Magnolia Drive

by Rochelle Alers

  Morgan looped her arm through Francine’s. “I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me.” She held up her free hand. “Don’t say anything right now. We’ll talk once we get to Jack’s.”

  It was lunchtime and the babble of voices at Jack’s Fish House escalated appreciably when diners greeted those with whom they were familiar. A large group of fishermen who’d gone out on the water at sunrise were crowded together, taking up an entire corner in the family-style dining restaurant. The flat-screen televisions with closed captions were tuned to sports, weather, and all-news cable channels. Francine spied an empty table for two not far from the kitchen.

  “Do you mind sitting near the kitchen?” she asked Morgan. She practically had to shout to be overheard.

  “No!” Morgan shouted back. “If I’d known it was going to be this crowded and noisy I would’ve called for takeout.”

  They wove their way through tables, avoiding members of the waitstaff balancing trays on their shoulders. Within minutes of sitting down a waitress came over to take their orders.

  “Is that all you’re going to eat?” Morgan asked when the young woman left.

  Francine had ordered a shrimp grits cake with a lemon sour sauce served on red leaf lettuce and arugula. “I promised my grandmother I would eat with her tonight.”

  “You must be in hog heaven now that your grandmother lives with you, because all you have to do is walk down the hall to get a meal instead of getting into your car and driving to Charleston.”

  “Even more rewarding for me than her cooking is seeing my grandma every day. It’s like Christmas, New Year’s, and the Fourth of July all rolled into one. I really don’t mind being her ‘precious grandbaby girl.’ ”

  “That’s because your grandma is cool. Speaking of dinner, why don’t you come over tomorrow night? Nate and I would love your company.”

  Francine traced the initials cut into the heart carved into the tabletop. “Can I get a rain check?”

  “Sure. When do you want to come?”

  “I’ll have to let you know.”

  “Is there something you’re not telling me, Fran?”

  Francine glanced around her to see if anyone at a nearby table was listening to their conversation. “Keaton and I are having dinner followed by a movie.”

  Clapping her hand over her mouth, Morgan muffled a scream. “So I was right. I knew there was something going on between you two. Where did you meet him?”

  Francine shifted her chair until she and Morgan were sitting side by side. She told her about him coming into the Beauty Box for a haircut and shave. Morgan’s jaw dropped when she revealed that he’d recognized her because he’d seen her performance in an off-Broadway play.

  “What did he say?”

  “He tried to convince me to accept a role in one of his films.” She also told her that Keaton had bought the Webber property, where he planned to build a studio on the land.

  Resting her elbows on the table, Morgan moved even closer. “What did you tell him?”

  She gave her friend an incredulous stare. “I told him no.”

  “Why did you turn him down, Fran? You’re an incredible actress.”

  “I was an actress.”

  “But you could be one again.”

  Francine shook her head. “No I can’t, because I don’t want to.”

  “This can’t be because of Aiden.”

  “Aiden has nothing to do with my decision.” Francine realized she sounded defensive, but didn’t care. When she and Aiden broke up she’d tried to pick up the pieces of her life and move on with her career. No matter how many auditions or casting calls she attended it was as if the spark that made her a dynamic actress had gone out. She never flubbed a line, yet she wasn’t able to summon the emotion necessary to breathe life into her characters.

  Francine knew Morgan had never liked Aiden. After their breakup she’d called him a parasite, user, pimp, and a few other four-letter adjectives. She told her friend she didn’t blame her ex as much as she blamed herself. She’d embraced the adage “love is blind” like an addict searching for his next fix.

  “How did he take you turning him down?” Morgan asked.

  She smiled. “He was very gracious.”

  Morgan sighed. “Gracious and gorgeous. Can you imagine the impact a movie studio will have on this island?”

  “Economically it has to be a win-win,” Francine answered.

  “What type of movies does he make?”

  “Mostly films featuring coming-of-age themes. Right now he’s researching Cavanaugh Island’s history because he wants to set a film here.”

