The Lost Dreams

She shuddered inwardly. The past and the shadows sometimes lingered, but she cast them aside and concentrated on what Brad was saying, swallowing a weary sigh when she realized he was back on the subject of Strathaird. During the past weeks, she’d heard more about that wretched Scottish castle he’d inherited by some stroke of ill-fated chance than she cared to recall, and was sorely tempted to leave him sitting here in the office and get their driver to take her home. Surely he must realize it wasn’t that important? Couldn’t he simply hire people to take care of the place? Scotland and his new inheritance could hardly require the kind of involvement he seemed determined to give it. She smoothed her skirt over her knees and crossed her legs, aware of a new inflection in his tone. Wondering if she’d missed something, she frowned. “What exactly are you getting at?” she asked, eyebrows knit.

“Well—” Brad twiddled his Mont Blanc pen thoughtfully “—as I’ve already mentioned, Strathaird is going to require my personal attention. At the beginning, at least. Which is why I was considering hopping over to Skye by myself first.” He glanced briefly at her, across the vast expanse of desk. “You know, there’s going to be a heck of a lot to do—or learn, rather. The truth is, Syl, I know as much about running a Scottish estate as training the New York Mets.” He raised a hand and grinned. “I take that back. At least I know the rules of baseball and have scored a couple of home runs in my time, but to me this is estate management 101. Arriving there on my own would give me half a chance to start sorting things out before you arrive.” He smiled, his riveting eyes seeking hers, as though her agreement was important.

Sylvia came awake with a jolt. “You want to go there alone?”

“Why not? It’d only be a few days—a week at most. It’d give me an opportunity to wet my feet, meet the tenants, become familiar with a number of issues, and let you finish whatever you have to do here, instead of sitting around the castle alone with me busy all day.”

Sylvia nodded doubtfully. The prospect of sitting about in a musty old castle on the Scottish moors was not especially compelling, particularly if Brad was going to spend his days elsewhere. Normally, she’d have used the downtime to get more work done, but he’d already laughingly assured her there wasn’t a cell tower within a hundred miles of Strathaird. The thought of surviving without her BlackBerry pager gave her a serious pause. “All right,” she mused, “you have a point. I’m still working through those Australian contracts and need to wrap them up in the next two weeks.” She glanced up at him, shirt-sleeves rolled up, tie still in place, the tan from their trip to St. Barthes still glowing despite a full week’s work, and smiled into his piercing blue eyes. “Okay. You go and I’ll stay. After all, one of us had better stay on board the ship.”

“Good girl.” He grinned, leaned across the desk, past memos and the array of telephones, and took her hand in his. “You’re a great gal, Syl. I know I can always count on you.”

“Thanks.” She mustered a sassy grin, knowing he meant it as a compliment, and wondered why his words made her feel like a well-worn trench coat.

“Right.” He brought his hand down firmly on the desk. “Well, now that we’ve settled that satisfactorily, we should consider food. Do you want to go out for dinner or shall we order in?” He raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“We had a reservation at Town, but I canceled about an hour ago. Tell me, when exactly are you planning to leave?” she asked, frowning.

“At the end of the week or so.” Brad began tidying his papers. “That is, if all goes well with Seattle and Chicago. I’m glad you see the sense of me heading over there alone,” he continued, getting up. “It’ll give me time to catch up with the family, too,” he remarked, stretching. Moving toward the large panoramic window, he stared broodingly out the window at the streaming traffic fifty-two stories below. “You know, I haven’t had a real heart-to-heart talk with Charlotte in a couple of years. Time goes by so fast. We barely even get the chance to talk on the phone anymore.” He turned and picked up his jacket.

Sylvia followed suit, slipping the large black Prada purse that contained her life over her shoulder, and frowned. “I met Charlotte in London that time we went to the Chelsea Flower Show,” she murmured, glancing at him. “I didn’t realize you were close. You and Charlotte call each other regularly?”

“Not lately. But we used to spend hours on the phone. Of course, that was a while back. I tried to help her through some of her problems. She had a bad marriage. So, which is it going to be?” he asked, changing the subject and slipping an arm around her. “Thai, or will you whip us up one of your superb omelettes? If I have any say in the matter, I’ll opt for the omelette.”

