Sweet Dreams (15 page)

“I’m also going to e-mail my contract. Have your attorney look it over. If you agree with the terms, then send it ASAP.”

“Okay. Either I’ll speak to you tonight or tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Chandra.”

“You’re welcome, Ms. Lang.”

Chandra ended the call, staring at the images on the computer monitor. If anyone would’ve told her that she was going to marry Preston Tucker after a seven-week whirlwind romance, she would’ve thought them either certifiably crazy, or at best delusional. Well, the joke was on her, because she
was
going to marry Preston and at present the only question was—where.

She pulled up a map for South Carolina. Preston’s mother and sister, who lived in Charleston, were only a few miles from Isle of Palms. East of Charleston and across the Cooper River bridge was the town of Mount Pleasant. Driving east on the bridge would take them to Sullivan’s Island and the Isle of Palms.

If
she and Preston decided to marry on the sea island, their guests could come days before the ceremony and tour the Carolina low country. For some it could serve as an unforeseen vacation filled with centuries of history waiting to be explored.

The beginnings of a smile softened Chandra’s mouth when she stared at the ring on her left hand. She’d reached a decision. She was going to have a low-country wedding.

Preston could not believe the man sitting next to him was his fraternity brother. Clifford Jessup had literally blown up his cell phone when he’d left eleven voice mail messages that he
had
to meet with him. When Preston finally returned the call, he agreed to meet Clifford for dinner. His former agent had asked that he pick him up at a motel in an extremely undesirable part of the city.

“What the hell happened to you?” The question had come out before Preston was able to censor himself. Tall, slender, dark, handsome and always fastidiously
groomed, Cliff’s suit looked as if he’d slept in it, and with his bearded face and shaggy hair he could’ve easily passed for a homeless person.

Cliff doffed an imaginary hat. “And, good evening to you, too.”

Preston’s temper flared. “Either you dial down the sarcastic bull, or get the hell out of my car.”

Clifford’s face crumbled like an accordion. “Look, P.J., I’m sorry.”

“Even if you’re not sorry, you’re a sorry-looking sight. What’s up with you?” Preston’s tone had softened considerably.

“Can we go someplace and get something to eat?”

“Sure. But there aren’t too many places we can go with you looking like one of Philly’s homeless.”

Running his hand over the sleeve of his suit jacket, Cliff attempted to smooth out the wrinkles. “It is a little wrinkled.”

Preston wanted to tell him it was past wrinkled. Shifting into gear, he backed out of the parking lot of the transient establishment known for its rapid turnover of
guests.

“There’s a diner not too far from here where we can eat.”

Slumping down in the leather seat, Cliff closed his eyes. “That sounds good.”

Preston gave his passenger a quick glance. He drove down a street where most of the streetlights were out, and probably had been out for weeks. If no one called the city to report the outages, then they probably would remain out indefinitely.

What Preston wanted to know was why Clifford was hanging out in a neighborhood with one of the highest crime rates in the City of Brotherly Love instead of at
home with his lovely wife and two beautiful children. He arrived at the diner, maneuvering into the last space between two police cruisers.

They walked into the diner and were shown to a booth in the rear. Cliff requested coffee even before he sat down. Music blared from speakers throughout the twenty-four-hour dining establishment, while flat-screen TVs were turned on, but muted. Preston stared at the closed caption on a channel tuned to CNN.

A waitress brought Cliff his coffee, then took their food order. Preston ordered grilled sole, a baked potato and spinach without reading the extensive menu. Cliff ordered scrambled eggs, grits, bacon, home fries and toast.

Waiting until his former agent downed his second cup of coffee, Preston said, “Why all the 9–1-1 calls?”

Cliff ran a hand over his bearded face. “I need you to talk to Jackie.”

Preston leaned forward. “You want me to talk to your wife?” Cliff nodded. “Why?”

“Because I know she’ll listen to you, P.J.”

