Race of Love

© 2015 Ruckey Peniel. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/10/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-3640-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-3641-5 (e)

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Acknowledgments

For the one and only, the incomparable Dada, who endured my endless griping and worrying over the completion of this novel. I love you, darl. You believe in me; you love me. This one is for you!

To the lovely and exciting future, AY, Bims, and De Dee—thanks for your patience and support during my writer’s-block moods. Never a dull moment around you guys! You rock.

For all those who are in search of love, those who have found and lost love, or those who are just simply dreamers, your hopes and dreams inspired this story! Miracles do happen when you believe!

Chapter One

About a Dream

Ella awoke to the music of the alarm. What on earth is this early morning song about? she muttered to herself as she rose, a little befuddled from sleep, futilely groping for the source of the music. She remembered the source—her alarm—grabbed it, pressed the Okay button with marked passion, and sighed with relief at the resultant quiet.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she struggled through her meditations as she slowly awoke to the dawning of a new day, a day that marked the beginning of the reentry of Jake Sullivan into her life. She went through her ritualistic morning hygiene. Brush the teeth, quick shower, dry the hair. She slipped into the mauve skirt suit and matching Prada heels, both carefully chosen the night before. As a matter of principle, clothing was laid out the night before, no matter how late she got home. Twenty minutes later she was dressed and ready for the day. Picking up the matching purse for her outfit and her briefcase, she made her way to the dining room for her traditional breakfast of coffee and toast.

Hi, Mom.

Hey, dude, did you sleep well? Her subconscious revolved around balancing the cacophony of maternal tenderness and male gruffness. A typical dilemma of a female forced to mentor the male gender, straining to fill the void left by the absence of the significant other, typical with single parenthood. Ella’s eyes scrutinized her son from head to toe with maternal concern.

For an eleven-year–old, Dan was exceptionally tall, almost five foot six inches and already wore ten and a half size shoes. His exceptional growth though, was not the issue in concern right now. It had never been. He’d obviously taken after his father. There had been a faraway look in his eyes though for a couple of days that Ella couldn’t explain. She had asked him, and he had told her he was fine. Her maternal instincts, however, told her something was worrying that little mind that he was not letting out.

Do you want to tell Mommy something? Ella asked gently.

What do you mean, Mom? There is nothing to tell. His voice was solemn and withdrawn. Ella’s heart was drawn instantly to her son. How on earth could she help a young boy who would not tell her what was bothering him? Ella had been cocksure of her relationship with her son until the last two days. He had told her everything that happened, both in school and in his relationships with his friends. He had even told her that girls irritated him and he would never marry. She remembered laughing really hard when he had said that last summer. She had also assured him that it was a normal emotion with most boys his age that would fade with time. He had snorted and assured her he would not change his opinion on the matter. He pointed out that after all she wasn’t married and was rich and happy too, the two most important states in the world to be in his then ten-year-old opinion.

Okay, sweetheart, if you say so. Of course you know you can always tell Mommy whatever is bothering you, don’t you? She ruffled his curly hair gently as she pulled herself out of her reverie.

Yes, I do, Mom, and thanks, he said with adultlike control. He made his way to the kitchen to get his cereal just as Mrs. Olajide pushed the breakfast cart into the dining room. Daniel detested being served food. He always preferred to serve himself.

Good morning, Lady Ella. Mrs. Olajide greeted her cheerfully and handed her the newspapers. Ella smiled at the gentle, middle-aged lady who had kept her mother’s house since she was twelve and, after her mother’s death, had been keeping hers. Trustworthy, loyal, and nice, the likes of Mrs. Olajide were hard to find. She had called Ella Lady from the first day she came to work for her mother. Ella had protested against the archaic formality, but Mrs. Olajide had stubbornly refused to call her anything else. She told Ella that she called her a lady because she would grow up to be one someday. That had embarrassed Ella incessantly, especially when her friends visited her at home. Lords and ladies were something from the Victorian times, stuff you read about in Barbara Cartland’s novels.

