Magnolia Drive

by Rochelle Alers

  “What?”

  “Don’t play innocent, Francine. I saw you glaring at that woman.”

  She leaned over the table. “It was the death stare, not glaring. The brazen heifer was staring at you and licking her lips as if you were dessert.”

  Keaton touched his napkin to his mouth. “You really surprise me.”

  “How?”

  “I never figured you for someone who would fight for her man.”

  “I would never belittle myself physically fighting another woman over some guy. Glaring is not fighting. I only did it because she’s rude and totally inconsiderate to her dining partner.”

  “What if he were your husband?”

  “Not even if he were my husband. And you’re not my man.” She’d enunciated each word.

  Attractive lines creased his lean jaw when he smiled. “I am tonight. Whenever I take a woman out I always regard her as my lady and myself as her man.”

  “Was it the same when you had dinner with your attorney the other night?”

  “Of course. Devon and I happen to be good friends.”

  Her professionally arched eyebrows lifted slightly. She wanted to ask Keaton what he meant by “good friend” but decided to let it drop. “Back to Miss Can’t-Keep-Her-Eyes-to-Herself. What would you have done if her man decided to come on to me?”

  “I’d invite him to the men’s room and jack his ass up.”

  Her jaw dropped. She didn’t know Keaton well. In fact, she didn’t know him at all, but she wouldn’t have guessed he was prone to violence. “No, you wouldn’t.”

  “Yes, I would, if he disrespected you. Dudes back in Pittsburgh had to learn the hard way never to disrespect my sister.”

  “What did you do?”

  He shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

  Francine now regarded Keaton in a whole new light. It was apparent the urbane man with whom she shared a table had some thug in him. “You’re right. I don’t want to know.”

  “Are you always this gullible?”

  She closed her eyes, biting back laughter. “You are unreal. You definitely missed your calling, Keaton, because you should’ve become an actor instead of a director.”

  “I tend to believe most directors are frustrated actors.”

  “The reverse could be said with the number of actors who’ve become directors.”

  “Which ones do you think have successfully made the transition?” he asked.

  “With the exception of Robert De Niro, Sean Penn, and Jodie Foster, who are equally proficient at acting and directing, I feel the actors who become directors have found their true niche.”

  “Which ones are you talking about?”

  “When it comes to contemporaries I would say Clint Eastwood, Penny Marshall, Woody Allen, Ron Howard, Ben Affleck, Kevin Costner, and George Clooney. However, my personal favorite would be Orson Welles.”

  Keaton nodded, smiling. “The man was truly a genius. And I’d have to put Hitchcock in the same category as Welles.”

  Francine had forgotten her vow to distance herself from any and everything that pertained to acting when she and Keaton discussed their favorite films and actors. He went into detail as to Francis Ford Coppola’s directorial insight of the Godfather trilogy, then sheepishly admitted he’d earned a second graduate degree from the University of Southern California’s School of Cinematic Arts. The master of arts degree in critical studies was a comprehensive curriculum offering courses that analyzed the power and responsibility of American and international film and television. A year later he’d joined the faculty at USC as an assistant professor of critical studies. She’d found herself mesmerized as he analyzed the significance of scenes and dialogue in the Godfather films in relation to the world it represented.

  “The next time I watch the trilogy I’ll try and notice the nuances, keeping in mind the similarities between the Corleones and Borgias,” she told him.

  “Have you seen the Borgias miniseries?”

  Francine’s emerald-green eyes shimmered like the precious stones they resembled. “But of course. I’ve watched every episode. I love historical dramas like The Tudors, Da Vinci’s Demons, and Copper.” She didn’t tell him that she minored in history.

  “I don’t have the mind-set to write a historical drama,” he admitted.

  “What about a period piece like Daughters of the Dust, Eve’s Bayou, or Ruby’s Bucket of Blood? The setting could be integral to the plot and characters.”

  The smile that spread across Keaton’s face was one she would remember forever. It began with the parting of his firm lips before spreading to his eyes. Francine didn’t have time to react when he held on to her hands, not permitting her to escape his grasp. “Are you a psychic?”

  A slight frown furrowed Francine’s forehead at the same time a chill washed over her body, bringing goose bumps to her skin. She hadn’t wanted to believe Keaton had discovered her gift unless… She didn’t want to think that perhaps he also was clairvoyant.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice was shaded in neutral tones, giving no indication of her inner turmoil.

  “You have to be very intuitive, because that’s exactly what I’ve planned once I begin production sometime late next year. It will be a period piece set here in the Lowcountry.”

  Inwardly, Francine blew out a breath, forcing a calmness she didn’t feel. She hadn’t answered him and for that she was grateful. No one had ever asked her if she had second sight because it was a special gift, and she feared if people knew they would ostracize her even more than they had by teasing her about her looks.

  “Have you written the script?”

  “No, not yet. I still have a lot of research to do.”

  “When are you going to complete the research?” she asked.

  “Hopefully before the end of the summer. That will allow me time during the fall and winter to finish the script. Next spring I’ll advertise for an open casting call, and I estimate we can start shooting around the beginning of November.”

