The Lost Dreams

He stood at the foot of the shallow steps, caught sight of the view and paused. The last rays of dying sun flirted languorously on the surf. In the distance, small fishing craft bobbed gently into harbor while twilight lingered in the wings. To his left, several crofters’ cottages nestled at the foot of the hills. Farther up the dirt road, a single thatched cottage stood by itself among a haze of purple heather. After the rush of New York, it was disconcerting to think that year after year, season after season, little changed in this remote part of the world.

He walked up the steps, about to knock on the huge, recessed oak doors, when he realized that since the evening was so fine, the family was probably having drinks outside on the lawn.

Making his way around the west face, past the herb garden and the conservatory, he opened the gate that led to the lawn, the sudden urge to see Charlotte making him hurry. He would surprise her by giving that long titian mane a good tug. Then, after she’d squealed in surprise, he’d take her in his arms and give her a major hug.

He reached the lawn. Two figures sat in white wicker chairs next to the summerhouse. Neither was Charlotte.

“My goodness, Brad!” Penelope shrieked, jumping up and stretching out her hands in welcome. “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.” Penelope reached up and kissed him affectionately.

“Sorry, Aunt Penn. I should’ve called. But I lost track of time.”

“You drove?” she asked, quirking a surprised eyebrow.

“Yeah. I picked up a car in Glasgow and ambled on up.”

“Good. You probably needed the break,” she said with her usual insight. “I hope you enjoyed the drive.”

“I did. It gave me some much-needed time to think.” He smiled down at her. She was still as attractive and lovely as ever. He took her arm. “I hope this isn’t too much trouble, Aunt Penn.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. This is your home now, Brad,” she said, making him cringe. He didn’t want her to think of Strathaird as no longer hers.

She led him to the table where he immediately recognized Armand de la Vallière, rising to greet him.

“Bradley. It’s been a long time. Quel plaisir.”

Armand shook hands warmly. Brad wished he could feel the same enthusiasm. Armand was someone he’d never quite figured out and whom he was ashamed to say irritated him for no reason in particular.

“Have a drink.” Penelope pointed to the tray where a bottle of wine stood chilling in an ice bucket.

“Love one. Where’s Charlie?” he asked casually, looking around, expecting to see her walk out any minute, through the French doors and down the steps of the castle’s south face.

“Charlotte’s not going to be here this evening, I’m afraid,” Penelope replied, pouring the wine.

Armand shook his head. “Charlotte is very obstinate.” He tut-tutted between sips. “This sudden necessity to—”

“Have a life of her own,” Penelope interrupted, handing Brad the glass. “Charlotte needs to get her life organized,” she added, putting an end to the matter. “Now, sit down and tell me all about New York and the twins, I can’t wait to see them. They must have grown so much this year. Oh, and Sylvia, of course.”

“The twins are doing fine,” Brad responded easily, wondering what Penelope meant about Charlotte and why she seemed reluctant to pursue the subject. “They’re having a blast in Uruguay. Diego’s hacienda is quite something.”

“So I hear. I’m so glad he’s decided to come. It may do him good to get away.”

“Definitely. I threatened to kidnap the twins if he didn’t. He rarely leaves home now except to go to his house in Switzerland.”

“I know. It’s so sad. But understandable, after losing his wife and daughter one after the other,” she murmured, her limpid blue eyes reflecting her own loss.

Seeing Armand pout, Brad made a conscious effort to draw him out of the doldrums that Penelope’s interruption appeared to have caused.

“How are the collections coming along?” He took a sip of wine and leaned back in the chair, masking his disappointment at Charlotte’s absence.

“Very well, very well indeed. In fact,” Armand purred with a conspiratorial wink, “Charlotte and I are hatching plans for the autumn.”

“Really?” Penelope pretended to look surprised.

“Yes, chère Penelope.” He pronounced her name penne-Lop, making it sound like a pasta dish. Brad smothered a smile, knowing how much it irritated her. “I have proposed to Charlotte that she exhibit her pieces with my fall—as you Americans say—collection.” Armand pronounced the words like a reporter announcing breaking news.

“That’s terribly generous of you, Armand,” Penelope exclaimed. “And so exciting. She must be thrilled.”

