Requiem

by London Saint James

  The elevator dinged, breaking the dreams of my past life. I wiped a tear, took a breath, and scurried past several hotel staff then out the front doors of the hotel. I stretched briefly while listening to the sounds of the city. It had been a long time, but the sounds stirred memories. No, I told myself, you are not going to do this. I pushed back the memories, refused to cry and berated myself as I made my way over to the park.

  I ran until the point of exhaustion, avoiding any areas of the park which held any special memories of Austin. The run worked. I found my temporary escape from the nagging anxiety. Thank God, I was able to give my mind a rest. I always had this feeling of missing something. Like I had lost something important and needed to find it, only I had no idea where to find it. I knew it stemmed from my loss of Austin, but something always niggled at me. What I needed to find could not be found, not in this lifetime anyway.

  I came to a stop. My hand pressed up against my right side as I tried to gain composure as well as the much needed oxygen for my lungs. As usual, I pushed myself to the point of pain, my right ankle protesting as it sometimes does. It was important to gain control and calm my breathing. With calculated effort, I took a large breath in through my mouth and exhaled through my nose. A couple more deep breaths and I felt my heartbeat slow some.

  When I glanced down, I noticed my shoe was untied. I leaned over and placed my hand on the seat of a park bench for stability while I tied my Nike. I noticed the time on my watch. Crap, I needed to hurry. It would be embarrassing to be late for my own meeting, but even if I was late, Zander would get a kick out of that.

  I made my way back to the hotel, running in through the doors yelling out, “Please hold the elevator!” I saw a hand shoot out. It stopped the doors from closing. “Thanks,” I said, breathless. I darted through the doors, out of oxygen, cheeks flushed, and once again holding firmly to my right side.

  A husky voice replied, “You are welcome.”

  I peeked over my shoulder to see a tall dark-haired man with a handsome chiseled looking face, more than likely my age, wearing a sloppy green T-shirt over another long sleeved shirt. He donned a faded T-shirt, completely filled with holes and printed across the front of the shirt in large letters I read, “IT’S LAUNDRY DAY.” I chuckled under my breath and wondered instead of laundry day if he had used his shirt for target practice since they were reminiscent of bullet holes. He wore black straight leg sweatpants with white stripes down the legs, sporting black Joe Boxer flip flops. In his hand, he held a cup of coffee from Starbucks, the steam rising through the small hole on the lid. Under his arm, a newspaper.

  I noticed the lines around his eyes crinkled up as he smiled at me. He looked totally amused by something.

  He has a pretty smile.

  “Are you always in such a hurry?” he asked.

  “Well, I have been known to be late, quite a lot, so as things go I am running late. Thanks again for holding the elevator for me.”

  “Anytime,” he replied.

  The bell dinged, and the elevator came to a stop.

  “This is my floor,” I commented.

  “Me too,” he said, still looking quite pleased. I wondered if there was something amusing about me. I smiled back, a bit uncomfortable. “Do you know you have something on your face?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Yeah, it looks like dirt or oil or something.”

  I remembered leaning my hand on the bench in the park then wiping the sweat from my face.

  “Um….” I muttered and turned to look at the mirror which happened to be the back wall of the elevator. Sure enough, I had a large black smudge running across the entire span of my forehead, down my right cheek, jaw and neck. “OH!” I gasped. “Well, crap.”

  I heard a low chuckle from the man. The sound smooth and gooey like caramel. His laugh, it was familiar, like I had heard it somewhere before.

  “It really isn’t that bad,” he replied.

  “Bad enough.” I breathed, trying to rub the smudges from my face. I looked beyond disheveled, discombobulated, disconnected. I was a tousled untidy mess to put it mildly.

  The deep husky voice broke through my thoughts of embarrassment. “If we don’t leave we will be taking another ride on this elevator soon.”

  “Yeah, sure.” I rubbed my face as I exited the elevator. I heard him chuckling.

  “It was nice to meet you. Maybe I will run into you again sometime?”

  “Maybe,” I mumbled. “Thanks.”

  I found my door and fumbled about with the key.

  “Here, let me help you.” I felt him lean over my shoulder. He took my card key from hand, flipped it over, and placed it back into my hand right side up. He smelled like exotic sweet spice cologne. A smell I encountered somewhere before but I could not quite place it. “It should work now,” he assured.

  “Thanks again,” I replied. I swiped the key through the security pad in a rush.

  When the red security light switched to green on the key pad, I pushed on the handle adding a bump to the door with my hip. I needed to hurry, get inside to wash up and change my clothes. Without doubt, I would be late.

  I busted into the bathroom, took a quick shower while fervently scrubbing my face then stepped out with the knowledge; this will have to be good enough. My hair was dripping wet, but, oh well. I threw on my jeans along with a green turtleneck sweater. I combed through my hair, trying hard to look a little presentable then gave up and ran for the door. I breezed past a maid, who looked shocked to see some crazed woman barreling down the hall. I grinned and kept on going.

  I knocked on Zander’s door, looking a bit flushed I am sure.

