Magnolia Drive

by Rochelle Alers

  “Were you the quintessential struggling actress waiting for her big break?” Keaton questioned.

  Francine shook her head. “Quite the contrary. My father sent me a check every month to cover the rent on my Upper West Side apartment and all ancillary expenses. Not having to worry where my next dollar was coming from left me better prepared for auditions. I attended an open casting call for Sisters and was lucky enough to be called back twice. The third time was the charm.” She flashed a wry smile. “Even though I got rave reviews I became a one-hit wonder. Once the play closed I couldn’t get another role. I did a few commercials, because redheads are usually given priority status. After a while I gave up and moved back here.” She couldn’t tell Keaton that her so-called fairy-tale marriage had ended and as Aiden’s star rose hers had fallen.

  “So you became a hairstylist.”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Why a stylist?”

  “Why not? I love doing hair. And working alongside my mother is a plus. She may run the Beauty Box like a marine drill sergeant but the system she’s set up works. Even after she retires I don’t plan to change anything.”

  “Do you like styling hair as much as you did acting?”

  “Better.” Instead of interacting with a live audience she interacted with her customers, who were also people she’d known all her life. “Do you have a nut allergy?” she asked, deftly changing the subject.

  He sat up straight. “No. Why?”

  Slipping off the stool Francine walked over to the kitchen table, picking up an airtight container. “My mother made an assortment of tartlets for dessert I’d like to share with you.” She placed three tartlets, one of each variety, on a plate and set it down in front of Keaton. Mavis had added strawberry cheesecake and caramelized lemon to her traditional pecan tartlets. “Would you like coffee?”

  “Yes, please. I’ll brew it,” he volunteered, getting to his feet.

  Keaton brewed two cups of coffee from the single cup coffeemaker, while Francine set out a tiny cup of cream and sugar along with napkins and spoons. “Do you ever eat in front of the fire?”

  She went still. “No. But I do picnic on the beach in front of a fire. Does that count?”

  “Nah.” Carrying the coffee mugs, he walked out of the kitchen, leaving her to follow.

  Francine felt an emotion she hadn’t experienced in a while. It was a nervous excitement because Keaton was the first man she’d invited to her apartment. Although being around him elicited a feeling of being slightly breathless, he still made her feel very safe. Maybe it had something to do with his laid-back personality.

  Instinct told her she had nothing to fear from Keaton; however, she wasn’t as certain about herself, because she feared liking him too much.

  Chapter Seven

  Francine couldn’t believe she was sitting on the floor between Keaton’s outstretched legs staring at the smoldering embers, while taking sips of coffee. “I didn’t realize you were a slacker,” she teased.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I asked you to come here because I thought you wanted to talk about your research.”

  Keaton pressed a kiss to her curls. “Maybe we can discuss it Saturday night.”

  “What’s happening Saturday night?”

  Taking the cup from her hand, he placed it on a coaster, then eased her back until she lay atop him, her buttocks pressed to his groin. “If you’re not busy I’d like to take you to a show at the Creek’s movie house. After that we can go to the mainland and talk over cups of lattes or cappuccino.”

  Francine bit back a smile. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had offered to take her to the movies. And never on Cavanaugh Island. “So you discovered our movie theaters.” There was one in the Cove, but most of the films were at least two to three months behind the ones shown in Charleston. The theater in the Creek featured only foreign films and black-and-white movies from the thirties and forties.

  “It is one of the reasons I decided to put down roots here.” He breathed a kiss against her scalp. “Will you, Miss Tanner, go to the movies with me?”

  “I’d like very much to go to the movies with you.”

  “I like you, Francine.”

  Francine managed to extricate herself from Keaton’s loose embrace enough to turn over and face him. She found herself straddling his lap when he pushed her into a sitting position. Resting her hands on his shoulders, she felt the warmth of his body through his sweater.

  “I like you, too, Keaton.”