  Morgan nodded. “So that’s why he’s meeting with Miss Hannah. I’m willing to bet she’ll know his entire life story within a half hour of his sitting down with her. You should’ve warned him that Miss Hannah is an incorrigible gossip.”

  Francine giggled. “I decided not to prejudice him. If he survived Hollywood gossip, then he should be able to take on Miss Hannah. He’s also offered to cook for me in return for making the connection with Miss Hannah.”

  Morgan gave her a skeptical look. “He’s cooking for you because you promised to help him out? You don’t need him to cook for you when your mother and grandmother live in the same house with you.” She placed her hand over Francine’s. “Talk to me, Fran.”

  “What do you want me to say? That I’m having an affair with him? I’m sorry to disappoint you but there’s nothing going on between me and Keaton.”

  “Is he married?”

  Francine smiled. “No.”

  “Is he a baby daddy?”

  Francine’s smile reached her eyes. “No. He’s what you would call unencumbered.”

  “And that means women are going to be on him like white on rice. When was the last time we had an eligible bachelor for women in our age group?”

  “We did have Nate before you took him off the market. And don’t forget Jeff.”

  “You’re right,” Morgan said in agreement.

  Francine thought it ironic that Jeff and Nate had grown up on the island; both left to attend college, and then returned after nearly two decades to fall in love and marry. “The pickings have been real sparse for a single woman looking for a husband.”

  “Do you include yourself in that equation, Fran?”

  “No. I told you before I’m not interested in getting married again.”

  “What about a relationship?” Morgan asked. “Are you opposed to becoming involved with a man without a promise of marriage?”

  There were very few secrets Francine kept from her friend, but she didn’t want to talk about her connection to Keaton. Everything she’d shared with him was much too new to make any kind of prediction.

  “I don’t know, Mo,” she said instead. “It would be nice to date someone on a regular basis, but if it doesn’t happen, then my life isn’t going to fall apart.” Although Keaton had asked to take her out, that did not translate into an ongoing relationship.

  “It’s not happening, Fran. You haven’t dated anyone since you moved back here.”

  Francine narrowed her eyes. “That sounds like the pot calling the kettle black. You weren’t dating anyone either until you started going out with Nate.”

  “I have a confession to make,” Morgan confided after a dish of fluffy, buttery biscuits was set on the table. “I would’ve seriously considered dating David, but he was still hung up on his ex. When I saw you with him at the Island Fair I’d hoped you guys would hook up. And you and David were the perfect host and hostess when you put together my surprise birthday party.”

  Francine had to admit working with David planning the surprise thirty-third birthday party for Morgan was a lot of fun. It was the only time she’d witnessed him completely relaxed. “David is a good guy, but not for me. I told you before I can’t deal with an uptight man. I had enough of that with Aiden.” Her ex-husband rarely smiled, claiming he had to stay in character. Most of the roles he sought called for the dark, brood
ing type.

  “I would’ve been uptight, too, if I’d had to share a shoebox-size apartment with three other roommates,” Morgan drawled. “You became Aiden’s savior once he realized you had a luxury apartment in an Upper West Side brownstone only steps from Central Park. That’s when he turned into a predator with you as his prey. He hit the mother lode. It wasn’t enough for him to date you. He had to marry you to seal the deal.”

  Francine made a sucking sound with her tongue and teeth. “Well, the joke was on him, because he never knew my father was supporting me financially. The parasite hadn’t believed until it came time for the divorce that I wouldn’t have had a penny to my name if Daddy didn’t send me monthly checks. Daddy claimed he did it because he’d suspected Aiden married me for money. I wish I’d had a camera phone to take a picture of his face when our lawyers were discussing the division of assets and alimony.”

  Morgan bit into the biscuit slowly, savoring the taste. “Your father never liked Aiden.”

  “Word,” Francine drawled. When her parents came to visit her in New York they were polite, but very cool toward him. It was as if everyone could see his true colors except her, until it was too late.

