Magnolia Drive

by Rochelle Alers

  “Good evening, Mr. Grace. Welcome back to the Charleston Place Hotel. Your table is ready, sir.”

  Keaton shook hands with the fastidious man in a black suit, surreptitiously pressing a bill to his palm. “Thank you.”

  Once they were seated in the beautifully appointed restaurant, Francine stared across the table at Keaton. The table was set with a damask cloth, a crystal bud vase with a moth orchid, and a matching votive with a flickering candle. A trio playing soft jazz provided the perfect backdrop for a night of romantic dining.

  “How often do you come here?” She’d asked the question because the waitstaff had greeted him with obvious familiarity.

  He pulled down his shirt cuffs and she spied the embroidered monogram on the left one. “I stayed here when I was looking to buy property in the area.”

  She went completely still. “Did you, Keaton?”

  The light from the candle on the table irradiated the gold undertones in his complexion. “Did I what?”

  “Buy property.”

  He smiled, revealing his beautiful straight white teeth. “Yes.”

  “Where?” At that moment Francine had become her grandmother, asking question after question.

  “In Sanctuary Cove. I bought the abandoned farmhouse and land between the salt marsh and Intracoastal Waterway.”

  Her jaw dropped slightly as she met his eyes. If Keaton owned that land, then that meant he lived a short distance from the Magnolias. “The house and the land on which it sits has been abandoned for years.”

  “So you’re familiar with it?” he asked.

  She nodded. “It belonged to the Webbers. They came from a long line of rice farmers and were growing Carolina gold up until the Second World War. My grandmother told me three of the Webber boys joined the army after the bombing of Pearl Harbor and when they returned after the war they married local girls and then moved away. That left Walter and his wife, Kate, and their youngest son, who was born with a number of deformities. Grandma Dinah said he looked like the French impressionist painter Toulouse-Lautrec and was a mathematical genius. Unfortunately he didn’t live to celebrate his thirtieth birthday. However, his parents lived well into their nineties. Their surviving children and grandchildren came back to bury them, but refused to stay, so the land went into receivership.”

  Keaton was impressed with Francine’s wealth of knowledge about the island and its inhabitants. “Now I own the house and the land,” he said proudly.

  “Are you aware that the house needs a lot of work?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I know. An architect has drawn up plans to gut the interior and start over. The structure and foundation are sound, so renovating the interior shouldn’t take as long as building it from the ground up.”

  “Do you plan to expand it?”

  Spreading his left hand out on the pristine white tablecloth, he stared at his fingers for several seconds. The original plans called for four bedrooms, and that was more than enough for his needs. “No. I’m just going to add a screened-in back porch for cross ventilation; other than that I like the original design. I’ll probably put in a flower garden and a patio with an outdoor kitchen, but I still haven’t decided whether I want a gazebo.”

  A beat passed. “What does your wife want?” Francine asked.

  He went completely still. “I wouldn’t know because I don’t have a wife, girlfriend, or children. The woman you saw me with at Jack’s is my attorney. Her name is Devon Gilmore.” He knew Francine was embarrassed when a blush darkened her fair complexion. His gaze was drawn to the sprinkling of freckles over her delicate nose that makeup couldn’t conceal.

  “Why would you need an outside kitchen if you don’t have a family?”

  “Do I have to have a family to cook in- or outside?”

  Her flush deepened. “I wasn’t presuming you couldn’t cook—”

  “How about you, Francine?” he asked, interrupting her. “Do you cook?” The sweep hand on his watch made a full revolution as he waited for her answer. “You don’t.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t.”

  “If you don’t cook, then who feeds you?”

  Staring at him through her lashes, Francine said, “My grandmother and occasionally my mother.”

  Resting an elbow on the table, Keaton anchored a fist under his chin. “Your grandmother cooks for her grandbaby,” he teased. “What’s going to happen when you have kids? Who’s going to cook for them?”

  “Their grandmother, of course.”

  He shook his head slowly. “There’s going to come a time when you’re going to have to break the cycle.”

