The Lost Dreams

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  Genny nodded, folding up the science project with a sigh. “All except my math. I wish Uncle Brad was here to help me. I’m hopeless.”

  “Me too,” Charlotte grimaced. “I’m a confirmed mathematical misfit.” She ruffled her daughter’s hair and gave her an affectionate hug. “We’ll go up in a little while. Perhaps we’ll have time to catch a movie before bed.” She noticed the quick exchange of looks between Genny and her mother, sensing a sudden discomfort in Genny’s eyes and in the nervous way she began fiddling with the knitting.

  Telling herself she was imagining things, Charlotte began telling her mother about Sylvia’s plans, as well as her enthusiastic talks with the Cardinal and the director of exhibitions at the Met. “Sylvia seems to have it all under control,” she said, smiling despite her exhaustion. “Her energy and capacity for details are incredible. She’s managed to put this all together in record time.”

  “Yes, well, we all know she’s a dreadfully efficient young woman.” Penelope sighed, wondering how long it would be until Genny would talk to Charlotte.

  “And actually rather nice, once you get to know her better,” Charlotte admitted, picking at the fringe of the cushion.

  Penelope raised surprised eyes. “I must say it’s good to hear you two are getting along so well. Now, what about the divorce?” she asked tentatively. “Genny knows,” Penelope added, seeing her hesitate.

  Charlotte cast her daughter an anxious look. She was busy with her knitting, and didn’t seem to be listening. “It’s nearly over. I told you about John and the falling-out.”

  Penelope nodded. “I’m sure it’ll sort itself out.”

  “I hope so. Although I’m still afraid of the custody issue, whatever the lawyers say. That’s why I came home in such a rush.”

  “I won’t go with Daddy,” Genny interrupted doggedly, red curls bouncing about her freckled face.

  “Of course you won’t, darling.” Charlotte reached out and pulled her close. “I’d never let them.”

  “You promise, Mum?” There was a new element of concern in the child’s voice that went beyond mere doubt. Charlotte frowned and sipped her drink, then ruffled the child’s head again. “Of course not, pet.” She could not explain to Genny or her mother how everything had fallen into place, like the last piece in a puzzle. Watching the freak show of John and his entourage at the Park Hotel, had made it all crystal clear to her. John was the poison in their relationship, not her. She had no idea why it had taken her so long to realize what everyone must have seen from the start, but at least she had. Stroking the child’s rebellious curls, she experienced a rush of heartfelt relief, as though a horrible cloud had been lifted.

  “I can hardly believe I’ve done it,” she murmured to her mother across Genny, who was cuddled in her lap.

  “Well, you have. And make sure you stick to it.” Penelope sent her a meaningful glance across the coffee table, piled high with magazines and swatches of material she’d had sent from London to choose new bedcovers for the guest rooms. “You and Genny have your own lives to think about now.”

  “You’re right, Mum. I know I’ve been awfully difficult in the past,” she added with a penitent smile, “and I should have listened to you more often. You’re such a brick, Mummy, you really are.”

  “No, darling, not a brick, just a mum,” Penelope replied affectionately, leaning over and taking her daughter’s hand in hers. “That’s what being a mother’s all about. You’ll do the same for Genny.” She smiled softly, eyes falling on the child in Charlotte’s arms, remembering the bright-eyed, rebellious teenager that still lurked below the surface in the beautiful woman Charlotte had grown into. Thank goodness those youthful energies were finally channeled now into new, constructive avenues.

  “I’d better get you up to bed,” Charlotte said, dropping a kiss on her child’s forehead. “Thanks for holding down the fort and looking after Genny, Mummy.”

  “Wait. Before you both go upstairs, there’s something Genny needs to tell you.”

  The child’s head shot up. To Charlotte’s amazement, her daughter huddled among the cushions. She watched anxiously as Genny stiffened and her eyes met her grand-mother’s in pleading supplication.

  “You must tell Mummy, darling,” Penelope insisted.

  But Genny shook her head vigorously, her red hair fanning out rebelliously over the cushions, and hugged her knees, staring blindly into the glowing fire.

