Chandra and Zabrina helped Belinda put away food, while Griffin cleaned up the outdoor kitchen. Griffin’s parents, although divorced, had remained friends. They left after dinner because Gloria had tickets to attend a breakfast fundraiser at a local chapter of the NAACP. Myles and his family and the elder Eatons planned to stay overnight with Griffin and Belinda.
The young adults sat off in a corner playing board games, while their parents, grandparents, aunt and uncle lay sprawled on loungers talking quietly to the one closest to them. Leaning back on her palms, Chandra splashed her bare feet in the warm pool water. Preston sat beside her, arms clasped around his knees, flexing his bare feet.
“I talked to Griffin.”
She stared at his distinctive profile. “What did he say?”
Preston swung his head around to look at Chandra. “He’s agreed to represent me.” He winked at her. “I owe you, C.E.”
“No, you don’t, P.J.”
“Yes, I do,” he crooned. “I’ll have to think of something to show my gratitude.”
“I’ll take a thank-you.”
“I will thank you—but in my own way.”
Her gaze dropped to his mouth, lingering on the tuft of hair under his lip. “Are you going to give me a hint of what I can expect?”
“No. I want it to be a surprise. Let me know when you’re ready to leave.”
Chandra withdrew her feet from the water. “I’m ready whenever you are.” Pushing to his feet, Preston reached down and pulled her up. They had to drive back to Philadelphia before heading to Kennett Square.
She walked over to her parents, leaning over to give each a kiss. “We’re leaving now.”
Roberta placed a hand alongside her daughter’s cheek. “Get home safely. Dwight and I like your young man.”
She wanted to tell Roberta that Preston wasn’t her young man. He was her friend. “I like him, too, Mama.”
“I’ll like him as long as he’s good to my baby girl,” Dwight drawled, deadpan.
“Daddy!”
Roberta swiped at her husband. “Stop teasing the child.”
I’m not a child, Chandra mused. She supposed it was hard for family members not to regard her as the baby of the family, when in reality she’d been the most adventuresome.
“Good night,” she said in singsong.
Chandra said her goodbyes, promising Denise she would drive down to D.C. to spend time with her, then hugged and kissed her brother and Zabrina, then Xavier. Belinda and Griffin walked her and Preston to the car, lingering long enough to program dates into their cell phones when they would get together again.
“If you guys want a night on the town, then you can stay over at my place in the city. You can bring your daughters and I’ll arrange for a sitter to watch them.”
“They can always stay with my parents,” Belinda suggested.
“Or my mother,” Griffin added.
Chandra smiled. “I guess that means we’ll have grown-folk night.”
Belinda rested her head on Griffin’s shoulder. “We’re going to have to get in as many grown-folk outings we can before the baby comes.”
“What baby?” Chandra asked, her eyes narrowing.
Griffin smiled at his wife. “We found out yesterday that we’re going to have a baby. Lindy and I decided not to say anything until the family gets together again for Thanksgiving. We’re telling you, because we want you to be godmother to our son or daughter.”
Chandra pantomimed zipping her lips. “I won’t say anything, and I’m honored that you’ve asked me to be godmother.” Now she knew why Belinda hadn’t drunk anything alcoholic with her meal. “Congratulations to both of you.”
After another round of hugs and kisses, Preston assisted Chandra as she slipped into the car. He got in beside her, started the engine, then maneuvered away from the curb, driving down a quiet street-lined street.
He glanced over at Chandra to discover she’d closed her eyes, her chest rising and falling in a measured rhythm. She’d fallen asleep. He would let her sleep until they reached Philadelphia. Once there, he would retrieve his car from the garage. It would be midnight, barring traffic delays, before they reached Kennett Square.
Chapter 9
Chandra didn’t know what to expect when Preston said he had a place in the country. But it certainly was not the sprawling stone farmhouse that reminded her of the English countryside. When she got out of Preston’s SUV, she half expected to see grazing sheep.
She stood on the front steps leading to the one-story home, staring out into the autumn night. A near-full moon silvered the countryside. “How long have you lived here?”
Preston moved closer, pulling her against his length. “I moved in six years ago. I used to drive through the Brandywine Valley after I got my driver’s license, telling myself if I studied and worked hard I would be able to buy property here.”
“Your dream came true.” Chandra’s voice was soft and filled with a strange longing she couldn’t disguise.
Preston pressed his mouth to her hair. “What about you? What do you dream about?”
She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation that came from the solid body molded to hers. How could she tell Preston of her dreams—dreams that were so erotic that when she woke she could still feel the aftermath of a climax, leaving her completely sated.
After the first few dreams Chandra had told herself she was going through withdrawal, and that her body craved the physical fulfillment she’d had with Laurence. But when the dreams continued she realized something else had triggered them—something more than a physical need. If she’d been in the States, there was no doubt she would’ve sought out a professional therapist to identify the reason why her dreams were solely erotic in nature. They’d gone beyond filling a sexual void. They had become a sexual obsession.
“My dreams aren’t the same as a wish list.”
“Can you tell me what’s on your wish list?”
