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 was illegal to teach blacks to read and write in the States. She doesn’t believe in plaçage, wants to choose her own husband, and her opposition results in conflict because her mother has promised her to the son of one of the largest landowners in the region. Within minutes of the opening act...”
Preston’s words trailed off when he saw that Chandra had closed her eyes, while her chest rose and fell in an even rhythm. “Chandra,” he said softly, “did you fall asleep on me?”
“No. I was listening to you. Champagne always makes me drowsy.”
“We can stop now if you want to.”
Chandra smiled, but didn’t open her eyes. “Do you mind if we don’t move?”
Shifting slightly, he settled her into a more comfortable position. “We can stay here all night if you want.”
She opened her eyes. “No, Preston. I’m not ready to sleep with you.”
Preston twirled several strands of her hair around his finger. “I wasn’t suggesting we sleep together. The bedrooms on the second floor are for my guests.”
“Where do you sleep?” Chandra asked quickly, hoping to cover up her faux pas. Preston had kissed her twice and she’d assumed that he wanted to sleep with her. If she could have, at that moment she would’ve willed herself totally invisible.
“Here on the chaise. The sofa converts into a bed, but half the time I end up sleeping on it instead of in it.”
“I hope you have a chiropractor.” Preston’s height exceeded the length of the sofa by several inches.
“I happen to have one on speed dial. Sitting for hours in front of a computer takes a toll on the neck, back and shoulders.”
“You should practice yoga or tai chi,” Chandra suggested. “I find it works wonders whenever I have trouble sleeping.”
Preston was hard-pressed not to smile. Chandra had just given him
