The Lost Dreams

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  “I’ll give you one last chance to get your fucking act together,” he muttered, letting go of her hair when he saw someone approaching, “but I won’t take any more shit from you, understood?”

  She stood trembling in front of the store window and stared at him woodenly. Then, all at once, what he did to her didn’t matter any longer. He could slap her, throw her against the wall, give her a black eye—goodness knows it had happened before—but nothing would break her resolve.

  “I don’t care what you do,” she said calmly, holding her head up high. “I’m still going ahead with the divorce.”

  His face turned a dull red. “You’ll do no such thing, bitch, do you hear? If you so much as think about going to the lawyers, I’ll fight you for custody of Genny.”

  “You’d never get it,” she scoffed. But even as she tossed her hair defiantly, the fear that gripped her insides was worse than anything she’d ever felt. She stared him down. “No judge in his or her right mind would consider you an able parent.”

  “Oh, really?” he leered. “How about trying this on for size—I’ve just spent a year in a coma, my child’s been deprived of her dad, and now you want to divorce me? How’s that going to look in front of a judge? Plus, I’ll file in a venue where the likes of you won’t stand a chance,” he added with a glint of satisfaction. “Just try me.”

  “You can threaten all you want, John, but it’s over,” she said stonily. “And the sooner you get that message, the better. You can tell Berkowitz and Gina and all the other flunkies who run around you day and night, to count me out of their megapublicity schemes. I’m not playing.”

  She recognized the rush of uncontrollable rage in the split second before he lunged. Fighting the paralysis of old, she stepped deftly aside at the last instant, leaving him flailing, face squashed against the store window, staring straight at a Jubilee picture of Andrew Grima’s prized customer: the queen of England. “I don’t care how hard you try to get Genny,” she spat furiously, “I’ll fight you every inch of the way.” She watched him straighten and braced her shoulders. “The choice is yours,” she said in a voice that was ten times more confident than she felt. “Either you do this quietly and avoid a lot of bad publicity for yourself, or it can hit the front pages of every damn tabloid from here to Timor. I really don’t care. You see, unlike you,” she added sweetly, “I don’t have to worry about what people think of me. My work is what interests my clients, not my private life.”

  Pulse racing, she turned on her heel and hurried down the promenade, back toward the station.

  She’d done it.

  Exhilaration exploded. She wanted to leap in the air, dance a jig, shout with joy.

  Finally she was free.

  But he had threatened to take Genny, she reminded herself, a rush of cold fear dampening her excitement. With an effort she brushed it aside. She’d gotten this far and nothing was going to stop her now. She would fight him, dig up the past, find witnesses to the physical abuse she’d suffered—hell, she’d drown him, if need be.

  But she would win.

  She walked smartly past the Bernerhof Hotel to the taxis parked in front of the station. She must get back to the hotel before he did, grab her bags and her passport and leave. She jumped into a taxi and gave the driver directions.

  There was no sign of John as they pulled up in front of the Park and she breathed easier. “Can you take me to Geneva?” she asked the driver. If she was lucky, she might still get a flight out tonight; if not, she’d be on the first one out in the morning.

  “Of course, madame,” the taxi driver, a middle-aged man with glasses and a curled mustache, responded amiably.

  “I won’t be long. I just have to get my things. And, please, don’t leave.”

  He nodded politely and she skipped out of the car and into the lobby. Thank God it was empty, except for one individual manning the reception desk. She grabbed her key and rushed up to the suite. Inside, she dragged her suitcase from the cupboard and began throwing clothes into it. Then, racing through to the bathroom she swept her toiletries into a bag and hurried back into the room, stopping short at the sound of voices in the corridor.

  She stood paralyzed, listening, then hastily pulled the zipper of the case shut. Not waiting for a bellboy, she grabbed her jacket and purse and, carrying her case, stood behind the door.

  The voices were getting closer.

  Closing her eyes, she prayed anxiously. Seconds dragged by like hours while she waited, certain they would stop at the door. When they passed on and she heard German spoken, she went limp with relief.