He gave a modest smile. “Her talent is exceptional and should not remain hidden from the world. Charlotte is a great artist. Her work is inspired by the great master Sylvain de Rothberg—my uncle by marriage, you will recall. It has a similar feel.”

“Really,” Penelope murmured politely. Brad caught her quick, astonished glance. Armand was prone to name-dropping and was always underlining his relationship to the la Vallières, his late father’s family, not to mention the tenuous one to the Rothbergs. Recalling the sad circumstances of Armand’s tragic youth, Brad decided the impulse to embroider his family history was understandable. “I never realized she was designing jewelry seriously,” he remarked.

“Neither did I until about four months ago, when she decided to open a gallery and workshop in the village. People seem to like her work, and I think it’s perfectly lovely. But of course, I might be prejudiced.” Penelope smiled apologetically.

“I’ll bet Charlie’s great at it,” Brad said. “She’s always had talent, but she just never bothered to tap into it or let it flourish into anything concrete.”

“Believe me, she has now, mon cher,” Armand said with a wise nod.

“I’m awfully glad you think so, Armand. Perhaps it’ll keep her mind off some of her other worries.” Penelope sighed and took a sip of wine, then tucked a stray lock behind her ear.

“How’s John?” Brad asked in a neutral voice. He’d schooled himself to have no feelings, negative or otherwise, regarding Charlotte’s comatose husband.

“Just the same, I’m afraid.”

“Why do they not remove the life support?” Armand raised a disdainful brow. “To think of such a handsome man deteriorating into mediocrity. Quelle horreur!”

“It’s not like he has much choice,” Brad commented dryly.

“I would much rather pull the plug and be remembered as my true self.” Armand shuddered delicately, the thought of John’s movie-star looks withering away apparently too much to bear.

Brad smothered his irritation, wondering how long it would be before he got Aunt Penn to himself. Not a chance before dinner, he figured, casting her an inquiring glance all the same.

Picking up on it, Penelope smiled brightly. “Armand, will you excuse us while I show Brad to his room? I’m sure you must want to get settled and freshen up before dinner.” She rose and Brad followed suit, blessing her for her quick-wittedness.

“I’m afraid poor Armand’s a bit of a bore,” she murmured once they were out of earshot and mounting the steps. “I don’t know how I’m going to keep him entertained until the Cardinal arrives,” she added as they went inside.

“Oncle Eugène’s coming?” Brad asked, surprised.

“Yes, I thought you knew. I was very surprised he wanted to make the trip. After all, he’s getting on.”

“I hope it won’t be too much for him,” he agreed. “Say, what can an inveterate urbanite like Armand possibly find to keep him in Skye, I wonder?”

“I’ve been asking myself that same question ever since he stepped foot on the island.” Penelope grimaced, climbing the last steps. “At first he said he was exhausted and needed a rest from Paris and the fashion world. Now he seems enthralled by Charlotte’s work.” She shrugged. “If it keeps him busy and she doesn’t mind, then all the better.”

“Speaking of Charlotte, when will she be back?” Brad asked, following his aunt indoors.

“You mean tonight?” Penelope’s eyes moved uncomfortably and Brad frowned.

“Yes. Shouldn’t she be home soon?”

“Normally, yes.” She hesitated, looked away.

“Normally? What’s up, Aunt Penn?” He frowned, stared at her, half serious, half amused.

“Charlie didn’t tell you?” she responded, forehead creasing.

“Tell me what? We haven’t talked in a while.”

“I see.” She sent him a quick, speculative glance then continued. “The fact is, Charlotte’s left the castle and moved into Rose Cottage.” She clasped her hands neatly at her waist. “I’m surprised she didn’t call you to explain.”

“Moved out of Strathaird?” he exclaimed, unbelieving. They were in the Great Hall, and he stopped dead at the foot of the oak staircase and stared at her. Charlie wouldn’t just up and go.

“Yes. You see, she felt that it would be better—that’s to say, she thought that perhaps with the changes…” Penelope’s voice drifted off. Brad’s expression darkened and he flexed his fingers.

“What changes? What on earth got into her head?” he asked uncomprehendingly. “It’s ridiculous. This is her home. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Of course it does,” Penelope replied briskly. “Charlotte is used to having her own space. You and Sylvia will need your own legroom, too. Plus, I think she needs the change.”

“That’s neither here nor there,” he murmured dismissively, certain this was not the reason for Charlotte’s sudden departure.