  “Maybe by the time I decide to have children I’ll sign up for cooking lessons.”

  “Instead of taking lessons, why don’t you have your grandma teach you?”

  “You don’t know my grandmother. She won’t allow anyone to cook in her kitchen.”

  “Oops.” Keaton hesitated, remembering what Francine had said about having her own apartment. “What if she teaches you using the kitchen in your apartment?”

  “That’s not going to work. Grandma will only cook in her own kitchen. She says her kitchen is filled with good karma, and that’s why her dishes are so spectacular.”

  A slight frown creased Keaton’s forehead. “That sounds like a lot of hocus-pocus, mumbo-jumbo nonsense.”

  Francine pulled her lower lip between her teeth. “It’s about superstition. I told you folks down here still hold on to their superstitions, even though you think of it as mumbo jumbo.”

  He blinked once. “But… but your grandmother isn’t Gullah.”

  “Please don’t let her hear you say that. Her mother was a quadroon and that one-quarter black ancestry is Gullah.”

  He inclined his head. “I stand corrected.”

  Francine flashed a wide grin. “Apology accepted.” Her smile faded as she angled her head. “Who taught you to cook?”

  “I come from a family of restaurateurs. My dad’s mother started out making boxed lunches for factory workers to supplement her income and support her four children after her husband died. She expanded her kitchen and when word got out that Sadie Grace made the best fried chicken in the county people started placing orders. When my father was old enough he helped her cook. He went to culinary school, where he met my mother. They married a week after graduating and he relocated Sadie Grace from his momma’s kitchen to a free-standing building not far from the interstate. Once I was tall enough to look over the grill I began working in my parents’ restaurant on weekends during the school year. After I left Pittsburgh to enroll in college, my uncles opened Sadie Grace II in Mount Lebanon.”

  “I noticed you have Pennsylvania plates on your truck. Should I assume you’re a Steelers fan?”

  “Wh-a-a-t,” Keaton drawled. “If you stab me I’ll bleed black and gold.” Without warning he gyrated and launched into Wiz Khalifa’s “Black and Yellow.”

  Francine clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the laughter bubbling up from her throat. At that moment she wished she could be anywhere but in the upscale restaurant so she could laugh in abandon. There was no doubt Keaton was a rabid sports fan. “You are hilarious. You missed your calling, Keaton. You really should be in front of the camera instead of behind it.”

  Reaching across the table, he captured her hands, tightening his hold when she tried escaping his firm grip. “I have a confession to make.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve been carrying on an affair with the Steelers for more than half my life,” he admitted without even a hint of pretense. “One year my father bought season tickets and he gave me an early birthday present when I accompanied him to every home game. My mother wasn’t too happy because then she had to deal with the highs and lows of not only her husband but also her son whenever the Steelers won or lost.”

  A mysterious smile flitted over Francine’s parted lips. “My father was drafted by the Steelers back in the day. He was forced to retire after five years becau
se of a serious knee injury.”

  Keaton released her hands and waved away the sommelier who had approached their table. “Please don’t tell me your father is Frank ‘the Tank’ Tanner.”

  She closed her eyes for several seconds. “Daddy stopped playing the year I was born, so the only memories I have of him playing ball come from old photographs. I still can’t wrap my head around seeing him carrying that much weight. Once he retired he hired a nutritionist and went on a diet. He told me it took more than a year to lose fifty pounds, and thankfully he’s kept it off all these years.”

  “The Tank was my dad’s hero.”

  “Daddy still has a collection of old jerseys my mother keeps threatening to throw out. Would you like one for your father?”

  Keaton bowed his head. “Bless you, my child.” His head popped up as he gave Francine a sheepish look. “Do you think he’ll autograph it?”

  “You can ask him. Daddy is away at least four days a week on business, but he’s always home on weekends. If you’re not doing anything Sunday, then I’d like to invite you to dinner, where you can meet him in person.”

