Magnolia Drive

by Rochelle Alers

  Chapter Three

  Francine turned off onto the road leading to Morgan’s house. The uneasiness she felt when leaving Jack’s Fish House had vanished. Nothing could’ve prepared her for what had just occurred in Jack’s. Although her dress revealed more skin than her jeans, tees, and/or summer sundresses, she hadn’t expected the wolf whistle or catcall from the man who’d teased her relentlessly when they were in high school. While everyone called her Red, Leon James referred to her as Little Orphan Annie. She hadn’t responded when she wanted to call him a pig with no home training, because young boys on the island were lectured about disrespecting a woman in public. It was apparent Leon and a few of the other male students ignored their parents’ teaching when their teasing made her high school experience one she wanted to forget.

  She’d be the first to acknowledge she didn’t wear body-hugging attire or four-inch heels unless she went to the Happy Hour. She’d frequented the club in Haven Creek less than a half-dozen times since its opening, and always with Morgan. It wasn’t often she got the chance to dress up, but when she did she always felt ultrafeminine wearing a slinky dress and stilettos. Working five days a week in clogs and a smock did not leave Francine feeling very glamorous. She put all of her energy into improving her regular customers’ appearance, while she barely wore makeup or styled her hair in anything other than a mass of curls. When her mother trimmed her hair and blew it out earlier that afternoon it was the first step in fulfilling her New Year’s resolution to take time focusing on her.

  What had unnerved her was the expression on Keaton Grace’s face when she walked by. Even from a distance she saw unadulterated lust in his eyes. At that moment she felt sorry for the woman sitting with him. He was gawking at her when he should’ve been paying attention to his dining partner. She still hadn’t decided whether to call Keaton or not, but if she did it was only to uncover what he knew about her.

  Maneuvering around to the rear of the house, Francine parked the Corvette next to David’s Lexus. Seeing his sedan and Nate’s SUV under the carport meant they’d picked up all the guests. She and Morgan had insisted everyone arrive before six thirty. Jeff had confirmed he would bring Kara at seven thirty. The sheriff had told his pregnant wife that Morgan and Nate had invited them to dinner.

  She opened the back door, walking into the kitchen. Nate stood next to Morgan, watching as she filled a platter with hors d’oeuvres. Both wore white shirts and black slacks. “Nate, could you please get the food out of the trunk of my car? I left it open for you.”

  Nate turned around. “Of course. You look real nice, Red,” he said, smiling.

  Pinpoints of heat pricked her cheeks. She didn’t know why, but she always felt uncomfortable whenever men complimented her. “Thank you.” Perhaps it had something to do with being teased so much about her hair when she was younger.

  Resting her hip against the countertop, Morgan nodded slowly. “You do look incredible, Fran. Are you certain you don’t have a date later on tonight?”

  Francine rolled her eyes upward. “Yeah, right,” she drawled facetiously. “You know I’m not seeing anyone.”

  “Well, you should.”

  “You know how I feel about men from Cavanaugh Island.”

  “Yes, I know we made a pact when we were in high school that we would never marry a boy from here, but that’s exactly what I did.”

  She moved closer to Morgan. “That’s because Nate never teased or bullied us.”

  “What are you two whispering about?”

  Francine turned to find David watching them. She hadn’t heard him when he entered the kitchen. The always dapper conservative attorney wore a dark blue tailored suit that he’d paired with a pale blue pin-striped shirt, a navy-and-white-striped silk tie, and imported wing tips. His deep-set dark eyes grew wider as her gaze was drawn to the slight cleft in his firm chin. Once the word was out that David had split with his longtime girlfriend, women went after him like a swarm of hornets, and Francine knew he would make a wonderful catch for some woman when he finally recovered from his breakup.

  “It’s only girl talk,” Francine said. When he didn’t respond, she added, “What’s the matter, counselor? Cat got your tongue?” she teased, grinning from ear to ear.

  David recovered quickly. “You clean up nicely, Francine.”

  Francine wondered if she’d been such a hot mess that putting on a dress and heels had transformed her into a ravishing princess. She affected a slight curtsy while smiling sweetly.

