Magnolia Drive

by Rochelle Alers

  Keaton was aware that rice in the Lowcountry was referred to as Carolina gold. “Is there a difference between mainland and Sea Island cotton?”

  Hannah smiled. “There’s a big difference. Sea Island cotton is Egyptian cotton.”

  “Which makes it higher quality and more expensive than regular cotton.”

  “Without a doubt. Patton was an anomaly in his day because all of his skilled laborers were free blacks. He built a grand house and owned the largest plantation, which he called Angels Landing. He learned early on that a freeman was a better worker than one in bondage. They weren’t beaten and were paid for their labor. If you want to know the intimate details of the Pattons, then you should speak to the griots. I deal only with what’s written, while they have an oral history passed down from great-grandmothers to daughters. What isn’t written is talk about Shipley’s second wife giving birth to a mixed-race boy she managed to pass off as her husband’s. The rumor was she was in love with one of the field slaves and both risked certain death if they were found together.”

  Keaton was pleased the librarian had given him permission to tape her. The sordid story about a woman cuckolding her husband with a slave and making him raise the resulting child as his own made for an engaging plotline. “Tell me about Haven Creek.”

  Hannah paused, sighing audibly. “It has a creek running through it, and it became a haven for former slaves who’d left plantations on the mainland after the Civil War, hence its name. It’s said the farms on the Creek fed the entire island. The farmers grew vegetables, planted fruit trees, and raised chickens, hogs, and milk cows. There aren’t as many farms now, but they still set up their fruit and vegetable stands a couple of days a week, starting in the spring and going throughout the fall harvest. Sanctuary Cove was exactly that. A sanctuary for runaways. There were sea captains who were covert abolitionists. They’d set up an underground railroad system wherein slaves would hide out in the swamps and marshes and wait for a signal when a ship was scheduled to sail north or to Europe with their holds filled with bales of cotton and rice. Again, you’ll have to talk to the griots about those who escaped and those who were found and punished for helping them.”

  “How did life change here once the Civil War ended?”

  “Many of the owners abandoned their plantations and those who’d worked the land for nothing claimed their share. They raised their children, attended church services, sent their children to colored schools, and were able to move around despite fear of reprisals. Some left, going north to find jobs or to escape Jim Crow laws, but the majority of them stayed. Over time a few of the old customs faded, yet many still remain. Although most of the young kids don’t speak Gullah they still understand what their grandmommas are saying. If you want I can give you some of the names of the griots who still live here.”

  Keaton turned off the recorder. “Thank you for offering, but Francine has promised to introduce me to them.”

  Hannah’s red lips parted. “Now, that’s a fine young woman.” She shook her head. “So much talent going to waste. When we read that she was performing off-Broadway we couldn’t stop talking about her. Then”—she snapped her fingers—“it was over and she came back. Folks had a lot to say as to why she came back. Some said she got hooked on drugs, while others claimed they heard she was seeing a married man and his wife threatened to ruin her career if she didn’t leave her husband alone.”

  “What if she decided acting just wasn’t for her?” Keaton asked, defending Francine. He didn’t want to believe Francine had had a drug problem and he didn’t want to think of her having an affair with a married man. Based on what he knew of her, she didn’t fit into that category.

  “No one works that hard to achieve success, then gives it up because she decides it’s not for her. You’re in the movie business. Do you know of any actors or actresses who’ve walked away from success?”

  He knew quite a few off the top of his head, yet would not deign to discuss them with the chatty woman. “Is there anything else you feel I should know?” Hannah blinked slowly, reminding Keaton of a heavy-lidded owl behind her glasses.

  “We do have an archive section here at the library. We have a collection of old journals, letters, and diaries from some of the older families that settled here. There are also copies of census records and bills of sale. If you want to see them, then I’ll have to contact the archival historian attached to the main library in Charleston. She’ll meet with you, answer your questions, and you’ll get to see the actual documents. We have a supply of white gloves you’ll have to wear when handling them. Let me know where I can reach you and when you’re available, and I’ll put in a call to her.”

