Soulmate

By D. L. Lowell

Synopsis: Soulmate is a love story set within the international arena of film and television finance. A high powered executive by day, Grace White is brilliant, beautiful and driven to be the best. A broken relationship leads her down a strange dark path to live her dreams of a ranch house and horses in Malibu. On this journey she meets Richard As

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eminent Films
• Release date: Sep 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9780989392815

Book preview

Chapter 1

Grace White stared into the steamy mirror at her modish health club. Whoever said that horses sweat and women glow had no idea. She washed her face and smiled at the reflection. Sixty minutes of aerobics three times a week made her feel amazing. Grace had soft autumn blonde hair falling just below her neck line, which gently accentuated and contrasted brilliantly with her brown eyebrows and eyes. She was composed of the best parts of Grace Kelly and Katherine Hepburn, a radiant beauty and a handsome, daring personage all rolled into a five foot eight inch long-legged frame of Swedish perfection.

She emerged from the dressing room as if stepping out of Vogue. A Chanel silk blouse topped a gray skirt and half heels. Valet parking for a 7 a.m. aerobics class amused her. The attendant had her luxury white sports utility vehicle waiting. She threw a gym bag over her shoulder into the back in one easy motion as she swung into the driver’s seat. Grace drove towards the high rise offices in Century City. Another day, another day, she hummed happily. First a coffee, grab the dry cleaning and then I’ll knock ‘em dead.

Adjacent to Beverly Hills, Century City was the high rent district for talent agencies, multi-national corporations, world-class law firms, investment banks, major studios and media conglomerates. The masters of the universe congregated here, worked hard and amassed great fortunes. Grace studied business and law in Europe, then apprenticed in New York before migrating to Los Angeles to make her name in the digital empire as it emerged in the new century.

She pulled her car into an endless downward spiraling parking garage. Grace sighed quietly and turned off the engine. She reached for her bag and her iPad. She checked her reflection in the rear view mirror. The past month had been painful. Break-ups always were. It didn’t show. Intense eyes shone back at her, powerful and deep.

Hii, Grace called from the entrance of the dry cleaners.

Morning Grace, in the corner, came the standard reply.

She turned to discover her pickup, plastic wrapped, hanging and waiting.

Bye, her voice sent a refreshing breeze even to those working the hot steam presses in the back.

See you soon. The chorus followed her into the lobby.

Morning, Brenda, Grace sang as she entered the outer office. She placed a latté on her assistant’s desk before disappearing into her office. Brenda turned from her filing to wave a greeting. In her late forties, she was serious in that ‘I’m a lifetime personal assistant and love it’ way. Brenda adored and admired this woman. Grace was professional and brilliant. They broke the mold with Grace, she told herself frequently. If only she would reveal her heart along with that determined mind.

Grace hung the dry cleaning and her jacket in the closet behind the door. She turned to admire the office. It was just so right. An immense dark wooden desk contrasted with bookshelves neatly lined with binders of financing deals completed, pending and under review. Two black-and-white photos of European rail stations adorned the right wall above long wooden file cabinets.

She clicked on the computer, picked up a bag of coffee and busied herself with the espresso maker behind her. As the coffee ground she scanned the monitor. First she tracked the stock movements of European and American media and cable companies, followed by a quick glance at the ticker tape for new transactions and bond deals.

Germany was active again. She felt it. Grace sipped coffee, inhaled the deep aroma and watched the morning financial news. Facing her on the far wall was a flat screen television. The stock market report on CNN aired. The screen was bordered on either side by two other black-and-white photos of skyscrapers in New York, and the Louvre facing a distant Eiffel Tower in Paris. She loved the permanence of black-and-white, the solidity of the images.

Her desk was neat and orderly. The arrangement of pads, pens, computer, mouse pad and telephone were just so. Her father taught her that a logical mind was ordered and in control. She was strong willed and in control. She would make her mark. Grace smiled. He would be proud.

She spent months of long days and nights structuring a deal to purchase a stake in France’s third largest cable company. She organized the folders she had brought from home, each representing the legal, financial and tax consequences of the transaction. Grace opened the financial folder first. She reviewed once more the analyst’s projections and assumptions. She rarely trusted anyone else's work.

Am I disturbing? A gentle knock on the door sounded.

Hii, Grace looked up at her boss. Coffee? Just made it.

Think I’ve had plenty. Barry Zelig held up an open palm. Up since five.

He sat in a chair facing her. Zelig was five foot nothing, gray haired and brilliant with a soothing charisma. He had been a gunnery commander at West Point, lost partial hearing in his left ear, and made a fortune in the stock market by the time he was thirty-five. He shifted his focus to cable stocks and now presided over one of the largest cable networks in the world. Soft spoken, he cared deeply about his company, his people and his family. They were all assets in Zelig’s world, financial assets, personal assets, family assets. He wanted them all to increase in value. He was a kind man who generously returned his good fortune through a number of charitable foundations.

