The Lost Dreams

“Do we have to keep on talking about me?” she asked, the feel of his hand making her want to sink against him, close her eyes and forget all her worries. Instead, she pulled back, hands looped around his neck, and squinted up at him. “Truce, please?” She dropped a friendly peck on his right cheek. “In time you’ll understand, Brad. Believe me, it’s for the best. Now let me show you the cottage.” She disengaged herself and grabbed his hand, leading him through the tiny hall and into the low-ceilinged living room.

“It’s pretty small,” he said grudgingly, noting the skillful trompe l’oeil on the living-room wall, the tasteful flower arrangements, the hodgepodge of prints and paintings, photographs, ceramics and silver. “Not exactly your usual style.”

“Small but nice, don’t you think?” She gestured to the walls. “I painted the place myself. I’m terribly proud of it, so don’t you dare be rude. And look—” she pointed to the mantelpiece “—I’ve even got you stuck up there. Now come on, let’s have a drink and celebrate.” She smiled mischievously. “I’ve got a bottle of your favorite Sancerre in the fridge.”

“What are we celebrating?” he asked suspiciously, following her into the diminutive kitchen, pleasantly surprised by the aromatic scent of herbs, and the bright terra-cotta walls. Stopping in the doorway he cocked a curious eyebrow at the cooker. “Charlotte Drummond, don’t tell me you’re actually cooking food?”

“Absolutely. Stay for dinner and you’ll see what a fine cook I’ve turned into.” She twirled, sent him a roguish grin and dipped a long wooden spoon into a large copper casserole.

Brad eyed her thoughtfully, all five-foot-seven of her, slim and lovely, that heart-shaped face and huge violet eyes still as expressively haunting. Yet something indefinable had changed, something that left him feeling strangely disconcerted. It was as though she was desperately determined to master that wild tempestuous nature she’d displayed moments earlier, and rein in her natural instincts. He gave her another critical glance. If anything, she was more beautiful than he remembered, except for the deep sadness that hovered close to the surface in those huge violet pools. That she couldn’t hide from him, however hard she tried.

“Open the wine, will you?” She was blabbering now, inspecting pots, adding salt and keeping up a flow of inconsequential conversation.

“Where is it?” He moved inside the kitchen, filling it with his presence.

“Fridge, top shelf,” she mumbled, licking the wooden spoon. “Mmm. I hope you like it.” She dipped the spoon straight back in the casserole, and Brad winced, watching amused, as she carefully added a pinch of pepper, stirred, then tasted it once more. “Ah! That’s better.”

He stepped over to the old fridge covered with Save-the-Whales and Greenpeace stickers, removed the bottle of Sancerre from the fridge and cast it an approving glance. Noticing a corkscrew hanging strategically on the wall, he set to work.

“I’ll have a glass of wine with you,” he remarked, “but that won’t stop us from having a talk, Charlie.”

“Of course.” She smiled brightly across the newly set Mexican-tile floor that Rory had put in three days earlier, confident she was in control. “It’s about time we caught up. It’s been too long.” She concentrated once more on the casserole as though her life depended on it. The kitchen seemed strangely confined all at once, making it hard to breathe. “Hungry?” she threw over her shoulder.

“Sure smells good.” He handed her a glass, then leaned against the counter, enjoying the view, surprised to see how at home she was in the tiny kitchen, amid her herbs and her pots and pans. Not at all the way he’d imagined or seen her before.

“It’s cassoulet,” she stated proudly, turning down the heat. “A new recipe Armand gave me. He got it from a famous restaurant near Toulouse.”

“Armand cooks?” He raised his glass then took a slow sip.

“Of course, he’s French.”

“Right, I forgot. By the way, what’s he doing here?”

“Taking a break, having a holiday.” She stirred carefully. “Pass me the herbes de Provence, will you? No, not that jar, the other one.” She pointed to his left.

Brad handed her a stone jar and watched, fascinated, as she added a studied pinch. “That’s about right. Here, try it.” She thrust the wooden spoon at him to taste.

“Mmm. Good stuff.” He gave the spoon an extra lick.

“Don’t be disgusting.” She grabbed it back, laughing. “Stay for dinner, please?” She tilted her head and familiar dimples peeked out at him. “Genny’s at her friend Lucy’s again tonight, so we’ll be on our own. We can have a nice long chat.”