Peering up at Preston over her shoulder, Chandra tried making out his expression in the moonlight. Only half his face was visible, and there was something about how the shadows struck his features that reminded her of book covers on paranormal novels. They weren’t Preston and Chandra in present Pennsylvania, but Pascual and Josette in early nineteenth-century New Orleans, where he’d come to her under the cover of darkness to make the most incredible love imaginable. The fleeting image of Preston making love to her was one she wanted to be real.
Discussing Preston with Denise had helped her rethink her relationship with him. They were friends and were collaborating on writing a play, yet there was sexual attraction that was palpable whenever they shared the same space. Preston was brilliant, gorgeous and inexorably male. He was perfect. Almost too perfect, and it was the perfection that gave her pause.
“There’s only one thing on Chandra Eaton’s wish list,” she admitted. “And that is to do whatever makes her feel happy and complete.”
Preston stared at the delicate face with eyes that appeared much too wise for someone as young as Chandra. There were times when she stared at him that made him feel as if she knew what he was thinking. Much to his chagrin, most of his thoughts toward her were purely erotic in nature. It was then he chided himself for reading her journal. Perhaps if they’d met on equal footing, then it would’ve given him the opportunity to look past what she’d written.
He’d tried to separate Chandra from the woman who’d written about her dreams, but he couldn’t. There was so much about the woman in his embrace and the one who’d used her imagination to conjure up the most exquisite lover that they were inseparable. What had shocked Preston was that, although each dream was about making love, she’d approached each one differently. It was as if she’d had a different lover every night.
“Are you happy, Chandra?”
The seconds ticked. “I’m at peace, Preston. I don’t feel the need to run away to try and find myself. I’ve come home and I know this time I’ll stay.”
C
handra had talked to Belinda about buying the furniture in her house, and after a good-natured back-and-forth Belinda agreed to accept a price well below what the pieces were worth. Chandra had been adamant when she refused to accept the bedroom, living room and kitchen furniture as a housewarming gift.
“I’m thirty years old, and for the first time in my life I know and like who I am. And it’s taken me this long to accept that I don’t need a man in my life to make me complete.”
“Don’t you want to get married and start a family like your sister?”
Preston knew he had crossed the line with the question, yet he had to know where Chandra stood on the issue if he found himself in too deep. He didn’t know what there was about her, but after spending the afternoon with the Eatons it was as if he’d been struck by a bolt of lightning.
He wanted what they had. He wanted to get together with his mother, his sister and her family, but also for a brief instant he’d imagined having his own wife and children. The Eatons and Rices were representative of most families. They loved one another, but also had their disagreements. What he’d noticed was a fierce loyalty that had extended to the next generation. Layla and Sabrina were as protective of Adam as Griffin was of Belinda.
Chandra pondered Preston’s query. There was a time when she’d planned to marry and hopefully have children, yet that dream had ended when Laurence bowed to pressure from his overbearing parents to end their engagement.
“I suppose I do.”
“Either you do or you don’t, Chandra.”
She stared at the beam of headlights from a car in the distance maneuvering around a winding road in the valley below. “I do. But it can’t be now.”
“Why?”
“I have too many things to do. I’m planning to move into my own place before the beginning of November.”
Preston felt a momentary panic. “Where are you moving to?”
“I’m subletting my cousin’s Penn’s Landing co-op.”
He exhaled a breath. He’d thought she was moving out of the state. “That’s a nice neighborhood.”
“So is Rittenhouse Square,” Chandra countered.
“I was looking for something in Society Hill, but there was nothing on the market at the time.”
“For someone who appears so contemporary, why do you like old neighborhoods?”
Preston chuckled softly. “There’s a certain character in older neighborhoods that I find missing in the ones where all of the buildings are designed like boxes and rectangles. Whether it’s the buildings’ facades, cobblestone streets or century-old trees, in the historic districts they all have a story to tell. The ones that don’t elect to keep their secrets.”
Chandra laughed, the rich sound fading in the eerie stillness of the night. “Spoken like a true writer.”
Preston’s fingers grazed the column of Chandra’s neck. “As much as I would love to hang out here with you, we need to go inside and talk about Death’s Kiss.”
“I’d like to take a shower and change into something more comfortable.”
“I’ll show you to your bedroom, then I’ll bring your bag in.” Preston had waited in the Eatons’ living room while Chandra had gone upstairs to pack a bag. She’d told him that her parents had recently celebrated their forty-second wedding anniversary, and he wondered if his father hadn’t died so young whether his parents would’ve stayed together.
He unlocked the door and walked into the entryway and was met with the subtle scent of fresh roses. The cleaning woman made it a practice of cutting flowers from the garden and arranging them in vases for the entryway and living room.
The flower garden, fireplaces and the house overlooking a valley were what prompted him to purchase the property. The fieldstone house sat on two acres with a copse of trees that provided shade and plenty of firewood. He’d purchased the house several months before he’d proposed marriage to Elaine. His enthusiasm for living in the Brandywine Valley was completely lost on her. She was a city girl who loved living in the city.
“Who arranged the flowers?”
Preston glanced over his shoulder to find Chandra staring at the lush bouquet of late-blooming roses ranging in hues from snow-white to deep purple in a crystal vase resting on a bleached-pine table.