“By the way, some sort of gym apparatus arrived.” Penelope pointed to two large crates at the side of the hall.

Brad followed her finger, still preoccupied with Charlotte’s departure. “I didn’t order any workout equipment,” he said.

“Well, no. I think Sylvia did. Very sensible of her,” she added quickly. “I’m sure she wants to keep up her exercise routine once she’s here. She has such a lovely figure.”

Brad scowled at the boxes as if they were in some way to blame. “I still fail to see what a treadmill has to do with Charlotte’s decision to move.”

“It wasn’t the actual treadmill, Brad, but the realization of just how much is going to change. Let’s face it,” she added, laying a hand gently on his arm, “Strathaird is yours now and you have to be free to make it into what you want, just as every generation has in the past. I think Charlotte feels—rightly, I might add—that it would be difficult for her to see everything she’s always known and taken for granted being transformed—and not just painful for her, but perhaps difficult for you and Sylvia too. After all, Brad, we can’t all go on living in the past, or under the same roof.”

“Why not?” He frowned, raising his hands in a gesture of incomprehension. “This is her home. I’ve always told you I don’t want anything to change. I want you both to go on living here as you always have.” He looked down at her, angry and hurt. “Charlie knows damn well I would never expect her or want her to be anywhere but here.”

“I’m well aware of that, Brad dear, and so is she. But think about it,” Penelope urged reasonably. “Sylvia is going to become Lady MacLeod. It’s only right and natural that she should take over certain duties that up until now have been mine, and in some measure, Charlotte’s. She should have the freedom to do so in her own manner. Believe me, it’s much better this way.”

“Like hell it is. It’s an absurd decision and she must come straight back. Doesn’t she ever use her brain?” he exclaimed, pacing the hall, ignoring Aunt Penn’s arguments and suppressing his growing frustration. “Christ, you’d think after all these years and all she’s been through, she’d have gotten some sense into that stubborn redhead of hers. And what about Genny?” he added. “Has Charlotte stopped to think of her?” He forced himself to keep his voice low and not give full vent to his feelings.

“Of course she has. And you know, Brad, that’s another point. Soon you’ll be married. You and Sylvia will probably be starting your own family—”

“Sylvia and I aren’t planning on having kids,” he interjected dismissively.

“Oh…” Penelope stopped, taken aback.

“Our lives are too busy, plus we already have the twins.”

“Yes. I suppose—I didn’t realize.”

“Why don’t you tell me where she is, Aunt Penn,” he interrupted, returning to the subject at hand. “I’ll talk to her and get this mess straightened out right away.”

“It’s not a mess, Brad, merely a fact of life,” Penelope sighed, hand dropping from his arm. “She’s at Rose Cottage, about half a mile up the road. But I’m warning you, her mind’s made up. The cottage is all on one floor, so in a way that will be an advantage for Genny,” she ended lamely.

“Advantage, my ass,” he muttered under his breath.

“You can go and talk to her,” Penelope murmured doubtfully, “but I don’t think you’ll get very far.”

“We’ll see,” he said darkly. “Don’t hold dinner for me, Aunt Penn. Please make my excuses to Armand. I’m going over there right now.”

Penelope watched, concerned, as he took the front steps two at a time, jumped into a spiffy silver Aston Martin and roared down the driveway, raising dust. She was surprised that he’d taken Charlotte’s departure so much to heart. After all, she’d only moved half a mile up the road.

With a resigned shrug, she turned, switched off the hall lights, and wandered back through the lurking shadows, remembering how attentive to her own children Brad had always been. With another sigh, she recalled the bantering, the tennis parties, the picnics in Dordogne and the summers Brad, Colin and Charlotte had spent clambering over the rocks and on the shore. Of course, he’d been several years their elder, which had represented a lot when he became a teenager and they were still children. Even so, he’d always had time for them and always cared.

She paused, gazing over the lawn to where Armand sat in the wicker chair sipping his wine, and wondered what would have happened all those years ago if Charlotte hadn’t become pregnant and married John.

Silly to conjecture, she reflected, giving herself a little shake before proceeding down the steps. Charlotte and Brad were grown-ups now. Each had their lives to get on with and the sooner Brad realized that, the better. She herself was very well aware of what lay ahead, the responsibilities he and Sylvia would be assuming. The same ones she was relinquishing.