“Why would
your
wife listen to me, Cliff?”

“Because she likes you.”

“And I like her,” Preston countered. He continued to stare at the man whom he had regarded as a brother, a brother that went beyond their belonging to the same fraternity.

“I guess you can say I messed up—big-time—and Jackie told me I couldn’t stay in the house.”

“Is she talking divorce?”

“No.”

“It was a woman.” Cliff nodded, while Preston shook his head. He couldn’t understand why men cheated on their wives. “Does Jackie know who she is?”

“You could say that.”

Preston exhaled an audible breath. “I didn’t drive all the way over here to play cat and mouse with you when I could be home with my fiancée.”

Cliff closed and opened his eyes and gave his fraternity brother an incredulous stare. “You’re getting married?”

Preston smiled for the first time. “Yes. Chandra and I will tie the knot over the Thanksgiving weekend.”

“That soon?”

“It’s not soon enough for me.” He waved a hand. “We’re here to talk about you, not me, Brother Jessup.”

Cliff smiled. Preston calling him brother was a reminder that although they no longer had a business relationship they were still connected. “Do you remember Kym Hudson?”

Grabbing his forehead, Preston swallowed a savage expletive. He couldn’t believe Cliff had mentioned her name. The buxom coed slept her way through their fraternity like a virulent plague. Preston was one of a very few who’d refused to feed her voracious sexual appetite.

“Who could forget Kym the Nymph?” He dropped his hand. “Don’t tell me you started up with her again?”

Cliff took a deep swallow of the strong black coffee. “Yeah, and Jackie found out.”

“How did she find out?”

“Kym told her.”

Preston wanted to reach across the table and grab Cliff by the throat. “You’re an asshole! If you’re going to cheat on your wife, why do it with someone she knows? I don’t blame her for kicking your butt out.”

“But—it was only once.”

“‘It was only once,’” Preston mimicked in falsetto. “You expect Jackie to believe that?”

“But it’s true. I only did it because I was curious as to whether she was still
that
good, P.J.” Cliff chuckled. “The joke was on me, because she wasn’t good at all. All that fake moaning and screaming my name turned my stomach. Meanwhile, I risked losing my wife and children because I couldn’t forget some adolescent fantasy.”

“I can’t talk to Jackie.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a writer, not a psychologist or marriage counselor. You have to tell her you want to save your marriage, and if it means going into counseling, then you do it. Meanwhile, if you need a place to live, then you can stay with me at the condo until you get your life back on track.”

Cliff stared into his coffee mug. “Thanks, man.”

“Did you tell Jackie that you’re no longer my agent?”

“No.”

“Good. Don’t tell her. I’m going to send you and Jackie an invitation to my wedding. Let’s hope she’ll contact you to ask whether you’re attending. Tell her you’re going to be my best man.”

“Am I going to be your best man?”

“Please shut up and let me finish. As my best man you won’t be seated together, but at least you’ll get to see her. And, knowing Jackie, I doubt whether she’d make a scene.”

Cliff scratched his bearded face. Guilt and anxiety had caused him to lose Preston as a client, but nothing could breach the bond they’d taken as fraternity brothers. “Thanks, Brother Tucker.”

Preston affected a stern expression. “The first thing you’re going to do when we get back to my place is shave and shower because I don’t need an infestation of lice or fleas.”

Cliff’s teeth shone whitely against his beard. “That’s cold, Brother Tucker.”

“No, Brother Jessup. That’s the deal, or you can continue to live in that turnstile of a cathouse.”

C
handra peered into the adjustable mirror at the back of her wedding gown while the dressmaker tightened the fabric under her armpit, pinning it.

“I’m glad you’re getting married in a couple of days, because if not, then I’d have to take your gown in again.”

She wanted to tell the talented dressmaker that it was only the second time she’d altered the one-of-a-kind creation. While she was certain that she’d had at least three minor mental breakdowns, her wedding planner was her fairy godmother.

