The Lost Dreams

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  “Hi, Sylvia,” she said brightly, opening the door before the other woman reached the end of the path. “I’m glad you came. We were about to call and see if you’d come for a drink.” She smiled brightly, hoping she looked more convincing than she felt.

  “Thanks. Is Brad still here? I thought you were taking the kids to the movies.”

  “Oh my—yes! That’s right. We’re about to leave. He’s just having a whiskey. Come on in.”

  “I just got a call from the States. I need to talk to him.” She seemed distracted and Charlotte groaned. They’d completely forgotten the children in their desire for one another.

  “I’ll leave you alone so you two can chat,” she said hastily, only too glad for an excuse to escape for a few minutes and regain a semblance of composure. Besides, she had to phone Moira, with a plausible excuse for not having fetched the kids. There was no way they’d make the movie now, she realized guiltily.

  “Oh, it’s nothing private,” Sylvia said with an absent smile. “Just a problem that’s come up with our ad campaign for the new linen line I was telling you about the other day.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, it’s not anything that can’t be sorted out. It just requires my presence in New York, that’s all.”

  “Well, you’d better tell Brad. I’ll get you a drink—Whiskey and soda on the rocks, right?”

  “Yes, thanks.” Sylvia walked into the living room. Brad was seated next to the fire, looking kind of stiff, she thought. Perhaps she’d interrupted something, she reflected acidly, all the more determined to put her plan into action. Ira had told her a couple of things over the phone that had given her the perfect excuse she needed. Production costs for the ad campaign were running double what they’d initially forecasted. Something wasn’t right. Somebody was screwing up. She probably could have sorted it out with a couple of calls, but the chance to leave this backwater was too good to pass up.

  “I got a call from Ira.”

  “Anything the matter?” Brad frowned as Sylvia poured out her concerns.

  “There’s only one thing to do,” she concluded, after bringing him up to speed. “I have to get back home. It’s just too risky to leave things in Ira’s hands. I know he’s good, but this may require some major decision-making. It’s simply not fair to let him carry that responsibility alone.”

  “I don’t see why we can’t monitor the situation from here. Do you really think it requires your being there?” He glanced at her curiously, and she sat down next to him on the sofa.

  “My gut’s telling me I should go, honey. Anyway, you won’t be away that much longer, will you?”

  “No.” His reply was noncommittal. She noticed that he seemed to be avoiding eye contact, as if he was embarrassed about something.

  For the first time since entering the room she took stock of the cozy atmosphere, the soft smooth jazz and the warm embers crackling invitingly in the grate and drew her own conclusions. Yes, she decided, it was clearly past time she took things in hand.

  10

  God, it felt good to be back, Sylvia reflected as she alighted from the car in front of Harcourts’ Park Avenue office building. Manhattan was hot and muggy, and with temperatures up in the high nineties, the city air was stagnant and still. She’d choose this over the clammy gray mists of Skye any day. Passing through the rotating doors, the artificial chill of the air-conditioning hit her full blast, and she sighed with delight.

  She was home.

  Back in her office, she sank into the familiar beige leather chair, swiveling to face her desk with a smile of contentment. After a long, satisfying day of hard work, the discomforts and confusion of Strathaird would be nothing more than a bad memory. She glanced at her desk, piled with memos, and turned on her computer. Eighty-five e-mails flashed on the screen and fourteen urgent phone calls required her immediate attention.

  It felt good to be needed.

  Slipping off her jacket, she plunged in, working intensely all morning. By lunchtime she’d returned all her calls, brainstormed with her two assistants, Ira and Hamilton, and things were beginning to look normal. At twelve she glanced at her watch, anxious not to be late for lunch. Barry Granger, the senior member of Harcourts’ board, was not a man she wanted to keep waiting.