She stepped onto the lawn glancing sadly at the rose garden to her left. She would miss tending it, just as she’d miss the autumn mists, the churning gray waters that had become such a part of her over the years. But that was life, and part of what happened in families like theirs. She smiled as she stepped over the grass. Brad’s insistence that they stay on at the castle was touching. Of course, being a man, he couldn’t understand how impossible it would be for them all to coexist under the same roof.

It was getting chillier, the evening closing in fast, and she pulled the heather-colored cardigan closer. Composing her features, she approached Armand, seated with his back to her, facing the sea. The more she thought about it, the more she realized Charlotte had done the right thing by moving out. It was time that she, too, begin making plans for the future. Plastering on a neutral smile, she sat down to finish her wine. What conversational subjects could she possibly introduce to keep Armand entertained throughout dinner? she asked herself. Perhaps mentioning the Rothbergs, whom he loved to talk about, would be a good way of whiling away the evening.

4

Brad’s temper rarely got the better of him, but Charlotte certainly had a knack for provoking it. She hadn’t done so for several years, he acknowledged as the car swerved up the rutted, narrow earth track that led to Rose Cottage. But as he approached the pretty, whitewashed dwelling, with its bright blue shutters and quaint thatched roof, he made a mental catalog of all the other times she’d tried his patience. Like when, at age seventeen, she’d posed nude for a London fashion photographer. Or her hasty, ill-considered decision to marry John Drummond. He recalled grimly how he’d watched her walk down the aisle. He’d been furious and heartbroken in equal measure.

He brought the car to an abrupt stop, noticing her muddy Land Rover drawn up on the far side of the riotous flower beds, satisfied there would be no escape for her. Slamming the door of the Aston Martin, he stalked up the garden path, then slowed, distracted by the cheerful array of roses, perennials, hyacinths and lilacs planted with little regard to order.

All at once, he wondered if there was a deeper reason for Charlotte’s sudden decision to seek a new home. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the sparkling, frog-shaped brass knocker perched arrogantly on the freshly painted blue door, and hesitated. Could he have misjudged the situation? At the sound of the wind chime he’d given her years ago tinkling merrily above the door, his lips twitched despite his irritation. He shook his head and knocked. By the time he’d reached up automatically to secure the birdhouse tottering perilously under the porch roof, a smile hovered. It was impossible to stay angry with Charlie for long, he reflected ruefully, dragging his fingers impatiently through his hair while he waited for the door to open. Strains of New Age music drifted through the open window and for a moment he was tempted to enter the cottage in a less orthodox fashion.

Even as he debated climbing in the window, the door opened. Charlotte, dressed in worn stonewashed jeans and her usual white T-shirt that displayed her slim midriff, a half-munched apple suspended in her right hand, stared at him through translucent violet eyes.

“What the hell did you think you were doing, moving out of the castle?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“Whoa!” Charlotte took a hasty step back, her flash of pleasure at seeing him dampened by the fact he was clearly in a flaming temper.

“Why, Charlie?”

As the bright blue eyes pinned hers, a slow flush flooded her cheeks. This was going to be more difficult than she’d anticipated, she realized, wishing her pulse would stop racing. But it was just Brad, after all, and she knew how to manage him. She had every right to move wherever she wanted and make a home of her own. Mustering a smile, she tossed her hair back and inspected the apple thoughtfully to buy time.

“I want an answer, Charlotte,” Brad muttered, eyes narrowed. “And I want it now.”

“Brad, don’t get all bossy on me, I don’t owe you any explanations. I can live wherever I want. And right now, that happens to be here.”

“Did I make myself clear?” His tone was measured.

“Perfectly,” she responded, standing her ground and trying to look a lot more composed than she felt. Then, seeing his eyes narrow dangerously, she gave in and dropped her arm, wishing her pulse would calm down. “Okay, okay, don’t get all uptight. I’ll tell you why I moved.”

“This had better be darn good. Why?”

“Because Strathaird’s yours now and I need my own place.” She tried to sound reasonable and casual as she looked beyond his shoulder with a nonchalance she was far from feeling.

“That’s bull,” he shot back, taking a step forward. “Strathaird’s your home. It always has been and will be for as long as you choose. I never intended for you to leave.”

