"Good afternoon, sir," the valet said, opening the door to a gleaming silver Mercedes S-Class, as Harry stepped out, adjusted his jacket, and put on his sunglasses. The Los Angeles sun could be ruthless this time of year, but it was shining bright on the polished marble entrance to Le Jardin Privé, one of the most exclusive eateries in Beverly Hills.
Harry turned just in time to see a striking sight step out of an old champagne Bentley.
Rachel Jackson.
As elegant as always, she had on a pearl white coat over a fitted cream dress, and she held herself with the kind of majesty only someone who fought to be recognized in a palatable upper crust of East Coast society could, when she felt like it.
"Well I thought it'd be me waiting on you," Harry said with a hint of a smirk, and took his place beside her on the steps.
"Well you made your mother wait three months! You can wait five minutes," Rachel shot back, but not without warmth.
They were taken to a sectioned off private dining area, with quiet opulence, surrounded by oil paintings and set to a soft classical trio vibe fit for billionaires and discreet scandals.
As the waiter poured their wine and took their orders - lobster bisque for Rachel, filet mignon for Harry - they finally took a moment to let out a long sigh.
"So," Rachel said, swirling the glass of wine, "what's the prodigal son working on now? I'm assuming JTV is still your playground?"
Harry laughed. "It is - for now."
"For now?"
Harry leaned back. "This will most likely be my last year at JTV."
Rachel blinked in disbelief. "You are leaving?"
He nodded. "I've done what I've needed to do. The network is not a joke anymore. I've learned way too much... but I have always had bigger plans."
Rachel's eyebrow rose, "Bigger than reviving a dying network?"
Harry looked directly into her eyes. "Hollywood."
She set down the glass of wine.
"You are serious."
"As serious as I've ever been."
Rachel took a moment to let that sink in. "You mean directing, producing, building studios... what exactly?"
"All of it," Harry said. "I'm wanting to produce films. Direct eventually. Stories that matter. Projects that change the culture. I've done almost a year of learning about tv... now I want to step into cinema."
Rachel chuckled softly, like she wanted to laugh because it was funny, but wasn't sure it was. "Harry... the movie business is not like tv. It's worse. It's petty. It's political. It's rotten from the core."
"I know."
"They're not going to be convinced by someone like you, you're too young. You don't have their pedigree. They're going to call you a trust-fund hack with a rich uncle and no talent."
Harry smiled. "So, they'll just have to choke on it when I win."
At that Rachel couldn't help but laugh again, and this time it was definitely real. "You're so much like your father when you ask for stuff like that. He never backed down from impossible odds."
"Well, I have his nuttiness," Harry said, raising his glass. "And your talent for frightening boardrooms."
Rachel clinked her glass with his. "I'm proud of you Harry. I don't always know how to show it in the most... you know... motherly way. But I am."
Then Harry's eyes widened a little.
"Oh crap."
Rachel cocked an eyebrow. "Forgot something?"
"Lisa's on a break," Harry muttered. "A whole week in Bali with her husband. And now I just realized I have no assistant. No scheduler. No gatekeeper. I'm screwed with all the meetings and the appointments."
Rachel smiled behind her fork. "Then you shouldn't have let her go in the first place."
"I was being nice," said Harry. "She's earned it."
"Then deal with the consequences of your kindness," she said smoothly.
Harry squinted. "What are you doing this week?"
Rachel blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You mentioned that you are here in L.A. for some spa time, a few parties, some charity galas - basically nothing all that pressing."
"Correct," she said instantly on guard.
Harry leaned in as if proposing a deal to a mafia don.
"What if, for one week only… you acting as my secretary?"
Rachel stopped chewing and looked up. "No way."
"I'm dead serious," Harry replied.
Rachel continued to stare at him.
"You want me—Rachel Jackson, media mogul's widow, who hosted a fundraiser at the White House....to be your temporary assistant."
"Executive assistant," Harry grinned. "For a week."
Rachel crossed her arms. "Why would I do that?"
"For one, because you're bored, and two, you miss me. Plus, you've said things about how I've changed and now you want to see how I operate. You only have to put up with me for a week. Plus it's you or some temporary employee with no idea how to even make a decent cup of coffee."
"I don't put coffee," Rachel shot back.
Harry smiled, "You'll delegate it. You're good at that."
Rachel stared at him for a long time.
And then... she smiled. A wicked, amused smile.
"Fine. One week. But I want a real desk, a nameplate on the desk, and access to your personal office wine cabinet."
Harry laughed so hard he spit some of his food back out. "Deal."