Magnolia Drive

by Rochelle Alers

  Once he’d found the perfect property on Cavanaugh Island, he knew this time he intended to stay. Keaton had arranged a proxy purchase of a twelve-acre lot with an abandoned farmhouse because he’d been unable to leave Los Angeles. He was involved in wrapping an independent film that was already well over the initial budget and it was important that he remain on the West Coast to complete the project. He planned to live in the renovated farmhouse and utilize ten of the twelve acres to build a studio and soundstage for Grace Lowcountry Productions. Thankfully Sanctuary Cove’s zoning laws did not have the restrictions he’d encountered on many of the other islands.

  Living at the Cove Inn suited Keaton’s daily needs. His furnished suite had a private bath, minibar, TV, and radio, and his laundry was done on the premises. He’d had little contact with the other boarders because he coveted his time. Relocating from Los Angeles to the small island off the coast of South Carolina was definitely a culture shock. He didn’t have to deal with traffic jams, bright lights, smog, and wailing sirens. And then there was nightlife. It was virtually nonexistent. The exception was the Happy Hour, a nightclub in Haven Creek. The quietness and slower pace were things he hadn’t known before and had come to look forward to. It was as if everything around him was slower, serene, and at times it appeared surreal.

  Pulling on a bright yellow slicker over his sweatshirt and jeans, he picked up his keys and left the suite, closing the self-locking door behind him. Taking the back staircase, Keaton walked to the parking area. The cars and SUVs in the lot bore license plates from as far away as Michigan. His BMW sedan with Pennsylvania plates was parked between two minivans from Illinois.

  Snowbirds. He’d discovered many of those at the boardinghouse were spending their winter in South Carolina to escape the snow and frigid northern temperatures. If they thought him a snowbird Keaton wasn’t about to correct their perception. He’d come from L.A. to Sanctuary Cove via New York and Pittsburgh, which many of his family members still called home. In his heart he was still a son of the Steel City and a rabid Steelers’ fan. He’d joked to a reporter during an interview that if stabbed he wouldn’t bleed red but black and gold.

  The rain had slackened to a drizzle and after starting up the engine he turned the wipers to the lowest setting. Although he’d heard some people complain about the incessant rain, he didn’t mind the inclement weather. Keaton discovered years ago that he did his best work with the sound of rain hitting the windows; he’d always found it soothing. It was akin to being in a cocoon where he was able to shut out reality to escape into a world of his own choosing.

  He’d also noticed there were no posted speed limits, traffic lights, or stop signs on the island, prompting him to drive slower than twenty miles per hour when he saw other motorists driving slowly, as if they didn’t have a care in the world. The adjustment hadn’t been easy after years of zipping along California’s freeways. However, the topography was something he never wanted to get used to. The primordial swamps and forests teeming with indigenous wildlife, ancient oak trees draped in Spanish moss, the fanlike fronds of palmetto trees, the stretch of beach and the ocean were unlike anyplace he’d ever lived. The rain had stopped completely when Keaton entered the business district and maneuvered into an area behind rows of stores that had been set aside for parking.

  Leaving his slicker in the car, he set out on foot for a leisurely walk along Main Street, while glancing into the quaint shops so integral to the viability of everyone living and working in the small town. Shopkeepers were cleaning plate-glass windows and sweeping up the palmetto leaves littering the gutter. Keaton smiled. It was as if the island were waking up from a weeklong slumber. He noticed the woman in the Parlor Bookstore placing a sign in the window indicating a 15 percent discount on best sellers, and a couple of doors down a man in the Muffin Corner was filling a showcase with trays of muffins and doughnuts. His stroll ended when he pushed open the beveled glass door to the Beauty Box.

  When he saw the woman at the reception desk, a line from one of his favorite films popped into his head: Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine. But he wasn’t the Humphrey Bogart character referring to Ingrid Bergman, and the Beauty Box wasn’t Rick’s Café from Casablanca. What were the odds he would walk into a hair salon in a town on a remote sea island and come face-to-face with Francine Tanner?

