Rochelle Alers - Always an Eaton

“I’d seriously thought about becoming a chef,” he admitted.

“Before you decided to become a playwright?” Chandra asked.

“No. I always wanted to write. I’d like it to be a second or backup career when I decide to give up playwriting.”

“Do you think you’ll ever stop writing?”

Preston traced the design on the handle of the knife at his place setting with a forefinger. Chandra had asked what he’d been asking himself for years. He loved the process of coming up with a plot and character development. It was sitting through casting calls, ongoing meetings with directors and producers and daily rehearsals before opening night that usually set his teeth on edge. He’d written, directed and produced his last play, thereby alleviating the angst that accompanied a new production.

“That’s a question I can’t answer, Chandra. I suppose there will become a time when the creative well will dry up.”

“Let’s hope it’s not for a very long time.”

“That all depends on my collaborator.”

He’d told himself that he would take the next year off and not write—but that was before he found Chandra Eaton’s journal in the taxi, and definitely before he met her.

Chandra studied the man sitting opposite her, recognizing an open invitation in his enigmatic dark eyes. “Are you referring to me?”

Preston leaned over the table. “Who else do you think I’m talking about?”

“Did you go to culinary school?” she asked, deftly shifting gears to steer the topic of conversation away from them as a couple.

What she and Preston shared was too new to predict beyond their current collaborative project. She’d returned to the States to teach, reestablish her independence and reconnect with her family, not become involved with a man, and especially if that man was celebrity playwright Preston Tucker.

“Why didn’t you answer my question, Chandra?”

“I’ve chosen not to answer it because I don’t have an answer,” she countered with a slight edge to her tone. “Did you go to culinary school?” she asked again.

Preston fumed inwardly. The stubborn little minx, he mused. She’d chosen not to answer his query not because she didn’t have an answer, but because she hadn’t wanted to answer it. He’d never collaborated with another person only because he hadn’t had to. Death’s Kiss was her idea, derived from her suggestion to use a vampire as a central character and from her erotic dreams. There was no doubt the play would cause a stir, not only because of the pervasive popularity of vampires in popular fiction, but also because it would be the first time his play would include a musical score.

He would write the play, produce and direct it, which would give him complete control. And if Hollywood wanted to option the work for the big screen then he would make certain his next literary agent would negotiate the terms on his behalf and adhere to his need for creative control.

“I didn’t attend culinary school in the traditional sense,” he said, answering Chandra’s query. “However, I’ve taken lots of cooking courses. I spent a summer in Italy learning to prepare some of their regional dishes.”

Chandra touched a linen napkin to the corners of her mouth. “Do you speak Italian?”

Preston shook his head. “The classes were conducted in English. How about you? Do you speak another language?”

“I’m fluent in Spanish.”

“Did you learn it in Belize?”

“No. I took it in high school and college, and then signed up for a crash course before going abroad. English remains Belize’s official language, but Kriol, a Belizean Creole, is the language that all Belizeans speak.”

Preston took a sip of herbal tea, enjoying its natural subtle, sweet flavor. He’d enjoyed cooking for Chandra as much as he enjoyed her company. She appeared totally unaffected by his so-called celebrity status. What he’d come to detest were insecure, needy women who wanted him to entertain them, and the woman sitting across from him appeared to be just the opposite.

“What does Kriol sound like?”

“It’s a language that borrows words from English, several African languages, a smattering of Spanish and Maya and the Moskito Indian indigenous to the region. Good morning in Spanish is buenas dias. Creole would be gud mawnin. And African-based Garifuna is buiti binafi. If you visit the country you’ll also hear German and Mandarin.”

“It sounds like a real melting pot.”

“It is.” While staring at Preston, Chandra went completely still. The distinctive voice of Josh Groban filled the kitchen. “He sings beautifully in Spanish.”

Preston realized Chandra was listening to the song’s lyrics. “What is he saying?”

“Si volvieras a mi, means if you returned to me.”

“Why do songs always sound so much better when sung in a foreign language?” Preston asked.

“Most songs sound better when you don’t understand the words. The love theme from the Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon sound track is more romantic sung in Chinese than English.”

“What are you trying to say?”

Chandra’s mind was churning with ideas. “Have your lyricist write at least one song for the play that will be sung in English and Spanish with only a guitar as an accompaniment.”

“Should it be a love song?”

She smiled. “But of course.”

Preston realized he’d hit the jackpot when he found the journal containing Chandra’s erotic dreams. Death’s Kiss would be a departure from his plays about dysfunctional families and societal woes. He’d won a Tony for the depiction of a psychotic killer who morphs into a sympathetic, repentant character but is denied a stay of execution before the curtain comes down for the final act. Theater critics praised the acting and minimal set decoration, but took the playwright to task for his insinuation of political propaganda in the drama.

His gaze lingered on Chandra, roving lazily over her soft, shining hair to the sweetest lips he’d ever tasted. Her conservative attire artfully disguised a curvy body and a passion he longed to ignite. And there was no doubt Chandra Eaton was a passionate woman as gleaned from the accounts of her dreams. She’d numbered and dated each one, leaving him to ponder how many others she’d had and he hadn’t read.

He’d admitted to her that he wasn’t a romantic only because he wasn’t certain how she’d interpret the word. However, he’d read more than six months of dreams that he could draw upon to make Chandra’s vampire a passionate lover.

“How difficult is it to write a play?”

Chandra’s query pulled Preston from his reverie. “I thought we were talking about Belize.”

She waved a hand. “We can talk about Belize some other time. I want to know about scriptwriting.”

“Why? Do you plan on writing one?” he teased with a wide grin.

“Maybe one of these days I’ll try my hand at either writing a novel or a play—whichever is easier.”

Leaning back in his chair, Preston angled his head. “Anyone can be taught the mechanics of writing, but no one can give an aspiring writer an imagination.” He tapped his head with his forefinger. “You have to conjure up plots and characters in your head before you’re able to bring them to life on paper.”

Chandra thought she detected a hint of censure in Preston’s words. Had he believed she wanted to compete with him? “I am not your competition, Preston.” She’d spoken her thoughts aloud.

A shadow of annoyance hardened his features. “Do you actually believe I’d think of you as a competitor?”

“If not, then why all the secrecy about not telling me how to write a script?”

“There’s no secrecy. And as to competition, the only person I compete with is Preston Japheth Tucker, so don’t get ahead of yourself, Miss Eaton.”