“Sounds good to me. I’m too tired to go out,” she replied, leaning into him.

“Then omelettes it is. I’ll even give you a back massage, how’s that?” He gave her a brief hug as they moved toward the door.

“What’d I do to deserve that?” She tilted her head up at him as they traversed the quiet hall.

“You’re the best,” he teased, reaching for the button of the elevator.

“Yeah, right!”

“I swear. You understand everything, you never bitch. What more could a man ask for?” He grinned down at her and pinched her cheek. “Remind me to send an e-mail to Aunt Penn, will you? I just remembered it’s Charlie’s birthday on Friday. Maybe I could arrive as a surprise,” he added as the wide metallic doors slid open on the marble and mirrored elevator.

“But we’re going to the Walsh dinner party on Saturday night,” Sylvia exclaimed, taken aback. Jake Walsh was one of the Street’s legendary arbitrageurs, and she’d spent the last year carefully cultivating a friendship with his young wife, Karen, who was on most of the city’s most prominent charity boards. Anyway, the ones she was interested in joining.

“We are?” Brad grimaced. “It’s not that important, is it? Can’t we reschedule?”

They reached the lobby of the Harcourts building and walked toward the car waiting at the curb. Sylvia swallowed her frustration. “Well,” she muttered grudgingly, “it’s not essential, but I’d hate to miss the chance to check out their penthouse. I hear it’s phenomenal.”

“Then you go, honey, you’ll enjoy it,” he answered, smiling absently as they slid into the back of the vehicle, and Ramon, the driver, glided smoothly into the Manhattan evening traffic.

“That’s not the poi—” She bit back the words, afraid she’d sound petty and childish. For some reason, this sudden eagerness to get to Scotland had upset her, and the fact that he wanted to go alone left her strangely empty and anxious. She shrugged, leaned over and poured them each a scotch, knowing it was ridiculous to be so uptight. Brad was straight as an arrow; he traveled all the time by himself and she never gave it a thought. Still, something about this particular trip left her uneasy. It just wasn’t her world.

Taking a long sip, she stared out the car window at late stragglers hurrying toward the subway, noticing a dog walker clutching the leashes of six hounds under a streetlight. What kind of person wanted a job as a dog walker? she wondered absently. Then, leaning back in the soft cream leather, she slipped her hand in his, determined to relax the rest of the drive home.

It was dark by the time Charlotte finally reached Rose Cottage and walked through the tiny hall into the kitchen. Pungent summer scents, dried flowers, and herbs hanging from low, waxed beams welcomed her as she tossed her bag on the counter. To her surprise, the house was spic and span. Then she caught sight of the shepherd’s pie and lifted the note with a tired smile. How sweet of Mummy to have taken all this trouble when she had so much to cope with before Brad’s arrival. And, despite her sadness at leaving Strathaird, she recognized how good it felt to be in a place entirely her own once more. Living at the castle with Mummy and Genny had been fine, but there was something to be said about opening your own front door and knowing you were home.

The phone rang and she picked up.

“Hello, darling.” Charlotte’s mouth curved as her daughter’s voice poured down the line in an excited, thirteen-year-old rush.

“Yes, of course you can sleep over, darling. But don’t be a nuisance to Mrs. Morison. Give them my love.”

Charlotte hung up, glad Genny had new friends. She’d been so alone and shy when they’d first returned to the island after John’s accident. Making the change from London hadn’t been easy. The other children had not willingly accepted her, and of course her limp hadn’t helped.

She switched on the kettle, absently inserted the pie in the oven, and shoved the recurring guilt over the night when she’d fallen asleep at the wheel. Genny had paid the price, her leg crushed in the twisted metal. The accident had left her with a serious limp that Charlotte prayed would diminish with time. She quickly shifted her thoughts back to the present before remorse engulfed her and reflected on all that had happened in the past few months. Change, it seemed, was the order of the day.