  Keaton pumped his right fist. “Tell me the time and I’ll be there.”

  “We usually eat around four. Do you have any food allergies?”

  “No.”

  She smiled. “Good.”

  “Are you cooking?”

  Francine narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s not funny.”

  “What’s not funny is you depending on others to feed you.”

  She wanted to tell Keaton that it wasn’t the first time someone had talked about her inability to cook. She hadn’t had to learn when she’d had people who were willing to make certain she didn’t miss a meal. Francine wanted to tell Keaton she wasn’t completely undomesticated. She could do her own laundry, iron, and clean.

  “Would you cook for me if I asked you?”

  There came a swollen pause as he stared at her. “I would, but only with the proviso you allow me to teach you how to prepare breakfast, a light lunch, and at least one or two complete dinners.”

  Crossing her arms under her breasts, she returned his stare. “What do you want in exchange?”

  “What makes you think I’d want something from you?”

  Being married to Aiden had taught her not to trust men. “I really have to give it to you, Keaton. You’re ingenious. You wine and dine me at one of Charleston’s best restaurants, and then offer to teach me to cook in lieu of my having to audition on your casting couch.”

  Francine was right about his wanting her to audition for a role in his upcoming film, but wrong about attempting to seduce her. “Is that what you really believe?” he asked her.

  “Why else would you invite me to dinner, Keaton?”

  “Maybe it’s because I like you.”

  Her eyelids fluttered wildly. “I told you before I don’t know you.”

  “And that’s why I wanted you to have dinner with me, so we can get to know each other.”

  Francine kept silent, but the look on her face told Keaton she didn’t believe a word he’d said.

  Chapter Five

  Keaton counted slowly, hoping it would give him time to diffuse his rising temper. He didn’t know if Francine had had to audition on some casting agent’s couch to get the supporting role in Sisters, but she was mistaken if he wanted to use the excuse of giving her cooking lessons in exchange for accepting his offer for her to star in one of his films.

  “Please don’t tell me that’s how you got the role of Abigail in Sisters.” He knew he’d struck a nerve when she glared at him.

  “Of course not! For your information I happened to have been the wrong gender.”

  He didn’t visibly react to this disclosure. Keaton was more than familiar with the agent who’d cast Francine in the play, but not the man’s sexual proclivity. He exhaled an audible breath. “My bad. I asked you to have dinner with me because you claim you know nothing about me, and I told you I’ll give you the opportunity to get to know everything you need to know about me.” He held up a hand when she opened her mouth. “Please don’t say anything until you hear me out. I’m planning to put up a movie studio on the property. It will include a soundstage and set decorations for interior shots. There are places on Cavanaugh Island that look like Florida, California, or even the Caribbean I can use for exterior shots. Charleston is perfect as the quintessential Southern city and set designers can replicate most of the country’s major cities using special effects along with digital imagery.

  “And my offer to teach you to cook has nothing to do with strong-arming you or even going as far as attempting to seduce you. I’ve made it a practice not to get involved with actresses working in my films. I’m not going to lie and say I wasn’t disappointed when you told me you wouldn’t star in my movie, and that means I’ll just have to suck it up and move on. I want you to know that I wrote a script with you in mind when I returned to New York to enroll in a graduate program at NYU Tisch School of the Arts after seeing your performance in Sisters. I saw the play twice because I believed you were a fluke. But after the second time I realized your performance was nothing short of brilliance.”

  Spots of color dotted her cheeks with his compliment. “Thank you.”

  “There’s no need to thank me. You’re an incredible actress.”

  “Former actress,” she corrected. “I gave up life on the stage eight years ago, and I vowed never to return.”

  Keaton wanted to know what or who’d forced her to abandon what could’ve become a career of long duration. She gave him a prolonged stare, her bright green eyes darkening noticeably. He wondered if Francine knew how strikingly exotic she was. There was something about her palomino-gold skin, burnished red hair, and catlike eyes that made him want to drown in the emerald pools. He’d convinced himself that he didn’t have any romantic notions when it came to her, but after their over-the-top dramatic hamming back and forth during the drive from the island to Charleston he’d gotten to see another side of the actress-turned-hairstylist. What he’d enjoyed most was her spontaneity and the fact that she didn’t take herself too seriously.