  Letting out the breath she’d been holding, she opened the door cautiously, glanced up and down the corridor, then made a quick dash for the elevator. She stepped inside, staring fixedly at the faux book bindings covering its walls, until at last the car descended.

  The doors opened onto the lobby. She hesitated, then peeked out. John was heading angrily in her direction, with Berkowitz and Gina trailing in tow.

  “Now calm down, John,” Berkowitz was saying as he hurried after him. “We’ll reason with her.”

  John shook off his arm. “If that dumb bitch thinks she can mess with me, she has another think coming,” he spat. “I’ll teach her to think for herself. Screw her and her fucking—”

  “Shut up,” Berkowitz ordered. “If anyone were to hear you, there’d be hell to pay.”

  “John, please,” Gina whined in her nasal Brooklyn drawl, “you have to think of your image, honey, you just can’t say things like that.” She tottered up to him on impossibly high heels and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Fuck it,” he snarled. “Leave me the bloody hell alone, the lot of you.”

  He was almost at the elevator.

  In a moment he would see her.

  God only knew what might happen then.

  Trembling, Charlotte pressed the button to the spa level. A cold sweat enveloped her as the elevator descended. She could hear his curses fading as the door opened and she ran through the wide dark passage, passing the beauty salon and the gym, out into the underground garage. She stepped on the automatic opening device then rushed through the gaping garage door, welcoming the sudden rush of cold night air as she ran up the incline toward the front entrance. As she approached, the taxi caught sight of her, turning on his headlights and gliding out from under the covered porch to where she stood.

  The driver scrambled out and took her case. “Are you all right, madame?” he asked, frowning.

  “Fine.” She swallowed hard. She’d gotten this far and nothing would stop her. Holding on to the last remnants of her self-control, she climbed into the vehicle. “Just get me out of here as fast as you can.”

  As the taxi turned into the street and wound its way down the hill, past the dairy and on down to the roundabout that entered onto the main road, she let out a long pent-up sigh, then realized that her hands were trembling.

  It had taken a big chunk of her life to get this far, but she’d made it.

  She brushed away tears of relief. She should have fought this battle years ago. That she’d waited so long perhaps wasn’t to her credit. But she would win, whatever the cost.

  As the taxi drove past the hamlet of Gsteig and began the steep ascent up the Col du Pillon, she leaned back against the soft leather seat and stared out at the inky sky. Gradually the tension dissipated and her limbs went limp.

  It wasn’t completely over, but at last she was free. She fingered her cell phone in her pocket, tempted to call Brad, and then thought better of it. He wouldn’t want to hear from her until everything was signed, sealed and settled. And, unfortunately, she wasn’t even close.

  Closing her eyes, she settled into the corner of the cab and tried to ignore John’s threat to take custody of Genny. Surely she was right and no judge would consent.

  Maybe not. Still, she’d only sleep soundly when the issue was resolved once and for all.

  20

  Wasn’t anyone going to pick up the damn
phone? Brad wondered, reaching across the desk for the receiver.

  “Strathaird Castle,” he muttered, jotting a question mark next to an item on the account sheet he was checking.

  “I’m looking for Charlotte Drummond,” a confident male voice demanded. “Is she there?”

  He frowned. “Who would like to speak to her?”

  “This is her husband.”

  “Hello, John,” he responded, after a bit of hesitation. “This is Brad Ward.”

  “Oh, hello, old chap. Is Charlie there? She said she would reach the island not later than nine. I hope she’s all right.”

  “I thought she was with you.” He frowned, controlling the rush of anger that the sound of the other man’s voice caused.

  “She was. In fact, we were having rather a wonderful time together here in Switzerland. After all, we needed to make up for lost time.” The low, insidious laugh that followed made him clench his fingers till they hurt. “But she was worried about Genny. Thought she should make a quick hop over and just make sure our baby’s safe and well.”

  “I see. Well, there’s no sign of her yet.”