Of course, it was unrealistic to believe that life would go on forever as it always had. Brad and his soon-to-be wife, Sylvia, could hardly be expected to put up with the inconveniences that were a part of Strathaird, she acknowledged, taking a chipped Winnie the Pooh mug off the hook above the sink and opening the tea tin. It was ironic, she reflected, that she, who so desperately longed for change in her personal life, could not bear the thought of seeing Strathaird transformed even a little. Which was why she’d left. She was only half a mile up the road, she realized, but mentally she was gone. Strathaird, with its draughts, the lift that always got stuck and the broken step leading down to the lawn that for some reason never got repaired, was a part of her past. But for all her life, it had represented home.

She dangled the mug carelessly, engulfed by sudden nostalgia, then stopped short, remembering the mammoth-size crates filled with gym equipment that had been delivered three days ago, now looming ominously in the Great Hall. Moving out was definitely the right thing to do, she realized with a shudder, picturing Sylvia, sleek and blond, mounted on the treadmill.

Selecting a ginger snap from the dented biscuit tin, she set it beside the tea mug. The image of Brad’s smooth, sexy, sophisticated fiancée flashed vividly in her mind’s eye. A smart, highly organized, modern woman, she reflected, remembering the one time they’d briefly met, two years ago, long before there was any talk of marriage. Pouring boiling water into the mug, she bit dismally into the cookie, feeling suddenly dowdy and drab. The woman probably had a color-coded closet. Her bags full of designer outfits were probably already carefully packed for her stay on Skye—or would Prada and Calvin Klein remain stashed in her pristine Manhattan apartment?

Not that she cared.

Charlotte straightened her drooping shoulders and sipped her tea cautiously. Sylvia could look as good as she liked, and she wished Brad very happy. After all, the woman was obviously the perfect choice for him: neat, orderly, efficient, the ideal companion for a man with all his responsibilities.

The acrid scent of burning food made her swivel toward the oven, the shepherd’s pie that she’d forgotten a sharp reminder of just how absentminded and unorganized she could be. Sylvia, she reflected somberly, probably never did silly things like leave the oven on. Then, hoisting a slender hip up onto the counter, she grinned as she imagined Sylvia’s apartment; probably somewhere in the upper east sixties, the perfect address, très slick, Italian furniture—modern, of course—a very clean, minimalist look, all ecru and beige with touches of chrome. Not a thing out of place.

A crack of laughter broke the silence as she slipped on a pair of charred oven gloves, opened the oven door and pictured Brad and the twins in this hypothetical home. She grimaced at the burned crust, glanced despondently at the oven’s too-high setting and pulled herself up guiltily. She had no business criticizing Sylvia, who from all accounts was delightful and who adored Rick and Todd, Brad’s half brothers whom he’d taken in eight years ago when their parents died tragically in a plane crash. What right had she to judge someone who, according to general opinion, was the perfect wife for him?

Charlotte gazed down at the pie, burned to a crisp, whose destination was the rubbish bin. She decided to give her mother a thank-you call before she went to bed, although she wouldn’t mention the burning bit. Mummy was a brick. It was so decent of her to have finished the cleanup, which she’d been dreading returning to.

Dumping the pie temporarily in the sink, she took her tea to the old wooden table and sat down on one of the rickety wooden chairs with a thud, the day’s emotions and the long drive finally catching up with her. She jiggled the stool warily. Perhaps Mummy was right and she should invest in some new furniture on the next trip into Glasgow. But she hated crowds and shops and people and decisions—even minor ones such as choosing chairs or curtains seemed insurmountable right now. And that went for clothes too, an issue her mother brought up constantly. Why she should care what she looked like here on Skye was beyond her. After all, there were only the sheep and now Armand de la Vallière to see her—and Armand, though very fashion-conscious, was gay, so he didn’t really count.

Her mind wandered back to Brad wondering how he truly felt about inheriting Strathaird. She swung her foot absently, remembering their talks of old. It had been a while since they’d sat down for a long cozy chat. God knows, in the dark bleak days when she and John leaped from one argument into another, knowing he was a phone call away had been a lifesaver. But since the accident, their conversations had somehow fizzled out. She had felt guilty talking to him for so long and so often without a specific reason. Before John’s injury, there had always been a motive. She’d poured out some of her pain. And although she’d rarely taken his advice, it had helped. But since the accident, any talk had been businesslike and to the point. Oh well, Charlotte sighed, it was probably best. They each had their lives to live.

