The Lost Dreams

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  A smile hovered as she thought of the long phone calls with Oncle Eugène these past few weeks, the cherished conversations that had taught her so much about the past that was unexpectedly shaping her future. The letter Sylvain had left for Oncle Eugène in the safe had clearly outlined her grandfather’s hopes for the future, some of which had subsequently become real. He’d written eloquently of his wish that there would one day be a recognized State of Israel. His dream had come true only a few years after his death, she reflected, pondering the idea of donating several pieces of the collection to the Israel Museum in Jerusalem. It seemed appropriate that Sylvain’s memory be honored there.

  As Gina subserviently handed John a preview of an article about to run in Vanity Fair, Charlotte’s disgust returned. If his comeback is a flop, they’ll all run, like rats from a sinking ship, she thought.

  “What do you think, Charlotte?” Ron turned his head toward her, looking like a missile ready to launch.

  “Uh, I think it’s a little too long,” she commented, presuming they were referring to the article.

  Ron and Gina exchanged a quick, irritated glance, then Ron frowned. “You think we should cut it?”

  “She hasn’t been listening to a word you’ve been saying,” John interrupted. He sounded affectionate but she caught the familiar tone that spelled trouble.

  She shuddered.

  Downing a sip of white wine, she forced herself to concentrate on the upcoming schedule, the wave of articles and publicity events, the rerelease of John’s last movie. She knew she had no intention of being a part of it.

  The question eating her gut was when to drop the bombshell.

  The more she delayed, the more involved she would inevitably become. But was it fair to announce her departure before John was fully recovered?

  She glanced at him and frowned. He’d always been strikingly handsome, of course, but his well-defined features had taken on a new maturity and charm. If anything, he was better-looking than before. And his personality had altered somewhat. But how much of that change was put on for her benefit? The fact that she refused to sleep with him must immediately have set him on alert, but he’d been almost gracious about it. The old John wouldn’t have hesitated to force himself on her. Just, she reminded herself, as he wouldn’t think twice about feigning weakness if he thought it would keep her by his side.

  Did she owe him the benefit of the doubt? After all, he was the father of her daughter. Yet her life was on hold while she catered to this man who’d brought her so much unhappiness. Of course, now that Brad was back in New York, she reflected glumly, wouldn’t he think twice about becoming permanently involved with a woman like her, whose life was jam-packed with complications? In her most agonizing moments, she worried that he might be reconsidering a relationship with Sylvia. It certainly promised him a saner existence than any he could ever hope for with her.

  Unconsciously she began biting her nail again. Should she give this marriage another chance for Genny’s sake? Did she have the right to subject her daughter to a drama that would inevitably be splattered on the front page of every tabloid? It was not that she didn’t want to face the divorce proceedings, she rationalized, it was just simply the deep-rooted fear of making any more mistakes.

  She should have told John the whole truth yesterday, when he’d found out that she’d filed for divorce. But he’d turned so pale, and she’d wanted to avoid a row. When he’d insisted she put an immediate stop to the divorce proceedings, she’d been noncommittal.

  But for the first time, he’d reminded her of the John of old.

  He’d moved so swiftly, taking her in his arms and holding her alarmingly close, leaving her stifled and anxious. She’d quickly found an excuse to leave the room.

  She wasn’t surprised this morning when Berkowitz sought her out—John must have run to him in a panic—and patiently explained to her, as though to a small child, all the disadvantages of a divorce at this time.

  She’d lied and told him she’d think about it. And hated herself for being a coward. It was only postponing the inevitable.

  She’d moved on in every sense. Even the physical terror that John’s presence sometimes raised was nothing but past conditioning. It had been an exhilarating surprise to discover that the guilt, fear and anxiety that had clouded so much of her life had disappeared. She could now view John critically, as though confronted by a complete stranger. Yet until she took the final step, she would remain inextricably tied to her old life. And only she could break the links and force the chain to give.