Zoë Lang had arranged for her and Preston to come to Isle of Palms to see the properties where their guests would be housed. She’d mailed off the invitations, monitored the responses by telephone or e-mail, hired local floral and wedding cake designers, DJ and photographer. She and Preston spent two days in
Charleston getting acquainted with her future in-laws. Rose Tucker offered her knowledge of regional lore and cuisine when they sat down to plan the menu and decorations.

Chandra was effusive in her thanks when the wedding planner suggested getting married in the South. After an unusually warm autumn, winter had put in an early appearance in the Northeast. Less than a week into the month of November, Philadelphia had more than eight inches of snowfall.

Many of the guests, looking to take advantage of an impromptu vacation, had elected to arrive early and sign up for the many historic tours in and around Charleston.

“Are you certain it’s not too tight?” With the strapless, beaded bodice with an Empire-waist and narrow skirt and bolero-style beaded jacket, Chandra looked as if she’d stepped off the pages of a Jane Austen novel. She had become Josette Fouché in every sense of the word.

Irena Farrow narrowed her eyes. “It’s perfect—that is if you don’t lose another pound between now and Friday.”

“I promise you I won’t.”

“That’s what you said last week.”

“I had cramps last week, so all I had was tea and soup.”

Irena smiled, her bright blue eyes sparkling like precious jewels. “I used to have cramps so bad that I had to take to my bed for the first two days. But, after I had my Seth they stopped.”

Chandra wanted to wait for at least six months before she and Preston started trying for a baby. She’d been hired as a substitute teacher and had to cover a third-
grade class for two days since her hire. Substituting fit in perfectly with her current lifestyle. There would be no way she’d be able to plan a wedding with three weeks’ notice if she’d had the daily responsibility of her own class.

She felt like a traitor when she told Denise that she would have to give up the co-op once she married Preston. Denise was totally unaffected by the abrupt change in plans because she knew someone looking to rent or sublet a one-bedroom in a nice Philadelphia neighborhood.

Denise had agreed to become a bridal attendant, along with Sabrina and Layla Rice. Belinda, who’d only gained two pounds, was to be her matron of honor. Preston had selected a fraternity brother to be his best man, and Griffin, Myles and his brother-in-law as his groomsmen.

She knew the Eatons and Rices would outnumber the Tuckers two-to-one, but holding the wedding in South Carolina seemed the likely compromise. Barring a tropical storm, Zoë planned a beachfront ceremony and reception under a tent. The ceremony was planned for ten in the morning, followed by brunch. Later that afternoon a six-course dinner would be served. The evening would end with dancing and music supplied by a live band and DJ.

Irena undid the hooks on the back of the gown. “You can get dressed while I alter this. Then you can take it with you.”

Chandra’s attendants had picked up their dresses the week before. In keeping with an autumnal theme, they would wear slip-style street length dresses in a burnt orange. The color would be repeated in the groomsmen’s vests.

She’d borrowed Preston’s SUV rather than take a taxi to the dressmaker, while he’d hired a driver to take him to Paoli to meet with Griffin. The aborted meeting with the movie studio executives had been rescheduled with Griffin standing in as Preston’s agent.

Irena had sewn the dress and put it in a box filled with tissue paper by the time Chandra had put back on her street clothes. “Take it out of the box and hang it in the garment bag I gave you. Thankfully the wrinkles fall out once it hangs for a few hours.” She hugged and kissed Chandra’s cheek. “Good luck, darling. You’re going to be an exquisite bride.”

Chandra returned the hug. “Thank you.”

“Don’t forget to send me a picture of you and your husband so I can brag that Preston Tucker’s wife wore an Irena gown.”

“Once they’re developed I’ll personally bring you one,” Chandra promised.

Walking to the rear of the shop, she made her way to the parking lot. Late-morning traffic was light and she made it back to the condo in record time. She parked in the underground garage and took the elevator to the eighteenth floor. Once inside, she took the dress out of the box, storing it in the back of a closet in the smaller of the three second-floor bedrooms.

