The Lost Dreams

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  “Not lost. Hidden. That is, until now.”

  “Wow!” Sylvia’s eyes widened in understanding. “But how? When?”

  “Remember when Charlie’s watch was stolen?”

  “Of course.”

  “Armand was the one who took it.”

  “You’re kidding!” Her fork clattered to her plate. “What a jerk. Why?”

  “Well, it’s rather a long story,” he began, explaining how Armand had come to believe he was Sylvain de Rothberg’s legitimate son, and had thought—rightly, as it turned out—that the watch held some clue as to the Lost Collection’s whereabouts.

  “But how did the MacLeod family end up with the watch?” Sylvia asked, eyebrows knit in a puzzled frown, trying to keep the facts straight.

  “Sylvain’s wife, Geneviève, was massacred at Ouradour, days after her baby’s birth. Dex and the Cardinal knew they had to get the kid out of France, because if Sylvain was caught by the Gestapo, they wouldn’t hesitate to use the baby as leverage to make him surrender. It could have compromised the whole Resistance operation in that area. Sylvain put his watch around his son’s ankle, and then the baby was smuggled to Skye.”

  “Wow! You have to be kidding. It sounds like the movies!”

  “I kid you not.”

  “So who was the baby?”

  “David MacLeod.”

  “You mean Charlotte’s dad?” she squeaked, hands clasping the stem of her glass, excited.

  “Yes. Angus MacLeod and Flora pretended the baby was a twin of Nathalie, their daughter born days later.”

  “Wow!” she repeated, shaking her head. “This is better than a movie. Are you sure it’s real, Brad? You’re not just making this story up? Here, have some more wine,” she added, pouring another generous glass. “It’s simply amazing. And—oh my God, now I’m getting it,” she gasped, setting the bottle on the table with a bang. “Somehow the watch led you guys to the missing jewelry, and Charlotte’s inherited the lot!”

  “Yep.” He nodded, detailing the events that had brought them to the safe in Zurich. “It was all there,” he concluded, “exactly where Sylvain had deposited it in 1939.”

  “Unbelievable,” she murmured. “Charlotte must have been totally amazed.”

  “Put it this way, she’s had a lot to absorb in the past few weeks,” he said dryly.

  “What on earth is she going to do with it? Heck, even little ol’ me from Arkansas knows Rothberg’s Lost Collection would be like, the Holy Grail of the jewelry world.” She giggled as Brad stared pointedly at the sumptuous surroundings and serious artwork on the cream-colored walls. “Okay, so I’ll admit I’m a little more sophisticated than I used to be. Still,” she said, suddenly serious, “that’s an immense responsibility. She’ll need to choose her venue very carefully. A museum would be ideal, someplace of irreproachable repute.”

  “Yes. Well, maybe now you can understand why I’m leaving her alone to make her own decisions. You can imagine the uproar once the press gets a hold of this.”

  “I certainly can,” she added soberly. “What a story. And on top of that, her husband wakes up and screws you guys. Poor kid. This sure has been her year for surprises.”

  “That’s the understatement of the decade.”

  Lifting her glass, Sylvia moved over to the wide windows overlooking the park. This was so different to her own life, to all she’d had to contend with, and she couldn’t help imagining what it must feel like to suddenly discover you owned one of the world’s legendary art collections.

  Daunting but wonderful, to say the least.

  She wondered what she would do in similar circumstances. Probably sell part of it and invest the proceeds in real estate, she reflected, eyes resting on a building she coveted several blocks down. But knowing Charlotte, she’d be horrified to break up the collection.

  And who knew, she mused, gazing out over the city, maybe she was right. She turned. Brad was still seated at the sectional, morosely sipping his wine. She had to figure out a way to help these two. From what Brad had hinted about Charlotte’s marriage, she’d never find happiness with John Drummond, even if he was the world’s hottest Adonis. He was a bastard and an abuser and she had her own reasons for hating men like that. And she didn’t care what anyone said. Coma or no coma, people did not change, ever. Too bad the actor was such a lout, though. Now she’d never be able to see his gorgeous face without wanting to give him a good kick in the balls.