“The woman who comes to dust and vacuum picks them from the garden.” The mother of two, who’d come to him asking to clean his house to supplement her income after her husband ran away with his much-younger secretary, had worked for a florist as a teenager, where she’d learned the art of flower arranging.
“You have a flower garden?”
Reaching for Chandra’s hand, Preston brought it to his mouth, dropping a kiss on her knuckle before tucking it into the crook of his elbow. “You’ll be able to see it tomorrow morning.”
“It’s already tomorrow,” Chandra reminded him with a sly smile.
“And don’t tell me you’re Cinderella, and at the stroke of midnight you turn back into a chambermaid.”
She rolled her eyes upward. “Never happen.”
“Did you ever pretend you were a princess when you were a girl?”
“No. My sisters were princesses only because I always insisted on being the queen.”
Preston’s eyebrows lifted. “They were never the queen?”
“No. I always threw a tantrum and Donna and Belinda knew they had to deal with my father if baby girl came to him crying.”
Smiling, he shook his head. “You must have been a hot mess.”
Chandra flashed a Cheshire cat grin. “I used whatever I had at my disposal. Being the baby of the family had its disadvantages, and I did whatever was necessary to shift the odds.”
“Conniving little wench.”
“What…eva,” she drawled.
Preston led her into a living room with a massive brick fireplace that opened out to a dining room. If his Rittenhouse Square condo was ultracontemporary, it was the opposite of the farmhouse in the historic Brandy wine Valley. A sofa and two facing love seats were upholstered with fabric stamped with flowers, ferns and vines. A coffee table in antique cherry was big enough to double as a place for an informal tea party. Plank cherrywood floors were covered with area rugs that complemented the furnishings. Roses on mochaccino wallpaper and a collection of green crockery and majolica in the dining room evoked the feeling of a Victorian period piece.
“Who decorated your house?” Every piece of furniture and accessories were chosen with the utmost care and consideration.
“My mother.”
“She has impeccable taste.” Rose Tucker’s knowledge of historic preservation was apparent when each item conformed to the design of the updated eighteenth-century farmhouse.
“I’ll let her know you said so. This will be your bedroom.” Preston stepped aside to let Chandra enter a room with a connecting door to his bedroom. “Mine is through that door.” He pointed to a carved mahogany door on the left. “The door on the right is your bathroom.”
“Lovely.” The single word slipped unbidden between her lips.
Sheltered beneath eaves that reminded her of an attic, Chandra looked at the queen-size bed covered with a quilt pieced with geometric patterns in a mix of plaids, stripes and paisleys. A mound of pillows in soft shades of coffee and cream were nestled against a wrought-iron headboard. An upholstered club chair in a faint brown-and-white pinstripe cradled an off-white chenille throw. She couldn’t stop the smile spreading across her face. The charming bedroom had a window seat where one could curl up to read, relax or just stare out the window.
“It reminds me of my bedroom when I was a girl. I grew up in a farmhouse outside Philly,” she explained when Preston gave her a questioning look. “My mother never had to go looking for us, because we always played around the house. The best thing about growing up in the suburbs was having a pet. We had dogs, cats, birds, rabbits and baby chicks. But, when the rabbits started multiplying and the chickens grew into hens or roosters, we had to give them away.”
/> Cradling her face, Preston pressed a kiss to Chandra’s forehead. “So, you like living in the country?”
She smiled. “I prefer it to the city. Waking up not hearing car horns or sirens from emergency vehicles alleviates more than fifty percent of one’s stress. Which do you prefer? The city or the country?”
“The country.”
“Why, then, do you have a place in the city?”
“That’s where I entertain and conduct business. I plot at the apartment, but this is where I write because of the natural light.” He kissed her again. “Let me get your bag. Knock on my door whenever you’re ready.”
Chandra stood up in the tub, reaching for a fluffy towel on a stack on a nearby stool. She’d lingered in the bathtub longer than she’d planned because soaking in a tub had become not only a luxury but also a privilege. When she’d entered the bathroom she felt as if she’d stepped back in time. Twin pedestal sinks and a slipper tub harkened back to another century.
The clock on a shelf chimed the hour. It was one o’clock. If she hadn’t napped in the car during the ride from Paoli to Philly, there was no doubt she wouldn’t have been able to keep her eyes open. Patting the moisture from her body, Chandra stepped out onto a thirsty shag bathmat and moisturized her body with a scented crème before retreating to the bedroom and pulling on a pair of black-and-white-striped cotton lounging pants with a white tank top. Walking on bare feet, she knocked lightly on the connecting door.
She knocked again, listening for movement on the other side. “Preston.” Waiting a full minute, she knocked again. “Preston, please open the door.” Again, there was no answer, and Chandra placed her hand on the doorknob, turning it slowly.
Pushing open the door, she stuck her head in. A lamp on a bedside table was turned to its lowest setting, casting a soft glow over the expansive space. A smile replaced her expression of uncertainty when she saw Preston sprawled on a king-size bed. He’d changed out of his suit and into a pair of drawstring white cotton pajama pants.
Sweet Dreams Page 10