I decided to make you point person on the French deal. You found it. You’ve worked it. It’s yours. I’m very proud of you.

Grace’s jaw dropped. This was unexpected. She worked hard. It was the only way she knew. It’s what you do with your life, her father told her. She would do it all, before she was through. Work had been her only refuge for months. These compliments were deeply appreciated.

Thank you. She glowed back at him.

However, he rose, I don’t want to see you here past eight o’clock again.

Barry, Grace grinned beginning her defense. There’s a lot to do.

Grace, Barry pushed both palms outward towards her, stopping her in mid-sentence, you’re too valuable for burn out. I want you to enjoy your youth. Take if from a wise old man, he smiled warmly, before you know it, it’s gone. I’ve told Jonas and George, it’s your deal. You figure out the value of the acquisition and make it happen. He nodded approval to his protégé and then turned to leave.

Thanks, boss, she called after him. Grace twirled in her swivel chair and clenched her fist triumphantly, Yes.

The Lily Rock was a dark reddish lounge where electric sconces flickered enough light and reflective shadows to make faces seem interesting and bodies more so. It was an illusory throwback to that mythic Hollywood where you donned a very tight sweater, drank a chocolate shake and became the next studio contract girl. The staff was composed of the beautiful people hyphenates that populated the landscape. They were all waitress-actresses, busboy-actors, sous chef-composers and bartenders-writers from New Jersey and Texas, from Canada and Columbia and Cambodia. If you were young and beautiful you came to Hollywood. It was a one way e-ticket. No going back. You came to live a dream. Welcome to Hollywood, a witch smiled as she punched your entry and held up a bony finger in warning, be careful what you wish for, it might come true.

The bouncer gave a familiar, Good to see you! as he uncoupled the velvet rope. Lily Rock was no place for Richard Ascot. He had long forgotten the ebullient intoxication of youth that anything and everything was possible. A shadow of a man at forty-eight, he flailed against middle-age demons of career and divorce. Nice looking when he smiled, Richard stood slightly above average height with graying brown hair.

Richard liked Lily Rock. He admired the beautiful employees with their push up mini-dresses and boots. To be young again and like them, he thought. Amber smiled as she waltzed by round tray in hand, blonde hair with dark streaks, and lips that would kiss rock stars and billionaires before moving in with that cute, earnest boy from college. The gods tortured youth, but teased old age.

Hollywood, the city of incredible dreams and broken lives, was founded on a beauty gene pool. The contract men who licensed Edison’s patent to make moving pictures moved West at the start of the last century to the cheap lands and year round sunshine of Southern California. In their wake came the beautiful people, every year and every generation, by train and ship and car. If you had crooked teeth you stayed on the farm. If you had good cheek bones and long legs, charisma and a dream you came West. Few made it in the silent moving pictures and the early talkies, but they settled and raised families. Here waiting tables and serving drinks were their offspring and newcomers all more stunning and desirable than any European catwalk.

Hi Richard, Conner greet him warmly. At twenty-two with rock star looks, he came straight from the fields of Western Canada. Conner propped wine glasses behind the bar, readying for the evening stampede.

Pinot? asked Ariel.

In a mood, better make it a cab, thanks. They shared a smile.

A blithe spirit, Ariel radiated sweetness with sky blue eyes and teeth as bright as the sun. She was that type who seemed to skip through every age untouched, danced at Louis XIV’s court, performed for the boys during both World Wars, was a flower child at Woodstock and now served drinks while waiting for the gods to decide her next incarnation. She liked Richard. They all humored this nice older man with a warm smile. He tipped well, was polite and didn’t look up their short skirts.

Much later, a young woman with auburn hair and gray blue eyes sat next to him. She looked at her phone, then smiled shyly at Richard and looked away.

Drink? he inquired wistfully. She seemed sweet.

Yes, thank you. Just sparkling water, please. Ivanka rested her tiny hands together on the counter. She was lovely with the fresh flush of youth, sporting a delicate ballerina body with small breasts and slight petite hips.

Live here?

She nodded sweetly. Singer, from Moscow. Ivanka boasted that Russian face, a cryptic half smile intimating wheels within wheels of a complex past, generations of Cossacks and wheat farms and family strife and the will to do anything for a better life.

Friends?

Some. She looked quietly into the bubbles of her glass.

Richard sipped a final Cabernet. The acidic undertone fit his mood. This was his fourth glass, the limit. He liked feeling this way, calm and expansive. A romantic by nature, Richard preferred wine to more intensive distractions. It enabled him to speak freely with Ivanka, and forget that she no more saw him as a sexual object than her grandfather or Santa Claus.