  “Is something the matter, darling?” Charlotte asked, worried, sending her mother a questioning glance across the room.

  “There’s something Genny needs to talk to you about, Charlotte.”

  It sounded terribly daunting. Charlotte stopped herself from grabbing Genny’s hand, aware that this was one of those special mother-daughter moments. Had Genny gotten her period while she was away? She hoped not. She wanted to be with her daughter when those benchmarks in her life took place.

  “Go ahead, darling. Whatever it is, you know you can tell me.”

  Genny hesitated again, fiddling nervously with her old pink bunny whose ear had long since dropped off. It was a sure sign she was deeply troubled about something, and Charlotte sought her mother’s eyes once more for guidance. But Penelope’s gaze was fixed on her granddaughter.

  “You must tell her, Genny.” Penelope’s voice was firm. Charlotte flexed her fingers. She’d rarely seen her mother look so determined, as though what was about to be revealed was essential to their lives.

  “Whatever it is, you know you can tell me, Genny,” Charlotte repeated. “I’ll always listen to anything you have to say and if there’s a problem, I’ll try to help you solve it.”

  Slowly Genny raised anguished eyes to her mother’s. Charlotte’s heart jolted at the fear and distress she read there.

  “It’s—it’s about Daddy.” The words tumbled forth as she began to rock side to side.

  Charlotte’s heart froze. “What about Daddy?”

  “It’s difficult to tell you,” she mumbled, and Charlotte tried not to panic. What on earth had happened?

  “Go on,” Penelope urged softly. “You can do it.” There was strength in her voice and Charlotte watched as her mother slipped from her chair and came to perch on the arm of the sofa next to Genny.

  “You can tell me anything,” she said hoarsely, eyeing them both fearfully. What could have occurred to make the child react in this manner?

  “I know…It’s just—” Genny swallowed, eyes swimming, and plucked the pink rabbit’s dangling paw “—I feel so terrible that I never told you before,” she whispered in a rush.

  “All that matters is that you’re telling me now,” Charlotte responded in a soothing tone.

  “You promise you won’t be cross?”

  “Darling, of course not. I promise.” She smiled reassuringly, trying to defuse her daughter’s fears.

  But Genny merely clutched the rabbit closer as Penelope gripped her shoulder, encouraging her to go ahead.

  “Mummy, I—I saw everything,” she whispered at last.

  “Saw what, dear?” Charlotte asked, mystified. Was she referring to the time John had slapped her, and Genny was discovered hiding behind the door?

  “In the car.” Her voice was barely audible.

  “What car, darling?”

  “When we had the accident.”

  A sudden chill ran down her spine. “What exactly did you see?”

  “Well, you were lying in the front seat, as if you were asleep,” Genny continued nervously. “Now I know you were unconscious.”

  “Yes, and what happened?” She waited tensely for Genny to go on.

  “Daddy had been driving, but after we hit the tree, he pulled you over into his seat.”

  “He what?” Charlotte sat numbly on the edge of the couch in disbelief. “Are you sure, darling? You didn’t just imagine it?”

  “No.” She shook her head vigorously. “He said it was to make you more comfy. My leg was sore and I didn’t really know what was happening.
I didn’t think about it. But when I came home from the hospital, Daddy talked to me about it.”

  “What did he say?” Charlotte’s tone became low and measured as an anger such as she’d never experienced coursed cold and feral through her.

  “He made me promise I would never tell you that he’d done that. So I asked him if it was bad.”

  “And what did he reply?”

  “He said it wasn’t bad, but that it would make you dreadfully unhappy.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Mummy, I’m so scared of him. When I saw him this time, he said it again. He asked me if I’d told you and he looked at me in such a funny way. I’m so frightened. You promise you won’t tell him, will you?” she said, eyes wild, hands tugging desperately at the rabbit’s good ear. “If he knows I’ve broken my promise, he might do something terrible.”

  “Oh, darling.” Charlotte pulled her daughter into her arms, her eyes meeting her mother’s in silent horror. How had she not seen the signs? How had she not guessed what he was capable of?

