The Lost Dreams. Fiona Hood-Stewart
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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?”
“I guess not. It’s rather sweet.” She grinned, struck with insight. “You didn’t tell me ’cause you didn’t want me to feel bad.”
“Nah, I was just being tough.”
“I know you, Brad. You were always such a gentleman. You probably thought that I’d get in trouble too if you didn’t take all the blame.”
“Something like that,” he admitted with a shrug and a smile. “What a meal, Charlie. I’ll be over here every day and