  Rising to his feet, Keaton took out the case with his business cards, handing one to Hannah. “I’m staying at the Cove Inn, but you can reach me at that number.”

  Hannah stood up. “It’s been a pleasure talking to you.”

  He inclined his head. “The pleasure has been mine. I’m going to hang out here to see if I can find a few books on the subject.”

  “We have quite a few in our reference section, but you won’t be able to check them out. Have you tried the Parlor Bookstore? Deborah Monroe may also have some in stock.”

  “I bought what she had.”

  “The Cove was so lucky when Deborah moved here. She used to spend the summers in the Cove when her grandmother was alive. It was a crying shame when her husband drowned trying to save a kid who should have been in school when he went swimming. But she was blessed when she fell in love with a snowbird staying at the inn for the winter. He’d left to join Doctors Without Borders when he found out Deborah was pregnant with his baby. When he came back they got married. Having both of them living here is a plus for the island. We get to have a brick and mortar bookstore and a doctor who makes house calls.” Hannah made a clucking sound with her tongue and teeth. “Their little boy is such an adorable child. And oh so smart.”

  Keaton knew it was time to take his leave or he would be subjected to an account of everyone living on the island. Plus, he wanted to talk to Francine about not warning him that the librarian was a gossip—something he abhorred. If the mayor hadn’t gotten wind that he planned to build a studio on the Cove he was certain the mayor would know about it before the sun went down.

  Forcing a smile he didn’t feel, Keaton took a step backward. “Thank you again, Hannah.”

  “You’ll let me know how you make out with the griots.”

  “Of course.”

  Keaton left the library, walking back to the Cove Inn. Hannah had given him only a glimpse into the history of the island. However, it was just enough to start his creative juices flowing.

  It was a rare occasion that the Beauty Box didn’t open or close on time. However, this Saturday everything that could’ve gone wrong at the salon did. The receptionist had mistakenly booked this week’s customers for the following week, resulting in double bookings. It was five fifteen when Francine placed her last customer under the dryer, and she knew it would be impossible to go home, shower, and get dressed before Keaton arrived at seven.

  Slipping into the employees’ bathroom, she pulled out her cell phone. “Grandma, I need you to do a favor for me,” she said when Dinah answered.

  “What is it, baby?”

  “I’m expecting Keaton to come over at seven, but I won’t make it home in time because I just put Cherrie Reynolds under the dryer. I’d like you to leave my door open for him.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself none, Francine. I’ll make certain he’s comfortable.”

  “Thanks, Grandma.” She called Keaton, leaving a voice mail message that she was running late and that her grandmother would leave the door open for him.

  A wave of relief washed over her. She’d tried to convince the court stenographer to cut her near waist-length hair but to no avail. It would take more than an hour for her hair to dry completely, then another forty minutes for a blowout.

  Francine used the time to sweep
up hair, clean the mirrors, and sort the rollers at her station. One of the rules she’d instituted when she came to work at the Beauty Box was that every stylist was required to clean up her station before going home. She’d told her mother that she didn’t want to begin her day sweeping up after the staff.

  Her head popped up when the front door opened. She smiled at Alice Parker. Alice, wife of Representative Jason Parker, had thrown her hat into the political ring when she announced her intent to oppose Spencer White in the upcoming local election. The natural blonde flashed her practiced winning smile. The mother of two school-age children looked every bit the politician in a navy-blue wool pantsuit, tailored white shirt, and leather pumps. The semiprecious and precious stones in her American flag lapel pin gave off sparks under the track lights. She was also wearing a campaign button—PARKER FOR PROGRESS superimposed over a palmetto tree—under the flag.

