Magnolia Drive

by Rochelle Alers

  “The color is okay.”

  Hannah wagged a finger at her. “Just this once I’m going to let you do what you want, Red. If I don’t like it, then I’m going to go back to my regular style.”

  Francine concentrated on cutting away the lifeless ends, then massaged a lightweight mousse into Hannah’s hair before bending the ends with a barrel-type curling iron. Using a wide-tooth comb, she combed out the curls, achieving the height without her hair looking like tumbleweed. She counted out three drops of nongreasy polishing oil onto her palm, rubbed her hands together, and applied it to the smooth pink hair shimmering under the lights.

  “Is it high enough?” she asked.

  Hannah preened in the mirror. “Yes.”

  “Would you like a little holding spray?”

  “Yes, please.” Hannah touched her hair, smiling. “It’s so soft and shiny. I like it, Red.”

  Francine returned her smile. “Good.” Two for two, she mused. She’d managed to satisfy two of her mother’s most critical customers.

  Keaton drove out to see how the renovations on the farmhouse were progressing. All of the walls were up, and new windows, plumbing, and electrical wiring installed. The contracting crew had replaced the staircases in the living room and at the rear, including banisters and newel posts in keeping with the style of the historic structure.

  He climbed the staircase to the second floor, walking in and out of the four bedrooms, each with a fireplace, sitting area, and adjoining bathroom. Wires hung from the ceiling where he planned to install ceiling fans. The construction crew had removed the old-style radiators, replacing them with baseboard heating. The house would be cooled using central air-conditioning, with each bedroom having its own thermostat to control the heating and cooling.

  Keaton knew the house was much too large for one person, but he preferred spaciousness to being cramped. It was too much of a reminder of his New York City one-bedroom apartment that was only a little larger than the corrugated boxes used to ship refrigerator/freezers.

  The contractor joined him in the smallest bedroom. “How does it look?”

  He glanced at the ruddy potbellied man chewing on an unlit cigar. “Real good.”

  Harvey Rose rocked back on the heels of his worn construction boots. “The floors are next.”

  “How are the guesthouses coming?”

  “I have a couple of men working on them full-time. The roofing, plumbing, and electrical work are done. Today we’re putting in the windows.” Harvey clamped his teeth on the cigar. “After we put in the floors and treat them, I estimate they should be ready about a week from now. You’re going to have to let me know whether you want all white kitchen appliances or some other color.”

  The three guesthouses were less than one thousand square feet and that meant dark colors or bulky furniture would make them appear smaller. “White. By the way, do you have an extra set of floor plans?”

  “Sure do. Come with me and I’ll get them for you.”

  Keaton was anxious to move into his new home. Living at the boardinghouse had lost its appeal and he preferred entertaining and teaching Francine to cook in his kitchen rather than hers. He couldn’t believe he’d fallen asleep in her bed. Whenever he’d stayed the night with another woman, it was usually after making love to her.

  He’d consciously tried not to think about making love to Francine and failed. If she were any other woman, or if she didn’t live on Cavanaugh Island, he would definitely consider seducing her. But she wasn’t any other woman. She was someone he’d court, woo, or even romance before taking their relationship to the next level. She was different from the other women in his past because for Francine family was a priority. He still didn’t know why she’d given up her acting career, but she’d come home instead of staying in New York. She was also committed to working at the salon with her mother, while looking after her grandmother, and for Keaton nothing in life was more important than family.

  Although he’d planned to spend no more than a week in L.A., it had taken three. There was no way he could abandon his sister when she needed him most. Liana had exhibited mood swings that reminded him of Jade before the actress eventually took her own life. His sister would wake up crying, and after she’d dropped her children off at school, she would come back to the hotel and rant about what she wanted to do to her husband. Several times Keaton had to talk her off the proverbial ledge when she threatened to buy a gun and shoot Hollis.

  However, there were intervals when she was calm and calculating. Liana had made certain to change her children’s school emergency contact information, eliminating Hollis as a person to contact in the event of an emergency. She didn’t trust Hollis not to pick up her children and hide them from her.

  Keaton knew his brother-in-law had sought to avoid him when he blocked his cell phone number and had his executive assistant answer his private line whenever he called. Hollis made him wait to agree to a sit-down until Keaton was forced to threaten him, leaving a final message with his assistant that if her boss didn’t call him back she would have to look for a new boss and/or a new position. The ploy worked when Hollis returned his call an hour later. He recovered the documents Liana had requested, and got Hollis to agree to pack up his children’s clothes and ship them to their grandparents’ home in Pittsburgh. By the time he, Liana, and his niece and nephew boarded a flight to Pittsburgh, his sister had taken control of her life. Her children needed her and she had to be strong for them.

  Keaton spent three days in the city of his birth, reuniting with relatives with whom he hadn’t spoken since their last family reunion. His mother reminded him not to be a stranger. Phone calls were all right, but she wanted to see him more than a couple of times a year.

  Francine had teased him, saying he was a frustrated actor, and she’d hit the nail on the head. When he’d joined his high school drama club it was because he enjoyed being onstage and pretending he was someone else. He was halfway into his junior year in college when he discovered the gift for writing scripts. One of his professors who mentored him had been a writer for daytime dramas. He taught Keaton all he needed to write for that medium. He’d been actor, writer, director, and now producer.