  Unable to sit still, she got up and stretched. “I’m going down for my massage,” she said.

  “Okay, darling. I’ll see you later.” John blew her a kiss and flashed the smile he’d been studying in his old photographs before turning his attention back to Gina. Charlotte wondered fleetingly if they were already sleeping together. She stifled a hysterical giggle, trying to imagine what Gina would think if she told her to go for it. What was it that had attracted her to someone as superficial and empty and cruel as her husband? she wondered. Her steps echoing dully through the vacant hall, she was cynically amused by the way John never asked for her opinion or permission, but merely expected her to comply as she had in the past. It just went to show what a wet rag she’d been.

  Well, she reflected as she stepped down the stairs to the spa, those days were over. John might be making an effort to be nice. Perhaps he’d even changed.

  But so had she.

  Collecting a couple of towels at the reception desk, she entered the empty locker room and sank onto the wooden bench. The truth was, she wasn’t the same person, and however hard they tried to ignore that, their marriage would never work. She must screw up her courage and tell him that she was leaving him, for all their sakes.

  She got up and undressed, feeling lighter for the first time since that last happy day with Brad in Zurich. Wrapping her hair in a towel, she headed for the steam room. At the first opportunity she had to catch John alone, she would go ahead and impart her decision.

  And deal with the consequences once the deed was done.

  Sylvia glanced across the massive desk that would soon be hers and frowned. Brad didn’t look great. He seemed tired and edgy and not at all himself. She’d never seen him like this before and she didn’t like it. She took a final glance at the memo from marketing before laying it down, wondering if his mood had anything to do with the sudden reappearance of Charlotte’s hunky husband. Damn inconvenient, she mused, feeling sorry for him.

  Brad was a good guy. Unfailingly kind. Both a player and a gentleman. And even though he’d betrayed her emotionally, she’d gotten over that. She understood that they weren’t suited and that what was happening between him and Charlotte dated back a long time. Now that she was able to think of him as a friend and colleague, not a lover, she truly hoped the romance between him and Charlotte would flourish. Though with John Drummond as competition, she had her doubts.

  The guy was the hottest thing going right now. All the entertainment shows, and even some of the networks, had run pieces on his miraculous resurrection and pending return to the big screen. The fact the movie star was holed up somewhere secret, recuperating, while rumors swirled around him, only fanned the public’s interest. From a strictly practical sense, Charlotte would be an idiot to drop him now that she had her own fame and fortune in the offing. Luckily for Brad, Charlotte had never struck her as the pragmatic type.

  Sylvia jotted a note to remind herself to call Charlotte. She’d mentioned her jewelry line to the director of Bergdorf’s, who was dying to get her hands on an exclusive deal. Maybe she could engineer an agreement, and somehow get Charlotte to New York in the process.

  She peered at Brad, eyebrows knit over the document he was perusing. He’d changed from the man she’d thought herself in love with; he was softer now around the edges. Personally she preferred the harder, tougher Brad. Charlotte was probably right for him, though. She took a sip of Evian from her ev
er-present bottle, wondering what the outcome of all this would be, now able to view it from a distant shore since her own future was settled.

  At first she’d been scared that once the news got out that she was single again, the invitations would stop pouring in. Surprisingly, they hadn’t. Or at least not significantly. She still wasn’t exactly where she wanted to be—that would take a bit of time and maneuvering. But once she was officially named CEO of Harcourts, she’d wield more than a little clout. Still, she yearned to make some sort of statement on her own, something that had nothing to do with Harcourts and yet elevated her in the eyes of New York society.

  She wanted to make her own mark.

  Brad shifted in his chair, and she looked up, concerned by the brooding fatigue she saw there. “This seems in order,” he said dully, tossing the paper on the desk. “Still, better pass it through the legal department just in case.”