  “Thank you.”

  Nate returned to the kitchen, carrying three covered trays stacked on one another. “David, could you please get the last two trays from Red’s car?”

  Francine picked up the platter filled with sushi; an assortment of filo tartlets stuffed with shredded spicy chicken, smoked salmon, or shrimp; deviled eggs; and tempura. “Where do you want this?” she asked Morgan, who’d tried unsuccessfully to hide a yawn.

  “You can take it into the parlor. You’ll find plates, forks, and napkins on one of the tables. Everyone’s here except Kara and Jeff. I figured folks need something to nibble on until we sit down to eat. I know when we talked about what to serve we’d decided against serving appetizers, but once we get everyone settled it’ll probably be around eight.”

  Francine wagged a finger at Morgan. “You’ve done enough. Sit and relax.” She winked at her. “I’ll be right back.”

  She didn’t want to tell her friend that she looked as if she hadn’t had enough sleep. Her eyelids were drooping and there was a slight puffiness under her eyes. She wasn’t certain if Morgan had gotten up early to make the hors d’oeuvres or if being pregnant was sapping her energy. Without warning, the vision of Morgan holding a baby wrapped in a pink blanket came to her. If the spirit was right, then she knew Morgan and Nate were going to have a daughter.

  Even though she was a failure as a cook, Francine was the complete opposite when it came to being a hostess. As a child she’d watched intently whenever her mother made preparations to entertain her husband’s business associates. The formal dining room table was set with heirloom tablecloths, crystal, silver, and china. Mavis would order fresh flowers from the local florist for the centerpiece, while Francine had been recruited to make the place cards because she’d learned calligraphy in her art class.

  Her mother would spend days making up the menu, revising it over and over. Mavis had inherited her culinary skills from her mother, who’d been employed as a cook by a wealthy Charleston family. Mavis would become the consummate hostess, making everyone feel at ease when she welcomed them with a warm smile and a practiced charm that restaurateur Frank Tanner couldn’t resist.

  She walked into the parlor, setting the platter down on a table, and then greeted each of the invitees with a hug or kiss on the cheek. Corrine Hamilton, Jeff’s grandmother, ran a hand over Francine’s hair. “You look lovely, Red.”

  Francine blushed. She’d grown tired of telling people that her name was Francine until she was forced to accept the nickname. “Thank you, Miss Corrine.”

  Corrine pressed her mouth to Francine’s ear. “Don’t you think it’s time you find a nice young man to marry, like Kara and Morgan?” Tall and ramrod-straight, the seventy-something former teacher and principal had announced she couldn’t wait to become a great-grandmother.

  “It’ll happen when the time is right, Miss Corrine.” She motioned for Willie and Iris Todd not to get up. “Please sit down, Mr. Willie, and you, too, Miss Iris. I’ll bring you both a plate.”

  Dawn popped up. “I’ll help you serve, Francine. I heard what Miss Corrine said to you,” she whispered as they stood at the table filling plates with hors d’oeuvres from the platter. “She asked me the same thing last night.”

  Francine gave the professional dancer a sidelong glance. Using a pair of tongs she gently lifted a deviled egg and several sushi rolls, placing them on a plate. A natural blonde with sky-blue eyes, Dawn had given up a career as a dancer to teach young children becau
se of bouts of stage fright.

  “What did you tell her?” she asked sotto voce.

  “I told her I wasn’t looking, but if and when the right man comes along I’ll know it.”

  Francine bumped fists with Dawn. She hadn’t set a deadline for marriage because she’d been there, done that. Only Morgan, who’d stood in as her bridesmaid and witness, her grandmother, and her parents knew she’d married. As up-and-coming actors, she and Aiden knew they were more marketable if they were single and had agreed not to disclose their marital status. They’d dated, married, lived together, and then divorced all in secret.

  After passing around plates to the assembled, she signaled for silence when the sound of an approaching car could be heard through the partially opened door. Morgan had drawn the shades in the parlor to conceal the occupants waiting to surprise Kara.