  “Speaking of single Cavanaugh Island men, there’s always Harry Hill Junior.”

  “I thought you loved me like a sister, Mo.”

  “I… I do,” Morgan said between guffaws. “But I couldn’t resist that dig.”

  “Right now Harry Hill Junior is in deep doo-doo. He’s under house arrest and wears an electronic ankle monitor. He’s facing a rape charge because apparently he impregnated a fourteen-year-old. The police are awaiting the birth of her twins before they can prove paternity.”

  Morgan looked as if she were going to choke on her biscuit. She took a sip of water. “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I was, Mo. You know the man is nothing more than what I call a bum bitch. He still lives at home, no doubt still sleeping on his Spider-Man sheets while he runs around making babies with who knows how many women. At last count he’s fathered nine kids. Two more will make it eleven.” Francine hadn’t been able to ignore the gossip swirling around the Beauty Box when the topic of Harry Junior came up. All of the women voiced their opinion of what they wanted to do to him—and none bode well for the serial baby daddy. “If the twins are his, then he’s not going to make any more babies where he’s going for a very long time.”

  “Speaking of babies,” Morgan continued, “I’d like you to be godmother for my son or daughter. And I’m not going to ask you what I’m having because I want it to be a surprise.”

  “I wouldn’t tell you even if you asked,” she teased. She inclined her head. “And I’m honored to be your child’s godmother. Have you chosen a godfather?”

  “Nate asked his brother almost at the same time Bryce asked Nate if he would be godfather to his baby.”

  “Do Bryce and Stacy know what they’re having?”

  Morgan nodded. “Yes. A boy.”

  All conversation came to a halt when the waitress set down Francine’s shrimp grits cake and Morgan’s black-eyed pea soup and side order of turnips and greens over rice on the table.

  Chapter Eight

  Keaton pounded his fist on the steering wheel after he pulled into an empty parking space behind the Cove Inn. If he hadn’t left Francine’s apartment he definitely would have embarrassed himself. The first time he saw her he was like a tongue-tied, starstruck adolescent meeting his favorite celebrity. He’d feared looking away because he didn’t want to miss a gesture or word of dialogue whenever she was onstage. Only after seeing her performance again did he acknowledge that he was obsessed with Francine Tanner.

  The obsession persisted when he wrote the script with the intention of casting her in the lead. It waned only when her agent reported she’d quit the business. But now it was back and this time, stronger than before. His dilemma was learning to make a clear distinction between the former actress and the hairstylist.

  Keaton placed a USB voice/audio disk recorder between himself and Hannah Forsyth. He had wanted to laugh when a clerk escorted him into the woman’s office. It was apparent the librarian was stuck in another era, with her oversize red-framed glasses, teased champagne-pink hair, and blood-red lipstick. “I hope you don’t mind if I tape our conversation, Mrs. Forsyth.”

  She waved a hand with nail polish that was an exact match for her lipstick. “Of course not. Red told me you needed an overview of the history of Cavanaugh Island.”

  There it was again, Keaton thought. Even as an adult Francine couldn’t escape her childhood nickname. “Francine did tell me that you’re the go-to person for historical information.” He’d stressed the name. Others may think of her as Red, but for him, the name had begun as an insult and he wouldn’t use it. Besides, the name Francine was just as beautiful as the person.

  Hannah blinked slowly behind the large lenses before she smiled at him. “You can call me Miss Hannah, son.” Her green eyes were the same color as Francine’s.

  Keaton returned her smile. “Miss Hannah it is.”

  She laced her fingers together. “Now tell me, Keaton, why is it you want to know about Cavanaugh Island?”

  He watched the older woman’s expression change from indifference to one that mirrored complete surprise when he told her he’d moved to Cavanaugh Island to live and to set up a movie studio on the old Webber property. “I plan for my first movie to be released under Grace Lowcountry Productions to be filmed here on the island, preferably using the locals as extras. I plan to employ young people wishing to break into the industry. They would be hired as interns to work in every phase of moviemaking.”