  She had dressed carefully for the meeting in a conservative, light-beige suit and the exquisite string of pearls and earrings Brad had given her last Christmas. Leaning back, she twiddled her pen and carefully reviewed the strategy she’d been formulating over the last week. But the memory of Brad’s rejection of her that disastrous night at Strathaird kept intruding. She swallowed an all-too-familiar surge of anger. He’d tried to make amends, but since then his embraces had felt mechanical, as if he was forcing himself to touch her. Things between them were definitely not as they had been. Nor would they be, she acknowledged, until she could break the strange spell that Skye and that woman seemed to have cast over him. Blocking out the image of Brad leaning tenderly over Charlotte, Sylvia rose impatiently, knowing what she had to do.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the small, decorative mirror she’d placed over her credenza, not pleased with the hard, angry face staring back at her. She had to compose herself; making her motives too plain would only undermine her plans. And, she reminded herself, it would take more than a quick lunch with Granger to implement this stratagem. For it to work, she would need the whole board on her side. She pulled a nail file from her purse and nervously filed an imperfection, aware that part of her was still reluctant to go this far.

  But Brad had left her little choice. She had to reestablish the normal pattern of their existence before things got any worse. She gazed for a moment at his photograph sitting on top of her desk, a knot forming in her throat. That was the Brad she wanted back, the old confident, self-assured, impeccably dressed Brad, smiling up at her from the picture taken at a charity function they’d attended at the Frick last fall. With a resolute sigh, she laid down the nail file and moved toward the door.

  A woman had to do what she had to do. And now was the time to do it.

  “Bobby’s been at it again,” Moira exclaimed as Charlotte hurried into the gallery, barely escaping the sudden downpour. A flash of lightning followed by a clap of thunder made the ancient structure tremble.

  “What god-awful weather.” Charlotte grimaced and glanced at the window, pelted now by heavy rain.

  “You’re not driving the children to the crafts festival in this, are you?” Moira questioned anxiously.

  “I was going to pick them up at the castle in about half an hour. Let’s watch how the storm develops. It may not last.”

  “Don’t bet on it. Hamish was at the café when I was grabbing my morning coffee. I heard him tell Old Rob there’s a northwesterly squall coming in and that it’ll settle in for at least the next three days. The children can live without the festival. They’ve already been to the movies several times.”

  “I know but I feel so dreadful. Brad and I promised and we let them down the other night and—”

  “Rubbish. They were so involved with their video game they never noticed. Now stop feeling guilty,” Moira admonished briskly.

  “We’ll see,” Charlotte replied with a noncommittal smile. “Hamish makes his weather predictions based on how much the frogs are croaking—claims they’re louder when there’s lots of rain on the way. And since he’s almost deaf, I suspect that’s not the most reliable indicator.” Charlotte flopped onto the chair opposite Moira and accepted a mug of coffee. “Now, what was this about Bobby?”

  “It was yesterday afternoon,” Moira said, adjusting her thick-rimmed glasses. “I went over to the café to get more coffee. When I came back I noticed that the door of your workshop was ajar.”

  “And?”

  “Well, as I went to close it I glimpsed a movement, so I switched on the light.”

  “Go on.” Charlotte frowned, a sudden chill coursing up her spine. Bobby had always followed her around like
a faithful puppy, but it was a different matter altogether to invade her privacy. After she’d confronted him up at the cottage, he’d stopped trailing her for a while. But clearly, old habits died hard.

  “He was fiddling at your table. I saw him slip something into his pocket. You know what he’s like, almost childlike. When I said he must turn his pockets out, he did. And do you now what he had in there?”

  “No.”

  “A piece of casting metal.”

  “What on earth would he want that for?”

  “I’ve no idea. The poor man’s half-batty. I think he just wants things of yours around him. I mean, if he’d wanted to actually steal from you, he’d have taken something of value. After all,” Moira remarked with pursed lips, “there’s enough of what you leave lying about to satisfy any thief.”

  “Oh don’t start, Mo, you know I need my stuff around me to create.”