  Dark red curly hair framed a face he could never forget. The last time he’d seen her she’d been on an off-Broadway stage basking in thunderous applause as she took an infinite number of curtain calls. He’d been living in New York City, working as a scriptwriter for an Emmy Award–winning daytime drama, while completing a graduate degree in theater at New York University. When not working or studying he’d spent all of his free time going to Broadway and off-Broadway plays or catering parties.

  When he went to see the play in which she’d played one of the lead characters, Keaton had sat close enough to the stage to see the vibrant color of her emerald-green eyes. He knew it was rude, but he couldn’t pull his gaze away from her beautiful face. What, he mused, was she doing in Sanctuary Cove? And why was she working in a hair salon?

  “May I help you, sir?”

  Her beautifully modulated voice, with traces of a Southern drawl, shattered Keaton’s reverie. “I don’t have an appointment, but I’d like a haircut and a shave.”

  Francine smiled. “You don’t need an appointment. Please, Mr.…”

  “It’s just Keaton,” he supplied.

  “Mr. Keaton, please have a seat in the second chair.”

  “No. Keaton’s the first name,” he corrected in a quiet voice.

  He sat where she’d directed him, the salon’s sleek black-and-white color scheme reminding him of the upscale establishments in tony New York and L.A. neighborhoods. The mirrored walls, track lighting, white marble floor, and soft jazz were sophisticated as well as inviting. Keaton’s eyes met Francine’s in the mirror when she draped a black cape around his neck and over his shoulders and chest. The scent of her intoxicating perfume wafted to his nostrils, and he thought the scent perfect for her.

  “How short do you want it?” she asked, running a wide-tooth comb through tightly curling hair sprinkled with flecks of gray.

  Keaton couldn’t stop the smile finding its way over his features. “I want it cropped close to my scalp.”

  Francine rested her hands on his shoulders over the cape. “I’m going analyze a few strands before I cut it. After the cut I’ll wash your hair and condition your scalp because it looks a little dry. I’d like to warn you that you’ll have to sit with a plastic cap on your head while I shave you. Do you have a problem with that?”

  Smiling and exhibiting a mouth filled with straight white teeth, Keaton shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  A slight flush suffused Francine’s face. “I said that because there are some men who don’t want to be seen sitting in a salon wearing a plastic cap.”

  He smothered a chuckle. “I’m not one of those men.” And he wasn’t. If there were two things Keaton was secure about it was his masculinity and his work.

  Settling back in the chair, he succumbed to the touch of the woman who had him intrigued the second he recognized her. Rather than stare at her, he closed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest under the cape. Keaton remembered Francine’s performance in the off-Broadway play Sisters; he had been profoundly disappointed when she hadn’t been nominated for an Obie. Years later he’d recalled her acting ability when he wrote a script with her in mind. He contacted her agent, who told him she’d left the business. The news stunned Keaton, because he didn’t want to believe someone of her incomparable talent would walk away from a career to which she’d been born. He opened his eyes when someone tapped his shoulder.

  “You’re new around here, aren’t you?”

  Keaton stared at an elderly woman with white hair set on a profusion of tiny multicolored plastic rollers. She stared back at him over a pair of half-glas
ses, dark eyes in an equally dark face narrowing slightly. There was something about her face that reminded him of his grandmother, but knew his prissy relative would never be so forward as to approach a stranger to ask a question without first being introduced.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Are you keeping company with anyone?”

  Francine returned from the back, where she’d analyzed several strands of Keaton’s hair. She knew he wanted it cropped, but she had to cut it short enough for the strands to lay flat. Her steps slowed when she saw Bernice Wagner engaged in conversation with him. She didn’t want Keaton, as a first-time customer, to get the wrong impression about her mother’s establishment. Miss Bernice, a former seamstress, had been an incurable gossip for as long as Francine could remember. There was never a time she came into the salon that Miss Bernice didn’t start up a conversation with someone. And there were a few times when she’d become embroiled in a verbal confrontation and ended it only before it escalated into something short of a physical altercation.