  “I’d better get on home,” Brad said, glancing at his wrist. “The twins’ll be waiting up for me. Hey, do you want to go to Newport this weekend? There’s some sailing event the kids want to watch.”

  “Sure, why not?” She smiled, knowing from his tone that he’d have issued the same invitation to a buddy.

  “And, Syl, thanks for dinner and for listening. You were right. I needed to get some of that off my chest.” He smiled, dropped a kiss on her cheek and picked up his blazer, throwing it casually over his shoulder.

  “Anytime.” She gave him a friendly hug.

  For a moment they stood locked in each other’s arms. Incredible, she reflected as they broke apart with easy grins, how a few weeks ago that same hug would have stirred so many feelings. But this newly platonic relationship felt right.

  She couldn’t have him as a husband, but it felt good to know he would remain her friend.

  Three days later, Mr. Mackay, Strathaird’s administrator, called with the news that a severe storm had hit Skye. Many of the tenant cottages had suffered serious damage.

  It meant having to return at once.

  Leaving Sylvia in charge at Harcourts, he made the journey back across the Atlantic with mixed feelings. Part of him craved Strathaird. The other part wanted to stay as far away as possible from anything that reminded him of Charlotte. But he had little choice. Arriving in Glasgow, he once more decided to drive up north and went straight to the car rental desk. The drive gave him time to make the break between the two worlds he now occupied.

  Several hours later, he drove over the bridge from the mainland, gusts of westerly wind shaking the car as he finally reached the island. Seeing the sun setting languorously over Skye, creating a postcard-perfect picture, it was hard to believe, only days before, ravaging winds and rain had left substantial damage in their wake.

  Realizing he was hungry, Brad turned off the road at Armadale, deciding to stop and have a sandwich. It would save Aunt Penn from having to bother about dinner, he figured, drawing up in front of a pub he vaguely recalled. When he finally placed it, he frowned. Penelope had pointed it out to him as the last stop Charlie and John Drummond had made before the fateful accident several years ago that had injured Genny’s leg.

  He parked in the small gravel parking lot that looked out over the swells and, fighting blustering gusts, made his way toward the low white building. The sign above the door creaked in the wind as he entered.

  Inside, the atmosphere was cozy, noisy and welcoming. A substantial Friday-night crowd was already assembled in the low-beamed taproom, its paneled walls scarred with age and memories, covered with hundreds of photographs plastered on every square inch of free space. The pub boasted a four-hundred-year reputation, he recalled, moving toward the bar. It was said that Bonnie Prince Charlie himself had stopped here for a drink. But then, quite a few places on Skye boasted the same.

  He sat at the bar and smiled at the burly individual in a bright tartan waistcoat and jaunty bow tie polishing glasses behind the counter.

  “Now, what canna’ I do fer ye’, ma’lord?”

  “Talisker, please.” It was apparently impossible to travel incognito on the island.

  “Here ye go. I’m Frankie Calhoun, by the way,” he added, extending a friendly hand and a broad smile.

  “Brad Ward,” he replied automatically.

  “In America, maybe—” the man let out a loud guffaw “—but here on the island yer’ known as the MacLeod.”

  Brad grinned. Frankie picked up a glass that was ne
ver out of reach and raised it. “Te’ yer very gud’ health, ma’lord.” Brad raised his and together they drank. “How’s Miss Charlotte doing these days?” Frankie asked, taking a pint glass off the shelf behind him and turning to the taps on his left, carefully setting about the intricate task of building a head of Guinness for the middle-aged man two stools down.

  “She’s doing okay. You heard about her success in Paris, of course?”

  “Aye, that we did. ’Tis a wondrous thing indeed, and we’re all mighty proud of the wee lass. She’s a credit te’ us all. Te’ think of all that lovely jewelry being made right here on Skye warms the cockles of ma’ heart.” He let out a gusty sigh. “But I dinna’ ken if I like that actor husband of hers coming out of his coma, though,” he added with a shake of his curly gray head and a doubtful sniff. “If ye ask me,” he went on, leaning closer and lowering his voice, “he was better off where he was.”

