Always an Eaton. Rochelle Alers
“If it’s nothing, then why did you make it sound like a bad thing?” she asked.
“It’s not a bad thing, Chandra. It’s just that I’m not a romantic kind of guy,” Preston countered with a wink.
She felt a shiver of annoyance snake its way up her spine. “Anyone can tell that if they’ve read or seen your plays. They’re all dark, brooding and filled with pathos.”
Preston realized Chandra Eaton had him at a disadvantage. She knew about him and he knew nothing about her, except what she’d written in her journal. And, he wasn’t certain whether she’d actually experienced what she’d written or if it was simply a fantasy.
“That’s because I’m dark and brooding.”
“Being sexy and brooding works if you’re a vampire,” Chandra shot back.
“You like vampires?”
“Yes. But only if they are sexy.”
“I thought all vampires were sexy, given their cinematic popularity nowadays.”
“Not all of them,” she said.
“What would make a vampire sexy, Chandra?”
“He would have to be...” Her words trailed off. She threw up a hand. “What am I doing? Why am I telling you things you probably already know?”
“You’re wrong, Chandra. I don’t know. Perhaps you can explain what the big fuss is all about.”
She stared, speechless. “Are you blowing smoke, or do you really want to know?”
Quickly rising from the sofa and going down on one knee, Preston grasped her hand, tightening his grip when she tried to pull free. “I’m begging you, Chandra Eaton. I need your help.” He was hard-pressed not to laugh when Chandra stared at him with genuine concern in her eyes. He didn’t need her help with character development as much as he wanted to know what motivated her to write about her dreams.
“You’re serious about this, Preston?”
“Of course I’m serious.”
“Get up, Preston.”
“What?”
“Get up off your knees. You look ridiculous.”
“I thought I was being noble.”
“Get up!”
“Yes, ma’am.” Preston came to his feet and sat down again.
Chandra rolled her eyes at him. “I’m not old enough to be a ma’am.”
“How old do you have to be?”
“At least forty,” she said.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask your age.”
“It’s not a deep, dark secret,” she said, smiling. “I’m thirty.”
“You’re still a kid.”
“I stopped being a kid a long time ago. Now, back to my helping you develop a sexy character. What are you going to do with the information?”
“Maybe I’ll write a play about two star-crossed lovers.”
“That’s already been done. Romeo and Juliet, Love Story and West Side Story.”
“Has it been done on stage as a musical with vampires and mortals?”
Unexpected warmth surged through Chandra as her gaze met and fused with Preston Tucker’s. She didn’t want to believe she was sitting in his living room, talking to the brilliant playwright.
“But you don’t write musicals.”
“There’s always a first time. It could be like Phantom of the Opera, or Evita.”
“Where would it be set?”
Closing his eyes, Preston stroked the hair under his lower lip. “New Orleans.” When he opened his eyes they were shimmering with excitement. “The early nineteenth-century French Quarter rife with voodoo, prostitution, gambling and opium dens and beautiful quadroons with dreams of becoming plaçées in marriages de la main gauche.”
Chandra pressed her palms together at the same time she compressed her lips. How, she thought, had he come up with a story line so quickly? Now she knew why he’d been awarded a MacArthur genius grant. The plot was dark, but with a cast of sexy characters and the mysterious lush locale, there was no doubt the play would become a sensation.
“Would you also write the music?” she asked Preston.
“No. I know someone who would come up with what I want for the music and lyrics.”
“What about costumes?”
“What about them, Chandra?”
“Women’s attire changed from antebellum-era ball gowns to the flowing diaphanous dresses of the Regency period. Are your characters going to be demure, or will they favor scandalous décolletage?”
Staring at the toes of his slip-ons, Preston pondered her question. “I’d like to believe the folks in the French Quarter didn’t always conform to the societal customs of the day. Remember, we’re talking about naughty Nawlins.”
“It sounds as if it’s going to be just a tad bit wicked.” When she smiled, an elusive dimple in her left cheek winked at him.
“Just a tad,” he confirmed. “When do you think we can get together to talk about developing a sexy vampire story?”
Chandra narrowed her eyes at Preston. Was he, she thought, blowing smoke, or was he actually serious about needing her input? “I’ll be in touch.” She wasn’t going to commit until she gave his suggestion more thought.
“You’ll be in touch,” Preston repeated. “When? How?” Chandra stood up, as did Preston.
“I have your e-mail address, so whenever I clear my calendar I’ll e-mail you.”
The seconds ticked as they stared at each other. “Okay. Let me go and get your portfolio.”
Walking over to the window, Chandra stood and stared down at the street. She couldn’t wait to tell her cousin Denise that she’d met Preston Tucker. After graduating from college, she and Denise had regularly traveled to New York to see Broadway plays. Every third trip they would check into a New York City hotel and spend the night. A few times they were able to convince their dates to accompany them, which worked out well since the guys always wanted to hang out at jazz clubs in and around Manhattan.
She turned when she heard footsteps. Preston had returned with her portfolio and handed it to her. Myles had given it to her along with a lesson plan book for her college graduation, and she had continued to use it while in Belize.
“Thank you for taking care of this for me,” she said. Chandra valued Myles’s gift as much as she did the contents of her journal.
Preston cupped her elbow and escorted her to the door. “I’ll see you downstairs.”
She gave him a sidelong glance. “I think I can make it downstairs all right.”
“I’ll still go down with you, because I need to pick up my mail.”
Chandra and Preston rode the elevator in silence, parting in the lobby. She felt the heat from his gaze boring into her as she walked out into the bright autumn sunlight. She strolled along a street until she found a café with outdoor seating.
She ordered a salad Nicoise and a glass of white zinfandel and then called her cousin at the child care center. It rang three times before her voice mail switched on. “Denise, Chandra. Call me back tonight when you get home. I just met your idol. Later.”
She ended the call, smiling. If anyone knew anything at all about Preston Tucker, it was