Ella picked up one of the dailies, and she quickly replaced it facedown on the others just before Dan settled in his chair.

You look upset, Mom; are you all right? her son asked with so much affection she was close to tears. She quickly pulled herself together.

The last two weeks had been extremely demanding, and her nerves were frayed, what with the new acquisition that had just ended victoriously and now—God help her—the news of Jake Sullivan’s trip to Lagos. Richard had just brought a proposal of syndicating a multibillion-dollar oil business. She had deferred it till six months, just to cool off on massive stress. The arrogant man should have tried to protect Dan by at least keeping his damn visit from the press. Parents in school whisper. Then kids hear what parents whisper. A freaking dumb lowdown publicity move there! Mr. Self-Driven Jake. She seethed silently. How far would he go with his politically correct moves? She imagined the next headlines.

Aggrieved Dad Jake Sullivan Goes All the Way to Africa to Seek Estranged Son from African Heiress. Yes, Danny, I’m fine. Guess I just need to rest more. I really look forward to our holidays in Switzerland.

Me too, Mom, he said with a mark of excitement that soothed his mom’s anxiety a bit.

They finished their breakfast in silence, and both made for the car. Ella carefully clutched the dailies as they both settled in the backseat of the chauffeured BMW X6. Dan played a game on his cell phone during the ten-minute drive to his school, and Ella pensively contemplated the best possible way to deal with Jake Sullivan and dismiss him quickly and effectively from their lives.

Ella sighed with exhaustion as she took note of the pile of letters on her table, apparently put there by Nassau, her secretary, waiting for her signature. For a Nigerian, how she got the name Nassau beat Ella. It was not the conventional baptismal or English name. Actually, folks from Nassau’s part of the country, the coastal Rivers State and some other states, bore rather odd names, from the days of the week to exotic names from faraway countries. Fancy someone being called by the name of the day he or she was born: Monday, Friday, Saturday, or Sunday. It never ceased to amaze Ella.

She ignored the letters waiting to be signed and reached for the telephone on her table, simultaneously walking to the window and grabbing the cup of coffee Nassau had placed on the table. Her office was very spacious; she loved space. It had a lovely view of the sea and was located on the twelfth floor of the prestigious Ola Towers in Victoria Island, one of the ultramodern and most expensive corporate buildings in Lagos.

She realized her mind was doing a mean trick of diverting her thoughts onto trivia in lieu of the task ahead. As she stared out to the sea in the distance, watching the waves rise and break with constant integrity, observing the lovely horizon far into the Atlantic Ocean, she summoned enough strength and dialed Jake Sullivan’s hotel suite number.

Chapter Two

Victoria Island, Lagos, Nigeria

Jake Lester Sullivan stared dispassionately into the sea from the balcony of his presidential suite. The awesome waves of the Atlantic Ocean were indeed magnificent to behold. Okay, this was Lagos, Nigeria, land and home of the most mysterious being in his life. He wondered if anyone had ever unraveled the mystery called Emmanuella Ola.

He allowed his mind to wander back to the day he had met her. Twelve years ago in the summer of ’99, he recalled very vividly now. It had become his favorite pastime through the years to remember. He had made it a point of duty to remember her and the days of his glorious liberation from a subtle generational bigotry that was thrust on him from infancy and was fortified by monumental tragedies in his life.

He remembered the rainy summer day he found Emmanuella wet and stranded on the highway as he drove back to London from Suffolk. He had had a particularly disturbing and disappointing therapy appointment with Dr. Cohen, the psychologist treating his amnesia, and had decided to leave London that morning on a drive to Suffolk, a county he had found calming on previous occasions. He had not listened to the forecast that morning; if he had, he wouldn’t have driven almost two hours into the countryside, just to drive in maddeningly slow motion through the rain back to London.

Driving back to London through the stormy weather, he was wondering if he