The Lost Dreams Read online

  Well, he’d just have to get used to it. But she couldn’t help wondering if he was truly prepared to shoulder this new set of responsibilities when his grandfather had already saddled him with so much.

  The problem, she realized, a tiny smile hovering at the edge of her full mouth, was that Brad was too nice. Anyone else would have been thrilled to inherit Strathaird Castle for all the wrong reasons. Considered it their right.

  But not Brad.

  Instead, he’d gone to great lengths to try to have the entail on the estate reverted to Charlotte and herself.

  She picked up an empty mug from the bookshelf and stared again at the photograph. What a handsome, fine, strong man he’d grown up to be. And how thrilled she was that he’d finally met someone with whom to share his life.

  Not that Sylvia would have struck her as Brad’s type. But then, what did she know about it? She remembered the smart, desperately chic woman she’d met briefly at a luncheon at the Savoy Grill several months earlier and hoped Sylvia would take to the people on the estate and enjoy them as much as she did.

  A sudden vision of the sophisticated New Yorker had her gazing blindly at the bowl, hands falling dejectedly to her sides. How could poor Sylvia possibly be expected to learn in a few weeks what came handed down over generations? Again she sighed and shrugged. There was little use worrying. But how would old Mrs. McKinnon fare without her weekly cup of tea, where she brought Penelope up to date with all her latest aches and pains? And how would Tom, the crofter, get to his doctor’s appointment on Tuesday afternoons now that his granddaughter was at university in Glasgow?

  These and many other seemingly insignificant thoughts preoccupied her, followed by an unexpected memory of Brad and Charlotte years ago, playing tennis at La Renardière, the family home in Limoges. They’d been as thick as thieves then, hardly needing anyone else in their entourage, having so much fun together. But that easy familiarity and bantering had all changed when Charlotte became pregnant and married John Drummond fourteen years ago.

  She’d wondered back then if Brad’s feelings for her daughter had reached deeper than he’d cared to admit. There had been a look in his eyes, not to mention his unswerving determination to protect Charlotte. She was almost certain, she reflected, giving the nearest cushion on the sofa a pat, that Brad had loved Charlotte at one time. But for years now, nothing but old friendship had reigned. Like all mothers, she desperately wished that her child could have found happiness, instead of all the misery she’d encountered, and was still enduring.

  Leaving the mug and duster in the kitchen, Penelope left the shepherd’s pie she’d prepared, ready for Charlotte to pop in the oven, and picked up her old Barbour jacket. It was a long drive back from Glasgow and the hospital, and Charlotte would get back late. If only she’d do some much-needed shopping instead of sitting for hours in that dreadful sterile atmosphere, a morgue filled with live corpses. But there was little use trying to persuade Charlotte; once she set her mind to something, neither man nor mountain could move her.

  She glanced at her watch. Armand would be back for tea soon. Her late husband’s French cousin, a Parisian fashion designer, was not the easiest of guests. Still, she should be thankful he was taking such an interest in Charlotte’s jewelry designs, she realized, dashing off a quick note that she placed in front of the pie. He seemed genuinely delighted with the gallery and its creations, and Charlotte had blossomed under his praise. Life was full of surprises, she reflected ruefully. Sometimes help came from the most unexpected sources.

  Heading for the door, she picked up the basket she’d left on the front step. Looping it on her arm, she took a doubtful look at the somber sky before venturing briskly down the hill toward Strathaird, hoping it wouldn’t rain before she reached home, as she’d forgotten her brolly.

  Sylvia Hansen glanced speculatively at Brad, leaning back in the plush leather desk chair, hands entwined behind his neck, eyes glued on the enormous corner-office window. It was well into the evening, and already the lights of Manhattan vividly dotted the night sky. She stifled a yawn but reminded herself once again how damn lucky she was to have him. Bradley Harcourt Ward was gorgeous, successful and ambitious—all the things she considered herself to be.

  She smiled briefly. Together they made one hell of a team. She had no doubt at all that soon they would be one of the city’s premier power couples. Despite the travails of the past that were hers alone, she was finally about to achieve what would have seemed impossible not so long ago. Yes, she reflected, her expression softening as she watched him, Brad was well worth the wait, even though she’d almost taken the initiative and proposed to him herself in the end. Now she sported an impressive diamond that had once belonged to his great-grandmother on her finger, and a fabulous winter wedding was scheduled at the St. Regis. Not bad for a girl who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks in Little Rock.

  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 h
is 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 a
nd 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.