rested on his sleeve. “Be careful—this could be tricky.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “Oh la la,” Armand whispered in a soft wail, “I knew it was unwise to come.”

  “Buckle it, Armand. Brad can handle himself.” Charlotte took a gulp of wine and watched uneasily as he made his way casually toward the end of the bar. Ben laid down the tumbler he’d been wiping, and followed Brad’s progress, and the strains of the accordion waned. Heads rose and voices lowered as he made his approach.

  “Excuse me.” Brad addressed the young man in the suit who looked at him nervously. Smiling reassuringly, he held out a hand. “Hi. I’m Brad Ward.”

  The young man hesitated then shook it. “Cullum MacKinnon. This here’s ma’ granddad, Rob MacKinnon, head of our clan.”

  Brad turned to the red-faced old man and looked him straight in the eye. “A pleasure to meet you, sir. I believe we’re neighbors.”

  The pub went silent as Old Rob glared through eyes bleary with age. Brad held the stare, then thrust his hand out and folks held their breath, the entire audience waiting to see how MacKinnon would react. Seconds ticked by, then reluctantly Rob MacKinnon shook Brad’s hand and a murmur spread throughout the room.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” Brad suggested.

  The old man mumbled and Brad took it as a yes. Ben moved quickly, topping up the glasses with a grin.

  “So yer the new laird, are ye?” Old MacKinnon lifted his glass of Talisker in a withered white hand and sniffed suspiciously.

  “That’s right.”

  “Then ye’ll’ve heard all about our difference.”

  “Of course.” He wasn’t about to mention that he’d found it hilarious five minutes earlier. “I believe there are issues you and I need to discuss.”

  Rob MacKinnon sniffed once more and Cullum moved aside to allow Brad a seat on the stool next to him.

  Slowly talk resumed, the accordion warmed up, and Mary MacAllister delved into a heartfelt rendition of “Annie Laurie.”

  “I hear you’ve been fixing the fences up yon’ near ma’ land,” Old Rob remarked.

  “That’s correct. They’ve been sorely neglected. I hope the Strathaird sheep haven’t strayed off our land and inconvenienced you?”

  “That land’s nae’ Strathaird land, lad. That land belongs to the MacKinnons.”

  “So I’ve been told,” Brad responded, tone neutral. He sent Cullum a warning glance when he saw him about to interrupt. “The matter of that particular piece of land appears to have caused some problems between our families over the years.”

  “Aye, that it has.” Rob nodded in slow agreement. Brad indicated to Ben to top them up again, wondering if he could keep up the pace. The old man seemed to have a limitless capacity for Talisker.

  “I believe it’s a matter we need to settle.”

  Old Rob grunted, stared at the bottles stacked behind the bar and sighed. “It’s nae’ an easy matter,” he remarked, white head swaying back and forth.

  “True. But if your ancestor was indeed wronged as you believe, then you should be compensated.”

  “Ye can keep yer’ silver talents, MacLeod, fer I’ve nae use for them,” the old man hissed.

  “I wasn’t suggesting monetary compensation. I think we need to be sure of exactly what land we’re talking about, then proceed from there. If it’s yours, then…” He raised his hands and smiled.

  “Well, I never,” the old man mumbled.

  “The whole thing’s ridiculous,” Cullum burst in. “It all happened over three hundred years ago. Nobody cares any longer, Granddad.”

  “Did you hear that?” Old Rob turned, wobbled precariously on the stool, and faced Brad, his white thatch shaking once more. “That’s what ye get for sending the young to the mainland. No loyalty, no sense of what is due to the clan. Glasgow indeed,” he muttered somberly.

  “I didna’ choose to leave. I went because there was no work for me here,” Cullum responded belligerently. “Do you nae’ think I’d be back if a’ could?”

  “The way yer’ talking, a dinna’ ken.”

  “My leaving Skye has nothing to do with yer blabbering on and on about what happened before any of us were seen or heard of,” Cullum responded, exasperated.

  “Is that so?” Rob eyed his grandson narrowly. “Is that what ye believe, that our rights mean nothin’?”

  “Don’t you agree it’s absurd?” Cullum turned to Brad, pleading, now caught in the crossfire.

  “It’s a sad day when I hear my ain’ grandson speaking to me like this,” Rob said loudly, while Brad desperately searched for the right approach.

  “Perhaps we could discuss this privately and come to some arrangement. Believe me, Mr. MacKinnon, I take the matter very seriously,” Brad assured him, looking him in the eye once more.

  Rob pondered the offer. “’Tis a strange thing,” he remarked, sending his grandson a withering look, “when a foreigner, a Yank no less, should have a better understanding for the question than ma’ ain’ flesh and blood.”

