The Lost Dreams

“You’re not serious, Brad. Three weeks?” Marcia squeaked, her slim, blue-suited form tensing. “You simply can’t stay away that long. For one thing, you have the Australian trip coming up, and the meetings in London, not to mention Chicago and Seattle. And the board meeting—”

“I don’t have a choice.” He picked up his briefcase, slipped in a couple of memos, then closed it. “We’ll manage somehow, Marcia. I’m counting on you, as always. Sylvia’s going to be around for at least the first week I’m gone.” He did not notice the disapproving sniff. “Better make reservations for Friday.”

She groaned. “Why couldn’t they just let Charlotte and Penelope MacLeod have the darn estate? If I were them, I’d slap a lawsuit on the judge for sexual discrimination,” she added, following him hurriedly out the door, into the vast, well-lit hallway where secretaries and junior executives still circulated, despite the late hour.

Downstairs the car awaited him at the curb. As he climbed in, Brad took conscious stock of the fast-paced Manhattan hub where he’d lived all his life, and wondered suddenly what it would be like to function for three weeks at the slow, lazy pace of Skye, with its grazing sheep, one-lane roads and fishing boats bobbing on a choppy gray sea.

Leaning back, he did something rare: he let his mind wander. Usually he answered e-mail or made calls, gaining time in traffic. But tonight, Scotland was uppermost in his mind. As the car crossed Houston Street and continued into SoHo, he stared at the bustling crowd on the sidewalk, remembering long summer days spent catching tadpoles with Charlotte and Colin, hours fishing together from the rocks below the castle, picnics prepared by Aunt Penn and Granny Flora, carried to the moors at sundown and set among the heather, while Dex, his grandfather, spun yarns around the campfire, and all of them laughed at the outrageous tall tales Charlotte wove with such imagination and skill. He smiled. That was something he and Charlie must do with Genny and the twins, he reflected, the thought instantly appealing.

Traffic stopped, a horn honked angrily and Ramon lowered the window to follow the loud argument going on between irate drivers over a delivery van parked smack in their lane.

“Eet’s crazy, Mr. Brad,” Ramon remarked, shaking his gray head disapprovingly. “Worse than Puerto Rico,” he complained.

Brad murmured sympathetically, used to the city’s eccentric ways and Ramon’s disapproval, his mind far away in a remote part of the globe about as alien to Manhattan as you could get. Then, all at once, he realized that Sylvia was absent from his fantasy and experienced a moment’s shame. Probably because they’d never been to Strathaird together, he justified. That would all change once she arrived. They’d make new memories together. Still, the more he thought about it, the more surprised he was at how appealing the trip to Scotland seemed. He couldn’t help the pleasure he experienced at the thought of spending some time alone with Charlotte, catching up, roaming the estate and becoming familiar with the people and their lives. Anyway, Syl needed to stay put while he dealt with business over there, he reasoned. Of course, she’d be a wonderful help in Scotland, too—of that he had little doubt. His future wife was supportive, enthusiastic and he could not ask for a better companion. But he was relieved, nevertheless, not to be descending upon Strathaird loaded with Vuitton luggage, which might set the wrong tone with the locals, who were low-key at the best of times.

The car drew up in front of the gallery and Brad shook off the mood. Entering the building, he was immediately engulfed by laughing chitchat, the clink of fine crystal, hot deals disguised by small talk and the feel of female eyes following him closely as he surveyed the large, streamlined space. He waved to Larraz and his lovely wife, Pilar, then caught sight of Sylvia, simple and chic in a strict black dress, hair falling blond and sleek to her shoulders, her only jewelry a pair of diamond studs and his Grandmother Ward’s imposing diamond engagement ring.

Picking up a glass of scotch from a roving waiter’s silver tray, he made his way among the guests to where she stood chatting animatedly to a large man in a black blazer and T-shirt. One of the L.A crowd, he figured, dropping a fleeting kiss on Sylvia’s cheek before joining in the conversation. He wondered suddenly how Sylvia would react to his idea of spending three weeks in Scotland instead of two. He nursed his scotch, replying automatically to a woman in bloodred silk he vaguely remembered was a Broadway actress, and decided that the extra time on the island would do the twins good. He made a mental note to call Diego de la Fuente, the twins’ maternal grandfather, in Montevideo, and convince him to join them in Skye, as Aunt Penn had suggested.

