Always an Eaton: Sweet Dreams

“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 the opening he needed to delve into her dreams without letting her know he’d read and committed to memory what she’d written in the journal he’d found.

“What would keep you from sleeping?” he asked.

“It’s usually anxiety or a very overactive imagination.”

“What do you have to be anxious about, Chandra?”

She exhaled an audible sigh. “A couple of weeks before I was scheduled to leave for Belize, I discovered I couldn’t sleep. I’d go to bed totally exhausted, but couldn’t sleep more than one or two hours. My dad, who is a doctor, offered to write a scrip for a sedative, but I refused because I didn’t want to rely on a controlled substance that could possibly lead to dependency.

“I was losing weight and when I ran into a friend from college I told her about my problem. She was on her way to a yoga class so I went along just to observe. I joined the class the following day, and also signed up for tai chi.”

“How long did it take for you to get rid of your insomnia?”

Chandra stared at the vivid color on her toes. “It took about two weeks. By the time I’d arrived in Belize I was sleeping soundly, but then something else happened.”

Lowering his head, Preston pressed his nose to her hair, inhaling the sweet fragrance. “What happened?”

The seconds ticked, bringing with them a comfortable silence. “I began dreaming.”

The admission came from a place Chandra hadn’t known existed. Her dreams were a secret—a secret she never planned to divulge to anyone. She’d recorded her dreams in journals, believing she would one day reread them. She’d thought about publishing them under a pseudonym, because some of them were more than sensual. They were downright erotic.

“Were they dreams or nightmares?”

“Oh, they were dreams.”

Preston smiled. Her dreams had become his nightmares because they’d kept him from a restful night’s sleep. “How often did you dream?”

“I had them on average of two to three a week.”

“Whenever I dream I usually don’t remember what they were,” Preston admitted.

“It’s different with me,” Chandra said. “Not only do I remember, but they were so vivid that I was able to write them down.”

“What do you think triggered your dreams?”

“I don’t know, Preston.”

“Are your dreams different, or all along the same train of thought?”

Chandra didn’t know how much more she could divulge about her dreams before Preston realized that she was sexually frustrated, that it had been years since she’d slept with a man. And she didn’t need a therapist to tell her that she’d used her dreams to act out her sexual fantasies.

“They were the same,” she finally admitted.

“That sounds boring, C.E.”

She rolled her eyes. “My dreams were hardly boring, P.J.”

“Do you want to tell me about them?” Preston whispered in her ear.