  Hannah patted her lacquered coif. “Is Mayor Spencer White aware that you plan to build a movie studio here in the Cove?”

  “I don’t believe he is.”

  “Let me warn you, young man, that you’re probably going to get a lot of flak from the mayor because he wants to know about everything going on his town.”

  His town. The two words resonated with Keaton as he successfully hid his annoyance behind a polite smile. If the mayor was elected, then the town didn’t belong to him but its citizens. “I had my attorney research all the statutes on the island, and there is nothing that precludes me from setting up a business enterprise here in the Cove.”

  Drawn-on reddish-pink eyebrows lifted. “It appears as if you’ve done your homework,” Hannah said. There was a hint of pride in her voice.

  “I never go into anything unless I research it thoroughly. That’s why I’ve come to you, Miss Hannah. I’ve been told that you are an icon where Lowcountry history is concerned.” Keaton gave her his winning smile, watching as a rush of color darkened her pale face with the compliment.

  He didn’t doubt she was knowledgeable about the island’s history, but it was probably the griots, the oral storytellers, who would tell him things that would never appear in books. Just like the skill of weaving sweetgrass was passed down through generations, it would be the same with stories relevant to the Gullah culture. The history of the island was important to Keaton to capture the feel of the locale, but it was the culture of the people that would move the plot forward.

  Lacing her fingers together on the conference table in her office, Hannah gave Keaton a lingering stare. “How much time do you have?”

  He smiled. “I have as much time as you’re willing to allot me.”

  She pointed to the USB device. “You can turn on that little gadget whenever you’re ready.”

  Keaton pressed a button, waiting for the blinking red light to turn blue. “I’m ready.”

  “I don’t think I have to tell you about the horrific institution of slavery that was once so pervasive in the South, and that slave labor, cotton, rice, and indigo made immoral men wealthy beyond their wildest dreams. Slaves in the Sea Islands differed from those on the mainland because of their isolation. If they’d lived on the mainland they would have been forced to give up their language, religion, and Afri
can customs. They weren’t flaunted here, but they weren’t eradicated completely because plantation owners didn’t live here year-round. Many of them had summer homes in town to escape the swamp fevers brought on by mosquitoes.”

  “Are you saying the slaves were left unsupervised during this time?”

  “They should’ve been so lucky. The owners had overseers to look after their interests. Overseers were just that. They were hired to make certain everything ran efficiently. Most of them were crueler than the owners. Contrary to what many believe, there were a number of slave revolts throughout the South. History tends to concentrate on Nat Turner, but there were thousands of Nat Turners who preferred death to captivity. Only they weren’t on the same scale or the incidents never made it into the history books. It’s been documented that there were approximately sixty thousand escapees. The next time you go to Charleston, take notice of the wrought-iron fences surrounding some of the larger homes. Many of them rise six to eight feet above the street and end with sharp spikes. This was to keep blacks from scaling the walls, while giving the homeowners time to arm themselves. An interesting fact about Charleston is that free men of color didn’t live in segregated neighborhoods but alongside their white counterparts.”

  “Why is Cavanaugh Island divided by towns rather than sections or neighborhoods?” Keaton asked.

  “It all goes back to history. Thomas Cavanaugh, a disgraced nobleman who was a distant cousin of a British king, was given a land grant to set up a colony in the Americas. It was apparent he hadn’t mended his ways because he got involved in piracy, using this island as home base after plundering British merchant ships moored off the coast. He was caught and impressed into the British navy, forcing him to surrender the land grant. Others came seeking their fortune and were awarded grants because of their loyal service to the crown. The island was divided into three sections—the largest one going to Shipley Patton. He purchased slaves who knew how to drain swamps and divert water for irrigation before he set up a rice plantation. He was already growing cotton on the mainland, but decided Carolina gold, Sea Island cotton, and indigo were much more profitable crops.”