Skipping down the staircase, Chandra went into the kitchen to gather the ingredients for dinner. She and Preston shared cooking duties, but it was always a special treat whenever he cooked. After brewing a cup of chocolate from the single-cup coffee machine, she made her way to the home/office to use the computer. Denise had begun sending her e-mails every day about things she should do before getting married. Some of
them were so hilarious that she laughed until tears rolled down her face.

However, it wasn’t Denise’s e-mail that garnered her attention, but a draft of
Death’s Kiss.
Picking up the unbound pages of the play, she sat on the chaise and began reading.

The hands on her watch had made two revolutions when she turned down the last page. Chandra hadn’t realized her hands were shaking uncontrollably until she attempted to gather the pages into a neat pile.

“What are you doing?”

Rising on shaky legs, she saw Preston standing in the doorway. Her shock and rage gave way to a calmness that was scary. A brittle smile hardened her gaze. “I was reading
Death’s Kiss
.”

He walked into the office. “I didn’t want you to read it now. It’s only the first draft.”

Reaching for the pages, Chandra handed them to him when she wanted to throw them in his face. “Why didn’t you tell me, Preston?”

Tapping the pages on the surface of the desk, Preston stacked them neatly, then bound them with a wide rubber band. “Tell you what?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you’ve read my journal?”

Preston affected a sheepish grin. “I was going to tell you.”

“When?” she screamed. “When were you going to tell me that you were using me for your own selfish literary pursuits.”

His expression changed, becoming a mask of stone. “That’s not true, and you know it.”

“What I do know is you used my dreams to write your next masterpiece. How do you know I didn’t copyright
my journals? Then what you’ve lifted would be deemed plagiarism.”

Preston’s hands gripped her shoulders, not permitting movement. “Stop it, Chandra.”

“I will not stop until I get the hell out of here and away from you.”

“No, you’re not. You’re going to stand here and listen to me.”

“I don’t want to hear more lies, Preston. I asked you over and over if I could trust you, and you swore I could. Every time we pretended we were Josette and Pascual you must have been laughing at me. Poor little Chandra. She was so taken with the brilliant playwright that she sold herself for a book of dreams. I—”

“Enough!”

She recoiled as if she’d been struck across the face. It was the first time Preston had ever raised his voice to her. Not even her father had raised his voice when speaking to her.

“No, you didn’t yell at me.”

Preston tightened his hold on Chandra’s shoulders when she narrowed her eyes at him. She looked like a cat ready to come at him with fangs and claws.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’d cut off my right arm rather than yell at you.”

“Start cutting, because you did,” she spat out.

“Chandra, baby, please let me say something.” He felt her shoulders relax. Gathering her to his chest, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I was going to tell you once the play was sent to the Library of Congress for a copyright.” He released her, walked over to the desk and returned with a single sheet of paper and handed it to her.

Chandra felt her knees buckle as she inched over
to sit on the chaise. She read what he’d typed three times before the realization hit her: A Play in Three Acts written by C. E. and P. J. Tucker. He’d included her as the coauthor of
Death’s Kiss.

“Why did you put my name first?” she whispered.

Going to a knee, Preston cradled the back of her head. “Don’t you know you come first in my life? I love you, baby. I’d love you even if I never read a word in your journal.”

“But you did read it and didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t want to embarrass you, Chandra, because you’d have to explain if you’d slept with the man in your dreams or if he was an imaginary person you’d conjured up to assuage your sexual frustration.”

Chandra demurely lowered her eyes. “It was the latter.”

“All I can say is you have a helluva imagination.”

She pressed her forehead to his. “What you read is tame. I have three other volumes and most of them are X-rated.”

“What I read was X-rated.”

“Then double and triple X-rated.”