  “Fine. You look as though you could use a pick-me-up.” There were lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there a couple of months back. “How about we chow down at my new place? You’ll like it. After seeing Jeffrey Bilhuber’s fantastic work at the Soho Grand, I paid him a fortune to do my interiors. We can pick up some Thai on the way home.”

  “Good idea. The twins are hanging out with friends tonight.” He loosened his tie. “I could use a drink.”

  “Coming right up. Let’s get out of here.” She picked up her purse, trying to decide how to get Brad to tell her what was on his mind. He obviously needed someone to talk to. And why not to her? After all, she’d been with the man for over five years. That still counted for something.

  An hour later, Brad sat sipping scotch and water at the bar in Sylvia’s sleekly contemporary penthouse on Central Park West. The Manhattan skyline, ringing the vast expanse of the park like a glittering necklace, almost took his breath away. He loved this view, but right now he wished he were back in Skye. Strathaird needed him and he needed Strathaird. But after his last brief meeting with Charlotte, he’d decided to stay away. She’d acted vague, almost aloof. They didn’t need to talk for him to realize she wanted to be on her own to sort things through.

  That was a month ago.

  Now he wondered if the decision he feared so much had already been made. Maybe she’d gone back to John and didn’t have the guts to tell him.

  How presumptuous they’d been to believe nothing could come between them, even as the one improbable event able to destroy their happiness had been barreling in on them like a tidal wave. He could still picture the emotions on her face as she’d told him the news—shock, dismay and, most ominously, duty.

  He’d returned here, to the city he knew and loved, to the house he shared with the twins, and to hard work, the only antidote he knew. It had rescued him once, and he hoped would do so again. At least transferring his duties to Sylvia required enough time and attention to keep his mind off the problem, if only for a few hours.

  He took a long sip of his drink. If the truth be told, he was the one who’d kept the conversations with Charlotte short and to the point. He’d stopped phoning, waiting for her to take the initiative, still clinging to the possibility that she might have enough courage to make the break.

  But as the weeks trailed by and no news came, he’d realized he was being stupid. Charlotte was Charlotte, and she would never change. She’d allow her guilt—over depriving Genny of a father, over leaving the man to whom she’d given so many years—to dictate the way she lived. Her own needs and desires wouldn’t even be part of the equation.

  And he was damned if he was going to stand around, watching her crawl back into her self-designated hell.

  Better never to see her again.

  Perhaps she was right, he sighed. Now that Genny had her father back, the trauma of losing him again through divorce might simply be too great. He just hoped Charlotte wouldn’t allow her own newfound talent to be overshadowed by John’s recovery. Being able to bury herself in work might be the only way to make that marriage bearable.

  But if John so much as raised a finger to her, he would personally tear him limb from limb. He gripped his glass, knuckles strained and white; what was truly killing him was the thought of her in another man’s arms.

  He placed the glass on the granite counter with a thud. He was a fool to think he could banish her from his being, he realized, pouring another stiff whiskey while Sylvia puttered around the glistening chrome kitchen, unpacking the take-out they’d picked up. He could pretend to be reasonable and gentlemanly, but when it came to Charlotte, the code of conduct he’d followed all his life collapsed. And that, he decided, fists clenching, was why he had to stay away.

  “Here you are.” Sylvia placed two elegantly prepared Japanese porcelain plates onto the sisal-and-leather place mats. A single white orchid was reflected in the gleaming counter.

  “This looks yummy,” she said, perching on a bar stool opposite and sending him a quick glance. “Boy, am I hungry. Try it, it’s good,” she remarked, nibbling some steamed vegetable dumplings and seeing him glance indifferently at the food.

  “I guess I’m not that hungry.”

  “You gotta eat. Sitting round moping about Charlotte isn’t going to do you any good,” she remarked, pursing her lips. “You look like shit, by the way.”

  “Gee, thanks.” He let out a short, humorless laugh. “And I’m not moping about Charlotte,” he added, irritated.

  “Yeah, right. Who exactly are you trying to fool, Bradley Ward?” she asked sweetly, tilting her head.