  Alice and her husband were opponents of developers looking to buy tracts of land on the Sea Islands to build golf courses, overpriced hotels, and gated communities. Jason, whose roots on Cavanaugh Island could be traced back three hundred years, decided to move back after he married and had children. The Parkers wanted a place with a strong sense of values and history in which to raise their son and daughter. In that instant Francine realized Bernice Wagner had correctly likened Alice to a Barbie doll. The petite, blond, blue-eyed woman with tiny features did resemble a doll.

  “Hi, Alice. What can I do for you?”

  “I just opened my campaign office in a storefront off Beech Street, and I’d like to know if you would please put one of my campaign posters in your window.”

  “Of course I will.”

  Francine and her mother had decided they would support Alice’s candidacy for mayor. Alice’s political platform included a revitalization of the Cove’s downtown business district and community development grants for those living in homes deemed unsafe or not up to code, while the incumbent touted that he was going to let his past record speak for him.

  “Thanks, Francine. I’ll have someone from my office bring over the posters and a few campaign buttons.”

  “Please have him bring them before six. After that I’m going to lock the door.”

  “He’s not in the office, so I’ll tell him to drop by Tuesday morning.”

  Francine locked the door behind Alice. She was the only one left in the salon and had no intention of accepting a walk-in. She’d spent the day trying not to think about Keaton in an attempt to convince herself he was nothing more than a friend. But the erotic dream was a reminder she wanted him for something more than friendship. It’d been so long since she’d slept with a man.

  She now was faced with the decision of should or shouldn’t she.

  Since declaring their friendship when they first entered high school Francine and Morgan had promised never to keep secrets from each other. They were forthcoming when each lost her virginity, complaining the men weren’t worth their giving up their most precious gift. Even when Morgan left the States to study in Europe they continued their close friendship with letters and then e-mails. But her growing feelings for Keaton would remain her secret and hers alone, so she wouldn’t keep her promise to her friend. After her failed marriage, she wasn’t sure if her heart could take that kind of embarrassment again.

  As soon as Keaton stepped off the last stair he saw the woman sitting on the chair beside the table outside Francine’s apartment. Light from wall sconces shimmered off her short hair.

  “You must be Keaton Grace.”

  He smiled. The woman had to be Francine’s grandmother. Their voices were similar, as were their eyes. She was the picture of elegance, with pearl and diamond studs in her pierced lobes, a matching strand around her neck, and a classic white blouse, black tailored slacks, and a pair of black leather wedge shoes.

  “I am.”

  The woman stood up, tilting her head to stare up at the tall man. “I’m Dinah Tanner, Francine’s grandmother. She asked me to open the door for you because she’s stuck at the salon.” She pointed to the shopping bags he held in each hand. “What do you have there?”

  “I told Francine I would cook for her in a couple of days, so I decided to bring over some things and store them in her refrigerator.”

  “You can put them in my refrigerator. She can get them later.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll wait in her place.”

  Dinah narrowed her eyes over her half-glasses in a gesture that reminded him of Francine. “I do mind. Come on, son. I’m not going to bite you. I’m glad you’re going to cook for her. That child doesn’t eat enough to keep her strength up.”

  “She starves herself?” he asked Dinah.

  “She eats, but never three meals a day. If she eats breakfast, then she’ll skip lunch. And if I don’t force her to eat dinner she’ll skip that too. Now, please follow me.”

  He had no choice but to follow, staring at her ramrod-straight back. Dinah wasn’t tall, but her slender figure made her appear taller. Light from strategically placed sconces glinted off silver hair with streaks of red.

  He walked into the older woman’s apartment, taking in the foyer in one sweeping glance. Francine may resemble her grandmother physically, but their decorating styles were complete opposites. Francine favored a minimalist style while the opposite with the older woman’s American eclectic.

  Tables were overflowing with decorative pots of flowering plants and vases of freshly cut flowers. Framed black-and-white photographs of landscapes, the world’s capital cities, and children dressed in their country’s native customs covered an entire wall.

  Dinah led him through a living/dining area with furniture reflecting a vintage mix of romance, warmth, and charm. The grouping of a sofa, love seat, and a club chair, covered with checks and stripes and floral prints, surrounding a low oak table with a stack of books and a crystal bowl filled with tiny seashells evoked a homey feeling.