Then he observed Sylvia. She was in her element tonight, networking, enjoying the party, letting no opportunities for furthering business slip through her fingers. He wouldn’t be surprised if, by the time they got back to her place, some hot new deal was cooking. The image of her sitting quietly, sipping white wine at sunset on the lawn at Strathaird, seemed painfully incompatible.

Banishing the niggling doubt, he hailed a friend and chatted for a couple of minutes. In the end, she’d be as comfortable at Strathaird as she was here. He felt certain of it.

Satisfied that everything would work out, he put all thoughts of Scotland aside and set about acquiring the painting he’d decided on.

Leaning out the window of her old Land Rover, Charlotte breathed long and deep, smiled at the pale sunbeams piercing the traveling clouds, and sighed as a strong westerly breeze carrying subtle scents of brine and heather mussed her hair. Overhead, gulls squawked and beyond the fields of grazing sheep divided by low stone walls, a soft purple haze draped the moors. Strathaird might change, she reflected with a rush of pleasure, but this would always be hers.

She headed down the bumpy single-track road, slowing when a tractor trundling in the opposite direction obliged her to veer onto the grass before coming to a grinding halt.

The driver respectfully raised a hand to his faded tweed cap. “A good day to ye, Miss Charlotte. Am nae’ sure this fine weather will last, though.” Old Fergus Mackay sniffed doubtfully. Eyes narrowing, he pointed to the drifting clouds hovering overhead. “There’ll be rain later on,” he remarked with the satisfied assurance of one who knew his weather.

Charlotte looked up and nodded in solemn agreement. He was right. When wild gusts moved inland, they brought heavy warm rain in their wake. She smiled, chatted for a few minutes and sighed inwardly. It was sweet how the locals still called her Miss Charlotte, even though she’d been married for years.

“I hear the new lordship’s arriving shortly.” The statement was followed by a dour sniff.

“Yes. He’s meant to be here early next week,” Charlotte responded enthusiastically.

“Aye. And about time too. It’ll nae do fer him to stay away from the land too long.”

“Brad’ll be here. Don’t worry. He’s a good sort,” Charlotte encouraged, cringing at the note of disapproval she heard in the old man’s voice. Speculation in the village and among the tenants was rife.

“Aye. I remember him as a wee laddie.” Fergus Mackay straightened his cap and smiled sadly, his eyes surprisingly blue and bright under thick bushy white brows. “’Tis a pity yer ain’ brother Colin passed on, Miss Charlotte. A fine laird he woulda’ made. We’re all agreed on that.”

“He would. But it wasn’t to be. Brad wasn’t brought up here and hasn’t had the advantage of knowing you all the way Colin did, but I’m sure he intends to do his best. And the more help he gets from all of us, the easier things will be and a better job he’ll do. For all of us,” she added pointedly, hoping that by paving the way with old Mackay, an elder in the church who held strong influence over his peers, she’d ease Brad’s transition.

They conversed for several minutes, then the tractor continued its lumbering course up the hill and Charlotte drove on down toward the sea and the village. She glanced up to her right at the castle, rising rugged and alone.

A shard of sunlight washed the weathered stones of the east turret, illuminating the faerie emblem of the MacLeod flag, fluttering proudly in the brisk breeze. Before she could stop them, another rush of tiresome tears made her jerk her head away. Stop it, she commanded herself, biting her lip. It was ridiculous to get sentimental and silly about Strathaird. The castle was moving on, as it always had and always would. It was nothing new or different from what had occurred in the past. Merely the last male MacLeod, the heir to Strathaird, was coming home, as was right and proper. But how long would he stay? she wondered, swerving into the village, past the snug harbor packed with colorful fishing boats and into the main street, thinking still of all the inevitable adjustments that were bound to take place. If Brad were to do the job properly and stake his claim as laird, he’d have to introduce his own ideas and innovations.

And what about Mummy, without whose quiet yet efficient hand everything would have run amuck? What would happen once Brad and Sylvia were installed and they didn’t need her any longer? she wondered, heart aching.

Charlotte drove between the narrow row of whitewashed houses. With an effort, she sent Mrs. Bane, the newsagent, a bright smile and a wave, thinking worriedly about her mother’s situation. Penelope MacLeod was an integral and fundamental piece in the smooth running of the estate. She knew everything. The tenants, their worries and needs, how to handle the drove of MacLeods who appeared every year from all over the world, anxious to trace their ancestry and who always received a warm personal welcome from Lady MacLeod herself, however inconvenient, before she sent them on their way to Dunvegan, the seat of the MacLeod clan.