It was a deliciously tempting offer and impossible to refuse. “I’d better call Aunt Penn. I left in somewhat of a hurry.”

“You mean you stormed out.” Her eyes narrowed in amusement. Oh, how well they knew one another and how impossible it was to stay distant for long. “Don’t worry about Mum, she won’t mind.” Charlotte turned to the sink and began tossing the salad. “I’m planning to grow my own vegetables,” she remarked, picking up a gratin of mixed veggies and expertly popping it into the oven. Despite the confidence in her actions, Brad got the impression of a different Charlotte than the one he’d known, a Charlotte desperately seeking solace and security.

“I’m so glad you’re back, Brad,” she said quietly, taking out a loaf of bread and placing it on the cutting board.

“Then why the move?” he asked gently, eyes meeting hers over the breadboard.

“Nothing personal, it’s just time to move on.” Her face shuttered once more as she began slicing. “Your and Sylvia’s arrival merely moved it up a bit. Ouch!” she exclaimed angrily when the knife nicked her.

“Let me do that.” He put down his glass, took the knife from her and gently inspected her finger.

“So stupid,” she exclaimed, but he heard the wobble in her voice, and his eyes flew from her bleeding finger to the tears hovering on her lower lashes.

“Oh, baby.” He drew her into his arms and soothed her, brushed a thumb over her cheek, his lips touching her temple in a gesture as tender as it was natural. Just as naturally, she reached up and their lips met softly. For an instant his blood roared, his head whirled, and he all but plundered her mouth. Then, with a supreme effort he drew back, sought her eyes and read the bewilderment there.

“Better get this taken care of,” he mumbled, taking a deep breath. “Got some alcohol?”

“Of course.” She turned hastily, opened a nearby cupboard and produced a bottle and some cotton swabs.

“It may sting.”

“That’s okay. I’ll survive.” Her tone was back to normal, as though the air hadn’t been charged with tension and desire just moments before.

“When’s Sylvia arriving?” Charlotte asked brightly, wincing as the alcohol stung.

“In a couple of weeks,” he replied, feeling doubly ashamed of his inexplicable behavior. Where was his head at? He was engaged, for Christ’s sake—and he’d better make damn sure he remembered it. With grim determination he slipped a bandage over the cut. “There. That should do it.”

“Thanks.” Charlotte turned back to the cooker and Brad began slicing the bread. “Do you think she’ll like it here?”

“Who?”

“Sylvia.”

“Sure. Why not? It’s a great place. It would have been greater still if you’d stayed at Strathaird. You could have helped her find her feet.”

Charlotte shrugged. “I don’t think that would work. Sylvia will want to make her own mark on the place and will need her own space.”

“I fail to see what that has to do with you leaving the castle. I’ll say it again, Strathaird’s your home. Syl and I will probably only spend a few weeks a year there. You could easily have stayed.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” She smiled but shook her head. “It wouldn’t work. Perhaps once you’ve been here a while you’ll understand.” She sent him a veiled look as though about to say more, then thinking better of it, kept her thoughts to herself.

He eyed her a moment. “I was counting on your help on the estate,” he remarked. Moving next to her, he picked up her glass, and topped it up.

“I’m not much good at the estate.”

“Why do you always belittle yourself?” he asked, handing her back her glass. “You’re good at a lot of things. You just don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Charlotte shrugged and took a long sip. She didn’t want to get into a deeper conversation that would involve exposing her feelings on a number of subjects. Years ago, over the phone, those conversations had seemed much easier. Now, face-to-face, she felt vulnerable. “I don’t get involved with the everyday working of the estate. Plus, I’ve got loads of work now. Did you know I have a gallery in the village?”

“So I heard and I think that’s great, but don’t change the subject. We were discussing Strathaird.”

She spun round and poked at the casserole with her back to him. “Look, Brad, I don’t want to get involved. Perhaps I can show you a couple of things, but Mummy’ll do a much better job of getting you acquainted with everybody and everything.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “And Sylvia might not want me poking my nose where I don’t belong.”

“Why should she care?” He threw back his head and let out a rich laugh, hiding the discomfort her words had caused. “I’m sure she’d love to have you teach her how things are run.”