  Zander greeted me with a huge smile. “Winter!”

  “I am so sorry I am late,” I blurted out with chagrin.

  “Only fifteen minutes.” He laughed. “I was beginning to wonder if you left me.”

  “I really am sorry. I went for a jog this morning and well, anyway–”

  “It really is fine, Winter. Don’t worry about it. You are here so let’s get some breakfast, talk, and I would like you to look over the script.”

  Zander explained the overall premises of the script between bites of his pancakes. He told me they started filming portions of the movie but were in a very expensive holding pattern. Filming stopped. The star of the film was not happy at all. I listened and picked at a cranberry muffin all the while skimming the first couple of pages of the script. The room smelled of coffee and maple syrup.

  “Well, the beginning is fairly predictable,” I admitted. I thumbed through the other pages, “but I need some time to really sit and read this.”

  Zander’s face beamed. “Perfect. You read. I have another meeting but stay, read, and I will be back in a couple of hours.”

  “I am still not making any promises yet. I will read the script then we will go from there,” I interjected.

  “Sure, I understand. You read. I will see you in a little while,” Zander replied before he scurried out the door.

  I curled up on a long chaise lounge over by the large windows of his sitting room. The light coming in the window would be perfect for reading. I fanned through the pages of the script, absently fixing my gaze out the window. Taking a deep breath, I refocused my attention back to the script and read….

  As I came to the last pages of the script, I found the story to have some real bones to it. This story did have great possibilities. However it missed the mark in too many different areas. It was supposed to be a romance but there were things missing which did not allow the reader a link to the romance. This disconnected feeling would translate onto film if not corrected. You cannot have a believable love story without the connection to the people involved.

  I went back and reread large sections which involved the hero of the story. I found something about the protagonists did tug at you, but the romantic male lead, Mason Parks, needed some work for sure. While this character did possess memorable qualities, the way he had been written was
too cookie cutter, nothing three dimensional about him. I laughed under my breath. Zander is right. This script needed a heart, a human connection. That heart was missing.

  “Well?” I heard Zander’s voice booming out to break the silence in the room. It startled me. “What do you think, Winter?”

  I smiled then looked up from the script. “I think you are right.”

  “I usually am,” he mused. “But what was I right about?”

  “This story does have real possibilities. It is missing some key elements, especially around the family ties, and it does need a heart, that human connection. The hero, Mason Parks, I like him. That character has possibilities as well. But he needs a few changes to make him real, believable. The antagonist needs a little work, and some changes need to take place with the heroine. Her character seems too cold. If you cannot connect with the people, you can’t connect with the romance.”

  “Yes,” Zander said. “So will you help me?”

  I took a moment, mulling it over. I found the internal battle raged between no leave here with stay Winter, work on this project. Something kept telling me do this, stay. For some crazy reason, it seemed the part of me which kept saying stay was winning out.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  Zander laughed. He clapped his hands together. “Fabulous!” he exclaimed.

  “There are some ground rules.”

  Zander smiled knowingly. “Of course.”

  “I do not want to be a part of any large overblown meetings—”

  “Sure,” he interrupted.

  “There is more,” I continued.

  “Okay,” he replied.

  “I will work on the script. However I do not want anyone to know who I am. I do not want any correlation between who I am and what I do.”

  “That may be a problem.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you Cayden Cain read your last book.”

  “Yes,” I said and watched as Zander paced.

  “Well, actually that is not quite accurate. He has read all your books. He also knows I was going to talk with you about the script. Remember I told you he wanted to meet you. In fact….” Zander looked at me quite strangely. “He has been more than pushy about meeting you. Cayden will know you by your pen name, Winter Wells.”

  “Why did you tell him you were talking with me about the script?”

  “I had to,” Zander replied.

  I know I looked confused. I could not understand why it would matter to this Cayden person.

  “What do you mean you had to?”

  “Cayden suggested I speak with you. Try to convince you to fix the script.”

  My skeptical side wondered what was going on. Zander looked concerned, upset…something which I could not quite put my finger on.

  “But you said it was you who thought of me. You liked my books and all.”

  Zander gave a bent smile then he gave a slight sigh coming to a stop, resting his hip against the back of the couch. “Yes, that is true. I did think of you, and I do like your books, but I never would have followed through with bothering you because I did not believe you would say yes. When Cayden became insistent I thought I would at least give it a try.”

  “So how many people know about this meeting today?” I asked.

  “Cayden and his brother, but they do not know you are here in New York. They only know I was going to meet with you. I never told them when or where our meeting would take place. The director knows we were going to seek some outside assistance, but he does not know who we were seeking the help from.”

  “Well.” I paused then readjusted myself on the lounger. “No one else can know about me. I have worked really hard at flying under the radar, being inconspicuous. I work in an industry without people really knowing who I am. I want to keep it that way. Being in the spotlight is not at all what I am after. I like the idea of people not really knowing me or my name. I like my solitude, my peace and my quiet. Hollywood has never been my thing.”