  “That’s all fine and dandy, but you’ve got to be more careful. Especially after what happened at the cottage.” She frowned. “You don’t think it could have been Bobby who broke in that day?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. He’s always been perfectly harmless,” Charlotte murmured, wondering if Moira could be right.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of calling up Sergeant Ramsey. I thought he needed to know. If it was Bobby who broke in to Rose Cottage, he may be hiding your watch and the other pieces. I honestly don’t believe he’d have done it to steal, but he’s certainly seen you wearing the timepiece. He might have just wanted something of yours to treasure.”

  “But he’s never done anything like that before, and I can’t think what would have triggered the idea now.” Charlotte frowned, then nodded. “You probably did the right thing, though.”

  Moira nodded, relieved. “I felt awful. I’m sure he’s harmless, but you never know. Better to be safe than sorry.” She looked up suddenly. “Charlotte, you don’t think he might try something else, do you? One hears such awful stories about weirdos on the news. Brad was in the other day with Sylvia, before she left, and he seems genuinely worried about your safety. By the way, I gave them the piece he commissioned. I hope that’s okay. Sylvia seemed thrilled. Did you see her before she left?”

  “I didn’t have time. I rang instead.”

  “Ah.” Moira busied herself with some papers on the table. Charlotte got up and gazed out the window. Rain continued to slash mercilessly.

  “I suppose it would be rather silly to drive to Portree in this,” she muttered.

  “Totally nonsensical.”

  “I’d better phone Mummy and tell her I’ll be staying.” She moved toward the phone, dialed and listened absently to the double ring.

  “Strathaird.”

  The sound of Brad’s voice reaching down the line left her mouth dry.

  “Hi. Is Mummy there?”

  “She’s out. You’re not going to take the kids out in this, are you?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “Charlie, you can’t drive in this weather, that’s crazy.”

  “I’ll see what happens in the next half hour. I—I feel terrible about not taking them the other day,” she said in a rush. “Are they okay?”

  “Having a blast. Diego’s teaching them to play billiards. Frankly, I think we’d have a hard time getting them to leave right now. How about coming here later for lunch, if the weather clears,” he added in a hopeful, persuasive voice.

  Her pulse skipped a beat. To agree, Charlotte knew, was to court fate. She glanced blindly out the window. “I’m definitely taking the kids.” The faster and farther away she got from Brad, the better.

  There was a short silence, then he spoke in a neutral voice. “Do me a favor and wait till the rain stops, will you?”

  “I’ve driven in this stuff all my life,” she said nonchalantly.

  “Don’t, Charlie. You’re being pigheaded. For all you know, the festival may be cancelled. It’s not safe and I won’t have you or the kids driving in this weather. You could have another accident.”

  Charlotte froze at the reminder. “I’ll make up my mind myself,” she answered edgily, needing to escape. Hanging up, she moved toward the workshop. Should she just go, pick the kids up and to hell with it? For a moment she hesitated. But Brad was right. She could have another accident. What if something happened to her? It would kill Genny, and her daughter had already suffered enough in her young life. Besides, she admitted, it was ridiculous to be irritated with Brad because he had her well-being at heart.

  She wouldn’t go, she decided, heading toward the door of the workshop, but neither would she lunch with him. After all, she had nothing to offer him but heartache.

  Brad hung up, his upcoming phone appointment with Sylvia forgotten, and grabbed the old Barbour shooting jacket that was never far out of reach. Charlotte wasn’t going anywhere, he fumed as he headed for the door, regardless of whatever pea-brained plan she had. Feeling in his pocket for the car keys, he ran down the front steps then ducked out into the rain.

  As the Aston Martin glided out of the castle and down the road toward the village, he noticed a police Range Rover stopped in front of the Hewitts’ cottage. Bobby Hewitt was standing in the doorway gesticulating, while Sergeant Ramsey hovered on the front steps in a black mackintosh and police cap, trying unsuccessfully to shield himself from the downpour. He wondered absently what Bobby had done to warrant a visit from Sergeant Ramsey on a day like this.

  He hesitated, then opted to drive on down to the gallery and call the station later. Charlotte was liable to go racing off in his absence and then he’d be sick with worry until she got home safely.

