Читать книгу Sweet Dreams - Rochelle Alers, Rochelle Alers - Страница 10

Chandra opened one eye, then the other, peeking at the clock on the bedside table. It was after nine. She couldn’t believe she’d been asleep for more than twelve hours. It was apparent she was more exhausted than she’d originally thought. And there was no doubt her body’s time clock was off. If she were still in Belize she would’ve been in the classroom with her young students.

Stretching her arms above her head, she exhaled a lungful of air. Chandra was glad to be home and looked forward to reuniting with her family. Sitting up, she swung her legs over the side of the twin bed and walked into the bathroom. She had a laundry list of things to do before the weekend: get a complete beauty makeover—including a haircut, mani/pedi and a hydrating facial. Despite using the strongest sunblock and wearing a hat to protect her face, the rays of the Caribbean sun had dried out her skin. She also had to go online to search for public schools in the Philadelphia area. It was too late to be assigned a full-time teaching job, but she could find work as a substitute teacher. Her sister, Belinda, who’d moved to Paoli after she married Griffin Rice, still taught American history in one of the city’s most challenging high schools.

After a leisurely shower, Chandra left the bathroom to prepare for her day. It felt good not to have to shower within the mandatory three-minute time limit, to avoid using up the hot water for the next person. She’d gotten used to taking short, and sometimes cold, showers. But it wasn’t just soaking in a bathtub that made her aware of what she’d had to sacrifice when she’d signed up for the Peace Corps.

Her cousin Denise had offered to sublet her co-op to Chandra after she relocated to Washington, D.C. to accept a position as executive director of a child care center. Purchasing furniture for the co-op was another item on Chandra’s to-do list. But her list and everything on it would have to wait until she had something to eat. She knew she wouldn’t get to see her father, who had patients booked, until later that evening. Her mother divided her time between volunteering several days a week at a senior facility and quilting with several of her friends. The quartet of quilters had completed many projects for homebound and chronically ill children.

It was after eleven when Chandra returned to the bedroom to make the bed and clean up the bathroom. Bright autumn sunlight came in through the blinds when she sat down at the corner desk and opened her laptop. When she went online she saw e-mails from her sister, brother and her cousin Denise. Without reading them, she knew they were welcoming her home. There was another e-mail with an unfamiliar address and the subject: Lost and Found, that piqued her interest. She clicked on it:

Ms. Eaton,

I found your portfolio in a taxi. Please contact me at the following number to arrange for its return.

P. J. Tucker

Chandra stared at the e-mail, thinking it was either a hoax or spam. But how would the person know her name? And what portfolio was he referring to? She picked up her tote bag, searching through it thoroughly. The leather case her brother had given her as a gift for her college graduation wasn’t there.

“No!” she hissed.

P. J. Tucker must have found her journal. It had to have fallen out when the taxi driver swerved to avoid hitting another vehicle. The journal was the first volume of three others she’d filled with accounts of her dreams. She was certain she’d packed all of them in the trunk until she found one in a drawer under her lingerie. Mister or Miss P. J. Tucker had to open the journal to find out where to contact her. Chandra prayed that was all he or she had looked at. The reason she’d put the journals in the trunk, which was stowed on a ship several days before she left Belize, was that she hadn’t wanted custom agents to read it when they went through her luggage.

Reaching for her cell, she dialed the number in the e-mail. “May I please speak to Mister or Miss P. J. Tucker,” she said when a deep male voice answered.

“This is P. J. Tucker.”

Please don’t tell me you read my journal, she prayed. “I’m Chandra Eaton.”

“Ms. Eaton. No doubt you read my e-mail.”

“Yes, and I’d like to thank you for finding my portfolio.”

“It’s a very nice case, Ms. Eaton. Is it ostrich skin?”

Chandra chewed her lip. It was apparent P. J. Tucker wanted to talk about something other than the material her portfolio was made from. She wanted to set up a time and place, so that she could retrieve her journal.