LA is a tough town. You have your small support group, Richard cupped his hands, everyone else is commerce, just passing through. In this town they don’t just stab you in the back.

Then why do you live here? She looked at him inquiringly.

It’s not boring. He shrugged and sipped. If you are clever or lucky you can make things happen. He smiled reassuringly. You will. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a business card. I’m too old to date you, but we could meet for dinner one night. Maybe I can help.

Ivanka caught Ariel’s eye. She nodded affirmatively, signaling that Richard was a good guy.

Only as friends, she responded purposefully.

Richard gazed around the room populated by a younger generation. Suddenly overwhelmed, he rose unsteadily. Methuselah, stop kidding yourself. He had to get out.

It’s getting late. Do you have a number? It would be nice to see you again.

It was nice meeting you too. Ivanka smiled at him, her eyes sparkling green pools. I have your card. I’ll text you. Make sure you got home okay. He seemed a gentleman. He could break a lonesome night with a free meal.

What was I thinking? Richard entered the security of his car. Wasn’t thinking, those eyes and sweet lips. Laughing loudly, he started the engine. He shivered as he pulled into traffic. The car entered the safety of the freeway. It knew the way from here.

Richard’s thoughts returned to Delilah years earlier. They met at Club Mallard in London, where he happily dined alone. He had just concluded a lucrative assignment structuring the finance for an independent feature film. It was a good day. He enjoyed the energetic crowd chattering and laughing in the brasserie. He caught the eye of a dark-eyed beauty, with long curly black hair and thick ruby lips. Their eyes locked momentarily. She looked down at her plate. A sly smile crossed her face.

Richard took a sip and considered his claret. A nice old world blend, it possessed a gentle burgundy color, almost translucent as he held it to the light. His old soul loved this city. London was forever, merging in a mythical way the past lived, the present held and the future dreamed. He considered a final celebratory stroll along the river towards Parliament and Westminster.

Hi, Delilah. A small hand broke through his reverie. He looked up into determined shiny black eyes. Are you Richard?

Yes? a surprised tone. She sat down.

I’m friends with Nick Johnson, she bulled straight ahead, the solicitor. He said I should look out for you. I’m a producer, then as an afterthought, and an actor.

Nick’s great. He referred me to a bank closing this week. Richard paused in mid-thought. He could not determine if this was a business meeting or a really awful bar flirtation. Who are you?

Delilah was earnest, enjoyed talking about herself, loved talking about herself, was immersed in talking about herself. Most men didn’t care. She was very attractive. Richard noticed firm nipples rubbing against her black silk blouse. He admired her rich lips, betraying a Mediterranean background. She studied at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, recently separated and on and on she continued. When she finally paused for air, significantly later than when she began, he offered and she accepted wine. Delilah preferred French champagne. He was not surprised.

Richard suggested that if she was serious about acting, she should return to Los Angeles. If she was determined about craft and career, he would set up meetings for her in LA. He was impressed that she sang light opera in the West End and had years of dance as well as a first rate theatrical training. He cautioned that smallish art films in Europe provided limited recognition unless her preference was to sit smoking at an endless string of cafes and openings of edgy avant-garde art exhibits.

A few months later, Richard buzzed with excitement meeting her at the airport. She was well educated with family money. Maybe this time he found someone who could appreciate him.

I’m unsuitable for a relationship with you. Delilah staked her ground.

What?! Richard froze as he uncorked champagne. The front door of his apartment had barely shut behind them. He digested that remark. One could not declare their own unsuitability. He fully comprehended her meaning. He was unsuitable. He never recovered.

Blaring horns brought him back. His car veered slightly to the right. Tired and cold, he attempted cognitive reasoning as he squinted ahead. Only three more miles, he would be fine.

The next summer he met Kandi, a stunning blonde. She represented the next generation’s Calvin Klein billboard, sporting legs that never ended, a slim build and mesmerizing sapphire eyes casting a Medusa spell. She was the type of girl who always chose, and always won. Returning to the car after dinner a few weeks later, Richard leaned over placing a light kiss on her lips.

Did you try to kiss me? She gave a startled response as she pulled those long spears into the car.

Kind of, Richard suspected this was not going to end well.

Oh, I don’t find you attractive. Could have told you that the first night we met.

Richard fumbled then dropped his door keys. He retrieved them and entered the dark apartment. Unsuitable and unattractive, floated in a balloon as he sat and removed his shoes. He put his head in his hands. Waves crashed against the beach of his psyche. The impulse to permanently end the twin pains of hope and grief engulfed and overwhelmed. He wanted to believe that Hamlet was wrong about the dreams. All he knew was no rational decision could be made during these mental electrical storms. He had to sleep them off.