  “Miss Bernice, let me check and see if you’re dry.”

  “There’s no need to check,” the older woman snapped angrily. “I was under that dryer so long it’s a wonder I didn’t smell my hair burning.”

  Affecting a smile she didn’t feel at that moment, Francine counted slowly to five. She loved doing hair, but there were times when the folks who came into the Beauty Box tested her patience and she had to bite her tongue to keep from trading barbs with them.

  “If you’re dry then it’s time for you to be combed out.” She beckoned to Brooke. “Please come and comb out Miss Bernice.”

  “Not her, Red. You know your mother always combs me out,” Miss Bernice said loudly.

  Francine gave her a saccharine smile. “Do you mind if Brooke takes out your rollers?”

  “Yes, I do mind. She can wash my hair, but I draw the line when it comes to setting and combing me out.”

  Cupping her elbow, she led the recalcitrant woman to Mavis’s chair. “Please sit down and my mother will comb you out as soon as she finishes in the back.” Her mother was busy mixing colors for a customer who’d wanted to lighten her hair to conceal the gray.

  “If you say so,” Miss Bernice said loudly. “What I cain’t understand is why Alice Parker thinks she’s going to be a better mayor than Spencer White,” she said loudly when a customer walked in wearing a campaign button. “She and her husband look like dem Ken and Barbie baby dolls. Ain’t dat enough one of dem is a politician?” she asked, lapsing into dialect. “Why cain’t she stay home and raise her babies instead of runnin’ round trying to git votes.”

  “Quit jawing, Bernice,” admonished a woman who’d just sat down to wait for her hair to be blown out. “If it hadn’t been for Congressman Parker we wouldn’t have the newly paved road between the Cove and Landing.”

  Francine agreed, but held her tongue. Before the road was built the residents of Sanctuary Cove had to take the ferry to the causeway, then the rutted, unpaved road connecting Haven Creek to Angels Landing. Few were brave enough to navigate the swamp, quicksand, alligators, and poisonous snakes on foot or in a vehicle, which made travel very difficult.

  Bernice pushed out her lips. “I ain’t saying her husband didn’t do good, but why does she want to pit folks against each other by running agin Mayor White?”

  Francine wanted to tell Miss Bernice that becoming mayor wasn’t the same as being confirmed to the Supreme Court. It wasn’t a lifelong position. And Spencer White had become complacent when it came to a number of issues affecting the Cove. Alice Parker’s decision to challenge him in the upcoming election was certain to light a fire under the popular politician with matinee-idol looks. Alice had come out the front-runner in a special fall election to have her name placed on the ballot in order to oppose the incumbent mayor. Francine thought it would be nice for the Cove to have its first female mayor.

  She managed to ignore her mother’s client, who continued to engage the other customers in conversation as she picked up a pair of clippers and began cutting Keaton’s hair. As a trained actress she’d learned to hide her innermost feelings behind a façade of indifference. Although she wasn’t as blunt or prying as Miss Bernice, she wanted to know what had brought the incredibly handsome man in her chair to Sanctuary Cove.

  The first thing she’d noticed about Keaton when he’d walked in was his height and broad shoulders. She’d estimated he stood several inches above six feet and his sweatshirt and relaxed jeans did little to camouflage a toned, slender body. His dark olive complexion, high cheekbones, lean jaw, and large, deep-set dark brown eyes made for an arresting and unforgettable face. When asked if he was new to the Cove, he’d said yes and Francine wondered if he meant new as in visiting the island or if he’d come to spend the winter.

  Forcing her thoughts back to her task, she cut his hair, clumps falling to the cape around his shoulders and onto the floor. Once Francine had given up her acting career she’d returned to Sanctuary Cove and enrolled in cosmetology school. There weren’t many employment opportunities on the island for a former actress but working with her mother at the Beauty Box had become a perfect fit.