  Cradling her face between his hands, his thumbs made circular motions on her cheekbones. “I like your red curls, your freckles, and your incredibly sexy long legs.” He pressed a kiss over each eyelid.

  Anchoring her arms under his shoulders, Francine lost herself in the strength of his lean body and the scent of his cologne clinging to the fibers of the thick cotton sweater. Keaton liked everything about her that the other men had teased her about for more years than she cared to remember. It had taken time for her to overcome the ridicule and move on. It’d been her ex-husband’s deceit that still lingered to the point where she wasn’t willing to lower her guard enough to trust a man.

  “Do you want me to tell you what I like about you?” she whispered in his ear.

  “No. I want you to show me.”

  She went completely still, certain Keaton could feel her heart beating through her tank top when she felt his erection pulsing under her hips. “I don’t like you that much, Keaton.” Francine watched a myriad of expressions flitter over his handsome features—confusion, shock, and then realization.

  “Not that, Francine.”

  “Not what?”

  He angled his head in the endearing gesture she’d come to look for. “No. You’re not ready for that and neither am I, even if a particular part of my anatomy says differently. Besides, I don’t want to ruin what we have with sex. That’s something you can get from any man, and I can get from any woman. What I will take is a kiss.” Francine hesitated, then kissed his cheek.

  “Nah, nah, nah, baby,” Keaton drawled, shaking his head. “That’s not a kiss,” he said in a flawless Paul Hogan in Crocodile Dundee accent. “This is a kiss.”

  Instead of pulling out a knife as the character had done in the film when confronted by thugs intent on robbing him, Keaton palmed her face, lowered his head, and brushed a light kiss over her mouth, the gesture so tender she could’ve imagined it. It wasn’t a kiss but a caress.

  He increased the pressure until her lips parted. Francine inhaled his moist breath, moaning softly when his tongue grazed hers. “I have a confession to make,” he whispered.

  She closed her eyes as she struggled to slow her accelerated respiration. “What is it?”

  “You beguiled me the first time I saw you, and now fast-forward almost ten years and nothing has changed.” He lowered his hands and kissed her forehead. “I’d better leave before I embarrass myself. Thanks for the coffee, and please let your mother know her tartlets were delicious.”

  Now back in control, Francine nodded. “I’ll let her know. I’ll walk you down so I can lock the door.”

  It wasn’t until she’d locked the door behind Keaton that Francine was able to draw a normal breath. Pressing her back to the door, she closed her eyes, reliving the feel of his mouth on hers. The kiss wasn’t as sexual as it was sensual. Francine opened her eyes, smiling. He liked her and she liked him. It was the perfect beginning to an easy and uncomplicated friendship.

  Francine felt his breath feather along the column of her neck, then the pleasurable bite of teeth at the base of her throat. She rose off the mattress, writhing on twisted sheets and keening when feelings she’d forgotten surfaced.

  His mouth continued its exploration, traveling downward over her breasts, distended nipples, into the dip to her belly button and still lower to her inner thighs. A rush of moisture bathed her core as she attempted to press her knees together to stop the pulsing from growing stronger and
stronger with each breath, sweeping her up into a maelstrom of ecstasy and holding her captive.

  “Don’t stop,” she gasped. “Please don’t stop,” she pleaded over and over. Her plaintive plea became a litany until without warning it ended, her mouth frozen in a silent scream.

  Francine woke, sitting up in bed as if propelled by a bungee cord, the sound of her runaway heartbeat reverberating in her ears. She felt dizzy, lightheaded; the cotton nightgown, soaked with perspiration, molded to her heaving breasts. When she finally focused her eyes she realized she was in her bedroom and that she’d had an erotic dream. She pulled her knees to her chest, holding her legs tightly to still their trembling.

  “I don’t dream,” she whispered in the silent room. “I have visions.”

  It was a full two minutes before she was able to straighten her legs and fall back to the damp pillow under her shoulders. Francine knew the dream had everything to do with straddling Keaton, feeling his erection, and his kissing her, although she hadn’t been able to see the face of her ethereal lover.