  You bastard. You bloody bastard, she cried inwardly, wishing she could see him hanged, drawn and quartered. Nothing would ever sufficiently punish him for what he’d done. Not only had he traumatized her child, but he’d put the blame for the accident and Genny’s limp on her, absolving himself.

  “Darling, it’s all right.” She hugged Genny close and allowed the sobs to subside. “I promise he can’t do anything to you. There’s something I need to tell you.” She drew back, placed her hands on Genny’s shoulders and smiled. “What Granny said earlier is true. I’m getting divorced from Daddy.”

  “You are?” Genny, who seemed not to have taken it in, gulped and sniffed and her eyes widened in surprise.

  “Yes. And after what you’ve just told me, I can assure that you’ll never have to see him again unless you want to.”

  “Are you sure?” Genny peeked at her uncertainly through wet lashes.

  “I’m absolutely one hundred percent certain. What he did was very wrong, Genny. He had no right to make you frightened, or blame me for something I didn’t do.”

  “You’re not angry with me?” she whispered, as though needing to make sure.

  “Angry? I’m devastated that you’ve been through all this by yourself, darling. I’m the one who should have seen something was wrong.” She shook her head and let out a long sigh.

  “Now, don’t start taking the blame, Mum,” Genny said in a voice that sounded very grown up. “She mustn’t, must she, Granny?” she urged with a watery smile. Charlotte brushed away her own tears and she and Penelope laughed despite the tension.

  “You’re absolutely right, darling,” Penelope agreed. “Mummy must stop doing that.”

  “I’ve promised myself I will.” Charlotte gulped, smiling down into her daughter’s tear-stained freckled face.

  Genny moved over so that Penelope could squeeze onto the sofa next to them and they held hands. “I’m glad he won’t be back, Mummy. Aren’t you, Granny?”

  “Very,” Penelope replied emphatically.

  “I’ve been so scared.”

  “Well, you’ve no need to be anymore,” Charlotte responded firmly. “I’ll never let him hurt you again, darling, I swear.”

  “Over my dead body,” Penelope confirmed as the three of them clung together in a long, loving hug. Then, disengaging herself, Penelope tenderly tidied her daughter’s and granddaughter’s hair. Charlotte folded her legs beneath her. One question still bothered her.

  “Genny,” she asked. “What prompted you to tell me this now?”

  “It was Granny.”

  “Oh?”

  “She thought I should tell you.”

  “But Granny can’t have known about this.” She glanced at her mother questioningly.

  “No, but one night before going to bed, she asked me if something had happened the night of the accident. All at once I knew I couldn’t hide it any longer.”

  “Thank God for that,” Charlotte whispered to herself, sending her mother a long look of gratitude, wondering what had prompted her to ask.

  An hour later, after much talking, she finally tucked Genny into the small four-poster bed in her old room, which Brad had insisted remain intact. She placed the pink bunny next to her and allowed Hermione to stay curled in a cozy huddle on her daughter’s toes. There would be no more nightmares, she vowed, switching on the small night-light before dropping a last kiss on the child’s forehead and quietly leaving the darkened room.

  As she descended the wide staircase, her wrath gave way to cold, hard calculation. She now had a weapon that would smash all her husband’s empty threats in one sharp blow. She almost wished he would file for custody so that she could fell his ambitions once and for all. She smiled grimly, suddenly glad John had emerged from his coma; he’d come back just in time for his comeuppance.

  “It’s incredible!” Sylvia laid down another heavy vellum invitation and sighed with delight. “Since word got out that I’m the one bringing the Lost Collection to town, I’m on everybody’s A-list.”

  “So you should be.” Brad grinned. “You’ve done a fabulous job in record time.”

  “Have you talked to Charlotte lately?” Sylvia asked, peering at him closely as he opened another file and loosened his tie.

  “Just briefly,” he answered curtly.

  Okay. So he didn’t want to talk about it. Fine.

