“I have to get my tote, then I’ll meet you outside.”
Mavis was sitting behind the wheel of the Lexus SUV that was a fortieth wedding anniversary gift from Frank when Francine slipped onto the passenger seat next to her. The drive from Magnolia Drive to the parking lot behind Moss Alley was accomplished in exactly seven minutes. It was a crisp January morning that called for a wool jacket or lightweight coat. The sun was bright, but the breeze coming off the water made it chilly.
The lock proved resistant as Francine jiggled it vigorously. “Mama, you’re going to have to replace the entire lock,” she said in exasperation. After a few more jiggles, it opened. She watched as Mavis reached into her tote for her cell phone, then scrolled through the directory and tapped the number for the local locksmith. Her mother left a message on his voice mail to come and replace the lock.
The two women went through the motions of turning on lights and readying the salon for business. Francine checked the voice mail, while Mavis put up a pot of coffee for the staff. The smell of brewing coffee filled the employee lounge when Mabel Kelly tapped on the front door. She had brought a tray of muffins and sweet breads from the Muffin Corner. One by one the staff arrived, hanging out in the lounge, eating and drinking, until Mavis informed them the first customer had arrived.
The morning passed quickly for Francine. She had two scheduled men’s haircuts, one shave, and one walk-in for a haircut. She had retreated to the lounge to sit and wait for her next customer when her cell phone vibrated in the pocket of her smock.
She stared, reading the text message from Morgan: Kara had a boy—7 lbs. 7 oz.—21 inches. Mom and baby doing well. She says the baby looks like Jeff, who is over the moon . Francine pumped her fist. She and Morgan had debated when to hold the baby shower, and it was better they’d decided sooner rather than later. She decided to wait at least a week before visiting Kara to catch a glimpse of the newest Cavanaugh Island resident.
A rush of emotion overwhelmed Francine at the same time tears pricked the back of her eyelids. All of her girlfriends were in motherhood mode, while she was left wishing for something that was just out of her grasp. Pity quickly became anger once she realized she’d let someone else define who she was. It had been eight years since Aiden had spoken those hateful words and like a fool she’d believed him. She shook her head. No more feeling sorry for herself. She was worthy of being loved and maybe it took going out with Keaton to make her realize she could enjoy a man’s company as much as he enjoyed hers.
It was Thursday, the salon’s late night, when Francine lay on a recliner watching the local news. Her six o’clock was running late. Her cell vibrated. Picking it up, she glanced at the display. “Hello.”
“Francine, this is Keaton. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”
She smiled. “Your timing is impeccable. I’m taking a break.”
“If that’s the case, then I’ll make this quick. I picked up several books from the bookstore. Mrs. Monroe said if they’re not what I need, then I should bring them back. I’m developing a character and I’m stymied because she’s into casting spells using roots, candles, and oils. I need clarification on a few things.”
“Mark the pages that need clarification and drop the book off for me at my apartment. I’ll look them over later on tonight,” she said.
“How much longer will you be there?”
Francine estimated how long it would take for her to complete a cut and blowout. “Until about eight thirty.”
“Thanks, doll. Then I’ll see you around nine.”
“I’ll leave the side door unlocked. My apartment is at the top of the stairs on the right.”
She ended the call, staring at the phone. Francine realized the more involved she became with Keaton the more she would be pulled back into the theater. For her, theater wasn’t just about performing onstage or in front of a camera. It went beyond that. It was researching and developing, and breathing life into the character, working closely with the director to interpret the playwright’s or screenwriter’s script. Keaton wrote, directed, and produced his own films, which probably made him his own harshest critic.
Francine still hadn’t figured out whether it was coincidence or predestination that their paths would cross. She understood his rationale for putting down roots on Cavanaugh Island and she was no longer bothered by the fact he’d recognized her when she hadn’t known who he was. However, she was still attempting to process the connection between their fathers. Even with her psychic ability she would’ve never predicted her father would be on a first name basis with Keaton’s father.
She’d attempted to concentrate on Keaton when she lay in bed at night, waiting for a vision that would reveal why their paths had crossed. But it was as if a dark shade had been pulled down, not permitting her to see her future and his future. She’d always found it eerie that she could see what was going to happen in someone else’s life, but never her own.
Brooke stuck her head in the doorway. “Francine, your six o’clock is here.”
She smiled at the shampoo girl. “Thanks.” Pushing off the recliner, she returned to the salon floor to take care of her last customer for the day.
Keaton parked his truck only a few feet from the door leading to Francine’s apartment. Most of the windows in the house were dark and there were no cars parked along the driveway. It was still early by L.A. and New York City standards, but here on Cavanaugh Island everything seemed to go into sleep mode with the setting sun. Even the boarders at the Cove Inn who usually gathered in the parlor after dinner to chat over cordials retreated to their respective rooms and suites sometime between eight thirty and nine.
After living in three cosmopolitan cities, and now in Sanctuary Cove, Keaton realized he’d never fit well with the large, bustling metropolises. He’d come to welcome the slower pace, with no one seeming anxious or stressed to get where they needed to go. Francine had warned him of driving too fast and each time he got behind the wheel he made certain not to exceed the island’s unofficial speed limit.
