The Lost Dreams

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  Tentatively Charlotte looked toward the other boxes. Could anything be lovelier than what she had just seen? Silently she opened the next one. In it lay three bracelets. With a sharp intake of breath, she stumbled back.

  “Look,” she exclaimed.

  Brad and the Cardinal moved closer. The first bracelet was almost an exact replica of the ruby cabochon piece she’d designed for the show. She stared at it, disbelieving. It had the same double strap mount, the same central stone. But this piece centered on what must be a hundred-carat star sapphire of such beauty and perfection that she wanted to weep.

  Somewhere behind her, she heard Eugène murmuring. Her eyes traveled to the other two bracelets, a platinum mount centering on four square-pronged corner-held emerald-cut diamonds that had to weigh at least two carats each. God only knew what the extravaganza of perfect, round, prong-held diamonds surrounding them must weigh, but she judged there were at least twenty carats set in rows.

  “Perhaps, after the lot has been appraised and the insurance rate established, you would prefer to have the collection delivered to the Baur Au Lac,” the president noted, clearing his throat. “We shall have to arrange for an armed guard, of course. I…I must confess, I’ve never seen anything like it. It is, of course, imperative that everything be fully protected. These are rare treasures.”

  “Oh, yes,” Charlotte replied, horrified at the thought of the collection leaving the bank. “That is why all this must stay here until we decide what to do. It would be too much of a risk to remove it.”

  “A good decision,” Oncle Eugène approved. “We shall leave Mr. Bauer to appraise the contents of the safe.”

  “Very well.” The president bowed his head in acquiescence.

  “Excuse me.” The bank officer next to her handed Charlotte an envelope. “This fell out of the safe as you were removing the box.”

  “Thank you.” She stared at the elegant writing, then at Eugène. It was addressed to him. “This is for you,” she said, handing him the missive reverently.

  Eugène took the letter and gazed at it thoughtfully. Then he slipped it into a breast pocket under his soutane.

  Regretfully, Charlotte laid the box with the bracelets onto the table. Part of her wanted to stay here all day and revel in the magnitude and beauty of the discovery, but she knew that wasn’t possible—or even wise. It would be easier to work through her turbulent emotions in the peace of the suite at the Baur Au Lac.

  Taking Brad’s hand, she followed the others out of the vault. Had Sylvain expected to return, or had he known, deep down, that he was leaving his legacy for another generation to discover? All at once she stopped, turned and took a last look at Mr. Bauer stooped over the necklace with his equipment, a bank guard by his side.

  For an instant she closed her eyes, and a strange and pulsing warmth coursed through her. “I’ll do the right thing by all this, Grandfather,” she whispered. Then, hand clasped in Brad’s, she walked, head high, to the elevator.

  Suite 529 was enchanting. Recently redecorated by the hotel director’s charming wife, it reflected her exquisite taste and clever decorator’s eye. Muted red, sage and gold-striped drapes hung from a central pelmet, looped onto bronze holders on each side of the vast bed. Reflected in the mirrored closet doors opposite, the whole effect was light and luminous. The suite was on the top floor under the eaves. The curtains, set against eggshell walls under a classic white ceiling and frieze, hung on brass rails at a slight angle, imbuing the room with singular charm. The effect was delightful and airy, elegant, yet cozy and comfortable. A small balcony set with cushioned chairs and a table looked out over the gray-tiled roof to the Baur Au Lac Club on the right and Lake Zurich beyond.

  Charlotte had never visited the city before and found herself gazing, enchanted, at the mountains rising majestically at the far end of the lake, snow-capped peaks like frosted candy glistening in the September sun. A steamer puttered across the still waters linking Bürkli Platz Pier with Küsnacht, while to her left the dome of the opera house framed the picture-postcard scene.

  “Wasn’t it amazing seeing Sylvain’s signature in the hotel guest book?” Brad remarked, joining her on the balcony and slipping an arm round her waist.

  A soft breeze blew in from the lake as together they gazed at the pier a few hundred yards away, decked with jaunty red parasols, children playing and mothers pushing strollers, enjoying the last days of summer.

