Magnolia Drive

by Rochelle Alers

  “It appears as if he’s going to become a regular at the Beauty Box.”

  “So, he’s staying here?”

  Francine nodded. “I believe he’s here for the winter season.”

  “Where’s he staying?”

  “The Cove Inn. And please don’t ask me if he’s married because when I saw him last night at Jack’s Fish House, he was with a woman.”

  A becoming blush darkened Dinah’s face as she averted her gaze. “You know I don’t like it when you do that.”

  “Do what, Grandma?”

  “Read my mind.”

  Throwing back her head, Francine laughed. “You know I can’t read minds. It’s just that I knew what you were going to say next. I’m surprised you didn’t ask me his age.”

  “Well… how old is he?”

  Cocking her head to the side, Francine pushed out her lips. “The information I gleaned from the Internet says he’s forty. Is there anything else you want to know?”

  “Yes. How was the baby shower?”

  Francine was relieved Dinah had changed the topic of conversation. “It was wonderful. Kara was really surprised, and that’s a feat unto itself because no one let the cat out of the bag.”

  Dinah pressed her thin lips together. “That’s because most of the folks weren’t from here but out of town, and those who live here know how to keep their mouths.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  Francine stood up and cleared the table. Her father had returned from a business trip Saturday afternoon, announcing loudly that he was going to sleep in for the rest of the weekend. And that meant she wouldn’t get to see her mother until Tuesday when the Beauty Box opened. Mavis was very concerned about her husband’s health after he’d collapsed from dehydration during a franchise business convention in Las Vegas. He’d had to be hospitalized for several days before he was able to return home.

  Her father had played professional football for five years, but was forced to retire when he injured his knee. His backup plan included going into business for himself when he purchased his first fast-food franchise. One became two and eventually five. He owned two in Charleston, one in Summerville, another in Beaufort, and had recently opened one in Conway.

  “She got some wonderful gifts.” As she rinsed the dishes and stacked them in the dishwasher, Francine gave her grandmother an update about the gathering. Dinner had become a festive leisurely affair as everyone ate their fill. Jeff had revealed that Kara was having a boy and they’d decided to name him Austin Taylor Hamilton. Austin Newell was the man who’d raised Kara from birth and Taylor Patton had been her biological father. It wasn’t until the reading of Taylor Patton’s will that everyone on the island was made aware that the confirmed bachelor had a secret love child.

  Once dinner was over, everyone went into the solarium, where Kara opened her gifts. Morgan had given her a hand-quilted crib blanket she bought from a craft shop in the Creek and a gift certificate for a day of beauty at the Beauty Box. Morgan had also purchased a layette, and Nate had taken time from his busy schedule to make a cradle. The Newells had given their daughter a gift certificate for nursery furniture. David had admitted he didn’t know anything about buying baby clothes so he’d given Kara a gift certificate for a year’s supply of disposable diapers. Mrs. Todd’s gift was a pair of hand-knitted sweaters and matching caps in soft pastel green and yellow. Dawn, the prospective godmother, had given Kara and Jeff an exquisite christening gown and matching hat.

  Francine had become a spectator, watching the interaction between Morgan and Nate and Jeff and Kara. It was obvious the two couples were very much in love whenever they exchanged glances. She’d tried remembering if Aiden had ever looked at her like that—even when he’d pretended to love her.

  She didn’t blame her ex-husband as much as she did herself for their sham of a marriage. During a whirlwind six-week courtship, he took advantage of her naïveté to convince her to marry him, assuming she would support him financially until he got his big break. Their divorce was quick and uncomplicated. They didn’t have children, so there wasn’t the issue of custody or child support, and no prenup or division of assets because Francine had relied on her parents for financial support.

  She’d tried to move on but insecurities dogged her emotionally and she had stopped going to the auditions her agent had set up for her. One morning she woke up and called her agent to tell her she was quitting the business. A month later, she handed over the keys to the apartment to the building manager, rented a car, loaded her luggage in the trunk, and drove back to Cavanaugh Island. Francine had never looked back and never regretted walking away from her childhood dream.

  At this point in her life Francine wasn’t entirely certain what she wanted for her future. She knew she would eventually own and manage the Beauty Box, but deep inside she wanted more than that. What she didn’t want to acknowledge was that, although surrounded by a loving family and friends, she felt something was missing. And if she were truly honest she would’ve admitted she envied her best friend. Morgan had what every woman wanted: a loving husband and eventually a family of her own.

  She knew nothing about Keaton other than what she’d gleaned from the Internet, but she felt a ripple of excitement whenever she thought about going out with him.

  Chapter Four

  Keaton forced himself to drive slower, aware it would take time before he reprogrammed his brain not to drive above the unofficial twenty miles an hour speed limit. Minutes before leaving the Cove, he had received a text from Devon confirming she’d mailed the dissolution agreement to his brother-in-law and now all he had to do was wait for the fallout.