“Yeah, right. Typical.” Charlotte shook her head and gave the lamb a jab. “Only a man would say something as silly as that.”

“I don’t see what’s silly about it,” he replied.

“I don’t suppose it occurred to you that Sylvia might want some independence?” She sent him an irritated glance.

“But we’ll only be here a few weeks. Why would she care? We could work out something satisfactory for all of us.”

“Wishful thinking, I’m afraid.” She turned down the gas, left the casserole simmering and faced him. “Get one thing straight, Brad—no amount of arguing is going to get me back to the castle. It’s yours and will soon be Sylvia’s, too. There’s no room for me there any longer and I’ve my own life to lead. All I’d do is make your life hell. And you’ve known me long enough and well enough to realize that’s probably true.” She jabbed his chest, looked at him through her dark lashes once more. “Deep down, you know I’m right. You just won’t admit it.”

“I don’t agree. There’s no reason for anything to change. Everything’ll go on exactly as it always has.”

“No, it won’t and it’s naive of you to believe it. Remember when you took over Harcourts? Didn’t you want to implant your own management system? I remember all the ideas you had and how you were determined to see them carried out.”

“Those were corporate decisions.”

“This isn’t very different. It’s only right and proper things should change. But I don’t want to be a part of it.” Her eyes went misty and she bit her lip. “I’ve had enough ups and downs as it is. I’d resent the changes and only be a hindrance, Brad, and we’d all suffer.” She swept a stray strand of hair behind an ear and turned quickly back to the cooker. “This needs a few more minutes.”

As he watched her, Brad reluctantly began to understand. Her whole adult life had been a crazy insecure roller coaster. John had manipulated and undermined her constantly. Now she was slowly regaining territory, desperately cleaving to tufts of earth and rock jutting out from the crevasse into which she’d sunk, climbing out bit by bit. He wished things could remain exactly as they were, that he could keep her safe in Strathaird Castle, the one place that had always remained untouched, where she knew no harm could befall her.

“I’m sorry, Charlie.” He squeezed her shoulder gently, understanding the emotional consequences of what it must feel like to have your home usurped by another. His heart clenched and his anger at fate resurfaced. Taking her face gently in his hands, he wiped another tear that had escaped onto her cheek. “God, I’d give the world to change the inheritance, Charlie, and leave Strathaird all to you,” he muttered. “God knows I tried.”

“Don’t.” She pulled away and sniffed loudly. “I know you’ve done all you could. It’s not your fault, Brad, it’s just the way the cookie crumbles.” She smiled, let her hand rest on his a moment, then drew it quickly away. “It’s taken me long enough to start getting my life in order, and the sooner I face these changes and get on with it, the better it’ll be for all of us. Let’s take the wine and sit outside until dinner and you can tell me all about the twins.”

He followed her out the French door, into the little back garden where a small bistro table covered with a checkered blue and white tablecloth stood under an open umbrella. Charlotte flopped onto one of the foldable chairs and he followed suit, listening to the soothing murmur of the sea, the relentless rise and fall of waves bathing the rocks below the bluff, the subtle scent of heather and roses wafting in on the evening breeze. Twilight still hovered, loath to surrender to the couple of stars that already shone timidly. Hermione crossed the tiny patch of lawn and curled up at Charlotte’s feet, purring softly, occasionally raising a paw to the handful of bees buzzing hopefully among the bluebells and perennials. In the half-light, he could still distinguish the windswept grass beyond the picket fence and the gentle hue of heather etched on the moors soft as a Monet.

For a while they remained in congenial silence, transported back to adolescence, those long evenings spent confiding secrets, sharing dreams and cracking jokes. It felt strange to have him sitting only a few feet away after so long, Charlotte reflected, casting a quick glance at his profile. She’d gotten used to him at a distance, a phone confidant whom she trusted implicitly but with the advantage of being heard and not seen. Now Brad was very much here, his presence overwhelming. It came as a shock and she half wished for the old long-distance relationship that was far less daunting. Ridiculous, she chided herself. With Brad, there was no need for words, though God knows they could talk for hours when they wanted. She let out a long sigh, closed her eyes and tried to relax. She should be savoring the moment instead of wishing him a million miles away, particularly as this would probably be one of the last times they would share alone together. Whether Brad realized it or not, Sylvia’s arrival would inevitably alter things, however determined he seemed to believe the contrary.