  “Everything about this day is amazing,” Charlotte answered, leaning her head back against his chest. “To think he stayed here with Chagall. Do you realize this is where Paulette Goddard met Erich Maria Remarque, the author of All Quiet on the Western Front? They met again in 1958 and got married. The concierge told me the whole story.”

  “Not to mention all the presidential visitors and conferences that have taken place within these walls. This place has history crawling out of the woodwork.”

  “I know. Frankly, I’m finding it difficult to absorb so much at once,” she murmured, turning and slipping her arms around his neck. “Forty-eight hours ago, I was quaking in my shoes, terrified that my designs would be a flop. Now, suddenly I’m speaking with reporters and discovering that I’ve just inherited one of the world’s great jewelry collections. Certainly the one with the most mystique.” She shook her head and raised her eyes to his. “What do you suppose we should do with it? We can’t leave it sitting in the safe. But it’s too sacred and too valuable to display without a great deal of planning.”

  “I agree. Take your time. It’s been sitting there all these years. A few more months won’t hurt.” He touched her cheek, then dropped a kiss on her mouth. “You could open a museum.”

  “True. But I have the feeling Sylvain’s wishes may be expressed in the letter he left in the safe for Oncle Eugène.”

  Brad planted a kiss on her forehead. “You may be right. I think that now you need to relax. Sylvain, wherever he is, must be very proud of you. He couldn’t wish for a lovelier or more talented granddaughter. But you’ve also got your own life to think about. By the way,” he added, grinning, “the Christmas-tree comment you made to that reporter in the phone interview hit the headlines.”

  “What do you mean, my Christmas-tree comment?” she asked blankly.

  “Here. Take a look.” He handed her the paper.

  “Oh, Lord.” She giggled, despite the emotions of the past few hours, and read aloud.

  “‘Newly discovered talent Charlotte MacLeod says she herself rarely wears much jewelry’—that’s not much good for promoting my line, is it?” she remarked, grimacing, then continued reading. “‘According to Ms. MacLeod, quality and not quantity are the stamp of a truly elegant woman.’—God, I’m hardly a reference,” she groaned, reading on, amused. “‘I’d hate to look like a Christmas tree, Ms. MacLeod declared in a hastily arranged phone conference that took place at the Georges V hotel in Paris after the untimely demise of her cousin, designer Armand de la Vallière, whose show took Paris by storm. The absence of Ms. MacLeod’s name on the program, which led to a misunderstanding as to the authorship of the designs, was apparently due to a printing mistake. Ms. MacLeod professed great sadness at her cousin’s sudden heart attack shortly after the show, and declared that the la Vallière clothing line will be continued, in memory of the designer who came into his own so shortly before his death.’ Well!” She handed the paper back to Brad. “At least Armand’s reputation is preserved. I think Eugène handled that rather adroitly, don’t you?”

  “I never expect any less from him,” Brad remarked with a dry laugh. He pulled her toward him and back into the room, taking a good look at her. She’d blossomed over the past few weeks, confronting her doubts and taking her destiny into her own hands. And it showed. He drew her toward the bed.

  “Isn’t it rather early in the day?” she asked weakly, allowing herself to be led.

  When he stopped next to the bed and slowly began undressing her, she let out a sigh, smiled and unbuttoned his shirt, q
uickening the pace as a shaft of heat raced through her when his fingers brushed her breasts. His hands fluttered down her ribs then slipped her skirt and panties to the floor. She stepped out of them and her blouse and bra followed.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured huskily, hands coursing over her milky skin then gliding between her thighs. She let out a gasp of delight. Wherever Brad touched, no matter how briefly, his fingers left a volcano of feeling in their wake. Her body went fluid, her muscles melting. She made short work of his clothing, then pushed him onto the bed, where they lay feeling, caressing, enjoying one another. Then Charlotte drew away and Brad looked up, surprised. With a conspiratorial grin, she moved down his body, and with her hair falling around her, shielding her face, she took him gently into her mouth.