  When he’d first come to Cavanaugh Island he realized the three towns were unlike neighborhoods in suburbs where the socioeconomic strata were determined by income levels. Here, it was the size of the parcel and the upkeep of the home that had become the indicator of the owner’s income. As he turned onto Magnolia Drive the sweep of his headlights illuminated several Lowcountry-style homes erected off the ground with wraparound porches; a few modern ranch-style homes; a two-story Spanish-inspired stucco with a tiled roof; and, at the end of the road, a three-story Colonial with a circular driveway. Lanterns flanking the double doors, a fixture suspended under the portico, and strategically placed inground lighting illuminated the structure Francine Tanner called home. He pulled up ahead of a fire-engine-red Corvette, shutting off the engine and alighting from his vehicle at the same time the front door opened.

  Keaton hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until tightness in his chest forced him to exhale. Light spilling from within the magnificent structure bathed Francine in gold. It was as if he’d stepped back in time, standing on his feet in the theater as Francine stood onstage under the spotlights with the play’s cast members as they took their bows to thunderous applause.

  Her provocative attire from Saturday had been replaced with a pair of dark slacks, a white man-tailored shirt, and black patent leather pumps. A slow smile spread over his features. Each time he saw her she looked different. However, a single word came to mind: sexy. Even with her tousled hair when working at the salon he’d detected an innocent sexiness about her. The figure-hugging dress she wore when she’d strutted out of Jack’s revealed and concealed at the same time. And now, even seemingly buttoned up, she still exuded an air of feminine sensuality. The screenplay he’d written with her in mind was about a woman who undergoes a transformation inwardly and outwardly after her husband is murdered. She starts out timid and introverted but is forced to come out of her cocoon to assume control of the company he’d built from the ground up when a rival company attempts a takeover.

  Running her hand over the nape of her neck, Francine smiled up at him. “I see you managed to find my street.”

  Keaton returned her smile. “I did notice quite a few Magnolias: Court, Lane, Street, and, of course, Drive.”

  Francine opened the door wider. “Please come in. This section of the Cove
was once known as the Magnolias because someone planted hundreds of magnolia trees. Once the roads were paved, the town planners decided to give each street its distinctive designation.”

  Keaton nodded like a bobblehead doll. His gaze was riveted on the entryway, which opened out into an expansive living room with spectacular staircases suspended over an archway and branching off in different directions. The staircases reminded him of outstretched arms ready to greet and embrace visitors. A trio of runners on the gleaming parquet floor mirrored the symmetry of the stairs, indicating different directions one could take. He saw the house in the same manner through which he stared through a camera lens. It was a movie set.

  “Your house is magnificent.”

  Francine picked up a suit jacket, slipping her arms into it. “I’ll be certain to let my mother know you like it. She’s quite proud of her home.”

  “You don’t live here?” She met his stunned gaze, the skin fanning out around her brilliant eyes when she laughed.

  “I do live here, but I have my own apartment in the east wing. If we weren’t pressed for time I’d give you a tour.”

  “Perhaps the next time—that is, if you decide to invite me back.”

  “Perhaps,” she repeated, picking up a set of keys and a black patent leather clutch from a straight-back chair covered in embroidered silk. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

  Waiting until she closed and locked the door, Keaton rested a hand at her waist, escorting her to the passenger side of his SUV and assisting her up. He rounded the vehicle, getting in beside her. The scent of her perfume wafted to his nose when he leaned to his right to fasten his seat belt. It wasn’t the same fragrance she’d worn at the salon.

  “You’re wearing Samsara.”

  Francine met his eyes as he punched the Start Engine button. “Does my perfume bother you?”

  Shifting into gear, he drove back the way he’d come. “Not in the least. In fact I like it. I find it sophisticated and sensual. I’m familiar with different perfumes and cologne because my sister is a perfumer.”

  “She sells perfume?”

  Keaton chuckled softly. “No. She creates fragrances for celebrities.”

  “That must be exciting.”

  “It sounds exciting, but for Liana it becomes an exercise in patience. She has a sign written in Latin at her lab that translates into leaving one’s ego at the door, but that doesn’t seem to make a difference for some of her customers, even if they can read the language. There was a female performer who will remain nameless that demanded Liana have a certain type of mineral water on hand for her to drink along with a bouquet of two dozen white roses for inspiration.”

  “Did she comply?”

  “No.”

  “What happened?” Francine asked.

  “Miss Diva pouted for a few minutes, but when she realized Liana wasn’t going to send someone out for her water or flowers she sat down to inhale the scent strips from the different blends. I’m certain you’ve met fellow actors who’d become intoxicated on fame.”

  There came a noticeable silence before Francine said, “I had the misfortune of meeting more than I care to remember.”

  Keaton heard something in her voice indicating she wasn’t ready to talk about her former career. He decided to change the subject. “How long have you lived on Cavanaugh Island?”

  Francine was certain Keaton could hear her sigh of relief. She was under the impression he wanted to talk about his upcoming film, not her past involvement in the industry. “I’ve lived here all of my life. The exception is when I went to college and…”

  “And when you appeared off-Broadway,” he added when she didn’t finish her sentence.

  “Yes.”

  “Are your folks from here?”

  Francine stared through the windshield as the landscape whizzed by. He was driving much too fast. “You’re going to have to slow down before you’re stopped for speeding.”