“Tell me about the jewelry,” he remarked, breaking the spell. “What inspired you to get into designing?”

“I don’t really know. It was when things were really iffy with John…” Her voice trailed off and he waited. “I saw a program about jewelry design on telly one day and it seemed a good idea. So I took a course and loved it. It really helped.”

“You mean it helped you see things in a clearer light?” he murmured perceptively.

“I suppose you might say that. At the time, it seemed that way. But then John had the accident and I wondered if—oh hell, I don’t know and it doesn’t matter anymore,” she said in a rush, gulping down the wine. The last thing she wanted was to get into a conversation that would surely end in Brad telling her she should leave her husband and get on with her life. Nobody, least of all him, could understand her reasons not to.

“I think it’s great you’re taking it so seriously,” he responded in a neutral voice and she sighed, relieved.

“Yes. I enjoy designing and lately visitors seem to be quite taken with some of the pieces. Moira’s my goldsmith, you know. She went to the Royal Academy and has been in this business for years now. Real luck, that, wasn’t it?” she added, grinning. “I wasn’t sure that expensive jewelry would work here on the island, but you’d be surprised at the number of tourists who’ve bought pieces.”

“I hear you’re planning something with Armand. He seems to think you’re very talented.”

“It’s just an idea. I haven’t really given it a lot of thought,” she lied, taking another gulp of wine and reaching down to pet Hermione.

“You’re taking this to heart, aren’t you, Charlie?”

“I suppose so.” She shrugged. “Keeps me busy.”

“I’m glad. You needed something to fill your life.”

“God, Brad! Don’t be patronizing,” she snapped crossly.

“Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.” He leaned back, laughing.

“Then how did you mean it?” Her eyes flashed and she plunked her glass down with a bang. “Charlotte has something to keep her busy while Genny’s at school?” she mimicked. “You make me sound like one of those silly women—” She cut off, bit her lip and turned away, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Brad, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I always get the impression you all think I’m a flake who can’t take care of herself.”

He reached across the table and placed a hand over her long, nervous fingers. “Nothing’s wrong with you that can’t be set right. You’ve been trapped in limbo in your marriage and since the accident it’s been worse, because you feel so darn guilty you can’t see the forest for the trees.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“We’re going to have to talk about it, Charlie. It might as well be now as later,” he said, determined to bring the subject out in the open. Her fingers clenched under his and he squeezed them tight before she could escape. “How is John?”

“Just the same. No change.”

Brad hesitated, stroking her hand gently. “Have you thought about taking measures to end it?” he asked quietly. It was time someone made her face the fact that it might be better to let John die a natural death, rather than keep him alive, hooked up to a machine.

“No!” she burst out, snatching her hand away. “I can’t and won’t do it. They don’t know if he’ll get better or not, but while there’s the remotest chance, I don’t feel I have that right. And I wish you’d all stop going on at me. He’s my husband, after all, and Genny’s father. I have some sense of loyalty left, even if you lot don’t,” she spat.

“Yeah, well, maybe we were all so impressed by the loyalty he showed you over the years that it’s hard to feel the same sympathy for him that you apparently do,” he threw back dryly.

“It’s nobody’s business but mine,” she muttered. “Sometimes I think his eyes flicker, but the nurse claims it’s just his nerves reacting.” She sighed, lifted her glass and sent him a brittle smile. “Cheers. Tell me, how are the twins?”

“They’re great. Looking forward to seeing Genny.” He watched as she retired once more behind that shield of self-protection. There was no point pursuing the subject, but he was glad he’d brought it up and cleared the air, for although John brought back memories best forgotten, he loomed too large to be ignored.

“She’s terribly excited, too.” Charlotte smiled at the thought of her daughter and the twins, who she adored. “I haven’t seen them since last summer. Gosh, time flies, doesn’t it? Are they huge?”

“Rick’s shooting up like a beanstalk and Todd’s not far behind. I’m worried about his schoolwork, though. His attention deficit disorder’s a real problem and tough on his self-esteem. But we’ll get there.”

“Perhaps he should be in a special school.”

“Yeah. We’re looking into it for the fall. Sylvia thinks she may have found just the right place.”