“Yes, Mr. Tucker, it is. I’d like to pick up my portfolio from you. But of course, whenever it’s convenient for you.”

“I’m free now if you’d like to come and pick it up.”

“Where are you?” Reaching for a pen, Chandra wrote down the address. “How long are you going to be there?”

“All day and all night.”

She smiled. “Well, I don’t have all day or all night. What if I come by before noon?”

“I’ll be here.”

Her smile grew wider. “Goodbye.”

“Later.”

Chandra ended the call. She punched speed dial for a taxi, then quickly changed out of her shorts and T-shirt and into a pair of jeans that she paired with a white men’s-tailored shirt, navy blazer and imported slip-ons. There wasn’t much she could do with her hair, so she brushed it off her face, braided it and secured the end with an elastic band. She heard the taxi horn as she descended the staircase. Racing into the kitchen, she took the extra set of keys off a hook, leaving through the side door.

The address P. J. Tucker had given Chandra was a modern luxury condominium in the historic Rittenhouse neighborhood. One of her favorite things to do as a young girl was to accompany her siblings when their parents took them on Sunday-afternoon walking tours of Philadelphia neighborhoods, of which Rittenhouse was her personal favorite. It had been an enclave of upper-crust, Main Line, well-to-do families.

Dwight and Roberta Eaton always made extra time when they walked through Rittenhouse, lingering at the square honoring the colonial clockmaker, David Rittenhouse. Her father knew he had to be up on his history whenever Belinda asked questions about who’d designed the Victorian mansions, the names of the wealthy families who lived there and their contribution to the growth of the City of Brotherly Love.

Unlike her history-buff sister, Chandra never concerned herself with the past but with the here and now. She was too impulsive to worry about where she’d come from. It was where she was going that was her focus.

She paid the fare, stepped out of the taxi and walked into the lobby with Tiffany-style lamps and a quartet of cordovan-brown leather love seats. Although the noonday temperature registered sixty-two degrees, Chandra felt a slight chill. In Belize she awoke to a spectacular natural setting, eighty-degree temperatures, the sounds of colorful birds calling out to one another and the sweet aroma of blooming flowers, which made the hardships tolerable.

The liveried doorman touched the brim of his shiny cap. “Good afternoon.”

Chandra smiled at the tall, slender man with translucent skin and pale blue eyes that reminded her of images she’d seen of vampires. The name tag pinned to his charcoal-gray greatcoat read Michael.

“Good afternoon. Mr. Tucker is expecting me.”

“I’ll ring Mr. Tucker to see whether he’s in. Your name?”

“It’s Miss Eaton.”

Michael typed her name into the telephone console on a shelf behind a podium. Then he tapped in Preston Tucker’s apartment number. Seconds later ACCEPT appeared on the display. His head came up. “Mr. Tucker will see you, Miss Eaton. He’s in 1801. The elevators are on the left.”

Chandra walked past the concierge desk to a bank of elevators, entered one and pushed the button for the eighteenth floor. The doors closed as the elevator car rose smoothly, silently to the designated floor. When the doors opened she found herself staring up at a man with skin reminiscent of gold-brown toffee. There was something about his face that seemed very familiar, and she searched her memory to figure out where she’d seen him before.

A hint of a smile played at the corners of his generous mouth. “Miss Eaton?”

She stepped out of the car, smiling. “Yes,” she answered, staring at the proffered hand.

“Preston Tucker.”

Chandra’s jaw dropped. She stared dumbfounded, looking at the award-winning playwright whose critically acclaimed dramas were mentioned in the same breath as those of August Wilson, Eugene O’Neill and Tennessee Williams. She’d just graduated from college when he had been honored by the mayor of New York and earned the New York Drama Critics’ Circle Award for best play of the year. At the time, he’d just celebrated his thirtieth birthday and it was his first Broadway production.