  “Where are you going to go for your research?”

  “I’ll probably begin with the Internet, then go to the local library.”

  “May I make a few suggestions, Keaton?”

  “Sure.”

  “When you go to the Cove’s library ask for Hannah Forsyth. She’s the head librarian and island historian.” Francine didn’t tell him that the woman was a notorious gossip or that Hannah may know the written history, while Francine knew more than she needed to know about the unwritten history of Cavanaugh Island. “You can also visit the Parlor Bookstore. Deborah Monroe is the owner. She should be able to give you a listing of books with subjects ranging from Lowcountry food, crafts, customs, and traditions, to how to speak Gullah. Now, if you want to uncover things you won’t find in books, then you’re going to have to interview the locals. A lot of our history is oral, which means it’s passed down through generations by griots.”

  “Who do you think will give me the most authentic information?”

  She smiled. “There’s a couple in the Cove and I know of one in the Creek.”

  His thumbs made circular motions over Francine’s fingers. “I need you to help me out.”

  “Help you out how?” The four words came out slowly.

  “I’d like for you to introduce me to the griots.”

  “That means I’m going to have to ask around about finding someone in the Landing. The only problem is they may not talk openly with you because you’re an outsider.”

  “How much of an outsider can I be if I’m going to live here?”

  “Then you’re going to have to let them know that. You also have to tell them you’re a filmmaker, because there’s no such thing as keeping a secret on Cavanaugh Island.”

  Keaton had solicited her assistance because Francine knew he would be met with resistance from longtime residents who usually viewed strangers with trepidation. However, they welcomed the snowbirds because the addition
al revenue helped to sustain the small businesses during the winter months.

  “Okay. But it can only be when the Beauty Box is closed. If you come to church with me on Sunday I’ll introduce you before or after the service. A few may even feel comfortable enough to invite you to Sunday dinner,” she teased.

  Lifting her hands, Keaton dropped a kiss on the knuckles. “I’ll accept their invitation, but only if you accompany me. I’m going to owe you.”

  “Just be prepared to hand over your firstborn. Gotcha!” she whispered when he let go of her hands and settled back in his chair, seemingly in slow motion.

  “I suppose I deserve that,” Keaton admitted.

  Francine scrunched up her nose. “Yes, you do. No more,” she said quickly, placing her hand over her wineglass when Keaton attempted to refill it.

  “Do you want dessert?”

  Pressing her hands to her belly, Francine shook her head. “No thank you. I can’t eat another morsel.”

  “Would you like coffee or tea?”

  “No, please.” She didn’t tell Keaton that she usually brewed a single cup of decaf coffee before retiring for bed. She’d found the warm brew was the perfect sleep aid. She waited while Keaton settled the bill, scrawling his signature across the credit card receipt.

  Keaton suggested she wait inside the restaurant while he brought his car around to the front of the hotel. The 38° readout on the sign above a nearby bank building was a constant reminder it was winter. Although she’d spent three years at Yale as a drama major Francine never got used to Connecticut’s long, frigid winters. After graduating she’d elected to continue to live in the northeast when she moved to New York. Francine loved living in Manhattan because she’d discovered she never wanted to go to sleep. Even at three in the morning she could find someplace to eat, and during the summer months she found herself mingling with the massive crowds in either Times Square or Greenwich Village. During the summer she got by on an average of four hours of sleep a night because it was as if the bright lights were calling her name. The city had become a magical place where everything she wanted or needed was seemingly at her fingertips. As much as she would openly admit she was content to live on Cavanaugh Island, she did occasionally miss the late nights and big city lights.

  She hadn’t fit the stereotype of the struggling actor waiting for his or her big break or that plum role that would make casting agents or movie producers take notice. When she’d made the decision to become an actor Francine knew it would be an upward climb no matter how talented she’d believed she was. She was realistic enough to accept that she was one of hundreds that would audition for a role, no matter how big or small.

  The hotel doorman opened the door for her when Keaton got out of the BMW, striding toward her. He removed his suit jacket and placed it around her shoulders. “I turned on the heat, but it’s going to take a few minutes before the truck warms up.”

  Francine inhaled the scent of the cologne clinging to the fabric of the jacket as Keaton cupped her elbow when she stepped up into the idling vehicle and secured her seat belt. Warm air feathered over her face as she reclined against the leather seat.

  Keaton fastened his seat belt, then rested a hand over her knee, squeezing it gently. “Are you okay?”

  She closed her eyes. “I’m good, Keaton.”

  “Sit back and relax; I’ll take the longer route back if you want to take a nap.”

  Keaton couldn’t believe he’d hit the proverbial jackpot when he walked into the Beauty Box and saw Francine Tanner standing there. At first he’d thought he was either hallucinating or he’d conjured her up. But the instant she’d opened her mouth he knew she was the same actress with whom he’d become enthralled due to her flawless performance of a woman who’d done everything to be accepted by her half sisters who hadn’t known of her existence until after the death of their father. Not only hadn’t she looked like them, but the woman who’d been their father’s secret lover had been extremely wealthy. Abigail, Francine’s character, had grown up spoiled, pampered, and indulged, while her sisters lived in public housing, where the sounds of gunfire and drug dealing were a daily and accepted occurrence.