Kandi and Delilah, he sighed while brushing his teeth. The social jungle was guided by the best hunters and governed by the major trophies. You needed to be one or the other. Richard had misplaced his weapons long before. He undressed and readied for unconscious peace. He turned to the bedroom. It was pristine. A sumptuous mahogany bed waited. It stood a museum for future companionship. Richard could not recall the last time he slept there. Not tonight. He was glad to be home, far from eyes that surveyed him before passing harsh judgment. He lay down on the couch, safe for now.

Los Angeles was composed of communities and cities grown together like the matted fur on a dog. Amidst the jumble of endless streets, endless cars, and endless umbrellas of valet parking thrived small communities, oases within the urban desert. These hidden enclaves of cafes, antique shops, restaurants and boutiques provided cohesive neighborhoods for its residents amidst the impersonal heat and buzz and dirt of a greater congested landfill.

Grace walked down her quiet street in West Hollywood. The leafless and flowerless branches of jacaranda trees lining the street fit her stark mood. Tonight was the finale of a three year on-again, nowhere-to-go relationship with Jonas. He insisted on a public meeting. That was Jonas always setting the stage for his own benefit. And he insisted on Stromboli, their Italian café, the home to so many romantic dinners.

Buona serra angioletto. Giacomo, the charming maitre d’ and owner, greeted her warmly for the thousandth time. He paused, noticing the stress on her brow. Everything okay, signorina?

It’s good to see you. Her voice remained splendid and strong. Grace smiled gamely. The familiarity calmed her.

You are the first, cara. He looked up from the register, and then placed his hand to his heart. For me you are always first. He led her to a corner table.

Flatterer, she chimed and smiled, a Pinot Grigio. She glanced at the wine list. No, something stronger, please. A Nebbiolo, moody and unpredictable. She looked around, then at her watch. She shook her head, late again, typical. That was the final straw, his constant lateness. In the beginning it suited. They had separate careers, and shared exceptional times. Then it became an excuse. She wanted more than feeling like an after work activity. Then came the jealousy. Trust was always hard for her. And if he did not trust her, he did not love her.

The good times became harder to recall, lost in the refuse that remained at the end. Lost was the pop of the champagne cork and the spirited dinners with friends. Only ghostly shadows of laughter remained. First love retreats, then vanishes. Tenderness becomes a chore. A kiss turns to muscle memory like tying a shoe. The golden glow dims to a graying light. Grace remembered opening gifts that special Christmas. They laughed and hugged. She was so happy. She thought that present meant something. She instinctively touched her neck. The emerald necklace was long packed away, an anachronism of love lost.

An appetizer for you. While you wait. The owner placed a plate of arancini before her, a trademark of Sicily. She nibbled the fried rice ball, and grinned as a string of melted cheese tickled her chin.

Always lovely, Jonas caught her wiping the cheese away. How are you darling? He leaned over to kiss her forehead. You look beautiful.

Grace sipped her wine. Its harsh richness balanced her racing heart.

The fifty-eight year old sat across from her. A senior partner at a law firm, emotions long since escaped from the cool gray eyes and weathered cheeks.

Signore, Giacomo placed a whiskey before him. Jonas nodded, but said nothing, half-closed eyes watched her.

Grace caught his look and returned her own stare down. After three years, verbal communication slowed them down. He broke first.

It doesn’t have to end this way.

It ended when you followed me that night. It was a business meeting. It was my career.

I apologized for that.

Intent counselor, far worse than the crime.

Where do we go from here?

Grace recalled their ultimate blowout. There were too many nights alone, too many times feeling taken for granted or abandoned.

You never loved me, she yelled and collapsed onto the kitchen floor holding her stomach, in one of the few awkward movements in her balanced life. Quickly regaining equilibrium, fierce dry eyes shot through him like a laser. Her leveled voice fired straight at his chest. I’m an object like your car, or your paintings or your, your, fucking horses. Love to you is ownership not affection. I can’t believe I opened myself to you.

She looked coldly at him now across the candles burnt low, across the table, across the widening abyss of their relationship. The emotional well-being of love had slowly dissipated. The pain of love lost lingered.

I need some time, she started slowly. I’ll pay you for Freya. I just need a few months.

The horse was a birthday present.

No, she returned that enigmatic smile, it was to show off to your partners. I don’t need a man to buy me expensive gifts. You have been amazing to me. Thank you. I have to find myself just now. And I have to do it alone.

Jonas remained implacable. After thirty-five years at law, he treated every human emotion as a case study. If the aborigines were hunters, he was the modern Neanderthal tracking down precedents tirelessly, stealthily and with deadly precision. The majority of his cases won before the briefs drafted, the courtroom entered, the tort filed.

This single-minded determination that made him powerful, then rich could not be replicated in his personal life where rules of procedure and governance were lost beneath waves of passion and compassion and the thousand human emotions that law was established to suppress. His trap like memory sorted rapidly for the appropriate precedents and response for this emotive outburst.

I do love you, he began