“What are you planning to make when you cook for her?” Dinah asked, watching as he stored everything on shelves and in drawers of the refrigerator/freezer.
“I figured we’d start with a pear, blue cheese, and pecan salad. Spinach pesto chicken breast with roasted sweet potato wedges and baby peas will be the entrée.”
“What are you drinking?”
“It will be a modified virgin mojito. Instead of rum I’m going to use fresh berries along with mint.”
Dinah smiled. “That sounds delicious.”
Keaton returned her smile. “It is. If you have a pitcher I’ll make up a batch so you can sample it.”
Dinah’s smile grew wider. “Would you mind if I help you? I hate sitting around doing nothing.”
Reaching into the bag, he took out a bibbed apron. “You can use this. I don’t want you to ruin your blouse.”
“I don’t need it,” she said. “I have my own supply.”
Smiling, he nodded. “You begin making the berry fizz by mashing them along with the mint leaves.”
Dinah emptied the berries and mint into a colander and rinsed them with a tractable nozzle. “Francine is very lucky.”
He gave her sidelong glance. “How’s that?”
“She told me you’re going to teach her to cook.”
“I did promise her.”
Dinah rested her hands at her waist over a ruffled apron decorated with red and green apples. “Do you know how long I’ve tried to get her to let me teach her to cook?”
Keaton shook his head. “How long?”
“Twenty years. Right after her parents set her up in her own apartment I told her if she was going to live quasi-independently, then she would have to learn to cook for herself. But she claimed she never had a reason to since her mother and I cooked for her. Then she went away to college, living and eating on campus. She was so frightfully thin when she moved back here from New York that I thought she was sick. It took about three to four months for her to put back on a fraction of the weight she’d lost. I knew she’d changed when she refused dessert. The only thing she’d eat was something she called s’mores.”
Keaton wanted to tell Dinah that perhaps Francine was just naturally slender. He estimated Dinah to be in her eighties and she was still slender herself. “I think she looks nice the way she is.”
He found nothing wrong with Francine’s body and despite her lean frame, she had curves. Her breasts weren’t overly large or small. They were in proportion to her body. And it was her long legs that seemed to go on forever that had garnered his rapt attention when he watched her strut out of Jack’s as if she were on a runway. Maybe others found fault in her, but for Keaton she was ideal.
Reaching for the pitcher, he walked over to the refrigerator and filled it with crushed ice from the door. He added a bottle of club soda; the bowl of mulled blueberries, blackberries, and raspberries; mint leaves; sugar; and lime juice to the pitcher and stirred it vigorously. He poured the icy concoction into a glass, handing it to Dinah.
“Let me know if it needs to be sweeter.”
She took a sip, a smile spreading across her delicate features. “It’s delicious. Light and refreshing. It’s the perfect summer beverage.”
Keaton poured some into his glass and sampled it. “It is nice.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re starting without me.”
He turned to find Francine standing at the entrance to the kitchen and his gaze moved lazily over her body. Fitted jeans revealed her long legs and narrow waist. He hadn’t heard her come in. Reaching for another glass, he half filled it with the berry fizz. “Come,” he said, extending the glass.
Francine walked into the kitchen, kissing her grandmother’s cool cheek, then pressed a kiss to Keaton’s clean-shaven jaw. She knew she’d shocked him with the open display of affection when she registered his intake of breath.
When Francine had parked her car next to Keaton’s, she’d expected to find him in her grandmother’s apartment, but she never would’ve guessed that he would be preparing food in her kitchen. Dinah had made it known the day she moved in that only she would cook in her kitchen. However, it appeared as if that declaration had been for naught, because Keaton appeared as at home in the space as her grandmother was.
She took the glass from Keaton, their fingers touching. A nervous smile trembled over her lips when she felt a slight shock from the contact. “Thank you.” The sweet-tart taste of berries, mint, and lime and the carbonation of the club soda were like a party in her mouth. “Wow! This is really nice.” She extended the glass. “May I have a refill please?”
Keaton complied. “Your grandmother has the recipe, so she can make it for you.”
Francine peered at him over the rim of the glass. “I think this is something I can make myself. It may take several tries, but I think I’ll be able to master it.”
Dinah peered over the lenses of her glasses at her granddaughter. “So, it’s like that?” she teased. “Now that you have a boyfriend who can cook you’re not going to need me to cook for you?”
She couldn’t stop the heat creeping up her chest to her face. If Keaton hadn’t been there she would’ve told her grandmother that Keaton wasn’t her boyfriend, but a friend. There was definitely a difference between the two. To her, a boyfriend meant something more personal, even intimate. She and Keaton weren’t going to make love, they were going to the movies.
“I’d love to stay and chat, but I need to shower and change.”
“Did you eat dinner?” Dinah asked.
“Yes, I did, Grandma.” Francine smiled sweetly. “I really have to go or Keaton and I will miss the beginning of the movie.”