Reaching for the shopping bags on the passenger seat, he got out and walked to the door. As promised, she’d left it unlocked. Setting down the bags, he took off his running shoes, leaving them on the mat next to a smaller pair. His sock-covered feet were silent as he climbed the carpeted staircase. Light spilled out into the hallway from the open doorway to Francine’s apartment. The odor of burning wood wafted to his nose and when he walked into the living room he saw the source of the scent. A fire flickered behind the decorative screen from the fireplace built into a wall made entirely of brick. Recessed lights reflected off the gleaming black concert piano set on the exquisite herringbone-patterned parquet floor.
His gaze swept over the furnishings in the living/dining area. Constructed without walls, the space gave the appearance it was larger than it actually was. Either Francine had a gift for decorating or she’d commissioned a professional to furnish her apartment. The sofa, chairs, tables, and fabrics were all in keeping with the warmer, semitropical Lowcountry climate. She’d used a light palette on the seat cushions with splashes of green, royal blue, and bright yellow in throw pillows. An off-white cushioned window seat stamped with palmetto leaves spanning a quartet of tall windows beckoned one to come and sit a while.
He hadn’t taken more than a half-dozen steps when she came into his line of vision. His reaction to seeing her damp hair framing her scrubbed, lightly freckled face and the white tank top molded to her firm breasts was like a punch to the gut. Bare feet with toes painted a deep rose-pink peeked out from under the hem of a pair of light blue cotton lounging pants. He marveled that she could appear so innocent and yet wanton at the same time. His gaze followed hers; she was staring at his feet.
“You didn’t have to take your shoes off.”
He lifted his shoulders. “I saw yours on the mat.” Keaton handed Francine the shopping bags.
“I wear those whenever I go biking. I leave them downstairs because I don’t want to track
mud on the staircase. Come on back to the kitchen with me.”
He followed her through the living/dining room and into an eat-in kitchen. “The book is in the small bag and the larger one has a little something for you.”
She smiled at him over a bare shoulder. “You didn’t have to bring anything for me.”
“Yes, I did. I was raised never to come to someone’s house empty-handed. By the way, your place is beautiful.”
“Thank you. However, I can’t take credit for decorating it. My best friend, Morgan, is responsible for everything you see.”
“Is he local? I’m asking because I’m going to need a decorator once my home is ready.” Keaton had stopped by the construction site earlier that morning. All of the spaces were framed and Sheetrock had been installed in three of the proposed four bedrooms. The head of the construction crew reported if they stayed on schedule, Keaton could expect to take up residence by the middle of March.
“Morgan Dane is a she and the Cove’s architect. You’ve probably passed her shop. It’s Dane and Daniels Architecture and Interior Design. Abram Daniels is her interior decorator.”
“I have,” he confirmed. He remembered peering through the plate-glass window of the design firm. “When I contact her should I say you referred me?”
“A little name-dropping can’t hurt. Please sit down.” Francine pointed to one of the stools at the cooking island.
Keaton glanced around the stark-white kitchen with black appliances. The space was spotless. “I could do some real serious cooking in here.”
She set the bags down on the black granite countertop. “Well, you’ll get your wish once we begin my lessons.”
“Do you have a cleaning service?”
“I don’t cook, but I can clean and do my own laundry.”
He watched as she emptied the bag with a bottle of wine and the cellophane-wrapped bouquet of flowers. Her lips parted slightly as their eyes met. “Thank you. I’ll save the wine for my first completed dinner.” She gave him a hopeful expression. “Please don’t start me off with a recipe that requires more than seven ingredients.”
“I was thinking about linguine with clam sauce.”
“Red or white?” Francine asked.
“Whatever you prefer.”
“I’m kind of partial to white. The first time I ate it was in a tiny restaurant in New York City’s Little Italy and I couldn’t stop raving about it.”
Keaton angled his head, smiling. “I also prefer white. You’ll have to put together a side salad, plus make your salad dressing.”
“That sounds complicated, Keaton.”
“What does?”
“Making my own dressing. Why can’t I use store-bought?”
Propping his arms on the countertop, Keaton wondered why Francine had chosen not to learn to cook for herself, especially since her mother and grandmother could. Most girls he’d grown up with were at least able to cook pasta, even if the sauce came from a jar they’d bought at the supermarket. There were simple dishes she could put together that required one pot. Chili, pot roast with vegetables, and baked chicken called for very few ingredients and didn’t require close monitoring.
“Store-bought dressings are loaded with calories and preservatives. To make it from scratch you’ll need oil, vinegar, herbs, and spices.”
She looked at him from under her lashes. “Are you going to be one of those chefs who scream when the student makes a mistake?”
“First of all, I’m not a chef. And second, I don’t yell. Not even on the set.”
“So I’m dealing with Mr. Laid-back?” she said teasingly.
Keaton laughed under his breath. He wasn’t as laid-back as he was controlled. He’d always felt yelling and screaming at someone, especially if he was in charge, was a sign of insecurity. There was never a reason or need for intimidation. He’d always believed he could catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.
