The Lost Dreams. Fiona Hood-Stewart
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Learning he was a part of Strathaird’s heritage had come as a shock. Discovering he had become its owner was sobering. But he’d accepted the inevitable, and now there was nothing to do but assume his duties as laird and invest what little time his busy life permitted to try and do the job right. Although he knew the place well, had climbed its rocks and walked its shores and moors since early childhood, he’d never considered himself more than a guest in his grandparents’ home.
He glanced once more at the schedule, wondered if perhaps two weeks would be too little and whether it could be stretched into three. His gut told him he’d need the time. Penelope expected it of him, Charlotte probably expected it of him as well, and apparently the tenants did, too. That, he sighed, had been made abundantly clear, both in his meetings and by his aunt. Not directly, he realized, smiling at how subtle the British could be. Nothing was ever said head-on, just implied.
He rose and moved across the large office to the window and stared at the Manhattan skyline. But instead of Rockefeller Center and the Empire State Building, a riot of titian hair and violet eyes flashed before him. He pulled himself up with a jolt and glanced guiltily at his watch, remembering he was due to meet Sylvia in an hour at Julio Larraz’s private art showing. Focusing on the subject of art he thought of the several Larraz paintings and two bronze sculptures he’d already acquired. He’d missed the exhibition in Monte Carlo and was damned if he’d wait for another auction at Christie’s or Sotheby’s to acquire another piece. Turning on his heel, he pressed a button on the chrome phone panel and punched.
“Yes, sir?” Ramon answered promptly.
“I’ll be down in ten,” he said, glancing again at his watch.
“Very good, sir.”
A perfunctory knock was followed by the door opening. Marcia, his secretary, entered with her usual brisk step. “I’ve made a couple of changes to the schedule,” he remarked, handing it to her while answering his cell phone. He sent her an apologetic smile while she stood patiently, with the air of one used to waiting. She gasped as she glanced at the changes.
“Right,” Brad spoke into the phone. “Start buying as soon as the market opens, but not so much stock that anyone’ll notice. Yeah…I learned today they’ve got a merger going.” There was a pause as he listened. “Sure thing. Good night.”
“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.
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