Chapter Nine
Francine sat with Keaton at a table for two in the crowded Starbucks, taking furtive sips of a mocha Frappuccino. He touched his finger to his upper lip, smiling. Reaching for a napkin, she dabbed it to her mouth.
“You missed it.” He took the napkin, gently wiping away the residue of whipped cream.
When Keaton had maneuvered into the parking area behind the Creek Cinema she knew immediately why he’d wanted to go there. The marquee advertised an ongoing retrospective of the late independent director and producer Oscar Micheaux.
Francine stared at Keaton, who was staring back at her. “How many of his films do you own?”
Leaning back in his chair, he angled his head. “How do you do that?” Keaton asked.
“Do what?”
“Read my mind. Are you certain you’re not one of those witches I read about in that book of spells?”
A smile, one Francine definitely did not feel, parted her lips. “I’m definitely not a witch.” She wasn’t a witch but a psychic. And she didn’t and couldn’t read minds. What she did read was a person’s aura. “It’s just that you had this faraway look on your face and I figured you were thinking about Micheaux.”
Keaton stared at his cup of coffee. “Oscar Micheaux was born when African Americans had tried to succeed in the film industry dominated by whites. He was regarded as the first major black feature filmmaker. He produced both silent films and talkies. I wish he would’ve lived long enough to accept the 1986 Golden Jubilee Special Award from the Directors Guild of America so he could have made it to the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I did my first thesis on his film career, and for my second master’s I compared him to the African American filmmakers of the second half of the twentieth century.”
“How old would he have been in 1986?”
“He was born in 1884, so that would’ve made him one hundred two.”
“Not too many people live to celebrate their one hundredth birthday. However, we have a higher proportion of people on Cavanaugh Island reaching one hundred than those on the mainland because we don’t have any industry polluting our air and water.”
Keaton shifted his gaze, staring directly at Francine. “I did notice quite a few seniors living on the island. Many of them opt to walk rather than have someone drive them arou
nd.”
Francine nodded. “My grandmother still drives. Not as much as she used to, but she claims she isn’t ready to relinquish her driver’s license without a knock-down, drag-out fight.”
“She is rather feisty.”
“Feisty, belligerent, and downright ornery at times. When she was younger she wanted to be an actress, but her mother threatened to disown her if she even spoke the word in the house.”
“So you were the one who realized her dream.”
Francine missed the flash of amusement in Keaton’s eyes when she nodded to a woman with whom she’d attended high school. “For me it was either acting or teaching high school history.”
Keaton went completely still. Nothing moved. Not even his eyes. “You were thinking of becoming a history teacher?”
If his expression hadn’t been so unexpected Francine would’ve laughed at him. “Yes. I majored in theater and minored in American history.”
He blinked. “You go on about introducing me to island storytellers and now you tell me this?”
She laughed. “What’s the matter?”
“I didn’t have to officially interview Hannah Forsyth because she spent almost three hours telling me about the lives of other people who live here.”
It was Francine’s turn to freeze. “What did she say about me?”
“She said everyone was excited and very proud that one of their own had made it off-Broadway.”
“Is that all?”
“She did say you’re a very fine young woman. But I didn’t need her to tell me that.”
Keaton knew he had to be honest with Francine if he hoped to have a relationship with her. First he’d asked for friendship and now he was contemplating a relationship. He’d dated women whose names he couldn’t remember and of the few he’d slept with he didn’t want to remember. However, he’d never felt as comfortable around them as he did with Francine. He couldn’t believe it had been less than two weeks since he’d walked into the Beauty Box for a haircut and shave. Keaton hadn’t lied to her when he said he could get sex from any woman and her from any man. He didn’t want her to sleep with another man any more than he wanted to sleep with another woman. He wanted to sleep with her because he knew, based on the connection they were building, that their intimacy would bring their relationship to heights he’d never before experienced with another woman.
“She mentioned something about you giving up your acting career.”
“I don’t know why everyone is fixated on why I needed to change my life. It’s my life, not theirs, Keaton,” she said, stressing the two words.
Shifting his chair closer to hers, Keaton rested his chin on the top of her head. “It’s okay, sweetie. People are going talk even if they have nothing to talk about. If they can’t get anything on you, then they’ll make it up.”
“Is that what happened to you? Is that why you decided to leave L.A.?”
A chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. “No, babe. I managed to leave L.A. unscathed.”
Easing back, she stared up at him. “How did you do it?”
Keaton knew if the news of Jade’s suicide had been linked to him he probably would’ve never worked again or would’ve found it difficult to find another project. While the film had received lukewarm reviews for his inaugural directorial effort, critics still reported that he definitely was a director to watch.
“I realized the moment I sat in a room with the heads of the studio that had produced my first film that everything I said would be captured for posterity by either video cameras or tape recorders. That once I said something I could never retract it, and if I did something my actions would have consequences. It hadn’t mattered that the film wasn’t going to win any awards. What did matter was that I was a rookie in a game where the media owns you because people were now familiar with my face and name. I managed to distance myself from the Hollywood nightlife, and for me dating anyone in the business was taboo.”