  Despite her rejecting his offer to star in one of his films, Keaton felt all wasn’t lost. Francine had become the perfect vehicle through which he would glean enough research for a future project. As a pragmatist, he always dealt with what was real. Even his scripts dealt with real-life issues. Most were resolved, but his signature was to leave some unresolved issues at the end of the film because of the character’s unwillingness or inability to overcome them. And although he wasn’t superstitious, he knew relocating to Cavanaugh Island was unconsciously based on a film he’d seen the year he celebrated his eighteenth birthday.

  He’d always been a movie buff, but when he saw Daughters of the Dust, an independent film written, directed, and produced by Julie Dash in 1991, he knew that was what he wanted to do. The film was touted as the first feature directed by an African American woman distributed theatrically in the United States.

  It was another twenty years before he recalled the images of the iconic film when he’d attended a party given by an A-list actress. One of her guests was a tarot card reader and he had his cards read for the first time. The hair had stood up on the back of his neck when the woman told him that he was going to move across the country to a place that would completely change his life. His skepticism must have shown when she told him the spirit had never lied to her. She then put aside the deck of cards, took his hand, and read his palm. When she mentioned the movie directed by a woman about people living on an island in the South, Keaton knew she was referring to Daughters of the Dust. She concluded, saying he had to take control of every aspect of his career or he was going to lose everything he’d worked for.

  Her prediction, which had lingered around the fringes of his mind, came back to haunt him six months later when his brother-in-law insisted he wouldn’t release the money needed to produce future films unless he was involved in the creative process. Keaton had sought to compromise with Hollis, who stood firm in his demand. He’d logged thousands of miles flying from L.A. to the Georgia, Florida, and South Carolina Sea Islands, finally selecting the town of Sanctuary Cove on Cavanaugh Island.

  He managed to take a lingering look at his passenger when he stopped for a red light. A shaft of light from the dashboard cast soft, flattering shadows over Francine’s delicate profile. The tarot card reader had revealed information about his family, finances, and health. When she turned over the card representing love she’d stared at it for at least a full minute, then told him he would never marry or father children if he didn’t let go of his past. Keaton knew she was talking about Jade, but the image of her lifeless body when he’d gone to her apartment after her mother called to tell him she couldn’t wake her up would stay with him forever.

  There were other women after Jade, but none who held his interest long enough to form what he would even consider a friendship. Even his on-again, off-again relationship with Lisa was more platonic than intimate. It was just a hunch, but he knew he could cultivate an easygoing friendship with Francine. The three hours he’d spent with her felt like one.

  He flipped his directional signal and turned down the street leading to the causeway, the lights and church steeples of Charleston fading in the rearview mirror. Francine stirred slightly as he entered the town limits for Haven Creek but didn’t open her eyes. If it hadn’t been for the vehicle’s headlights, the glow from a half moon, and light coming from homes in the distance Keaton would’ve encountered complete darkness.

  Francine opened her eyes when Keaton shook her gently. She rolled her head on her neck. “Sorry about that,” she apologized. “I must have fallen asleep.” Unbuckling the seat belt, she slipped out of his jacket.

  Leaning to his right, he pressed a kiss to her hair. “There’s no need to apologize. Don’t move. I’ll help you down.”

  She anchored her hands on Keaton’s shoulders
when his hands went around her waist. Her head was level with his as he held her effortlessly, her feet inches off the ground. “You can put me down now.”

  He complied, one arm going around her waist. “I’ll walk you to your door.”

  “The door to my apartment is on the east side of the house.” Francine led the way, Keaton shortening his stride to accommodate her shorter legs. Wrought-iron solar lanterns suspended from stanchions lined the path leading to her apartment. She unlocked and opened the door. A table lamp turned to the lowest setting provided enough light for her to make it up the staircase without falling or bumping into objects.

  “Do you ride?” Keaton asked behind her.

  She turned around. “What?”

  He pointed to the bicycle positioned on a stand in the spacious entryway. “The bike.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. Every day my best friend and I used to ride rain or shine. She just found out she’s pregnant, so she’s going to curtail riding for at least three months.”

  “Where do you go when you ride?”

  Pressing her back to the open door, Francine tried to make out his expression in the diffused light. “I ride to Haven Creek to meet her, then we ride back to the Cove before she returns to the Creek.”

  Keaton leaned against the door next to her, their shoulders touching. “Do you drive?”

  “Yes. The red Corvette parked out front is mine.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “It’s nice.”

  “It’s fast, but I rarely get the chance to take it out on the highway and let it fly.”

  Pushing his hands into the pockets of his trousers, Keaton crossed his feet at the ankles. “So, the pretty lady has a lead foot.”

  “Yup. But only once I leave the island.”

  “You don’t date.” His question was a statement.

  Francine held her breath, and then let it out slowly. “I haven’t dated in a while.”