The Lost Dreams

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  That, more than anything, gave him hope.

  Perhaps, just maybe, dreams really could come true. He’d always wanted a life with Charlotte. But the want had grown so much deeper now that he knew it might be possible. He was eager to tell her about the extraordinary board meeting and how dramatically things had changed. He’d barely had a minute to himself, between running around town, making sure the twins were okay, settling Todd at his new school and sorting matters out at the office, but he’d never felt less stressed or more excited about the future.

  Leaning back, he glanced out the plane’s window. The Gulfstream V had been acquired by the company only three months ago, replacing the Learjet Dex had bought some years back. As he watched New York recede on the clear blue horizon, a pang of nostalgia hit. But he wasn’t leaving forever, he reminded himself. He’d be back. The twins were busy with school, and under the watchful eye of Mrs. Browning, their longtime housekeeper. Right now, Strathaird needed him and it was where he wanted to be. He glanced at the papers before him. Daring to hope that Charlotte would want to make a life with him was a risk, he acknowledged. He’d indulged the hope once before and when it had died, it had taken him years to get over the disappointment. But this time was different. He thought back to their time together, to their lovemaking in the cottage. God, what wouldn’t he do to hold her once more in his arms, feel her body melding into his like no one else’s ever had or ever would. He closed his eyes. Surely this had to be as unique for her as it was for him?

  Everything seemed to rest on whether Charlotte, after suffering so many disappointments, estrangements, inner and outer battles, could finally let go of the past and give herself the chance to look toward the future.

  His eyebrows knit. At least all the other hurdles that stood between them had been cleared. He had no regrets about relinquishing power at Harcourts, certain it was the right decision. He got up, stretched, then sat down again, remembering the talk he’d had with Sylvia immediately after the board meeting. Surprisingly, ending their engagement hadn’t been as awful as he’d expected. Sylvia had calmly agreed it was for the best; indeed, she’d been far more interested in discussing her ideas for Harcourts. Amazingly, he’d felt no anger at her machinations. It was her way of defending her turf, he realized.

  Still, he worried that he’d left her little choice but to accept the terms he’d presented to the board. Had he subconsciously maneuvered the whole thing? Somehow he’d sensed that she wanted power even more than she wanted him, and he’d made her an offer that she couldn’t refuse. And once the offer had been accepted, they’d gone from being lovers back to being friends and business colleagues with ease. It was almost troubling.

  He wondered if she had any regrets, but doubted it. Deep down, wielding power was what Syl had always wanted—and now that it was within her reach, he had no doubt she’d exercise it with skill, flair and fairness. He hoped she would find someone who shared the same ambitions and who would make her a heck of a lot happier than he ever could.

  “Your whiskey, Mr. Ward.” Amy, the attractive blond flight attendant who’d been with the crew for several years, extended the small silver tray.

  “Thanks, Amy. How are the kids doing?” he asked, picking up the tumbler.

  “Growing faster than weeds. But now that Bill’s home most evenings, life’s getting a lot easier.” She smiled. Brad watched her neat, uniformed figure returning to the galley, and realized he’d miss all the people at Harcourts; he’d come to know most of them over the years, and had always been sure to show them he valued their service. Still, there was a whole new world of people to meet in Skye—ones who wouldn’t give him the benefit of the doubt simply because of his name. Somehow, the challenge excited him.

  He sipped his whiskey slowly. Skye could be tackled later. Right now, all that mattered was getting to Charlotte. He could picture her, nervous and uptight, awaiting the show and projecting every possible disaster. He needed to be near her, let her know just how much he cared. What could possibly come between them now that they were both free? he wondered. False pride? Misunderstandings?

  Surely those could be ironed out. Still, he’d have to tread carefully. He knew she was terrified of unbalancing the fragile foundation of stability she’d worked so hard to build for herself and Genny. And here he was, determined to turn that world upside down.