  He’d learned from experience when to choose his battles and he knew he had to retreat. Before he’d walked into the Beauty Box he’d forgotten about Francine Tanner. However, seeing Francine again had rekindled his interest in the script he’d written expressly for her, forcing him to search through the computer disks he’d brought with him from Los Angeles to load into his laptop. He’d stayed up all night reviewing, editing, and tweaking until he felt comfortable with the revisions. His initial instinct to cast Francine in the lead hadn’t changed, but her reluctance to take on the role meant it was time for him to move on and look for another actress.

  “I’m disappointed, but I have to respect your decision.”

  A hint of a smile parted her lips. “Thank you for being so gracious, Keaton.”

  Picking up the wine list, he studied it, wanting to tell Francine he’d been called a lot of things, but no one had ever said he was gracious, at least not to his face. “I’d like to order a bottle of wine.” He looked at her. “Will you share it with me?”

  “I will, but only if I don’t have to be the designated driver. After two glasses I’m usually three sheets to the wind.”

  Keaton lifted his eyebrows at her admission. That meant she wasn’t much of a drinker. “I’ll make certain you get home in one piece.” He signaled the sommelier and when the man brought the bottle he’d selected he watched Francine as she sampled the small amount in her glass.

  Her expression brightened. “I like it.”

  He’d ordered the pinot noir, hoping she would like it. Waiting until after their glasses were half filled, he raised his glass, touching it to hers when she repeated the action. “To friendship and the success of Grace Lowcountry Productions.”

  “To friendship and award-winning moviemaking,” Francine said after a pregnant pause. She took a sip, savoring the slightly sweet aro
matic wine on her palate before swallowing. She’d never been much of a wine connoisseur, but she knew she could very easily get used to drinking this particular fragrant red wine.

  The framed paintings hanging on the dark paneled walls of the Charleston Grill reminded her of the Cove Inn’s parlor boardinghouse where the guests lingered over cordials after dinner. Not only did she like the wine but also her dining partner; when they’d walked into the restaurant there weren’t more than ten couples. Now it was almost filled to capacity with conservatively dressed couples, groups of men, women, and some with their families.

  “Do you want to order an appetizer?” Keaton asked, breaking into her thoughts.

  Francine perused the menu featuring dishes listed as pure, lush, cosmopolitan, and Southern. “What do you recommend?”

  “The Charleston Grill crab cake with shrimp and tomato dill vinaigrette is delicious. I only say that because I’m partial to Southern cuisine.”

  “What type of dishes do they serve at Sadie’s?”

  “The first Sadie’s is strictly soul food, and Sadie’s II offers continental cuisine.”

  Francine decided to forgo an appetizer, ordering lamb with spring vegetables, mint chimichurri, and lamb jus. Keaton opted for prime beef tenderloin with a bourguignon sauce and cubed baked potatoes.

  Over dinner she couldn’t shake the notion that Keaton’s moving to Cavanaugh Island to set up a studio was more than a coincidence. That he’d known who she was when she was totally unaware of him. But then she told herself if she had kept up with the film industry she probably would’ve heard of Keaton Grace. As a Yale drama student Francine read every available trade publication and watched entertainment news religiously. She even went so far as to buy the tabloids. Within some of the misleading headlines there was usually a kernel of truth. After all, it was the National Enquirer that broke the news that Rielle Hunter had had the 2004 Democratic vice presidential candidate John Edwards’s baby.

  Her gaze landed on a woman at a nearby table. Instead of concentrating on her dinner partner she was staring openly at Keaton. Francine wondered if the woman had recognized him. It was when she saw her run the tip of her tongue over her lips that Francine realized she was witnessing an attempt at blatant seduction. “What was that all about?” Keaton asked.