Prologue
No one forgets a summer spent at Casa D’Or. You remember them so clearly you don’t even need to close your eyes to recall the heavy warm breeze, the smell of azaleas, and the air that sticks to your sun-kissed skin.
People wonder why we stay here when it gets so hot, so humid from June through to September. When the afternoon storms turn the sky as black as a starling’s wing and the rain can drench the house in a heartbeat. People ask why we don’t leave for the cooler beaches of the north or the cosmopolitan cities of Europe – Paris, London, Rome. But those who ask have never been to Casa D’Or. They have never felt its magic.
But if every summer at Casa D’Or is special, some sparkle just a little brighter than the others. Your memories of them remain just a little more vivid. Like the summer when we built the tiki swing down by the lake and spent the whole of July drinking peach iced tea and jumping into the water. Or when we sailed down the Moon River at dusk and the sunset was so brilliant that it was as if we were surrounded by fire.
But I know, even now, that this summer will outshine them all. For this is the summer that I met you. It’s the summer that I felt alive, when I finally understood how love can make you feel: happy, heady, oblivious to the world except the bits that have you in it. How ca
n I ever forget that time you kissed me by the lake, or when you first took my hand in yours, and the way it seemed to slot perfectly into place?
A song is floating through my head – a song from the Summer of Love – and I wonder if this is what they felt like in San Francisco in ’67. Drunk on a sense of newness, heady from sex and freedom.
Except I’m not like the hippy chicks or the stoners. I can’t parade my feelings for you on a placard outside City Hall. For this is not just a summer of special memories, it is a summer of secrets, which I know makes it fizz with a certain dangerous brand of sparkle.
In my heart I know that it won’t end well. The cream always sours, the sun always sets.
I can feel a storm in the air, and dark clouds are gathering over the lake. The light in your room is on – I spot it twinkling across the water, and if I narrow my eyes I can make out your outline tempting me with your forbidden promise. I want to see you before it rains.
Chapter One
Scottish Highlands, New Year’s Eve
On the crowded castle ramparts, there was a moment of quiet. Conversation halted, heads tilted, breath was held. And then there it was: a soft chime as the church clock in Munroe village struck twelve.
Whooosh!
The first rocket hissed into the sky, followed by a swell of cheering and shrieks of delight. Scarlet fireworks popped in the black sky, spidery tendrils floating back to earth as ‘Auld Lang Syne’ rang out from hidden speakers. The New Year.
All along the stone parapet, people were embracing and kissing, each sharing this moment with a loved one or a handy stranger, each exchanging whispered words or wishes of hope for the future. Everyone except Jim Johnson. He looked down at his watch, then up at the sky. Eighteen and a half minutes, that was how long the pyrotechnics were due to last, and by then the band in the ballroom needed to be in full swing.
‘Hey, Jim, amazing party.’
He looked up and shook the proffered hand. Douglas Strand, a big noise in oil and gas, prominent in Scottish politics. The fact that Strand was here for New Year and not on a balcony overlooking Princes Street brought a smile to Jim’s face.
‘Thanks, Doug,’ he said patting Strand on the back. ‘Spread the word, huh?’
The man gestured with his tumbler, indicating the crowds of movers and shakers whooping and laughing along the castle roof.
‘Doubt I’ll need to after tonight,’ he said. ‘I think everyone who needs to know is already here.’
Jim shook more hands and accepted tipsy hugs as he made his way back down the stairs towards the Great Hall, Munroe’s crowning glory, a stunning lobby atrium formed from what had been until only weeks before the castle’s cobbled courtyard. Now it was the elegant entrance to the hotel, the cobbles covered with oak and rugs, the ancient walls softened and warmed by drapes, art and concealed lighting. It was a breathtaking introduction to Europe’s new destination hotel – and Jim had seen the impact it had on the faces of the guests as they had arrived. The launch had been a success in every way.
So far anyway, he thought, rolling his neck and feeling a little of the tension there ease.
‘Celine,’ he said, spotting a woman in a red ball gown by the bar. ‘Thanks for coming.’