  Picking up the Wall Street Journal, he glanced briefly at the headlines, wishing he could have flown directly to Paris. Instead, he was required to attend a meeting at Harcourts’ offices in London. It was only fair, since he’d promised the board that he would carry out his duties as CEO until the end of the year; then Sylvia would officially take over. But he’d see to it the meeting was brief and that the plane crew was on standby. With luck, he would make it to the show just in time.

  He leaned back in the wide, white leather seat and imagined Charlotte cruising with him at twenty thousand feet. Perhaps they’d be making love? The thought made him shift in his seat. Think of what she’s doing now, he ordered himself, picturing her wired and anxious on her big day. He had to get there. She might need him. He didn’t want to smother her, of course, but he couldn’t help feeling protective. He wasn’t about to let anything get in the way of the success and recognition she so deserved.

  He thought suddenly of Armand and frowned. Charlie was so trusting and forthright, always believing the best of people. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Armand’s motives in sponsoring her work weren’t entirely pure. Deciding he was being paranoid, he picked up the remote and flipped through the movie channels, wondering if CNN would cover Armand’s show.

  “Shall I close the blinds, sir?” Amy asked.

  “Yeah, thanks. Might as well get some shut-eye,” he agreed, yawning. He’d slept little the past few nights. Accepting a cashmere blanket, he leaned back, put his feet up, and closed his eyes. He fell asleep almost immediately, but his dreams were troubled.

  The limo weaved its way amid Paris’s notorious afternoon traffic, battling deft motorcyclists swerving dangerously between vehicles and hot, frustrated motorists who weren’t shy about using their horns. As Oncle Eugène muttered about modern contraptions breeding contempt, Charlotte followed the perilous trajectory of two teenagers maneuvering their skateboards adroitly among the bustling pedestrians on the sidewalk.

  “Such confusion,” the Cardinal tutted, drumming his thin fingers on the plush ebony armrest.

  “Well, now, that’s Paris for you, isn’t it?” Monsignor Kelly replied soothingly in his soft Irish lilt. “But we’ll soon be at the Georges V.”

  Eugène sniffed witheringly. “So many poseurs and parvenus there. Trust Armand to choose it. Mon Dieu,” he exclaimed, shocked as a croppedheaded young skate-boarder scraped past a pretty brunette in a very short skirt and high heels. There was no need to understand French to follow the ensuing curses and exclamations. “At this speed we shall never arrive,” he remarked, before addressing the chauffeur. “What is happening, Jean? Why are there all these delays?”

  “It’s another grêve, Your Eminence. The S.N.C.F. are on strike. That means no trains are running today.”

  Eugène shook his head somberly. “I don’t know what the world is coming to. No one seems content with their lot in life anymore. Strikes, indeed. It becomes impossible to travel.”

  Charlotte smiled, accustomed to Oncle Eugène’s old-fashioned prejudices. She stared up at the colored awnings on the chairs of the giant Ferris wheel in the Place de l’Etoile. It hovered weightlessly, a colossal sphere linking heaven and the Champs Elysées. As the traffic moved forward once again, she made an effort to curb her increasing anxiety about the evening ahead.

  Thirty minutes later, they stepped into the glistening marble lobby of the Georges V. Even the amusing spectacle of Oncle Eugène sweeping regally toward the reception desk, murmuring disparaging remarks despite the attentive bellboys and the concierge’s determined efforts to please, failed to dispel the jitters in her stomach.
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br />   They were here at last. She gazed through the glass doors to the inner courtyard, where guests sat on attractive white-cushioned wrought-iron seats under ombrelones, sipping tea and discussing business, or glued to their cell phones. The effect was charming, the opulence of the past melded with modern flair. She smiled, watched the decorators changing the gigantic purple and magenta flower arrangements that reached toward the high, illuminated ceiling in massive minimalist designer vases. The effect was stunning and unique. Whatever Oncle Eugène might say, the Georges V was impressive.

  And it was here in this fabled palace that it was all about to happen. Her work would be viewed by the public for the first time in this magical environment, where the whims and fancies of the rich and famous had been catered for so long. Here Hollywood had rubbed shoulders with such legends as Mrs. Roosevelt and the Maharaja of Kapurthala. She knew for a fact that both Sylvain de Rothberg and Dexter Ward had been frequent visitors to the hotel.