As for what she herself did around the estate, Charlotte thought that was less important. Still, perhaps she valued her involvement more than she liked to admit, she realized uneasily. How would it feel, now that Sylvia, and not she, would be doing those same things?

She parked in front of the Morissons’ quaint house on the edge of the village and waved to Genny and Lucy, waiting for her, heads together, on the front steps. Genny was wearing baggy pants and a T-shirt, her colorful backpack slung over her right shoulder. The friendship with Lucy had helped her become part of the group, Charlotte realized, watching as the two girls hugged before Genny came down the path toward her and circled the vehicle. As always, Charlotte had to stop herself from jumping out and helping her climb in, knowing she must allow her daughter to be independent.

“Have a lovely time?” she asked as Genny settled beside her. Gosh, how she’d grown this last year. And with her trendy clothes, really looked like a teenager. Like every mother, she smiled with pride and listened, amused, to Genny’s description of the sleepover at Lucy’s.

“You’re not too tired?” she inquired as they drove down the village street headed for school.

“No. It was cool, Mum.” Genny turned and smiled. “Can I tell you a secret, Mummy?”

“Of course.”

“You sure?” Genny cocked her red head warily.

“Come on, don’t leave me in suspense,” Charlotte urged, suppressing a smile.

“Lucy’s decided she wants to be a famous actor like Daddy.”

“Really? Well, that’s a change,” Charlotte countered. “Three weeks ago she wanted to be a vet.”

“I know, but she’s changed her mind. She’s going to cut her hair. Mummy, can I have a belly piercing?”

“What?” Charlotte nearly swerved into an oncoming vehicle.

“Why not, Mum? Everybody has a piercing. You have a tattoo,” she added reproachfully. “If you were my age I’ll bet you’d have rings all over you.”

“Perhaps. But I probably would have regretted it by now,” Charlotte argued, remembering the follies of her youth and feeling hypocritical all at once. “Piercing’s so…I don’t know. It gives me the creeps. Why don’t you wait until the twins arrive and see what they think?”

“I don’t need male approval to be myself,” Genny replied grandly as they drew up in front of her school. Dropping a peck on her mother’s cheek, she alighted slowly and Charlotte sighed. Last year it had been, “Todd thinks,” and “Rick says.”

She did a U-turn and drove back the few hundred yards into the main street of the village, parked askew opposite the gallery and got out, slamming the car door a tad harder than she’d intended. Frowning absently, she walked toward the gallery.

“Ah, Charlotte.” The strident voice of Marjory Pearson hailed from across the street, bringing her to an abrupt halt.

“Good morning, Mrs. Pearson.” There was no escape, she realized, heart sinking. Mrs. P. stood firmly entrenched on the opposite side of the street in front of the gallery, hands gripping the handlebar of her prewar bike. She was sensibly attired in her usual outfit of corduroy knickerbockers, the tweed jacket she wore rain or shine, topped by a green felt hat with a long feather acquired on one of her yearly visits to the Tyrol.

“Off to your gallery, I see,” Mrs. P. remarked over the bicycle’s reedy basket, plump with groceries. “I was just looking in your window,” she added, shaking her head in amazement. “I’m surprised anyone would spend such ridiculous amounts of money on frivolity. It goes against the grain,” she added, glancing disapprovingly toward the gallery window and sniffing. “Just shows one what the world’s coming to.” She peered closely at Charlotte. “I had my doubts about this venture of yours,” she continued grudgingly, “but I suppose you’re quite right to encourage the tourists to spend, my dear, quite right indeed. I myself thought trinkets would have been more suitable, but the Colonel was saying just the other day that he believes you have talent.”

This last was said with the satisfied air of one bestowing high praise. She sent Charlotte a condescending look of approval. “I must say, Charlotte, you’ve come a long way,” she added, her eyes narrowing, “I never would have thought after the way you behaved in your youth that you’d end up being an example of female behavior to the community. As the Colonel repeats again and again, we must not judge.” She leaned over, her wrinkled face too close for comfort. “I’m very glad to see you staunch, my dear. I was saying to the Colonel only the other day that many a young woman on this island could take a leaf out of your book.” She drew back, sniffed and pursed her lips. “When I think of some of the goings-on…” She ended with a meaningful glance.

Charlotte shifted uncomfortably, searching desperately for an excuse to get away.

“Your loyalty to your infirm spouse can only be applauded,” Marjory Pearson continued relentlessly. “How is he, by the way?” she asked, her beady eyes glinting with unabashed curiosity.

“Pretty much the same, I’m afraid,” Charlotte murmured, glancing hopefully at the gallery door.