Charlotte winced at the “we.” It sounded so final. A unit. One she was not part of. She was definitely right to have moved out, she realized with a twinge of determined satisfaction. Crossing her legs under her on the chair, she glanced at him. “I’m glad you’ve found someone to share your life with, Brad. I hope you’ll be very happy. Do you think Sylvia will like being mistress of Strathaird? It’s quite a job, as I’m sure Mummy will tell you. I hope she’ll be up to it.”

“Syl?” he gave a rich laugh and grinned. “She’ll take on anything. She’s so organized it’s unreal. I don’t know where we’d be without her at Harcourts. You should see her Filofax, and her BlackBerry pager.” He laughed, shook his head and took another sip of wine. “I don’t expect it’ll be easy for her, but I know she’ll give it her best try. And Syl’s best tries are usually very successful.”

“Well, that’s great then, isn’t it?” Charlotte jumped up, feeling suddenly antsy. “It’s a bit chilly to eat out, lets go in.”

“Sure. Can I help?” He followed her back inside, not certain what had prompted the sudden change in her but aware that something he’d said appeared to have displeased her. He shrugged, caught the fresh scent of her as she passed, and smiled inwardly. Charlie was mercurial as a weather vane and he was used to her ups and downs.

“You can set the table,” she remarked, returning to the stove and lifting the lid off the casserole to take a sniff. “The mats and cutlery are in the drawer to the right of the sink.”

Brad opened the creaking drawer, picked out two mats and frowned. “Didn’t you pick these out in Sarlat one summer? I seem to remember them. It was the year you turned fifteen.”

“Good memory. I chose them for Mummy. We had fun that day, remember?”

“Very well.” He placed the knives and forks and napkins on the table while Charlotte tended to the casserole, recalling amusing anecdotes that took them back many years, then placed the piping-hot gratin on the table. It felt homey, cozy and right being in her kitchen. Too cozy for his own good, he reflected grimly, Sylvia’s image flashing as he picked up the cruet and placed it on the table. “We must do this when Syl arrives,” he said out loud, confirming it to himself. The sooner the three of them became good pals, the better.

Charlotte swallowed a childish jab of resentment and carefully studied the table, knowing it was unfair to be jealous of his fiancée. Perhaps after a while she’d get used to having Sylvia around and even like her, who knew? But she and Brad had always been self-sufficient, never needing or wanting anyone but each other when they were together. Even Colin, her beloved brother, had sometimes been de trop. And even though years often went by without seeing one another, as soon as they were back together again the same natural intimacy and easy camaraderie established itself, just as it had now.

Charlotte lifted the casserole with the oven gloves and brought it to the table.

“Smells wonderful,” Brad remarked, sniffing appreciatively. “I’m still trying to grasp the fact you can cook.” He sat opposite her at the pine table and poured more wine.

“I recently became interested. It’s creative if you don’t follow recipes too closely. I let my imagination flow. The only trouble is, I never remember exactly what I did the time before, so the dish never comes out quite the same. That can be good or bad, depending,” she added wrinkling her nose and spooning a large helping onto his plate.

He laughed, relaxed, and tasted.

“Like it?” Charlotte waited anxiously for his verdict, annoyed that it should mean so much.

“This is haute cuisine, man. You should open a restaurant.”

She flushed with pleasure, barely eating, the sight of his obvious enjoyment nourishment in itself. “Last time I made you a meal you refused to eat it.”

“Yeah, well, you can hardly blame me. An outdated can of baked beans and three-day-old toast.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“No, it was worse. The beans were cold.”

“Yuck! That’s disgusting, Brad, and a complete lie.” She giggled, realizing she hadn’t spent such a happy, relaxed evening in ages. “Do you remember the summer we got stuck up in the chimney at the factory in Limoges, trying to find remnants of the radio that Dex operated during the war?”

“Do I remember?” he said with feeling. “That’s one of the few times he belted me, good and proper. And it was all your fault for climbing up too high.”

“Dex beat you?” she asked, amused yet surprised. He’d never told her about the punishment.

“He was waiting for me when I walked in the door. I could hardly sit down for a week.”

“You never said anything.”

“Nope. I took it like a man.” He winked at her and grinned. “You don’t really think that at twelve I would have admitted to you that I got the living shit beaten out of me, do you?”