  And now it was her turn. As she followed the immaculately dressed hotel director to one of the massive presidential suites that overlooked the Avenue Georges V, her mouth went dry.

  The door of the apartment was solicitously opened. After voicing several complaints, Oncle Eugène finally settled in his cream-and-gold-colored room for his afternoon rest, somewhat mollified by the impeccable attention the hotel provided.

  Charlotte retired thankfully to her own spacious suite a few doors down the corridor, glad to be alone. She decided to unpack, then take a nap. Outside, the weather was hot and muggy and the thought of lying between cool, pressed sheets struck her as extraordinarily appealing. She pulled the thick brocade curtains closed and crossed the shaded room, realizing she hadn’t had a decent night’s rest since Brad had left. She sank onto the plush canopied bed, vaguely aware of the humming traffic in the avenue below, and thought of him, of how they’d made love, of the way he seemed to know just where to touch her and the extraordinary way she’d reacted. Stop! she ordered, turning on the down pillow, knowing it was foolish to yearn for the impossible. After all, he hadn’t communicated with her since his departure and was probably regretting what had occurred between them, now that he and Sylvia had obviously resumed their old life together.

  To her surprise, she woke to a room that was nearly dark. Realizing it must already be late, she jumped up, slipped on the thick terry bathrobe provided by the hotel and hastened through to the glistening marble bathroom. It wouldn’t do to be late, she reflected, gazing at herself in the wide mirror. It was almost time for drinks, she realized with a groan, wishing now that she hadn’t allowed herself to be persuaded into coming. What was the point, when she was just going to huddle in a corner, pretending not to be there? Perhaps she should have told Armand about this trip after all. Or better yet, stayed home.

  Stomach lurching, she entered the shower, determined not to think about the show getting closer by the minute. She stood under the full blast of the powerful spray and concentrated on the soothing rivulets running down her back. Relax, she told herself over and over, ignoring the growing nausea in the pit of her stomach, and tried to think of a souvenir she could bring Genny from Paris. Mummy was right, she realized, to have made her stop off in London and make the hop to Armani. At least she’d be properly dressed. The beautifully cut shantung cream pantsuit was stunning.

  Stepping out of the glass shower, Charlotte wrapped herself in one of the huge, white, monogrammed terry towels, then hoisted a foot onto the beige marble counter and smoothed body cream up her leg. If this was to be her night, she decided with a toss of her head, then she was damn well going to look good, incognito or not. After spreading the lotion lavishly, she dried her hair strand by strand until it fell shining and glossy over her shoulders. She applied make-up with a light hand, finishing with a light touch of violet mascara that enhanced the color of her eyes and some lip gloss. The image staring back at her from the large gilt-framed mirror was satisfying. At least she looked her best. She clasped the fine platinum necklace with a drop diamond she’d designed for the occasion around her neck with a pleased smile. It was the only jewel she would be wearing tonight.

  The idea of a drink was beginning to have some appeal, she realized, letting out a long breath as growing doubts assailed her once more. Oh God, what if everyone hated her designs? What if instead of praise, tomorrow’s press was filled with disparaging articles? Or worse, that the jewelry would be deemed too inconsequential to merit any comment at all!

  Perching nervously on the edge of the gold-tapped marble tub, Charlotte dropped her head into her hands. If only Mummy or Moira or someone she could confide in were here with her. But none of them could get away. Oncle Eugène was all very well, but hardly the ideal candidate to burden with her worries. Worst-case scenario, there was always Monsignor Kelly, she reflected with a moue, the thought of the rotund Irish priest making her smile. Then her features tensed and sudden sadness engulfed her; the only person she really wanted here was thousands of miles away in New York and probably not even thinking of her.

  Torn between longing and hurt pride, she determinedly blotted his image out. Obviously, he was history. That much had become plain over the past few days. Not one phone call, not one word of encouragement. What had transpired between them had obviously not touched him as it had her, and this was his way of letting her know. But how could she ever forget those magical moments spent in his arms?