  The seconds became minutes as everyone waited for Jeff to announce himself. Morgan stood off to the side, camera in hand, while Nate opened the door. Kara’s shocked expression was frozen in time with guests’ cameras and camera phones. Francine and Morgan shared a knowing smile. They’d accomplished the impossible. They’d managed to keep the baby shower a secret.

  It was minutes before midnight when Francine returned home, removing her shoes as she climbed the staircase to her apartment at the easterly side of the house. There was never a question of not moving back into the house where she’d grown up. The year she’d celebrated her thirteenth birthday, her parents had expanded her bedroom, adding an additional bedroom and bathroom, kitchen, and a living/dining area. Once word got out that she had her own apartment within the expansive five-thousand-square-foot Colonial, Francine was forced to endure spiteful jealous remarks from girls and snide overtures from boys asking if they could sleep over.

  Walking on bare feet, she made her way into the bathroom, undressed, removed her makeup, and took a quick shower. Dressed in a cotton nightgown, she adjusted the thermostat in her bedroom, crawled into bed, and reached for the switch on the lamp on the bedside table. Francine’s hand halted when she saw the business card Keaton had given her. Picking up the card, she brushed a forefinger over the raised lettering. At that moment she decided not to call but e-mail him.

  Throwing back the sheet and blanket, she got out of bed and retrieved the laptop resting on the window-seat cushion. Her fingers were poised on the keyboard as she waited for the computer to boot up. She typed in Keaton’s e-mail address and Meeting in the subject line, and outlined when and where they were to meet. Francine ended the message with the number to her cell for his reply. Logging off, she shut down the computer, went back to bed, and fell asleep within minutes of her head touching the pillow.

  Keaton sat on the veranda outside his suite taking in the view while thoroughly enjoying his second cup of coffee that morning. It was the first day in a week that he’d awoken to clear skies without the prediction of rain. The cool wind blowing off the ocean raised goose bumps on his exposed upper body yet he was loath to get up and go back inside the bedroom to put on a shirt. Inhaling a lungful of salt air, he closed his eyes and smiled. When he’d checked his smartphone earlier that morning he discovered the e-mail from Francine. She’d agreed to meet him, but on her terms. What Francine didn’t know was that Keaton was willing to agree to anything she wanted if only she would accept his offer to appear in his next film. He opened his eyes, reached for his cell phone, which was resting on a wrought-iron table, and punched in the programmed number he’d gotten from her e-mail. Her phone rang twice before there was a connection.

  “Hello.”

  “Good morning, Francine. I hope I’m not calling too early.”

  “Not at all,” came her reply. “I’ve been up for hours. I take it you saw my e-mail.” There was a hint of laughter in her dulcet voice.

  “I did, and I want to thank you for getting back to me. You’re going to have to let me know which restaurant you want to go to in Charleston, so I can make a reservation.” Francine had indicated she was available Monday and that she didn’t want to get together on Cavanaugh Island.

  “You choose the restaurant,” she said.

  “Are you familiar with the Charleston Grill?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever eaten there?”

  “No,” Francine said, “but I’ve heard the food is very good.”

  Keaton wanted to tell her the food was excellent and the service at the hotel impeccable. “Then it’s a go?”

  Her sultry laugh came through the earpiece. “Yes, it is.”

  “I’ll make a reservation for seven. How do I get to your house to pick you up?”

  He listened intently while she gave him directions to Magnolia Drive. It was the second time in a matter of days he was shocked to find his life linked to Francine’s. The farmhouse currently undergoing renovations was less than a quarter of a mile from Magnolia Drive. “I guess that does it. I’ll pick you up at six fifteen.” Taking the causeway and barring delays, he estimated it would take less than a half hour to make it to the hotel located in Charleston’s Market area.

  Keaton ended the call, grinning like a Cheshire cat. He could not have written a better script. He’d come to Cavanaugh Island to set up a production company, had run into Francine Tanner, and now planned to share dinner with her where he would outline his intent to cast her in a movie that was certain to make her a much-talked-about actress.