  “I suppose she’ll be arriving shortly. Her cell phone’s off, as usual. Could you give her a message for me, old chap?”

  “Sure.” Brad swallowed, a new ache gripping his heart, determined to keep his temper under wraps. What he truly wanted was to tell the bastard exactly what he thought of him.

  “If you could tell her I got the specs for the house she wants in Mauritius? I have to say, it is magnificent. I wasn’t mad about the idea myself, but you know what women are like, have to keep ’em happy. Oh, and another thing…”

  “Yes?” He all but smashed the phone.

  “Thank her for last night, will you? Tell her it was a glorious surprise, one I won’t forget anytime soon,” he purred, oozing innuendoes. “And tell her I hope that I’ll be able to repay her in kind.” John’s laugh came low and insinuating down the line. With an effort, Brad stopped himself from slamming the phone down. It would only cause unnecessary aggravation, he reminded himself—not that he cared much anymore. Charlotte had made her choice, that was now obvious.

  “I’ll tell her,” he replied shortly.

  “Great. Then that about sums it up. Good luck over there on the island. Charlie tells me you’re doing a super job. Keep up the good work.”

  Brad dropped the receiver back in place, not bothering to reply, and sank deeper in the chair. It was his own fucking fault and he had only himself to blame. Hadn’t he known all along something like this would happen?

  Rising abruptly, he left the papers he’d been working on strewn across the desk and stalked from the study, slamming the door hard. He was damned if he was sticking around to see Charlotte. Let her pick up her messages in person. They sure seemed personal enough.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, he reached his bedroom and flung open the closet bathed in icy fury. She couldn’t see beyond that man. She never had, and never would. Despite all John had done to her and all he suspected still remained to be discovered, she still went back for more. But that was no longer his problem. She’d made her choices. And as usual, what hurt the most was that she hadn’t had the guts to tell him.

  Throwing a couple of shirts and pants in a tote bag, he headed back downstairs blinded by anger, seething jealousy and a searing pain that slashed right through his heart. Throwing the bag down hard in the trunk of the Aston Martin, he jumped in the car and didn’t hesitate.

  The farther he got from Charlotte, the better, he reflected, changing gears angrily. Once again, he’d fallen under her spell, and once again he’d been a damn fool. But not anymore, he vowed, streaking out of the castle gates, not any fucking more.

  Her flight from London was delayed and the chopper had taken longer than usual to make the trip to the island, but at last she was here. Charlotte smiled up at the ancient turrets and sighed with relief as she halted the Land Rover in front of the castle. Jumping out, she ran up the castle steps, anxious to see Genny, clasp her in her arms and allay the fears that John’s parting threats had sparked.

  However hard she tried, she couldn’t get them out of her head.

  Even though a quick call to her lawyers had made it clear a judge would most likely dismiss his claims, her fears were not entirely alleviated. For despite their confidence, the lawyers had admitted there was always an outside chance that the judge might accord him custody. Particularly in Scotland. Perhaps she should have gone to London and filed there instead of in Edinburgh. But now proceedings had begun and it would be nigh impossible to change the venue.

  She hastened inside the castle and crossed the hall. “Mummy! Genny! Brad!” she called, voice echoing.

  “We’re in the sitting room.”

  Her mother’s voice and the sudden appearance of Genny at the sitting-room door filled her with relief. Hurrying forward, she folded her child tightly in her arms and held her close. “It’s so good to see you, darling,” she whispered, eyes shut tight. Silently she made a vow: nothing was going to take this child away from her.

  “It’s good to see you too, Mummy.” Genny hugged her back and for a long moment they clung quietly to one another, no need for words. “How’s Daddy?” Genny asked finally, eyes shifting as they disengaged.

  “Doing much better. He’s really quite well now.”

  Genny fiddled with her hair band. “Does that mean he’ll be coming to live with us?”

  Charlotte hesitated. “Not necessarily, darling,” she said carefully, her eyes meeting her mother’s over the child’s unruly red curls. She was going to have to tell Genny the truth, however hard it might be for her to accept.