  She passed all of the courses and with a license in hand she worked as a floater at the salon, filling in as a shampoo girl and manicurist. It wasn’t long before she could roller set faster than any of the other stylists, and like her mother, she excelled in cutting all types of hair.

  If she’d felt she was born to act, Francine discovered doing hair was more than a satisfying substitute for what had been a lifelong dream. For as long as she could remember there’d been two barbershops in the Cove, but now there was only one. In order to take in the overflow she decided to go to barber school. The old-timers still frequented the barbershop on the side street between an auto body shop and shoemaker, while many of the younger men frequented the salon. Besides haircuts and hot towel shaves they also requested manicures, pedicures, and eyebrow waxing. Once Mavis opened the day spa, men and women lined up to make appointments for facials and massages. During prom season the Beauty Box offered student specials. There were also packages for brides, grooms, and wedding parties.

  Francine picked up a blow-dryer and blew remaining hair off the cape. “Is it short enough?” His cropped hair lay close to his scalp.

  Keaton’s eyes met hers in the mirror. He nodded. “It’s perfect.”

  “Come with me and someone will shampoo you.”

  “You’re not going to do it?”

  “No. We have a shampoo person.”

  There came a pregnant pause as they stared at each other. “Okay,” he conceded.

  Francine didn’t realize she’d exhaled a breath until Keaton rose to tower above her. She didn’t want a replay with Keaton of what she’d just had with Miss Bernice. Customers who insisted on having one particular stylist do their hair occasionally caused problems when the stylist was either out sick or on vacation. Despite her worry, she couldn’t help her excitement at the possibility of seeing Keaton again. She glanced up at him and realized it wasn’t often that she had to look up at a man. He was a full head taller than she was. Standing five-eight in bare feet, and at least three or four inches taller in heels, made her height somewhat intimidating for some men.

  Even in high school, Francine had been taller than many of the boys. She and Morgan had become best friends because both were tall and had been rail thin. It wasn’t until just before they left the island to attend college that their bodies had begun to fill out. And with her red hair and freckles, Francine had become the brunt of more jokes than she cared to remember. She was Red to everyone but family members and Morgan. She escorted Keaton to the shampoo area, instructing Brooke which shampoo and conditioner to use.

  After his wash and treatment, the next thirty-five minutes were spent with Francine shaving Keaton. She skillfully wielded the sharpened straight razor while struggling not to react to the warmth of his body and cologne. Each time their gazes met she felt as if
someone had punched her in her midsection, causing a shortness of breath. The beard had concealed attractive slashes along his lean jaw and strong square chin. After Brooke rinsed out the conditioner, Francine applied a light hairdressing, plucked a few stray silky eyebrow hairs, and gently massaged a moisturizer on Keaton’s smooth face before realizing everyone in the shop had been watching her.

  There were audible sighs and she overheard someone mumble Keaton made Denzel Washington look hideous. Murmurs of agreement and protests followed the declaration. Francine hid a smile when she escorted him to the reception desk to total his bill.

  Reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, Keaton took out a credit card case. “I’d like to make an appointment for a haircut in two weeks.”

  She took the card, glancing at his name, swiped it, and then handed him the card and a copy of his receipt. “We’re closed on Sundays and Mondays, so you’ll have to tell me when you’d like to come in.” He moved closer, his breath sweeping over her ear when he leaned in to peruse the appointment book.

  “Make it two weeks from today. Ten o’clock is good.”

  Francine penciled him under her name at ten. “Thank you for patronizing the Beauty Box and I’ll see you in two weeks.”

  Keaton reached into his pocket again, this time taking out a money clip and a business card. “I’d like you to have dinner with me later this evening. That is, if you’re not busy. You can reach me at the number on the card.” He paused. “By the way, I’m staying at the Cove Inn, Miss Tanner.”

  Francine was too stunned to reply when he pushed the card and a bill into the pocket of her smock. Her first name was on her smock, but how did he know her last name? “I can’t,” she whispered once she recovered her voice.