Fiona Hood-Stewart - The Lost Dreams

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.