  Life was good to Keaton. And now that he’d met Francine it was sweet.

  Chapter Twelve

  Keaton opened the door to Dane and Daniels Architecture and Interior Design. A bell chiming like Big Ben announced his arrival. He hadn’t taken more than three steps when a young woman with inky-black, spiky hair and a nose piercing, dressed entirely in black, rose to her feet from where she’d been sitting behind the reception table.

  “Keaton Grace?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Patrice Watkins. You spoke to me when you made your appointment with Abram.”

  She extended her hand and he took it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Watkins.” Keaton noticed the diamond solitaire on the third finger of her left hand.

  “It’s Patrice. Since moving down here I discovered hardly anyone uses their last name. Please come with me. Abram is expecting you. May I get you something to drink?”

  “No thank you.”

  Keaton followed her through the reception area, which was tastefully furnished with two side chairs upholstered in natural Haitian cotton flanking a low table topped with a vase of fresh flowers and succulents in small decorative pots. Twin Tiffany-style floor lamps matched the one on Patrice’s table. Recessed lighting, recorded music flowing from speakers concealed in the ceiling, and the colors of blue, gray, and white created a calming effect.

  A man he assumed was Abram Daniels came from around one of the two desks in a large open space with an armoire and drafting table on which sat a three-dimensional rendering of an antebellum mansion at the end of a live oak allée. Keaton was transfixed by the scaled-down detail of the model house with pale pink columns and tall, black-shuttered windows.

  “This rendering is incredible.” He was unable to disguise the awe in his voice.
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  Abram nodded, the skin around his brown eyes deepening when he smiled. He offered his hand. “Abram Daniels.”

  Keaton shook the proffered hand. “Keaton Grace.” He smiled at the tall, thin interior decorator sporting a long, light brown ponytail. Tiny gold hoops in each ear, a reddish stubble, and a plaid shirt, jeans, and work boots rounded out his casual look.

  “Please come and sit down, Keaton.” Abram led him over to a table with a large computer monitor and two stools. Waiting until Keaton sat down, he touched the wireless mouse. “I’m responsible for decorating the interiors, while Morgan takes care of the architectural component of the partnership. That rendering is what Angels Landing Plantation should look like once it’s restored.”

  “How long do you project the restoration will take?”

  “Probably four years. Morgan’s husband, Nate, still has to reconstruct the slave village and that won’t be for at least another three years.”

  “It looks as if it’s going to be phenomenal.”

  “It will. It’s a daunting task, but once it’s completed Angels Landing Plantation will become a smaller version of Williamsburg, Virginia.” He pointed to the tube in Keaton’s left hand. “May I see your floor plans?” Keaton watched as Abram scanned the floor plans into the computer, then pulled up another program. “Do you know the architectural style of the main house and guest cottages?”

  “I believe it’s a version of a Southern vernacular farmhouse. There’s an open porch on the first floor and veranda on the second. The guesthouses are one-story, smaller versions of the main house.”

  “Siding or brick?” Abram asked.

  “It’s brick,” Keaton confirmed.

  “Now you’re going to have to decide what style of furnishings you want—contemporary, traditional, American formal, European classic, or casual country.”

  “What do you consider casual country?” Keaton asked Abram.

  “It’s what I think of as simple charm or a vintage mix. Let me bring up each style and you can make your choice.”

  Keaton spent more than two hours with Abram; with a click of the mouse Abram was able to drop sofas, chairs, tables, and even paintings and photographs into each of the rooms on the floor plan. Keaton recalled the furnishings in the house on Magnolia Drive. The entryway and living room on the first floor were quintessential American formal. Dinah’s apartment was definitely American eclectic, while Francine’s claimed more of a Zen look. She’d created a home that projected harmony and balance.

  “I’m leaning toward casual country that will include a few contemporary pieces,” he told the decorator. “I prefer simplicity to fussy.” For Keaton the more uncluttered the room the more freedom he had in which to move around.

  “Let me work up some sketches and print them out for you. Once you narrow down which style you want, then we’ll talk about color schemes.”

  “How soon after I decide what I want can I expect delivery?”

  “I deal with several local furniture manufacturers that guarantee delivery within a month to six weeks. How does that fit into your schedule?”

  “I met with the contractor and he predicts completing all the work by the first week of March.”

  Abram ran a hand over his hair. “If I submit your order let’s say early next week, then you can expect delivery of all of the pieces by April fifteenth. Some may be delivered much sooner if they’re in stock. I’ll let you know about the availability once you give me the okay.”

  Keaton hadn’t had to concern himself with decorating the house in L.A. because the style was predictable. The overall design of the house was Spanish contemporary and that made it easy to decorate. He would take Abram’s suggestion and study the printouts until he was able to pinpoint which style would not only suit his taste but also his lifestyle.

  And for the first time since coming to the island to live he felt as if he were a transient. The walls in the boardinghouse suite seemed to be closing in on him and Keaton found himself sitting out on the veranda just to offset the feeling of claustrophobia. Perhaps it had something to do with the three-week separation from what had become normal and familiar.