  The street was half-empty and he parked on the curb in front of the Celtic Café. As he entered the gallery, Moira looked up and greeted him.

  “Hello. You’re in early,” she commented, eyebrows rising behind the thick lenses.

  “Where is she?” he asked with a brief nod.

  Moira pointed to the workshop, eyes following him as he made straight for the door. He entered without knocking, and closed the door behind him.

  Charlotte spun on her stool then stood up abruptly, backing against the table.

  They stared at one another.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he muttered, taking a step closer.

  “I’ll go wherever the hell I want,” she retorted, tossing her head rebelliously, reminding him of the Charlotte of old.

  “Not with the kids, you won’t. Or by yourself, come to think of it.” He moved quickly forward and she cringed.

  “Don’t.” Impulsively she raised a hand, as if she thought he’d hit her. He stopped dead in his tracks, suddenly aware of the fear she’d been living with all these years. Mentally cursing John for putting such fear in her, Brad suppressed the desire to pull her into his arms. Instead, he put his hands in his pockets and looked her straight in the eye, daring her to contradict him. “You’re staying right here where I can make sure you’re okay,” he pronounced, leaving no room for misunderstanding. He was standing over her now, watching her eyes go from violet to purple. The haunting memories of the other night at the cottage, how wonderful she’d felt, how she’d met his questing hand with eager passion, flashed. Almost without will, he stepped closer still, watching as she arched back against the table, hair fanning over onto the battered wood of the old table, mixing with the glistening gems behind her. Unable to stop himself, he leaned into her, conscious only of the need to finish what they’d started all those years ago.

  “Don’t,” she murmured weakly as his arm slipped about her waist and he drew her, unresisting, into his arms. “We mustn’t,” she insisted, cursing her traitorous body. Blind panic swamped her as his lips came down on hers and she gasped. Somehow, all at once, she was back in the apartment in Chester Square, stretched out on the brocade sofa, longing for Brad to be the first to touch her, love her.

  At the thought, she stopped fighting the inevitable. Her lips opened before his. Her m
ind went blank and she responded eagerly, arms slipping about him. The familiar feel of his muscles rippling under his shirt and sweater made her moan as she sank into him and his hands coursed up her body, seeking her breasts. Why was he the one man who could make her feel this way? she wondered despairingly. Then all vestiges of reason vanished when his thumb touched her nipple and a shaft of heat consumed her, her hunger for him leaving her melting and moist. All reason forgotten, she dragged him down with her onto the worn Turkish rug, fumbling with his shirt buttons, delighting in his tongue flicking against hers, his fingers tearing at her jeans.

  The shrill ring of the phone brought her crashing back to earth with an almighty bang. It was as if the past was repeating itself, tearing him away from her yet again.

  “Oh no, not this time,” he murmured, as with a superhuman effort she tried to extricate herself. “Stay with me,” he whispered as the phone was answered in the gallery and he lowered his lips once more to hers. In the distance she caught the lilt of Moira’s voice, then consciously shut her out. This was crazy, wrong, she realized, drinking in Brad’s kisses thirstily. But just this once she needed to feel him, breathe him, give life to the lost dreams of years ago. She’d need this memory to feed on in the lonely days ahead. Sighing, she succumbed to temptation, reveling in the feel of him as he nestled between her legs.

  It felt so terribly good. So right it hurt.

  With a shudder she realized this was like coming home.

  Brad shifted, slipping one arm under her and the other under her shirt. Her breasts were as soft, and her nipples as taut and tense as he’d imagined them. Years of denying the truth had culminated in this desperate need. It was overpowering, terrifying and impossible. He caressed gently, cherishing each reaction. None of his past dreams had come anywhere close, he realized, lowering his mouth to her breast. Then he closed his eyes and drove himself deep within her, giving himself up to the glorious sensations of moist heat and passion. “Charlie?” Moira called, knocking at the door. Shocked to their senses, they pulled quickly apart, hastily grappling with their clothes.