  She’d dated several men while waiting for her divorce to be finalized, but refused to sleep with any of them, shunning relationships and anything resembling a commitment. She’d found it easy to sidestep their advances, but it’d taken all of her self-control not to beg Keaton to make love to her when he’d kissed her. Even though Francine adamantly claimed she was a former actress, all of her training came into play when she forced herself not to respond to his rapacious mouth and tongue.

  Combing her fingers through her mussed hair, she held it off her face. Her mother had never been reticent when it came to talking to her about sex. Two years after she’d returned to the Cove, Mavis had asked if she missed making love with a man. Francine had been forthcoming when she told her mother she didn’t, because she hadn’t met a man who would make her want to sleep with him.

  Now the same couldn’t be said for Keaton. They were good together. He made her laugh and she made him laugh. He was creative, smart, and perceptive, and had impeccable manners, attributes she hadn’t found in the other men from her past. Her life had gone on with an uncomplicated predictability—until now.

  After he’d given her his business card she’d gone online to look for films he’d directed. She found one, ordered it, and paid the additional charge to have it shipped overnight.

  Francine stayed up well beyond her normal bedtime watching the movie, which was about an artistically gifted sixteen-year-old boy at a crossroads in his life. The lead character was torn between following his older brother, whom he worshipped, into a life of crime that was certain to end with him in prison and/or dead, or accept an offer from a well-known artist to become his apprentice. The heart-wrenching scene in which the character’s loyalty is tested moved her to tears when the budding artist demonstrated that blood was thicker than water by walking into a bodega holding a gun, while his older brother stands lookout. He fails to notice the police officer standing in the aisle when he fires point-blank at the store owner. The police officer returns fire, hitting him in the thigh and severing an artery. The robber stumbles out of the store to the sidewalk, falling facedown in the rain, which mingles with his life’s blood, flowing into a sewer, while his brother runs away and disappears into the blackness of the night. The final scene showed young girls jumping rope on the same sidewalk where the body had lain days before. The film’s message: You live, you die, and life goes on without missing a step. Keaton was the first man since she’d returned to Cavanaugh Island who made her want to take things to the next level.

  If her mother were to ask her the same question now she would be forced to admit there was one man she wanted to sleep with if only to relive the passion that made her feel like a complete woman.

  She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was minutes after four, much too early to get out of bed. Turning over on her side, she pulled the sheet and quilt up over her shoulder and lay quietly until drifting off to sleep. Thankfully there were no disturbing dreams this time around.

  Francine was surprised to see Morgan walk into the salon Saturday afternoon. Meeting the eyes of the elderly man sitting in her chair in the mirror, she excused herself. “I’ll be right back, Mr. James.”

  “Take your time, Red.”

  She approached Morgan. “Did you come in for a trim?” Her friend’s hair was beginning to resemble an Afro.

  “Not today. I know my hair is a hot mess, but I’m waiting until next week. Actually, I came to see if my best friend wanted to go to lunch with me.”

  Francine pulled her friend closer to the front door. “Sure. Can you wait for me to finish cutting Mr. James’s hair?” The man had lost most of his hair years ago yet came into the salon religiously every week for her to edge up the fringe.

  “Of course.” Morgan, sitting on a leather chair in the reception area, flipped through a magazine.

  Francine returned to her station, picking up a comb and a pair of scissors to cut away the uneven wisps over the retired plumber’s ears. Using a pair of tiny scissors, she clipped the hair growing out of his nose and ears. She enjoyed pampering the older men who sat in her chair because the few that were widowers missed the attention they’d gotten from their late wives. Turning on a blow-dryer, she blew the hair off his face and neck, and then dusted the nape of his neck with a medicated powder to offset razor irritation.

  “I’m finished, Mr. James.” She unsnapped the cape around his shoulders. “You may pay the receptionist. She knows to give you the senior discount.” It had taken a while, but the older customers stopped offering her tips because she refused to take their money. Most, if not all, were on fixed incomes.

