Always an Eaton. Rochelle Alers
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you’ll do quite well with the ladies.”
He wanted to tell Chandra that he was only interested in one lady: her. Not only had she intrigued him but also bewitched him in a way no other woman had. “What time do we leave for Paoli tomorrow?”
“Everyone’s expected to arrive around three.”
“What time do you want me to pick you up?”
“I’ll pick you up at two,” Chandra said. Her father would drive her mother in his car, and she would take her mother’s car.
“Okay. I want you to relax while I clean up the kitchen. Then we’ll go to the office and talk about the play.”
“Wouldn’t it go faster if I help you?”
Preston glared at Chandra. He’d learned quickly that she wanted to control situations. Well, she was in for a rude awakening. When it came to control of his work he’d unquestionably become an expert.
“Sit down and relax.”
She held up her hands. “Okay. You didn’t have to go mad hard,” she whispered under her breath.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing,” Chandra mumbled.
She walked around Preston and sat down at the table. She knew working with him wasn’t going to be easy, especially if, without warning, his moods vacillated from hot to cold. What she didn’t intend to become was a punching bag for his domineering and controlling personality.
Chandra Eaton was not the same woman who’d left her home and everything familiar and comfortable to work with young children in a region where running water was a priceless commodity.
She’d promised Preston she would help him with his latest play, and she would follow through on her promise—that is until he pushed her to a point where she would be forced to walk away and not look back. It’d happened with a man she’d loved without question, and it could happen again with a man she had no intention of loving.
Chapter 6
Chandra sat between Preston’s outstretched legs on a soft leather chaise in a soft butter-yellow shade, wishing she’d worn something a lot more casual. He’d changed into his work clothes: jeans, T-shirt and sandals.
When he’d led her into the home/office Chandra was taken aback with the soft colors, thinking Preston would’ve preferred a darker, more masculine appeal. Instead of the ubiquitous black, brown or burgundy, the leather sofa, love seats and chaise were fashioned in tones of pale yellow and orange, reminiscent of rainbow sherbet. The citrus shades blended with an L-shaped workstation in a soft vanilla hue with gleaming cherrywood surfaces.
Two walls of floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases in the same vanilla bean hue were stacked with novels, plays, pamphlets and biographies. Several shelves were dedicated to the many statuettes and awards honoring Preston’s theatrical achievements. She smiled when she saw two Tony awards.
The third wall, covered with bamboolike fabric, was filled with framed citations, diplomas and academic degrees. The last wall was made of glass, bringing in the natural light and panoramic views of the Philadelphia skyline.
Reclining against Preston’s chest seemed the most natural thing to do as he explained the notations he’d put down on a legal pad. Chandra squinted, attempting to read his illegible scrawl.
She pointed. “What is that word?”
Preston pressed a kiss to the hair grazing his chin. “You got jokes, C.E.?”
Tilting her chin, Chandra smiled at him over her shoulder. “I’m serious, Preston. I can’t decipher it.”
He made a face. “She can’t decipher conflict,” he said sarcastically.
“Hel-lo, P.J. It looks like confluent to me.”
“I can assure you it is conflict. Writing a play is no different from writing a novel or a script for a film or television. It all begins with an idea or premise, a sequence of events, characters and conflict. As the writer I must touch upon all of these elements not only to entice theatergoers to come to see the stage production, but keep them in their seats until the final curtain.”
“What’s the difference between writing a script for the screen and one for the stage?” Chandra asked.
“Stage plays are much more limited when it comes to the size of the cast, number of settings and the introduction of characters. Whereas with films there can be many, many characters and locales. I try and keep the page count on my plays around one hundred.”
“Have you ever exceeded that number?”
“Yes,” Preston replied. “But it should never go beyond one hundred twenty pages. The story should concentrate on a few major characters who reveal themselves through dialogue, unlike a film actor who will utilize dialogue and physical action.”
Shifting slightly, Chandra met Preston’s eyes. “When do you know if your premise is a play or a film?”
“The key word is physical action. If I imagine a story and I see it as frames of images, then it’s a play. But, if the images are filled with physical action, then it’s a film script.”
“So, you see Death’s Kiss as a play?”
“It can go either way. As a film it probably would be darker, more haunting, the characters of Pascual and Josette more complex, and there would be more physical action than on the stage.”
“What would the rating be if you wrote the screenplay?”
“Probably a PG-13,” he said.
His response surprised Chandra. “Why not an R rating?”
“An R rating would be at the studio’s discretion. I always believe you can sell more tickets with a PG-13 rating than one that’s rated R or NC-17.”
“Is that why you insist on literary control?” she asked, continuing with her questioning.
Preston nodded. “That’s part of it. What you and I have to decide on is the backstory for Death’s Kiss.”
“Would I need a backstory for a mythical character?”
“Do you want Pascual to feed on blood in order to survive? If not, then what are his family background, education, social and political beliefs? Is he in favor or opposed to slavery?”
A look of distress came over Chandra’s face. “I don’t want the play to focus on slavery, because it’s a too-painful part of our country’s history.”
“It will not focus on slavery, but a peculiar practice germane but not limited to New Orleans and the descendants of gens de couleur. I’ve done some research,” Preston continued, “uncovering that it was acceptable behavior for a white man to take a slave as young as twelve as his lover. It would prove beneficial to the woman if she produced children. She would be emancipated along with their offspring. Josette’s mother is a free woman of color, thereby making her free.”
“Where does Josette’s father live?”
“Etienne Fouché has a plantation twenty miles outside of New Orleans where he lives with his white family, and he also has an apartment within the city where he entertains his friends. Then, there’s a Creole cottage he’d purchased for his plaçée and Josette only blocks from his apartment. He will spend a few months with his legitimate wife, but most of his time will be spent within the city.
“France has declared its independence and the Louisiana territory has been ceded to the United States. The first act will open with Josette returning to the States from France and her mother telling her she must prepare for the upcoming ball. However, the Josette who returns at sixteen isn’t the same naive and cosseted girl who’d cried incessantly when she boarded a ship to take her to Paris four years before. She is also educated, while it