Fiona Hood-Stewart - The Lost Dreams

“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.

“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.