  “Why not?” Genny tilted her head. She looked almost hopeful, Charlotte noted with confusion.

  “It’s something we’ll have to discuss later. Hello, Mum,” she said with a warm smile, profoundly grateful that she was finally home.

  “Did you have a good trip, darling?” Penelope studied her daughter carefully. The dark rings under her eyes and the nervous smile she knew so well did not escape her. But despite Charlotte’s obvious exhaustion, there was a reassuring light in her eyes.

  “Where’s Brad?” Charlotte asked, settling next to Genny on the couch and taking her daughter’s science project from her with a smile. Penelope bustled about getting drinks while Genny began turning the pages, explaining the ins and outs of fungus, babbling on about the twins and the e-mails they’d exchanged.

  “He’s not here.”

  “What do you mean?” Charlotte sat up straighter, clutched by sudden dread.

  “He left suddenly for New York, shortly after you phoned. I wasn’t here, but he phoned from the road. Something about an emergency, but it wasn’t clear what.” Penelope cast Charlotte a quick, perceptive glance then handed her a stiff gin and tonic. She had her own suspicions about Brad’s sudden departure. But for now her mind was taken up with her granddaughter. She just prayed Genny would muster the courage to tell her mother what she herself had learned only days earlier.

  She watched Charlotte sink back silently among the cushions, relieved that John Drummond had shown his true colors. Personally, she wanted to strangle him for what he’d subjected his child to. But she was proud that Charlotte had finally found the courage to stand up to him. When she’d called this morning from Geneva airport to explain that she was proceeding with the divorce, despite John’s protest, Penelope had nearly wept with relief.

  She sat down on the opposite sofa and chatted inconsequentially, even as her mind buzzed with all she needed to tell her daughter. It was terribly tempting to just barrel in, to pull her aside and pour out everything she knew. But Genny had begged her not to, saying she needed to tell her mummy herself. Anxious as she was to get the conversation over with, Penelope respected the child’s wish, knowing how essential it was to establish a trust that would remain with them for the rest of their lives. The news would only confirm what Charlotte had already decided, but it would
also relieve any hovering doubts and resolve the custody issue that was hanging over her head like the Sword of Damocles.

  Oblivious to her mother’s inner turmoil, Charlotte curled up with her daughter on her favorite sofa, next to the fire and Rufus, and soaked in the soothing calm of Strathaird. Whatever her problems, she could always count on this bastion of peace. Even though it technically didn’t belong to her any longer, she realized that didn’t matter anymore either. She had her own road to travel, her own home to make and her own worlds to conquer.

  Her mother had kept her apprised of all the changes Brad had implemented. Two months ago, she would have taken them as a personal affront. Now she saw the sense in them, and even approved. Somehow, it seemed appropriate that she and Strathaird would undergo their respective transformations together. It was Strathaird that affirmed that the past and the future could peacefully coexist, that even a battered and bruised foundation was still strong enough to support all their hopes and dreams.

  She gazed at the fire, watching a crackling log shift and another flame spark. Like their lives, she reflected, one moment burning low, on the point of being extinguished, the next shooting up with bright new hope.

  But Brad’s departure left her thoughtful and uneasy. He’d sensed her desire to build a new foundation and had given her the tools—hope, trust, support, and above all, love—to make it happen. But something had come between them in the past few weeks, and this latest disappearing act of his left her deeply worried that he was pulling away from her. If only she could sit down with him, face-to-face, and explain all that was happening, she was sure they could get beyond this impasse.

  She’d hoped to talk to him tonight, but now that was impossible. He was determined to avoid her. That much had become obvious. She wished now that she hadn’t phoned from the Geneva airport, but rather had simply arrived, denying him the chance to escape. Instead, like it or not, she was going to have to wait.

  “What’s happening on the exhibition front? Have you arranged anything with Sylvia?” Penelope asked, handing Genny her knitting needles now that she’d caught her granddaughter’s fallen stitches. “By the way, have you finished your homework, Genny?”