  He took a quick glance at the speedometer. “I’m only going thirty-five and we’re the only ones on the road.”

  “Thirty-five is fifteen miles too fast. The first time you’re stopped for speeding you’ll have to pay a fine. The second infraction is an even bigger fine, along with your vehicle being impounded.”

  Keaton whistled softly as he eased off the gas pedal. “That’s excessive.” He told her about a young woman he’d seen on the side of the road who had been stopped by an island police officer and that she’d been crying.

  “If she was crying then that probably meant it wasn’t her first offense. We have strict rules, but they’ve made the island safer. We have an occasional DWI or DUI but we’ve never had a vehicular hit-and-run on Cavanaugh Island. And please don’t try to pass a stopped school bus, because you’ll have to spend a week in the local jail.”

  “Da-am-mn!” He’d drawn out the word in three distinct syllables. “Other than the stringent vehicular laws, Cavanaugh Island seems like a wonderful place to live.”

  “It is,” Francine confirmed.

  “How long have your people lived here?”

  She smiled when he said people. It was typical Southern vernacular. “My mother’s people came from Africa in chains and they have been here for hundreds of years. The Gullahs were able to retain much of their African customs, traditions, and superstitions because of the Sea Islands’ isolation from the mainland. Daddy’s folks came from England to South Carolina during the French and Indian War as indentured servants. They have a checkered past because there were brothers and cousins who fought on opposing sides during the War for Independence and the Civil War. The Tories who supported the British crown either went back to England or fled to Canada.”

  “What happened to those who decided to fight for the North after the Civil War ended?” Keaton asked.

  “They came back to Charleston. They were luckier than many Confederate soldiers who’d lost everything, because they’d befriended the son of a New York banker who gave them the loan they needed to set up a dry goods store. A few of them had children with ex–slave women, and in succeeding generations some of those who were mixed race were able to pass into the white race. My paternal great-grandmother was a quadroon.”

  “So you’re half Gullah.”

  Francine shook her head. “Not half. I’m all Gullah. One drop of Gullah blood means you’re Gullah.”

  “I’m certain if someone wrote a book about your family it would make for fascinating reading.”

  Francine laughed. “I’m certain it would. There’s nothing juicier than opening the door to expose family secrets.”

  “Are you speaking from experience?” he teased.

  “No!”

  “Milady, thou dost protest too much,” Keaton accused in a clipped British accent.

  “I think not, milord,” she countered as if she were a Cockney tavern maid.

  Without warning, both broke into hysterical laughter as Francine touched the corners of her eyes with a fingertip to stem tears before they fell and ruined her makeup. The fact that Keaton had made her laugh was definitely a plus. It’d been a very long time since a man had been able to make her do that.

  “You have the face of a lady and the body of a serving wench,” Keaton continued, not breaking character.

  Resting her right hand over her heart, Francine closed her eyes. “You wound me, milord, for can’t you see I’m a lady?”

  Keaton accelerated as he entered the causeway. “Aye, me lovely. A lady best served wearing silk and fine lace instead of scullery rags.”

  Her gaze lingered on his well-defined masculine profile. “Are you certain you didn’t take acting courses? Because your accent is spot-on.”

  “As a theater student I had my share of drama courses,” he said, chuckling softly. “It also comes from being behind the camera. You’d be surprised what you see and hear that stays with you even after you wrap the project.”

  “You’re very good,” she complimented, switching fluidly into Cockney again.

>   Francine and Keaton continued their impromptu role-playing until he turned off onto King Street and maneuvered into an area set aside for hotel parking. She waited inside the SUV as he got out and slipped into the jacket to his dark gray suit. If she had to describe Keaton in one word it would be delicious. The white shirt with French cuffs, silver monogrammed cuff links, gray-and-white silk tie, and shiny black slip-ons bespoke big-city sophistication.

  It’d taken several outfit changes before she’d decided on the wool gabardine suit and three-inch pumps. After all, she was going out to dinner and not to a club where skimpy attire was the norm. And she didn’t want Keaton to get the impression she was trying to seduce him because that wasn’t even remotely her intent. Despite his not wearing a wedding band he still could be married. Francine had caught a quick glimpse of the woman sitting with him at Jack’s and it was apparent she was totally enthralled with her dining partner.

  Keaton came around and opened the door for her, holding her hand in a firm grip as he helped her down. Whoever the woman was who claimed him as her own was very, very lucky. She could count on one hand the number of men who elected to hold doors, pull out chairs, or assist a woman getting into and out of a car. She’d grown up watching her father pull out a chair for her mother whenever they sat down to eat and she expected no less from the men she’d met. When she asked him about the ritual Frank admitted growing up and watching his father do the same for his mother.

  A slight shiver eddied over Francine when Keaton took her hand, and it had nothing to do with the cooler nighttime temperature. The warmth and strength in his fingers reminded her of what she’d been missing. Her grandmother had insisted her meeting with Keaton was a date, while she’d vehemently denied it. But walking alongside him holding hands did feel like being on a date. They walked into the elegant hotel and then the restaurant. Keaton opened the door, standing aside to let her enter before him. The maître d’ approached them, smiling.