  Brad let out a grateful groan. Her artist’s creativity wasn’t restricted to her designs, he realized. He’d never felt such pleasure. Charlotte’s caresses were laced with emotion, as though her soul was being poured into every intimate kiss. When he could bear it no more he pulled her head away and, turning her over on the coverlet, thrust deep within her, feeling her moist heat sheathing him body and soul. Eyes locked, they reveled in one another, the worries and excitement of the past days forgotten as they writhed in each other’s arms. Then Brad felt her urgency as she arched beneath him, drawing him deep inside until he touched her core, reaching the summit of their climb before slipping over the edge into blissful oblivion.

  They’d dosed off, when the sharp ring of the telephone brought Charlotte groggily back to earth. She shifted onto her elbow, reached over Brad’s naked shoulder and felt blindly for the phone on the nightstand.

  “Hello.”

  “Darling, it’s Mummy.” Penelope’s strained voice came clearly down the line.

  “Oh, hello, Mum.” She yawned, rubbed her eyes and frowned. “Is everything all right at home?”

  “Yes. Genny’s fine.” Penelope hesitated, and Charlotte quickly sat up. “There’s something you need to know, darling.”

  “What?” A deep sense of foreboding came over her. She glanced fearfully at Brad, half-asleep next to her on the bed, and swallowed. “What is it, Mummy? Tell me.”

  “I think you’d better prepare yourself for a shock,” Penelope murmured, falling silent once again.

  “What is it? Don’t keep me in suspense,” Charlotte said impatiently. “Just tell me.”

  “It’s John.”

  “What about him?” Her eyebrows knit and she tensed.

  “He…he’s awake.”

  A chill ran through her as she stared at the receiver, unable to register. “What do you mean, awake?”

  “Darling, he’s come out of the coma. The hospital just called. It’s quite extraordinary. The doctors can barely believe it but he sat up this morning, talking and smiling as though nothing had happened.”

  Charlotte shook her head, wondering if she’d heard right. Was she in the middle of some bizarre nightmare?

  “Are you all right, darling? I know this is the most awful shock to you…” Penelope’s voice trailed off.

  “Yes. Oh, Mummy, what am I going to do? Oh God.”

  “Charlotte, are you all right, darling? You must come home, but don’t worry…we’ll find a way—”

  “Of course. I’ll…” She passed a hand over her eyes as the news sank in. “Mummy, I’d better call you back. I—I’ll call you back.” With a dazed movement she hung up the receiver, then stared through the window at the sparkling lake.

  Never, even in her darkest hours, had she imagined something as awful as this. She glanced at Brad, heart aching. The only obstacle that could come between them and shatter their happiness had reared its ugly head.

  Burying her head in her hands Charlotte collapsed among the rumpled sheets and wept. It had all been too good to be true, but now reality had caught up with her.

  18

  The Park Hotel normally remained closed in the autumn, but John’s agents and producers made arrangements for him to recover there in the total privacy of the half-empty Swiss mountain resort of Gstaad. No one, his representatives agreed, must be allowed to see the star before he returned to his former self. After a thorough round of background checks, a small cadre of assistants—masseur, private trainer, esthetician and speech therapist, all sworn to secrecy—were placed at his personal beck and call, and a carefully prepared regimen of exercise, diet and fitness was established.

  John Drummond’s dramatic comeback was the hottest item in the movie world and everyone knew it.

  Charlotte sat in the large, empty bar while John lounged in a chair to her left, a script open on his knee. She tried not to yawn. Ron Berkowitz, his pugnacious agent, sat opposite, his sharp eyes not missing a thing. Gina Slater, the new publicist they’d hired after John had dismissed the last one, perched on the opposite chair, neat, blond and attentive.

  Charlotte felt trapped in a time warp. It was all so eerily reminiscent of the past. The ego-building conversations, the fawning laughter every time John made some mediocre joke, the relentless toadying. She leaned back on the leather couch, watching the scene before her play out as though it were a movie on a huge screen.