  He was pleased with Liana’s decision to move back to Pittsburgh, where she had the ongoing support of family members as she went through her impending divorce. Keaton was certain she would enjoy sitting out on her porch either early in the morning or at the end of the day. There was nothing and no one to keep her in L.A., and she’d said she was looking forward to moving away from a place that still held so many painful memories.

  As Keaton left the architectural and design firm and made his way to the parking lot, he spied Francine’s red Corvette parked in a space not far from the rear of the Parlor Bookstore. He scanned the lot, looking for her. He’d just gotten in behind the wheel of his vehicle when he spied her getting out of a gleaming white Cadillac Escalade along with Morgan. He paused, not turning on the engine as he watched her and Morgan as they stood talking to each other. Both were wearing sunglasses. The temperatures were now warm enough to go out during the day with a light jacket or sweater. He wasn’t able to pull his gaze away from the curve of her hips in a pair of skinny jeans. A rising breeze blew her curls around her face. Staring numbly, he watched as she pushed the curls off her forehead, tucking them behind her ears.

  Keaton felt like a voyeur as he watched the graceful movement of her hands when she gestured. His gaze lingered on the swell of her breasts under a pullover. In that instant he conjured up the image of making love to her, which triggered a violent reaction when he couldn’t stop his growing erection.

  He knew if he didn’t pull out of the parking lot she would notice him and possibly come over and see the bulge in his jeans. All of his motions were slow, almost mechanical, as he started up the SUV, but as fate would have it she turned in his direction. Quickly, he pulled the hem of his shirt from his jeans, pulling it down over his waistband. He got out of the vehicle as she and Morgan approached him. Keaton tried thinking of anything else but his swollen manhood. He had to congratulate himself on a winning performance when he leaned down to kiss Francine’s cheek before nodding to Morgan.

  “Good afternoon, ladies.”

  Morgan smiled, dimples winking. “How was your meeting with Abram?”

  “It went well. He gave me some printouts of different styles.”

  “That always works well because you get to see exactly what each room will look like.” Morgan looked at Francine. “We just came back from looking at a litter of kittens.”

  Keaton’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. “You’re getting a kitten?” he asked Francine.

  When she shook her head, red curls moved as if taking on a life of their own. “No. It would be for my grandmother. She’s the cat person.”

  “You don’t like cats?” he asked Francine.

  “It’s not that I don’t like them. They don’t like me.”

  “What breed are they, Morgan?”

  “Patches is the queen and she is a Snowshoe. Rasputin is a Russian Blue.”

  Keaton smiled. “Very nice. Are you selling them?” he asked Morgan.

  “Not to friends. If you want one, then I’ll put it aside for you.”

  “I won’t be able to come for it until my house is ready.”

  Morgan shook her head. “That won’t be a problem.” She smiled at Francine. “See, Fran, I told you I’m not going to get stuck taking care of five cats.” She shifted her attention back to Keaton. “If Nate and I weren’t putting an addition onto our house, I’d have you and Fran over for a little get-together. Right now I’m staying with my in-laws and their children.”

  “If you and Nate want some grown folks time you’re always welcome to come and stay at my place for as long as you want,” Francine offered. “You know I have the extra bedroom.”

  “Maybe we’ll take you up on your invitation even if we stay over for a couple of days. And I’ll even do the cooking,” Morgan added.

  Francine took a step, loop
ing her arm through Keaton’s. “That’s not necessary. Keaton happens to be a wonderful cook.”

  Taking off her sunglasses, Morgan gave him a long stare. “You cook?”

  He nodded. “A little.”

  Francine tugged on his arm. “Stop being so modest, Keaton. This man comes from a family of chefs.”

  “That does it. Nate and I are coming.” Morgan narrowed her eyes at Keaton. “What are you making?”

  He smiled. “Anything you want.”

  “Can you make red rice and sausage?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about mustard greens and cornmeal dumplings?”

  “That, too,” he confirmed.

  Morgan placed a hand over her flat belly. “When are you cooking?”

  Keaton looked at Francine. He didn’t mind cooking for her friends, but it wouldn’t be at his house, but hers. “When is it convenient for you, sweetie?” The endearment had slipped out unbidden.

  Francine lowered her eyes, not wanting Morgan to see her uneasiness when Keaton addressed her as sweetie. She knew it would take a while before she was completely comfortable with their growing friendship. If he hadn’t spent almost three weeks away from the island she was certain their relationship would’ve progressed from where it was now.

  Reaching into the back pocket of her jeans, she retrieved her smartphone. Since the receptionist had double booked clients for that hectic week she’d begun keeping her own calendar. Tapping the icon for the calendar, she scrolled through the days. “I have a haircut at three tomorrow, and that should put me home at four.”

  Taking out his own phone, Keaton tapped several buttons. “Will your grandmother be home to let me in?”

  She reached into another pocket and took out a set of house keys. “I’ll give you the key so you can let yourself in.”

  Keaton took the single key when she slipped it off the ring. “How will you get in?”

  “I’ll use the front door.”

  “What time should Nate and I get there?” Morgan asked.