  Charlotte chided herself: she was doing what she always did—jumping to conclusions like a temperamental adolescent. Surely she’d come further than that? Perhaps it was wrong to write him off without at least giving him a chance. For all she knew, there could be a number of reasons for his continued silence. But if it was only a brief affair, she had only herself to blame. He was, after all, engaged to another woman and she didn’t even have the excuse of not knowing. She’d gone straight in, eyes wide open, and this was the result.

  A sudden flush of shame suffused her cheeks. Perhaps it was disappointment at her performance in bed that had driven him back to Sylvia. After all, John had spent the better part of their marriage reminding her what a hopeless lover she was. Frigid was an adjective he’d used all too frequently, she recalled.

  She turned away from the mirror, not wanting to see the old, insecure Charlotte reflected there. Where was the confident woman who’d smiled back at her after she and Brad had made love? She closed her eyes, bracing her hands on each side of the basin, overwhelmed by just how much she missed him.

  Tears welled but she forced them back and breathed deeply.

  This was no time to be indulging in self-pity and regret. After all, she was on the verge of what might be the most important night of her life. She had no business blubbering in the bathroom just because the man she happened to love had dumped her for his own fiancée.

  And hadn’t even called to wish her luck.

  That hurt, she realized, moving away with an angry start. But at least the interlude had served its purpose, she justified, tossing her hair back. Now she was ready to move on and make a life for herself and her daughter, to let go of the fears that had shadowed her all these years. Giving her lips a final dab of gloss, she braced herself, determined to live the moment to the full.

  Straightening her shoulders, she headed back through to the bedroom. She’d get dressed, then join Oncle Eugène for drinks in the salon. And after that…well, she’d see what the night would bring.

  Eugène watched Charlotte enter the room, pleased at the transformation. Her hair was beautifully coiffed, the wild curls trained into thick flowing waves that glistened in the warm glow of the crystal chandelier. Her suit, he noted, satisfied, was exquisite and discreet. Tonight, she reflected her true heritage.

  “You look very lovely, my dear,” he remarked. Rising stiffly, he reached beneath the wide watered-silk band at his waist, and produced a faded jewelry box from a pocket deep within his scarlet-trimmed black soutane. Charlotte recognized the blue velvet of Rothberg’s and held her bre
ath, peering with excited anticipation when Oncle Eugène carefully raised the lid. Inside lay a pair of exquisite heart-shaped clustered-diamond earrings.

  “These were Sylvain’s first gift to Geneviève,” he remarked, his voice betraying a slight tremor. “I remember how excited she was. Like you. It is amazing how you resemble her so much.” A nostalgic smile hovered on his thin lips, eyes alight with memories. “I would like you to have these and wear them tonight. You seem to feel such a strong connection to Sylvain. He would have…It is appropriate that you should be wearing one of his creations,” he ended, sending her a strange look. Then he cleared his throat. “Perhaps the earrings will make up somewhat for the loss of the watch.”

  Charlotte gazed at he sparkling gems, awestruck, eyes swimming with unshed tears. She could picture Sylvain in his workshop, pouring every ounce of his love into these exquisite pieces, carefully placing each stone into its setting. She lifted one of the heart-shaped earrings reverently, fingers fumbling nervously as she fixed it into place. The other followed. Then she turned and faced the gilt-framed mirror above the fireplace.

  Eugène stood behind her, mesmerized. It was as though his dearest sister Genny were before him once again. He closed his eyes, overcome by the same sensation he’d felt that day on the lawn at Strathaird, the feeling that Sylvain was here with them.

  “Thank you, Oncle Eugène,” Charlotte whispered hoarsely, throwing herself in his arms. “You’ve no idea what this means to me.”

  “Don’t cry, mon enfant,” he murmured softly. “There is no cause for tears. Quite the contrary. Tonight will be your night of triumph.”

  “I don’t know,” she wailed, taking the handkerchief he handed her. “I’m scared, Oncle Eugène. What if no one likes my jewelry? The whole thing may be a complete flop, and then Armand will regret having taken a chance on me.”