  Shrugging out of her smock, Francine left the salon floor and entered the lounge. Mavis was in the supply closet mixing hair dyes. “Mama, I’m going out for lunch. I have Miss Sunny at four.”

  Mavis nodded. “Enjoy.”

  “Do you want me to bring you anything back?”

  “Thanks for asking, but I’m saving my appetite until later. Your father and I are having a date night.”

  “Good for you.” Her parents were having a date night and she was looking forward to her Saturday night date with Keaton.

  Francine had noticed the change in her mother’s attitude since her husband curtailed his traveling. She smiled a lot more and spent time in the kitchen preparing his favorite dishes. In forty years of marriage there were instances when her parents had spent more time apart than together. They’d attended different colleges, and six months of the year had been devoted to football: training camp, the official season, and postseason play. Since his retiring from the game her father was still away from home when he traveled to check on his restaurants.

  Francine brushed her hair, smoothing the flatironed strands into a ponytail and securing it with an elastic band. Reaching for her jacket on the wall hook, she slipped it on and joined Morgan as they walked along Moss Alley to Main Street.

  She gave her friend a sidelong glance. “How are you feeling?”

  “Hungry twenty-four/seven,” Morgan confessed.

  Francine and Morgan moved over to the right to let an older couple pass. Afternoon temperatures peaking in the midsixties had brought out pedestrians and motorists alike. The downtown business district was bustling with activity. “What about morning sickness?”

  “It comes and goes. I did get to see Kara’s baby for a few minutes the day after she came home from the hospital. He’s a carbon copy of Jeff except for his eye color.”

  “Please don’t tell me he inherited the Patton gray eyes.” Kara was a direct descendant of Shipley Patton, the original owner of Angels Landing. There had been a time when the Pattons had regarded themselves as Cavanaugh Island royalty, refusing to mix outside their privileged social circle, but that changed dramatically once Kara inherited the bulk of Taylor Patton’s estate. Many of them were lawyers and had married lawyers or bankers.

  “It looks that way.”

  Francine and Mor
gan waved to Deborah Monroe, who was standing outside the entrance to the Parlor Bookstore. Deborah, who’d spent her childhood summers in the Cove, returned after the drowning death of her first husband. She was given a second chance at love when she married a widower, Dr. Asa Monroe, who’d become the island’s resident doctor. Asa’s family practice was located three doors away from his wife’s bookstore. Their toddler son was looking forward to celebrating his third birthday.

  Francine slowed when she saw Keaton walking in their direction. He was dressed entirely in black: pullover sweater, jeans, Timberland boots, and a waist-length leather jacket. As he neared, she noticed the stubble on his jaw. Initially she thought he wasn’t going to acknowledge her, but she was wrong when he stopped.

  His smile was as brilliant as the winter sunshine. “Good afternoon, Francine.”

  She felt the heat from Morgan’s gaze on her face. “Good afternoon. Keaton, this is Morgan Dane. She’s the one I told you about decorating your home. Morgan, I’d like you to meet Keaton Grace.”

  The two exchanged handshakes. “Do you have a business card on you, Mrs. Dane?” he asked.

  Morgan unsnapped the small shoulder bag slung across her chest. “Please call me Morgan.” She handed him a card. “My partner, Abram, is the interior decorator.”

  Keaton slipped the card into the pocket of his jacket. “The renovations to the house won’t be completed for at least six to seven weeks.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. Do you have the floor plans?” Morgan asked Keaton. He nodded. “We can work from them. It will lessen the time between the delivery of furniture and your moving in.”

  He flashed his sensual smile again. “I’ll get the plans and I’ll call Abram to set up an appointment.” He took a quick glance at his watch. “I’m sorry to run, but I have an appointment with Hannah Forsyth.” Keaton took a step, dipped his head, and kissed Francine’s cheek. “I’ll call you. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Morgan.” Francine and Morgan were still standing in the same spot when he continued walking, turning down the street leading to the library.