She rose briskly and brushed her hair away from her face, considering whether Brad fully realized all that inheriting Strathaird implied—the people, the everyday worries, the plans and intricacies? Or did he think he could run it like he ran Harcourts, the multimillion-dollar porcelain and upscale decorating enterprise he’d inherited from his grandfather? She refilled her cup, sipped absently. “Hell’s bells,” she swore crossly when she burned her tongue and the tea spilled, dirtying her T-shirt. This was definitely not her day, she reflected grimly, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. And why was she so concerned about Brad, when she had more than enough on her own plate? Ridiculous! Brad was a big boy. He knew the place well, had been coming here since he was a child and could very well take care of himself. There was no reason for her to worry. Or was there? It was one thing to pop over for short visits to see his grandparents, flying in on a chopper, then wafting out again. But this was a different kettle of fish altogether, and she doubted whether even the eternally well-prepared Brad had the slightest inkling of all that would be expected of him as laird.

A meow from the windowsill brought her out of her reverie. Hermione sat curled on the outside ledge, preening her whiskers and cleaning her soft tabby fur. Charlotte rose, opened the window and allowed the cat to pad daintily over the sink toward her basket by the stove. As she reached to close the window, a sudden movement caught her eye. She frowned, wondering if a sheep had wandered in from the fields. All at once she shivered, then pulled herself together, deciding she was even more tired than she’d realized. This was Skye, and there was no danger here. She turned and thoughtfully eyed the cat.

“Where have you been?” she inquired, picking her up and stroking gently. “I’m glad to see you know your new way home. How do you like it?” She was reassured by a satisfied purr. “Good,” she murmured, letting the animal slip from her arms. “At least one of us is happy.”

She was about to leave the kitchen when the sound of a muted cough made her stand stock-still. There was definitely someone out there.

Warily Charlotte slipped into the hall, opened the antique chest on the floor and picked out a cricket bat. Just as stealthily, she opened the front door. As she emerged, a shadow flitted near the gate.

“Stop,” she called, rushing forward, wielding the bat wildly. A figure stumbled through the gate and she hurled herself toward it.

“Dinna’ hit me, Miss Charlotte, dinna’, please.”

The pleading voice of Bobby Hewitt made her drop her arms in sudden relief.

“Bobby! What on earth are you doing here?” she exclaimed, limp with irritation and relief. “You gave me the most awful fright.”

“I wasna’ doing anything wrong.”

“But what are you doing out here? It’s past ten o’clock.” She glanced at the bowed figure. Poor Bobby was a simple, harmless soul in his mid-forties who’d been trailing her adoringly since she was a child. But he had never snooped around at night. Of course, she realized with a frown, she’d always been ensconced in the castle. Now, on her own at Rose Cottage, things were different.

“Come here,” she said, taking him by the arm of his worn jacket and making him stand under the porch light. “Bobby, you can’t wander around at night spying on people.”

“I wasna’,” he remarked, his mouth taking on a stubborn twist. “I was making sure everything was all right. There’s strangers about.”

“They’re called tourists, Bobby.” Her face broke into a smile and she shook her head. “So you thought to guard the cottage? Don’t worry about me, Bobby, everything’s fine. There are no marauders around here. You know that.”

“Ye canna’ be too careful.”

“No, of course not. Still, you mustn’t come scaring me like that. I almost went after you with Colin’s cricket bat.” She swung it over her shoulder. “Now get back to your mother’s cottage and no more roaming around here after dark, promise?”

“Aye.” He nodded penitently, seeking forgiveness.

Charlotte smiled at him. “If you wait two seconds, I’ll get you some of Mrs. McTavish’s toffees. You like those, don’t you?”

He nodded in eager response, like a small child.

Charlotte sighed, propped the bat against the hall wall and went back to the kitchen where she found a bag of toffees. Perhaps something should be done to help Bobby, although he seemed perfectly content.

“Here you are. Now off you go, straight home, and don’t let this happen again.”

“Aye. Thanks, Miss Charlotte. I’m sorry I scared ye. I didna’ mean any harm.”

“I know. Now run along.”

She watched as he hurried off, his shoulders slightly stooped, long hair trailing thinly on his shoulders. Poor Bobby. She should have realized he might get up to something like this, but frankly, Bobby Hewitt was the last person on her mind right now.