  In some ways he’d changed, she reflected, eyeing him, recalling her first impression of the gaunt figure propped up in the hospital bed. A shudder of fear had coursed through her at the time, but had gradually diminished. It was remarkable that he had made so much progress in such a short time. Even the doctors shook their heads, amazed at the fast track John’s rehabilitation was taking. He’d put on a fair amount of flesh and muscle, and gradually the traces of illness had faded. Watching him now it was hard to assimilate that the dynamic, very much alive creature seated next to her could be the same wax-like mannequin she’d visited only weeks ago. At times he could be disconcertingly tender toward her, rather like some of the roles he’d played in past movies. That in itself was proof he hadn’t fully recovered, she thought cynically.

  Her eyes narrowed and her mind wandered. It had been more than a month since she’d left Brad and the Baur Au Lac in a horrified daze, yet still she hadn’t told her husband she was leaving him for good. She swallowed, remembering the deep sadness in Brad’s eyes as they’d kissed goodbye. He’d been so understanding and gentle, she remembered, swallowing the sob that clutched her throat. He’d been the one to tell her to go, to muster up her courage and get on with it.

  And now he’d returned to New York. It was not clear why, now that he’d given up the CEOship of Harcourts, and she frowned. Of course, the twins required his presence, and all the changes that he was implementing in his life needed to be administered. She’d barely talked to him since that last day in Zurich, she’d been so consumed with John’s recovery, and then the aftermath of her success in Paris. There were brief phone calls, of course, a quick meeting, a kiss and a hug at Strathaird before she’d left for Switzerland, but no time to share thoughts, to tell him how much she truly loved him, how much she missed not having him in her life. He’d seemed distant at that last encounter, she recalled, a niggling sense of impending doom descending over her. It was almost as though he’d taken a step back. She fidgeted and bit her nail, wishing she could just hop on a plane, go to New York and topple straight into his arms. She felt lonely and in limbo, on edge with the knowledge that she still had to extricate herself from what was becoming an increasingly complicated situation.

  Berkowitz had planted various teary stories in the press about how John’s desire to see his wife and daughter again were the only things he’d been conscious of during his lengthy coma. Much to her dismay, Charlotte had been portrayed as his long-suffering but ever-faithful bedside companion—nurses at the hospital having vouched for her regular visits—and now John’s career comeback was being billed as a testament to the restorative powers of their rediscovered love. If she hadn’t been consumed with managing her own sudden fame, trying to pull together all the details of the jewelry line, she would have insisted Berkowitz issue a r
etraction.

  But it was too late for regrets. The damage was done. Plus, orders for her work were flowing in every day from around the world. Incredibly, she was producing inspired drawings despite the problems surrounding her, scanning the final results into her laptop before sending them with a detailed description to Moira back in Skye. In fact, drawing was her only means of escape. It allowed her to flee into her imagination, avoid the phone calls from magazines and ignore her new publicist’s insistence they put together a line for some fancy department store in New York.

  She wanted none of that. Right now, all she wanted was to sort out her private life once and for all. She worried about Genny, back on the island with her mother. Instead of being thrilled at the news of John’s recovery, as Charlotte had anticipated, the child had instead retreated into her shell. It was puzzling. When she’d brought Genny to see her father, John had lavished her with attention, showered her with extravagant gifts and taken her on his knee, something he’d never done previously. Surely Genny must have longed for such an affectionate reunion.

  She focused for a brief moment on what Berkowitz was saying, but her mind was still on Genny. The child’s limp had become more pronounced and her dreams more fearful since her father’s recovery. They’d even had a bed-wetting incident, something that had not occurred for years. Perhaps she should tell Mummy to get her an appointment with a top psychologist.

  She listened once more to Berkowitz and the others, noticing how their voices echoed through the large vacant space. In winter, the room buzzed with visitors assembled around the huge open fireplace, but now was stark and empty. She glanced at the bored uniformed waiter idly polishing glasses behind the bar and felt suddenly trapped in the same old celluloid cage of jaded glitz and glamour, where nothing but John’s career mattered.

  This wasn’t what she wanted! She’d be damned if she was going to relive a life she’d loathed the first time round. She had new dreams to strive for, dreams of her own where John had no place: a lifetime with Brad, a family with Genny and the twins. That and deciding the destiny of Sylvain’s Lost Collection were what really counted.