  “I understand. Really I do,” Zander replied, his face quite serious. “But what would you like me to do about Cayden?”

  I felt my face frown at his question.

  “I guess I really do not understand why it would be necessary to meet him.”

  Zander sighed as though conflicted. “Cayden will be upset if he does not get to meet you. Trust me on that one.”

  “Why should he care?”

  Zander’s brow furrowed as he said, “What I can tell you is what Cayden has told me.” He paused and looked at me quiet strangely again, almost as if he did not want to tell me something, a secret maybe.

  “What is it, Zander?”

  “Something about your books, your writing style, intrigues Cayden. He told me one time your books are an extension of who you really are. Your characters hold the truth and the heart of you. He told me….” Zander hesitated, looking like he did not want to continue the conversation.

  “What?” I asked.

  “He told me your heart has been broken by someone. That you write in hope to maybe not completely heal your heart but to mend it in some small way.”

  I sat speechless for a moment. “Huh,” I mumbled. This Cayden was insightful. I would need to file this conversation away for further study. It would give me something to pick apart later when I needed a distraction to occupy my mind. “So how does this Cayden person know that you know me?”

  Zander’s face smoothed out. “We have talked about you quite a bit. But I never used your real name, I promise,” he said crossing his heart with his hand.

  “Why would you be talking about me with Cayden Cain?”

  “Cayden had one of your books.”

  “All right,” I said, suspicious.

  “He was reading it between takes on his last film. I guess I noticed it. I mentioned I knew you. From there he was curious about you. Of course, I have not told him everything as to how I know you.”

  “So then, as far as he is concerned I am Winter Wells, and you know me how?”

  “Through some old acquaintances, we had a business dealing once….” Zander walked over and took a seat across from me. “I know you are a private person, Winter. I do appreciate that. Please tell me what I can do to make you more comfortable with this project?”

  I glanced down at the script perched on my lap. I twisted my ring anxiously around my finger. I made three revolutions before stopping.

  “I will work on the script only because of our history. Austin trusted you, so I trust you.”

  Zander put his hand on mine. “Thank you. I will do what I can to keep your trust.”

  “I also think this story could be something really great, so I will keep my word. I will help you with this project. But I do have some concerns.”

  “All right,” said Zander.

  “I would like to request I not be part of any meetings other than with you regarding the script. Nor do I wish to be part of the filming process. I’m not comfortable going on location to any of the film sites, and I don’t want to meet the director. In fact, I do not want to meet anyone. If people ask about the collaboration on the script, lie.”

  “Then you would like me to tell Cayden, you are unable to meet with him?”

  “Yes.”

  Zander’s brow furrowed slightly. “Cayden really will be disappointed.”

  “I am sure he will get over the disappointment.” I smirked.

  “So if I promise to keep you and who you really are out of things, we have a deal then?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Fabulous!” he replied.

  “Oh and Zander….”

  “What?” he asked suspiciously.

  “If I need to go somewhere, can you get me a car?”

  “Sure. I will have a driver for you. He will take you anywhere you want to go.”

  I would need some assurances. “A regular, normal car, right?”

  Zander laughed out loud while leaning back into his chair. “Sure, Winter. Sure.”

&nb
sp; Chapter Eight

  ENCOUNTER

  The coming days were quiet. Zander kept his promise, therefore I stayed secluded. If there was any reassurance to myself regarding my crazy decision to come here, it would be even though I was in New York, I never went out. The ghost of my past stayed locked inside of my hotel suite with me while I reread the script and made handwritten notes within the margins of the papers. But I needed to buckle down and start on the complete re-write.

  I thought about the Carlyles, immediately feeling guilty for not calling them, and knew I would have to make the call to them soon. I had already been in town for five days. It was time to dig down deep, stop procrastinating, and find the strength to meet with them in person. As usual the anxiety kicked in. I put down my handwritten scribbles and decided to move.

  I ran through the park, avoiding contact with any special memories which may set me over the edge. In doing this, I continued to keep away from certain sections of the park during my jog. It would be much safer to keep certain memories locked away. After all, if I unlocked some memories I may never stop crying.

  I stopped my full force run. I pushed myself hard again. Hence I stood breathing, gasping for air as my heartbeat tried to slow.

  “Winter?”

  I heard my name from somewhere behind me.

  “Winter, dear, is that you?”

  I turned to see Doctor Carlyle as handsome as ever. His face was the same with only time showing the age around his blue-gray eyes, and his hair beyond gray had turned completely white. He wore a long black overcoat that accentuated his height and contributed to his distinguished manner.

  “Doctor Carlyle!” I exclaimed, truly happy to see him.

  He came up to me, put his arms around me, and hugged me tight. “What are you doing here, love?”

  “I was going to call you, come by. Zander Harrison contacted me about a project he is working on. Do you remember him?”

  “Sure. Will you be working with him?”

  “Yes, but I have not completely started his project,” I admitted.

  “I am so very happy to see you. Mrs. Carlyle will be happy as well. Can you come see us this evening?”