  Keaton was still trying to decide in what style he wanted to decorate his new home. He definitely didn’t want the modern furnishings he had in L.A. He detested clutter but didn’t quite want minimalism. Maybe after talking to the interior decorator he would be able to combine the two.

  “Your home is lovely.” Dinah stopped abruptly, almost causing him to bump into her if his reflexes had been slower.

  “Thank you. Most of the things you see belonged to my mother and grandmother. I had the chairs reupholstered with fabric that was as close to the original as I could find.”

  “They are beautiful pieces, Mrs. Tanner.”

  She wagged a finger at him. “If you’re dating my granddaughter, then I want you to call me Miss Dinah.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Keaton smothered a smile. It was obvious one person in Francine’s family approved of his dating her. Never had he been more honest than when he admitted to Francine that he liked her. It wasn’t just her body; it was her sense of humor, quiet Southern charm, and the palpable sexiness he felt whenever they shared the same space. She hadn’t lost her Southern drawl completely and every once in a while it would creep into her speech patterns. Kids may have teased her because of her curly red hair but he liked the curls because it made her look as if she’d just been made love to.

  As soon as the image of his making love to Francine popped into his head Keaton banished it. That was a subject he didn’t want to dwell on because he’d told her sex was something he could get from any woman. What he wanted was to get closer to Francine, to get to know her better. Besides, the island was small and he couldn’t risk the chance of ruining his chances with Francine by sleeping around, even though it didn’t seem to bother some of the retirees living at the boardinghouse. On several occasions he’d spied a few sneaking in out of one another’s rooms. His reaction was either to smile or to pretend he didn’t see them. Keaton wasn’t one to judge someone’s actions—especially if it didn’t affect or impact his lifestyle. He’d lived in his gated L.A. suburban community for five years
, and during that time had rejected the invitations of his neighbors to attend their pool parties and barbecues. He’d managed to escape the gossip so intrinsic in the entertainment industry by remaining semireclusive.

  Keaton knew that was realistically impossible in the Cove or in any town on the island with a documented census of less than two thousand permanent residents. If he’d lingered at the library Hannah probably would’ve given him an account of everyone on Cavanaugh Island, including their birth dates. The fact that she didn’t know the reason Francine had given up her acting career was as puzzling to him as it was to others, and he’d begun to wonder if it had been more than disillusionment that made her walk away from the stage when her star was rising.

  All thoughts of Francine and her aborted career vanished when he stood at the entrance to a kitchen any cook or chef, in particular, would covet. The ultramodern stainless steel kitchen reminded him of the one in Sadie Grace’s II. Granite countertops, a butcher-block preparation table, rich cherrywood cabinetry, gleaming copper-clad pots suspended from racks over the cooktop and grill—everything he’d need to prepare for a dinner party. The refrigerator and freezer were built into a wall. His gaze lingered on a commercial double wall oven before shifting to a microwave, preparation table, twin dishwashers, and utility sinks. Cleanliness must be a Tanner trait because there wasn’t a speck of dirt on the spotless stone terra-cotta floor.

  “How often do you cook in here, Miss Dinah?”

  When she smiled, a network of fine lines deepened around her eyes. “Every day. The only exception is when my daughter-in-law spells me.” She pointed to the shopping bags. “They look heavy. Rest them on the bench over there.”

  Keaton set the recyclable bags on the wrought-iron bench and began emptying them. He removed plastic bags with sweet potatoes, lemons and limes, pears, fresh spinach, containers of fresh berries, romaine lettuce, fresh herbs, frozen green peas, Parmesan and blue cheese, bottles of extra-virgin olive oil and vinegar, bottles of club soda, and a small jar of honey. The local supermarket yielded a cornucopia of fresh fruits, vegetables, and herbs grown on the island. Taking off his jacket, he placed it over the back of the bench.