“Dam-n-n. Don’t tell me I’m marrying a freak!”

Chandra swatted at him, but missed his head when he ducked. “I’ll freak you.”

Easing her off the chaise, Preston pressed her down to the floor. “I just happen to like freaks. The freakier the better.”

She smiled up at the man she didn’t want to trust, and the one with whom she’d fallen inexorably in love. “I’m kind of partial to freaks, too. What do you say we get our freak on before we fly down to Isle of Palms tomorrow.”

Chandra would stay in the villa with eighteen other
Eatons and Rices. Preston would live in another villa a thousand feet away with his close friends and relatives. A third villa would accommodate an overflow of friends and family.

She and Preston would remain on the island until Sunday afternoon when they’d fly down to St. Barts for a two-week honeymoon before returning to Philadelphia.

“I’m game if you are,” Preston agreed, “but only if you’re on top.”

“Let’s do it, P.J.”

Pushing to his feet, Preston swept Chandra off the floor, carried her out of the office and up the staircase to the master bedroom. He took his time undressing her, then himself. There was no need to rush because they had the rest of their lives to live out their sweet dreams.

The weather on Isle of Palms was perfect for an outdoor wedding. A cooling breeze off the river offset the heat of the sun on the bared skin of those who’d come as couples and in groups all week to the sea island to relax and take in the history of the low country.

Pumpkins, stalks of corn and decorative sweetgrass baskets lined the beach as bridesmaids and groomsmen lined the double staircase leading to the two story villa flanked by palmetto trees.

Preston Tucker stood at the foot of the staircases. He was waiting for Dr. Dwight Eaton to escort his daughter through the open French doors. The familiar strains of the “Wedding March” caught everyone’s attention, and those sitting under the tent stood up. A lump formed in his throat, he finding it difficult to swallow.

Carrying a bouquet of yellow chrysanthemums,
orange blossoms, yellow and orange sunflowers, Chandra carefully navigated the orange runner, the toes of her white satin ballet-type slippers peeking from under the hem of her gown. A light breeze lifted the chapel veil attached to the crown of her head with a jeweled comb.

A minister stood ready to begin officiating. “Who gives this woman in this most sacred rite of matrimony?”

Dwight Eaton appeared to have grown an inch when he pulled back his shoulders. “I do.”

It was the second time within four months that he would give away a daughter in marriage, and the third in which he’d witnessed the wedding of his children. All of his surviving children were married, and he and Roberta were looking forward to many more grandchildren.

Chandra smiled at her father. “I love you, Daddy.”

He winked at her. “Be happy, baby girl.”

She nodded. “I will.”

The wedding party descended the staircases to stand opposite one another alongside the carpet when Dwight placed Chandra’s hand on Preston’s outstretched one.

Chandra focused on the orange blossom boutonniere rather than his face because she didn’t want to cry and ruin her makeup. Earlier that morning he’d sent Clifford Jessup to give her a gift. When she’d unwrapped the small package it was to find a pair Cartier South Sea pearls with yellow oval diamonds. The attached card read:

She glanced up through her lashes to see him staring
at her lobes. She’d worn the earrings. A smile trembled over her lips. “I will love you forever.”

Preston lowered his head, lightly touching her mouth with his. “Thank you, darling.”

The minister cleared his throat as a ripple of laughter came from the assembled. “The groom usually kisses his bride
after
I pronounce them husband and wife.”

“Sorry about that.”

The minister straightened his tie under his black robe. “Let’s get started, so you can get to kiss your wife instead of your bride.”

“I’m ready,” Preston said softly.

And he was ready to love and live out all the sweet dreams his wife recorded in her journals.

An exchange of vows, followed by an exchange of rings and they were now husband and wife.

When Chandra Eaton came home she’d planned to stay. What she hadn’t planned on was becoming Mrs. Chandra Eaton-Tucker, wife of celebrated playwright Preston Tucker.

Life was not only good.

It was sweet.