She locked up and glanced at the heavy gold watch on her wrist. Gosh, it was late. Better give her mother a buzz, then get to bed.

The library fire dwindled, embers stuttered, coals shifted and Armand de la Vallière sighed. It was his favorite room in the castle.

He sat in solitary contemplation, surrounded by leather-bound books, heavy mahogany furniture and the ancient French-damask curtains installed so many years ago by Tante Hortense, a balm to his strained nerves. He peered through the mullioned windows into the inky summer evening, vaguely aware of Penelope’s voice echoing through the Great Hall. Concentrating, he leaned forward, staring once more at the packed shelves of books, eyes narrowing. It would be a difficult search, one that would require all his ability. The sheer physical impediment of having to climb up to the highest shelves made it almost impossible to take a good look at the books without attracting suspicion. He stared into the dying flames, obliterating the haunting images that lurked in his memory since childhood, replacing them instead with shining scenes of glitz, glamour and glory. It was a technique he’d perfected over the years, and infallibly it worked.

Now, as fleeting shadows played on the spines of the ancient book covers and the darkened walls, he replaced the packed shelves with visions of splendid jewels. They shimmered in his imagination, and he sighed. The method acted as effectively as any hallucinogen. Slowly his tense muscles relaxed and he breathed easier, entranced, visualizing the catwalk, the agitated buzz, models preparing to strut the runway, hairdressers, makeup artists and seamstresses, all waiting for his final orders. His fingers unclenched as he pictured himself directing operations, adding the finishing touches with a master’s skill. Finally he would place each of Charlotte’s exquisite pieces at precisely the right angle before sending the model forth, waiting with bated breath for the murmured hush of the crowd.

A frisson of satisfaction left him sighing. Nothing less than perfection would do. And he had seen perfection in Charlotte’s work. He drew a cigarette from an antique silver cigarette case, tapped it thoughtfully on the arm of the old leather chair, then lit it. To have such amazing talent, yet be so oblivious. A quivering pang of envy darted straight to his heart. Why was life so unfair? Why did some have all the suffering, the toil, the trouble, while others glided unwittingly into fame and fortune? Indeed, why did life bestow talent on those who didn’t give a damn, while denying it to those for whom it meant the world?

He took a long drag and leaned back in the deep armchair, aware there was little to be gained from such thoughts. It was too late to acquire that which God had not given him.

Still, he decided with a grim little smile, it might not be too late to redirect fate into avenues more suited to his liking. After all, there was a reason for his presence here, at this specific time.

Once more he inhaled deeply, then let the smoke curl up toward the coffered oak ceiling and shut his eyes. He was so close. So very close. And nothing would convince him otherwise.

2

Brad studied the preliminary agenda for next month’s board meeting and added a few margin notes, increasing the time allotted to discuss international expansion. Harcourts may have begun as a porcelain empire almost a century ago, but over the decades, particularly since Brad had been CEO, the business had expanded to include all aspects of upscale home décor. International growth was essential and needed special attention. World markets were growing fast and he planned to be there on the crest of the wave.

Capping his pen, he tossed it on the desk, loosened the silk tie that was suffocating him and allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation. The last quarter’s profits had surpassed everyone’s expectations. The company was leaner and more productive than any in the industry, and the innovative publicity campaigns Sylvia had engineered for the new designer dinnerware lines had taken the public by storm; sales had doubled in several markets and Harcourts was on a roll.

And now he was obliged to carve two weeks out of the hectic and tense period before the annual directors’ meeting to go to Scotland. It wasn’t going to be easy, Brad realized, drumming his foot while studying the schedule his secretary had laid on the desk this morning. He wondered briefly if there was any way of avoiding it, knowing very well he could not put off the trip to Strathaird. Based on the teleconference with the solicitors in Edinburgh, it was clear his presence was required to settle the labyrinthine legal issues related to the estate, and he owed it to Aunt Penn and Charlotte to deal with matters as quickly and cleanly as he could. He thought of what he’d discussed with Sylvia the previous evening. It was true that he wanted to go. And of course the idea of seeing the family again, spending time in a place he’d always enjoyed, had its attractions. It was just such a damn inconvenient moment.