Preston Tucker wasn’t handsome in the traditional way, although she found him quite attractive. He towered over her five-four height by at least ten inches and the short-sleeved white shirt, open at the collar, and faded jeans failed to conceal the power in his lean, muscular physique. Her gaze moved up, lingering on a pair of slanting, heavy-lidded, sensual dark brown eyes. There was a bump on the bridge of his nose, indicating that it had been broken. It was his mouth, with a little tuft of hair under his lower lip, and cropped salt-and-pepper hair that drew her rapt attention. She doubted he was forty, despite the abundance of gray hair.

She blinked as if coming out of a trance and shook his hand. “Chandra Eaton.”

Preston applied the slightest pressure on her delicate hand before releasing her fingers. Chandra Eaton was as sensual as her writings. She possessed an understated sexiness that most women had to work most of their lives to perfect. He stared at her almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, pert nose and lush mouth. Flyaway wisps had escaped the single plait to frame her sun-browned round face.

“Please come with me, Miss Eaton, and I’ll get your portfolio.” Turning on his heels, he walked the short distance to his apartment, leaving her to follow.

Chandra found herself staring for the second time within a matter of minutes when she walked into the duplex with sixteen-foot ceilings and a winding staircase leading to a second floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows brought in sunlight, offering panoramic views of the city. The soft strains of classical music floated around her from concealed speakers.

Her gaze shifted to the magnificent table in the foyer. “Oh, my word,” she whispered.

Preston stopped and turned around. “What’s the matter?”

Reaching out, Chandra ran her fingertips over the surface of the table. “This table. It’s beautiful.”

“I like it.”

“You like it?”

“Yes, I do,” he confirmed.

“I’d thought you’d say that you love it, and because you didn’t I’m going to ask if you’re willing to sell it, Mr. Tucker?”

“Preston,” he corrected. “Please call me Preston.”

“I’ll call you Preston, but only if you stop referring to me as Miss Eaton.”

His eyebrows lifted. “What if I call you Chandra?”

She smiled. “That’ll do. Now, back to my question, Preston. Are you willing to sell the table?”

He smiled, the gesture transforming his expression from solemn to sensual. “Chandra,” he repeated. “Did you know that your name is Sanskrit for of the moon?”

“No, I didn’t.” A slight frown marred her face. “Why do I get the feeling you’re avoiding my question?”

Preston reached for her hand, leading her into the living room and settling her on a sand-colored suede love seat. He sat opposite her on a matching sofa.

“I’d thought you’d get the hint that I don’t want to sell it.”

Her frown deepened. “I don’t do well with hints, Preston. All you had to say was no.”

“No is not a particularly nice word, Chandra.”

She wrinkled her nose, unaware of the charming quality of the gesture. “I’m a big girl, and that means I can deal with rejection.”

Resting his elbows on his knees, Preston leaned in closer. “If that’s the case, then the answer is no, no and no.”

Chandra winked at him. “I get your point.” She angled her head while listening to the music filling the room. “Isn’t that Cavalleria Rusticana—Intermezzo from Godfather III?”

An expression of complete shock froze Preston’s face. He hadn’t spent more than five minutes with Chandra Eaton and she’d surprised him not once but twice. She’d recognized the exquisite quality of the Anglo-Indian table and correctly identified a classical composition.

“Yes, it is. Are you familiar with Pietro Mascagni’s work?”

“He’s one of my favorites.”

Preston gestured to the gleaming black concert piano several feet away. “Do you play?”

“I haven’t in a while,” Chandra admitted half-truthfully. She had played nursery rhymes and other childish ditties for her young students on an out-of-tune piano that had been donated to the school by a local church in Belize. Some of the keys didn’t work, but the children didn’t seem to notice when they sang along and sometimes danced whenever she played an upbeat, lively tune.

“Do you have any other favorites?” Preston asked.

“Liszt, Vivaldi and Dvorak, to name a few.”

“Ah, the Romantics.”

“What’s wrong with being a Romantic?” Chandra knew she came off sounding defensive, yet she was past caring. As soon as she retrieved her things, she would be on her way.

“Nothing.”

“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 Denise Eaton. Chandra decided she would wait until she heard from her cousin before she agreed to meet Preston again.