  Brad could not have agreed more, but he wasn’t about to voice an opinion. He saw the man for whom Frankie had built the pint nod in silent agreement.

  “A’ remember the day they were in here,” he suddenly remarked, turning sideways. The man wore a well-worn Arran sweater and a faded tweed cap. “A’ never understood how that accident came about,” he added, frowning.

  “Why not?” Brad sipped, attentive now, watching closely as the man exchanged a glance with Frankie before continuing.

  “Well, a’ suppose it’s none of my affair and a’ shouldna’ be poking ma’ nose in others’ business,” he murmured with the look of one who has every intention of doing just that, “but if a’ recall rightly, John Drummond was the one holding the car keys when they left here that night.”

  “Aye, that’s true,” another voice joined in and Brad turned toward a small wiry man in his late thirties nodding vigorously from the far, dusky corner of the pub. “They were quarreling about who should drive. She said she was too tired.”

  “Aye, and he marched out in a huff with the keys. Didn’t even bother to hold the door for his wife and the wee girl,” Frankie added disapprovingly. “No manners at all, these acting types.”

  “A’ always found it strange the driver’s seat was set so far back,” the man in the corner continued, taking a long ponderous puff on his pipe.

  “Jimmy’s the mechanic who saw to the car afterward,” Frankie explained, jerking his thumb at the man in the corner, who had risen from the worn leather bench and was making his way, glass in hand, toward the bar. “Miss Charlotte’s a tall lass,” Jimmy said, reaching Brad’s side, “but nae’ sae’ tall as that.” He placed his empty glass on the counter.

  “Give us another round, Frankie,” Brad ordered, determined to find out all he could. Was it possible that John and not Charlotte had been driving the car that awful night? But if so, how had Drummond kept the matter hushed up all this time? It seemed far-fetched, but if Charlotte had been knocked unconscious, he might have had just enough time to switch places with her. His pulse quickened as he listened for a few more minutes to the opinions being bandied about. No one flat out accused Drummond of concealing his role in the accident, but it was clear to him the locals believed the man guilty all the same.

  If so, what could he do about it? he asked himself angrily. Go running to Charlotte and try to win her away from Drummond with this new piece of damning evidence? Not bloody likely.

  He finished his drink in one go, ordered another round for the house, and after an extended bout of warm handshaking, left the pub.

  It would not surprise him to learn John Drummond might have gone to such extremes, he reflected, gripped by icy fury as the rental car wound up the coast of the island. He’d never known anyone so preoccupied with his own image. It was just possible that the threat of bad press had made him do the unthinkable.

  Then, all of a sudden, he stepped on the brake and took the next bend very slowly, struck by a chilling thought.

  Charlotte had been found unconscious at the scene, but Genny, despite her injury, had been found awake and quietly whimpering.

  Good God, he speculated numbly, what had she possibly witnessed?

  19

  Gstaad was dead during the month of October and Charlotte wandered aimlessly down the middle of the empty cobblestone promenade, passing darkened shop windows that during the holiday season abounded with enticing trinkets and gorgeous woolens.

  But she didn’t care. Anything to escape from the endless hype, the never-ending ego-boosting taking place up the road in the echoing salons of the Park Hotel. She stopped and listened to the soft sound of water pouring from the spout into the stone fountain, and the murmur of lilting Swiss German as she passed two elderly ladies in green loden coats, chatting opposite the pharmacy. It felt normal and comforting, and worlds away from Berkowitz, Gina and the rest of John’s entourage. She couldn’t bear listening to them discuss their complicated strategies any longer. Tonight, she’d tell John the truth: she was leaving him and the marriage was over. She glanced into the window of Cartier, staring at the vacant stands where diamonds usually glittered. Perhaps she should open a store here, she reflected absently. The past few weeks had been filled with endless phone calls, magazine interviews and press releases. The flow of orders had been unending.

  Her cell phone rang. She answered it quickly, glad of the distraction.

  “Hello.” She turned and wandered down the street, waving to the waiter at the Rialto, one of the few restaurants still open at this time of year.

  “Charlotte?”

  “Speaking.” She didn’t recognize the voice.

  “This is Sylvia Hansen.”