  Their eyes met and held, then he took a long sip of his drink. “Guess you know me too well, huh?”

  “I should hope so, after all this time. Heck, we lived together long enough.”

  “Ouch!”

  “Sorry.” She waved a manicured hand. “I didn’t mean that the wrong way. You know very well that I think things have turned out for the best. I just want you to be happy too,” she added, dipping her fork into the pad thai.

  “Yeah, well…you know how it is.”

  “Nope. I don’t. Perhaps you’d like to tell me?”

  “Give a guy a break, Syl,” he muttered, beginning to eat.

  “Okay, so you’re mad because Charlotte’s still sorting things out with her husband. What’s the big deal? Give her a chance.”

  “She’s not sorting out zip. She’s gone back to him.”

  “Did she tell you that?” Sylvia asked, fork frozen midair, watching his reactions.

  “No, not exactly. But it’s clear enough. John Drummond is back on the scene. Whenever I’ve phoned the number she gave me, some officious prick named Berkowitz answers and tells me Mrs. Drummond is out walking the fucking dog with her husband, or that the Drummonds are indisposed.” He pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair, disgusted.

  “Look, Brad, it’s only normal that she’s at the guy’s side at a time like this. What about later?”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “I think she’s decided to stay,” he sighed. “For Genny’s sake, above all else.”

  “Boy, you sure don’t give her much credit, do you?” she said, flashing him a curious look. “I thought you guys were Love Story with a happy ending.”

  “I guess I did too. Just goes to show.”

  Sylvia pushed back her stool and crossed the kitchen to the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of his favorite Pouilly-Fuissé. “Come on, let’s go sit over there and you can tell me your troubles.” She gestured to a massive beige Ultrasuede sectional that dominated one corner of the apartment.

  “Good Lord,” Brad remarked, “you sure we won’t get lost in that thing?”

  “Jeffrey wanted it even bigger. He thinks there’s nothing more horrifying than three people wedged together on a sofa. Says it’s like waiting at a luxurious bus stop.”

  “Hell, this is more like an airplane runway.”

  “Well, one doesn’t argue with New York’s hottest designer.” She laughed, placing two glasses on an equally enormous rock-slab
coffee table and settling back on the sectional’s plump cushions. “So let me get this straight. You’re just going to back off and let the best man win, is that it?” She took a sip, glancing critically at her glass. “Not bad,” she murmured, watching him bristle. Good. She was finally getting a reaction.

  “It’s not that simple, Syl. Charlie has a hell of a lot more on her plate than just John Drummond to deal with. She has a whole new life in front of her now that her designs have been such a success. Plus, she has the Lost Collection to deal with,” he muttered, lifting his glass.

  “Lost Collection?” Sylvia pushed a strand of glossy blond hair behind her ear, suddenly attentive. “What collection are you referring to?”

  “Shit,” Brad exclaimed, annoyed at himself. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I guess I must be more tired than I thought.”

  “Well, the cat’s out of the bag, babe, so you might as well tell me about it. You know very well it won’t go any further.”

  He hesitated, then set his glass down. “I know I can trust you, Syl. If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be taking over Harcourts. But this isn’t my secret to tell.”

  “It’s weighing you down all the same. Why not get it off your chest?”

  He sat motionless for a few seconds, then nodded his head imperceptibly. “Okay, but this is for your ears only, got it?”

  “Scout’s honor.” She raised her hand and smiled.

  A wave of relief swept over him. Syl was right. He needed to bounce this off someone, and she was certainly the best person around. He pondered a moment, wondering where exactly to begin. “You remember Armand and how obsessed he was with Sylvain de Rothberg?”

  “Yeah.” She nodded. “His dying of a heart attack right after his show sure was weird,” she remarked, frowning. “Hey, wasn’t Rothberg the guy whose fabulous jewelry collection was lost during the war?” she exclaimed, suddenly excited.