“I’m well aware of that, but I decided to go anyway.” She gave him a bright, sassy smile and bit into the apple.

“Charlie, don’t push me.” There was an edge to his voice and his eyes remained dangerously alight. “I want you out of here and back home by tomorrow, is that clear?”

“No.” Her own temper flashed at his autocratic attitude. Did he think she was still an irresponsible child who could be told what to do? “Who the hell do you think you are, barging into my home and dictating how I lead my life? I’ll do what I like, when I like, and I’ll thank you to mind your own business.”

They measured one another in the tense silence, then he drew back, crammed his hands in his pockets and stared at her hard. “Okay, fine. Be that way. But I’ll tell you something, Charlotte, you’re darn selfish.”

“Me? Selfish?” she spluttered.

“Selfish,” he asserted, nodding slowly. “Did you stop for one moment to think of Genny when you decided to grab your stuff and come to this godforsaken hole? Or Aunt Penn? Or—”

“Oh, do shut up and stop being ridiculous, Brad,” she exclaimed, irritated. “Of course I thought of Genny.”

“No, you didn’t. As usual, you let your pride get the better of you.”

“As I already pointed out, what I do and where I live are none of your damn business. And anyway, living here will be good for Genny. The castle’s just a fantasy existence,” she said, annoyed she was justifying herself. Trust Brad to pinpoint her one real doubt about her decision. That was the trouble with people who’d known you all your life—they were impossible to fool.

“Coming from someone with your past lifestyle, that hardly flies,” he responded witheringly. “Charlotte, grow up, for Christ’s sake. Understand that you can’t drag that kid from pillar to post like a gypsy. Strathaird’s as much her home as yours.” He eyed her in the same superior way he used to when they were adolescents, leaving her temper sizzling once more.

“I’ll not have you dictating to me,” she snapped, the physical and emotional exhaustion of the move coming down on her like a pile of bricks. She stamped her foot angrily on the front step. Her amethyst eyes flashed and the apple core flew over his shoulder into the flower bed. “Go boss Sylvia around, maybe she likes the macho approach. I, for one, can do without you telling me what I should or shouldn’t be doing.”

“Charlie, you’re too old for a tantrum,” he retorted, taunting her further.

“I’m not having a tantrum,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’m trying to make you understand that I’m not seventeen anymore.”

“Well, you’ve an odd way of going about it.”

“Oh, stop being prissy, Brad. It doesn’t suit you. I may not be picture-perfect like you, but then, we can’t all be faultless examples of duty and devotion, can we?”

“You’re doing a pretty good job, from all I gather,” he remarked, watching her from under hooded lids as he leaned up against the cottage wall. “Still jumping to attention whenever your husband flickers an eyelid?”

“How dare you,” she hissed, torn between tears and fury. “What right have you to come here and insult me? It’s my life. If I want to be miserable, then it’s my problem, okay?”

“No. It’s not okay.” He took a quick step forward. “Damn it, Charlie.” He grabbed her shoulders and gave her a shake. Their eyes met and locked and she shivered involuntarily. “Why didn’t you have the balls to tell me you were leaving?”

A flush crept back into her cheeks and her temper slowly abated. She knew she should have called and warned him. She had lifted the phone countless times, then thought better of it, afraid of his reaction. And apparently she’d been right.

She looked down and bit her lip, eyes softening. “I suppose I should have told you. But it really isn’t a big deal,” she conceded. “You can’t expect everyone to comply with everything you want. Life just isn’t like that.” God, it was good to see him again, she realized as his arms slipped from her shoulders to around her waist. “Don’t be cross, Brad, please?” she said in a more gentle tone, looking up at him through thick dark lashes. Her hand slipped to his cheek. “Come in and have a drink, there’s no reason for all the fuss.” In a rush of affection, she flung her arms around his neck.

He stood, unyielding, then despite his misgivings held her close, temper disappearing when she nestled her head into the crook of his neck. “It’s so good to have you back,” she whispered.

“It’s good to be back,” he murmured, breathing the familiar, tantalizing scent of her freshly washed hair, a mix of sea and wildflowers. “But it’d be a darn sight better if you hadn’t taken this crazy step. Why do you always have to be so drastic, Charlie?” His fingers dipped unconsciously into her glorious hair, and automatically he began gently massaging the back of her neck.