  “Hello, Sylvia,” she murmured, face flushing. She hadn’t spoken to the woman after her departure from Skye. Since then, the engagement had been broken and she herself was the cause. She swallowed, suddenly tongue-tied.

  “Brad mentioned you were in Gstaad. That must suck at this time of year. How’s the weather?”

  “Lousy. It’s starting to rain.”

  “Here it’s okay. But that’s not why I’m calling.”

  “Oh?” Charlotte waited anxiously.

  “No. I…look, Charlotte, you mustn’t be mad at Brad, but he told me about your grandfather and the Lost Collection.”

  Charlotte jolted and stared, stony-faced, at the varied array of chocolate truffles in the window of the Early Beck bakery. “He had no business mentioning it to you or anyone,” she said stiffly.

  “I know. I’m aware of that. But he’s been pretty down the past few days. I think he needed to let some things out.”

  “Is he all right?” she asked anxiously, anger at Brad’s indiscretion replaced instantly by concern.

  “He’s gone back to Skye. You heard about the storm, right?”

  “Yes. It was awful. But everyone’s fine, thank goodness. Perhaps you’d better tell me what he told you about the collection.”

  “Basically that you don’t know what to do with it.”

  “That’s true,” she admitted reluctantly.

  “I can understand that,” Sylvia’s voice sounded sympathetic. “To be landed so unexpectedly with a responsibility of that nature and worth must be pretty staggering.”

  “Yes, it was—is.” Charlotte hesitated. “Is Brad okay?”

  “I guess.” Sylvia sounded doubtful and Charlotte frowned. “I see him quite a bit at the office. He came over to my new place for take-out Thai the other night. That’s when he told me about the collection. He’s in one of those don’t-touch-me-I’m-in-my-cave type modes. I’ve seen him better.”

  Charlotte let out a deep sigh and held back tears. She could hardly expect things to be otherwise, given how poorly she’d treated him. All the more reason for her to take the bull by the horns and get on with telling John the marriage couldn’t be salvaged. Then she could go to Brad with a clear conscience in the hopes that he might still want to make a life together.

  “You there?”

  “Of course, sorry, just thinking,” she murmured. It was be
ginning to drizzle. Charlotte concentrated, aware that if Sylvia had mentioned the Lost Collection, it was for a reason.

  As though reading her thoughts, Sylvia continued. “You must be wondering why I’m calling you.”

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I am. I mean—”

  “Don’t worry. No hard feelings, Charlotte,” Sylvia interrupted quickly. “Everything’s worked out just fine for me. I won’t say I wasn’t pissed when I realized you and Brad had a thing for one another, but that’s all past history. I’ll be CEO of Harcourts before the end of the year, and to tell you the truth, honey, at this point I think I’m getting the better deal. Brad’s been a bear to be around. You’ve got him with my blessing.”

  “I see.” She let out a relieved sigh. “Thank you for…for being honest. It’s more than I deserve.”

  “Hey, stop beating yourself up over it. The point is, Charlotte, I have an idea for your collection.”

  “What sort of an idea?” she asked warily. Brad should not have given away her secret. Sylvia probably had found some buyer and that was the last thing she wanted. She would never consider selling any of her grandfather’s pieces. They were a collection and would remain as such.

  “Listen. There’s an exhibition next month at the Met. A retrospective on pre-World War II art, fashion and lifestyle. It occurred to me that this could be the ideal venue to present the collection to the public. I’m sure they’d do a fantastic job. They might even do a special Sylvain de Rothberg exhibit in a room of its own.”

  Despite the protests that flew to her lips, Charlotte hesitated. The Met was the Met, and Sylvain had loved New York. And the rest of the Rothberg family was still there. Sylvia was right. What better place than the Metropolitan Museum of Art to display a collection of such important historical and artistic value?

  “But surely there wouldn’t be time to arrange it,” she said finally, walking down the street, past Wittwer’s flower shop and into Charlie’s Tearoom.

  “Not a problem.”

  “How do you know?” she asked suspiciously, seating herself on one of the aqua benches, following the movement of kids jumping the ramps in the skate park through the window to her left.