“The only thing I’m going to say is I’ll never raise my voice to you.”
Francine cradled the bouquet to her chest, inhaling their fragrance. “These peonies are gorgeous. Excuse me while I put them in water.”
She opened a cabinet under the countertop, retrieving a faceted cut crystal vase. Filling it with water from one of the twin sinks, Francine methodically arranged the flowers with the greens and baby’s breath. Standing back, she admired her handiwork, then set the vase on the table with seating for four positioned near a window.
“Was this apartment here when your parents moved in?” Keaton asked Francine when she returned to the cooking island and sat down opposite him.
“No. When they bought this place it was so rundown Daddy claims it should’ve been demolished by a wrecking ball.”
“What happened?”
“After talking to the architect he realized its historical significance and decided it would be better to renovate it.”
“How long did it take?”
“Almost two years. My parents were high school sweethearts. They eloped a day after graduating, much to the disapproval of my maternal grandparents. My mother is the youngest of four. She came along when her mother was close to fifty. What Grandma Emmajean believed was menopause had become a change-of-life baby. With her older siblings already out of the house and married with their own families, Mama was left to care for her elderly parents.
“She compromised and instead of going away to college she went locally, while Daddy enrolled in Notre Dame on a full athletic and academic scholarship. The year Daddy was drafted by the Steelers my mother’s father passed away. Grandma Emmajean followed a year later. Folks claimed she died of a broken heart. My parents lived apart whenever my father played ball. Once Mama discovered she was pregnant, she stayed with her in-laws in Charleston, but only during football season.”
Keaton listened intently when Francine told him how her parents lived in the house where her mother had been raised until their new home in the Magnolias was refurbished. The grand house had belonged to several generations of cotton brokers who lost their fortune following the 1929 market crash. Subsequent owners made repairs but none had the resources to restore the house to its original grandeur.
Frank had invested his football earnings in a fast-food franchise. Two years later he purchased a second, eventually becoming the owner of five. The year she celebrated her thirteenth birthday Frank gave Francine a gift usually reserved for adults—her own living quarters. The walls in adjoining bedrooms on the second floor were removed to create a two-bedroom apartment.
“Weren’t you rather young to have your own place?” he asked.
“Not really,” she said, smiling. “Remember, I was still living under my parents’ roof. It was their way of forcing me to become independent. I had to keep it clean and I wasn’t allowed to have boys over, even with my parents in the house. The second bedroom was for my girlfriends whenever I had a sleepover. When the kids at school found out I had my own apartment my life became a living hell.”
“Haters?” he asked.
Francine nodded. “And then some. It was bad enough they made fun of my red hair and freckles, but knowing I had an apartment took the rag off the bush.”
Throwing back his head, Keaton laughed. “I haven’t heard that phrase in years.” He sobered quickly. “Did you have a lot of sleepovers?”
“Yes, but only with Morgan. We were high school outsiders.”
He leaned over the countertop. “But look at you and Morgan now. Both of you are successful businesswomen.” Keaton wanted to remind Francine that if she hadn’t given up acting she probably would’ve become an award-winning stage or screen actress. She was just that good.
A hint of a smile parted Francine’s lips. “I guess you can say the local gals have done all right for themselves.”
“The local gal I’m looking at is more than all right.” A flush of color suffused her face and Keaton knew Francine was uncomfortable with the compliment. He’d believed she would be more secure since she used to perf
orm in front of live audiences.
She blinked. “You’re flirting with me.”
He smiled. “Guilty as charged. Does it surprise you that I am?”
“I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know?” he asked.
Francine averted her gaze, staring over Keaton’s shoulder. He was a very attractive man. Whether wearing a tailored suit or a sweater and jeans he exuded a masculine sensuality that was almost palpable.
“I was always shy when it came to boys because I was often the brunt of their immature jokes. Not only did they make fun of my hair and freckles, it was also my height and weight. They called me Little Orphan Annie, Carrot Top, and Bean Pole. One boy came up to me and asked why I had fly shit on my face. When I told him they were freckles, he laughed, saying that’s what his mother called freckles. People talk about bullying as if it’s something new. There have always been bullies, but nowadays it appears more pervasive because kids are using cyberspace to spew their venom.” She paused. “It was worse for Morgan and me because we didn’t have brothers to protect us.”
“Why didn’t you tell your father?”
Francine gave Keaton a look that spoke volumes. “So he’d end up serving time for killing some kid? My father is extremely overprotective when it comes to me. It wasn’t easy, but I managed to survive. I joined the drama club and while onstage I didn’t have to be Francine Dinah Tanner, but Maggie from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof or Stella in A Streetcar Named Desire. Once I realized I’d been bitten by the acting bug I asked my mother if I could take acting lessons. Four days a week she drove me to Charleston to study with a woman who ran a theater company until I was old enough to get a driver’s license. I learned to play the piano, sing, dance, and perform in musical theater numbers.
“After enrolling at a local college, accelerating and graduating in three years instead of four, I applied to the Yale School of Drama. I celebrated for days after I received my acceptance letter. Those were the best three years of my life, and with a graduate degree in fine arts to my credit I headed straight for New York City.”
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