  What was it about these two? she wondered. They knew each other so well and almost seemed able to read one another’s thoughts, yet they were capable of the most ludicrous misunderstandings, too. Maybe it was a British thing, she concluded, blithely ignoring Brad’s American heritage. Maybe they never stated the obvious, but instead simply allowed it to simmer below the surface while maintaining a stiff upper lip. She shrugged. Just how Brad thought he was going to finesse it through the art opening without bumping into Charlotte was a mystery. But he’d made it plain he didn’t want any part of the show. Brad was a sweetheart, but he could be as stubborn as a damn mule, she reflected.

  She rose, knowing she had a meeting with the museum director. She would have to return to the matter of Brad and Charlotte at some later date, when she could do something concrete about it.

  “I’m off,” she announced.

  “Bye,” he replied.

  Seeing him firmly entrenched in the financial report for this quarter’s earnings, she shrugged, sighed and picked up her ever-present purse, then headed for the door. She looked back, about to say something, then thought better of it and nodded sagely. Her gut, which never failed her, told her that the only thing standing between those two was pride and misunderstanding.

  She smiled. Clearly what was required here was some good ol’ American meddling.

  21

  He hadn’t bothered to come.

  Flopping dejectedly onto the deep, striped couch in her suite at the Lowell Hotel, Charlotte kicked off her high heels and grimaced at the amethyst silk suit Sylvia had made her buy for the opening.

  “It makes your eyes look so incredible,” she’d insisted during their shopping expedition to Bergdorf’s. “Brad’ll go nuts when he sees you in it.” And as she’d dressed this evening, she’d felt truly beautiful, and grateful for the chance to finally clear things up with him.

  But that was all over now.

  She huddled in the muted lamplight among the cushions, not giving a damn if her outfit got crushed. She’d been foolish to assume he’d be at the Met, and more foolish still to believe that their lives would simply pick up where they’d left off in Zurich and continue on to a happy-ever-after ending.

  Life just wasn’t like that. She rolled her stiff shoulders then massaged her toes, aching after hours of standing chatting with a champagne glass poised in her hand, face sore from smiling.

  There was no doubt that the presentation of the Lost Collection had been a smashing success, just as Sylvia had predicted. Accorded top billing within the Met’s prewar art exhibition, the Rothberg jewels had been the un-dis
puted hit of the evening. Sylvain would have been so proud, she consoled herself. But nothing could make up for the fact that the one person she’d longed to see had not appeared.

  What had she expected? That he’d at least put in an appearance, she thought angrily. After all, she reasoned, he’d been part of the collection’s discovery from the beginning. He couldn’t suddenly disappear and pretend it hadn’t happened.

  Even Sylvia had said the same. Funny how she and Brad’s ex-fiancée had become close over the past weeks. She’d learned to appreciate some of the other woman’s finer qualities. Several major disasters had been avoided thanks to her organizational skills and determination. Tonight she’d watched Sylvia work the glittering room, superbly elegant in a sleeveless black sheath, the Rothberg diamond bow that Charlotte had insisted she wear for the event pinned to her left shoulder, smiling, introducing bejeweled guests to one another amid clinking crystal, low laughter and high-powered chitchat. And, Charlotte thought admiringly, doing it all to perfection.

  Some of the brilliant outfits and jewels nearly competed with the Lost Collection in magnificence. Everyone had opened their safes, and, despite the extra insurance premiums, brought out their prized pieces, filing past her in sparkling splendor. Charlotte had forced herself not to gape at superlative Tiffany brooches, a gaudy diamond tiara owned by the wife of a Texas oil tycoon, and a couple of unspeakably ugly necklaces that Sylvain, she was certain, would have despised.

  She should have been thrilled and delighted by the excitement that the collection had created. But as the guests from around the globe marveled at the beauty and rarity of Sylvain’s pieces, agog with curiosity generated by the extraordinary circumstances surrounding their discovery, Charlotte could think of one thing and one thing only: Brad’s notable absence.

  By midevening she’d known he wouldn’t come, but she’d carried on with a brave smile anyway, posing next to each glass case and beside the photographs of Sylvain, expounding on his life and career, describing in enthusiastic detail the drawings discovered in the safe. In other words, she’d done her job.