“Did you date?”
“Yes, I dated, but only women who were content to stay out of the spotlight.”
“What did you do when you were required to attend award ceremonies or walk the red carpet?”
“A few times I took my sister, and my mother accompanied me to Cannes because she wanted to see Europe. That’s when the rumors that I might be gay surfaced.”
“Did it bother you?” Francine asked.
“Not in the least. My sexual orientation, whether gay or heterosexual, is no one’s business but mine.”
“You moved to the wrong place if you thought you’re going to maintain a modicum of anonymity here.”
“No, I didn’t, Francine. Folks here may gossip because that is something intrinsic to small towns. What I don’t have to concern myself with is someone jumping out from behind parked cars to take my photograph or paparazzi waiting outside my gated community with long-range lenses to monitor my comings and goings. I hope you’re not concerned about being seen in public with me—”
“It has nothing to do with me, Keaton.” Francine interrupted him. “Being seen with you doesn’t bother me.”
Keaton’s hands moved up to cradle her face. “Does this mean we can now go public with our torrid affair?”
Francine laughed. “I don’t know about torrid or an affair, but going to the movies in the Creek is public enough. Do you still plan to go to church with me tomorrow so I can introduce you to some of the island storytellers?”
“I’d like to put that off for a while. Right now I’m going over my taped interview with Miss Hannah. I also wanted to talk to you about roots and spells.”
“What about them?” she asked.
“What percentage of folks here still believe in witchcraft and root workers?”
She pulled her lower lip between her teeth. “I don’t think I can answer that truthfully, because it would depend on who you talk to, and most people probably wouldn’t speak openly about root workers, spiritualists, or conjurers. But I’m certain some of the older folks still hold on to superstitions passed down through generations of Gullah. For example, some believe in hags. There are two types of hags. One is a total spirit, and the other is a slip-skin hag, which is a person, and most likely female, who becomes invisible by shedding her skin and then goes out to raise hell after dark.”
Keaton shivered visibly. “I read something in one of the books I bought from the Parlor Bookstore about a man who reported a spirit used him sexually every time he went to sleep. It frightened him so much that he became an insomniac.”
A broad smile spread over Francine’s features. “That probably was a hag who’d become overly fond of him.”
Keaton shook his head. “What I didn’t understand was how to get rid of one. Would the man have had to dismantle his house to get rid of her?”
“Some do, but most folks plagued by hags would retain the services of a root worker or doctor for incense, oils, or powders that would prevent the spirit from returning. There are oils and powders that can be used for good as well as evil, so you have to know exactly which kind you need, otherwise the outcome could be terrible.”
A beat passed and Keaton found himself spellbound by what he’d just heard. “Tell me about the slip-skin hag.”
Propping her elbow on the table, Francine rested her chin on her fist. “The slip-skin hag will get into a house through a chimney or keyhole after dark and always leaves before day-clean, or what is known as daylight. If this hag slips her skin before making her rounds, then it must be located and salted in anticipation of her daylight return. The salt will cut the hag’s power and the skin will disappear into thin air, never to return. If you get the chance to visit someone’s home and you see salt sprinkled over the doorsill, then you’ll know they’re keeping away bad spirits.”
“Deborah gave me a book on oils, incense, and brews. It will be useful for a few characters I’m developing.”
“Male or female?” Francine asked.
“Mother and daughter.”
Her ey
es sparkled in excitement. “I love it. Talk about keeping it in the family. What are they—” Keaton placed a finger over her parted lips, stopping her words.
His lips soon replaced his finger as he kissed Francine. The press of his mouth on hers reminded her of the gentle brush of a butterfly’s wings, eliciting another fluttering. This time it was in her stomach as she struggled to bring her fragile emotions under control.
Breaking away from the kiss, he looked into her eyes. “No more talk about witches and spells, beautiful.”
She pantomimed zipping her lips. “Okay. No more questions about the script, but I still want to know more about you. What would you have become if you didn’t go into film?” She had to say something, anything, not to think about the kiss that reminded her of what she’d been missing. He’d called her beautiful and Francine wanted to tell Keaton that whenever she was with him she felt beautiful and sexy.
Keaton lifted the broad shoulders under his sweater. “I probably would’ve been a chef like my parents.”
“It’s not too late,” she teased.
“Oh yes it is. At least for me. I’ve invested too much time, and now too much money, into becoming a film director and independent producer to walk away before I either succeed or fail. I’m forty-one and I’ve spent more than half my life taking courses and studying with whom I consider the best professionals in the business to walk away from what has been a lifelong dream.”
Her eyes grew wide as she stared directly at Keaton. “We’re two different people, Keaton.” She knew he was talking about her giving up her acting career.
He returned her angry stare. “I’m glad we’re two different people, because I doubt whether I’d be able to abide my female alter ego. Your reason for giving up acting is something you deem personal and I have to respect that.”
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