  And it wasn’t the first time he’d applauded himself for making the decision to sever his business relationship with his brother-in-law after he’d secured a financial backer for his modestly budgeted films. Once he’d agreed to put up half the money for each of the films the private banker agreed to put up the other half, leaving Keaton with complete creative control when it came to casting, editing, and final production. They’d also agreed to split the profits: 49 percent for the banker and 51 percent for Keaton.

  Scrolling through his phone’s directory, Keaton tapped the button for the hotel where he’d stayed when he’d first come to the island to set up Grace Lowcountry Productions. It took less than a minute to make the reservation for the following evening. Pushing off the chair, Keaton left the veranda, closed the French doors, and flopped down on the bed. Cradling his head on folded arms, he stared up at the ceiling. Events in his life came to him like frames of film. He’d had disappointment, a few failures, but those were overshadowed by unexpected successes beyond his imagination. When he enrolled in college as a film student his long-term goal was to set up his own production company, and within a year it would become a reality.

  Francine sat at the table in her grandmother’s breakfast nook, staring back at the elderly woman who’d set down her teacup when Francine answered her cell phone. She knew Dinah eschewed the tiny phones and Francine had made it a practice not to bring it with her whenever they ate together.

  “I had to take that call, Grandma.”

  Green eyes that had dulled slightly with advancing age pinned Francine to her seat when Dinah glared at her over a pair of glasses that had slid down the narrow bridge of her nose. “Who is he?”

  Picking up her fork, Francine speared a piece of melon, putting it into her mouth. “It’s not a date, Grandma,” she said after chewing and swallowing. Since her grandmother had come to live with her she’d altered her Sunday routine. Instead of sleeping in and attending the eleven o’clock service at Abundant Life Church, Francine had promised Dinah she’d accompany her to the one scheduled for eight.

  Dinah’s eyes narrowed as she studied her granddaughter. “I didn’t ask you if it was a date.”

  “His name is Keaton Grace. And he’s an independent filmmaker.”

  Slumping back in her chair, the older woman lifted finely arched eyebrows. Dinah’s once fiery red hair had lightened, making it appear more strawberry blond than silver. Delicate blue veins were clearly visible under skin that had become more translucent as she aged. Black-and-white photographs of Dinah as a young woman had captured her stunning beauty a
s she stared into the camera lens. It’d been her outgoing personality, practiced Southern charm, and gift for conversation that had attracted the attention of a man who owned prime real estate in downtown Charleston. She’d succeeded where so many other women had failed when she married John Tanner in what had been touted as the wedding of the season.

  “How did you meet him?” Dinah asked.

  Dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin, Francine folded it, placing it beside her plate. “He came into the salon the other day for a cut and shave. Even though I didn’t recognize him, he knew who I was.”

  “He wants you in one of his films.” It wasn’t a question but a statement.

  Francine shook her head. “I’m not certain what he wants.”

  “If you don’t know, then why are you meeting him, Francine?”

  Reaching for the china teapot sitting on a decorative trivet, Francine refilled her cup. “More tea, Grandma?”

  “No thank you. Back to your Mr. Grace. Why have you agreed to meet with him?” Dinah repeated.

  Francine wanted to tell her grandmother Keaton wasn’t her Mr. Grace but a Beauty Box customer. “Maybe I’m curious because he says he knows me. I did research him on the Internet.”

  “What did you find?”

  “He’s directed and produced three films, one for which he won a Spirit Award.”

  Dinah patted her coiffed short hair. “He must be good.”

  “Whether he is or not, I don’t intend to return to acting. I’m going to be polite, hear him out, and then tell him thanks, but no thanks. I’m not interested in resuming my acting career.”

  “You could do that without going out with him,” Dinah insisted. “Unless there is something you’re not telling me, grandbaby girl.”

  A hint of a smile played at the corners of Francine’s mouth. Although her grandmother claimed she wasn’t psychic she felt Dinah wasn’t being completely truthful, and she wondered if she’d picked up on something that Francine hadn’t been able to discern.