  “Och, ye never talk about anything else,” Cullum grumbled. “It’s only a wee piece of land and who knows where the truth lies anyway. Just something for ye to go on about over a dram.”

  “So you’d be an idiot, as well as disloyal to yer clan? ’Tis the MacKinnon honor that’s at stake, lad. The MacLeods and the MacKinnons go back for as long as can be recalled,” he remarked to Brad in a friendlier tone. “The MacKinnons were standard bearers to the MacLeod of Dunvegan and to yer ain’ ancestors too.”

  “All the more reason to get this sorted out.” Brad drained his glass. Better to leave while he was ahead. Signaling to Ben to top them up once more, he rose and smiled. “I’m glad we’ve had the chance to meet, Mr. MacKinnon. It’s always good to know one’s neighbors.”

  The old man chuckled. “You’ve a way about ye, have ye not, young MacLeod?” He sent him a piercing look. “You remind me of yer granddad.”

  “I take that as a compliment.”

  “And so ye should. He was straight as they come, even if at times he was confused, running off to America as he did and leaving his brother to become laird.” He sighed. “He was a wee bit older than me, but I can remember when we were lads.” His eyes misted and he let out a reminiscent chuckle. “Och, Gavin was a wily one, he was. And sorely missed by the lassies when they thought he was dead and buried in the Somme.”

  “I can believe that.”

  “Aye. He was brae and handsome. Ye have the look of him. Have ye a wife, I wonder?”

  “No, but my fiancée will be joining me in a few days.”

  “Fiancée, is it?” He nodded and chuckled. “Then there’s still time to find ye a good Scottish lass. I wish ye luck, young MacLeod. I like yer style and yer guts.”

  “Then we’ll set up a meeting as soon as possible to straighten out the matter of the north field.”

  The old man chuckled again and gazed at him through watery eyes. “Och, ye Yanks are always in a hurry. Like young Cullum here. But ye canna’ fix in days what’s taken over three hundred years to create, lad.”

  “We can certainly try,” Brad insisted, smiling.

  “Aye, that we can.”

  “It’ll be the same thing in ten year’s time,” Cullum muttered.

  “Then it’ll be up to the two of you to settle things as best ye can, as I’ll nae be here meself.” The old man’s shoulders shook and he cackled, wiping away tears of mirth. Brad leaned forward, afraid he would keel over.

  “Dinna’ worry. He’ll be fine, has his balance down to a fine art.” Cullum grinned affectionately. Out of his grandfather’s hearing, he added, “Dinna’ make an arrangement of any kind
or ye’ll kill him. He’s been feeding on this for the past ninety years. Though he’ll enjoy all the argy-bargying.”

  Brad let out a low chuckle and nodded. “I get the picture. By the way, what do you do in Glasgow?”

  “I’m an accountant. Till the end of the month, that is,” Cullum answered gloomily. “The company I work for is laying off people and I’m one of them.”

  “I heard you mention that you hadn’t left the island by choice but by necessity.”

  “Aye. Like most of us. There’s nae’ jobs here and the only way to make a living is to leave.” He shrugged despondently.

  Brad frowned. He’d already gotten an in-depth view of the island’s economy, and knew it needed some serious stimulus. He glanced at Cullum. “Come up and see me at the castle sometime, if you have a minute. I’d like to exchange some ideas and I might just have a job for you.”

  “Are ye serious?” Flushed, Cullum laid his glass down on the counter, eyes narrowing.

  “Never more so. I have a couple of ideas I’d like to toss around with someone who knows the local issues better than me.”

  Straightening his shoulders, Cullum nodded proudly and offered Brad his hand. “I’ll be glad to help you out—and glad of any chance to stay here on Skye.” Together they turned to look at Old Rob, who was mumbling into his glass.

  “Goodbye, Mr. MacKinnon,” Brad said politely.

  “Aye. We’ll meet agin’ soon, But dinna’ think it’ll be easy,” he warned, raising a withered shaky finger. “The MacLeod stole that land and the MacKinnon’s wife along with it. It’s no light matter.”

  “No. And as you pointed out, it will take time and research to come to a proper conclusion.” The old man nodded somberly. “In fact,” Brad continued, warmed by the breakthrough, “we might have to establish an investigation committee.”

  Cullum rolled his eyes and handed his glass to Ben, who was standing amused behind the counter. “Seems he’s gettin’ the drift of the job,” he remarked.

  “Not a bad start,” Ben admitted grudgingly. “Still, only time will tell.”

  When Brad sat down next to Charlotte once more, she sent him a warm smile. “That was brilliant,” she whispered, proud of the way he’d dealt with Old Rob. Perhaps Brad would find his feet after all. But what about when he wasn’t around? How would the locals react when they realized he wasn’t here to stay?