“Six,” Francine and Keaton said in unison.
Morgan leaned into Keaton and kissed his cheek. “Thank you. I’ve had the weirdest craving for greens and cornmeal dumplings, and Nate’s sister claims her dumplings either come out too dry or too soupy.” She opened her tiny purse and took out a large bill. “This is to cover the cost of the food.”
Francine groaned inwardly when she saw Keaton’s expression and it didn’t bode well for her best friend. “That’s okay, Mo,” she said quickly. “We’ve got this.”
“Are you certain?” the architect asked.
A muscle in Keaton’s face twitched noticeably as he clenched his jaw. “Very certain.”
Morgan returned the money to her purse. “As soon as our house is finished, you and Fran must come for dinner. And unlike my BFF, I can cook.” She glanced at her watch. “Gotta run. I was supposed be at the restoration site fifteen minutes ago.” She wiggled her fingers. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”
Francine waited until Morgan drove away, then turned to meet Keaton’s eyes. “Are you certain you don’t have another road trip scheduled for tonight or tomorrow?”
Wrapping his arms around her shoulders, he pulled her close. “Nothing that couldn’t be avoided.”
Burying her face against his shoulder, she laughed softly. “I was just teasing you.”
“I take it Morgan’s pregnant?”
“Yes. What gave her away?”
“She talked about cravings, and the only time I’ve known women to talk about them is when they’re in the family way.”
“I occasionally have cravings and I’ve never been pregnant.”
“We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”
“What…” Her query was preempted by the chiming of her cell phone. It was an alert for her next scheduled appointment. “I’ll talk to you later. I have to get back for my next customer.” She tried to pull out of Keaton’s embrace, but he held her fast.
“Wait, sweetie.” Lowering his head, he pressed his mouth to hers. “I’ll talk to you later. If you’re not too tired I’d like you to join me on the beach. Maybe I’ll bring a surprise.”
“What surprise?”
He kissed her again. “If I told you then it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?”
“No.” The alert chimed again and Francine smiled up at him through a sweep of brownish-gray lashes. “I’ll see you later.”
Two hours later and dressed in a pair of cropped jeans and a thick cotton pullover, Francine, clutching a quartet of lanterns, followed Keaton as he carried an oversize canvas bag in one hand and a smaller one in the other, her bare toes sinking into the soft, powdery sand with each step. There was only a slip of a moon in the dark sky littered with millions of stars. If it hadn’t been for the lampposts in the parking area, the entire beach would’ve been pitch-black.
Keaton stopped and dropped the bags on the sand. “I think this is as good a spot as any.”
She set down the lanterns at each corner of the blanket, then, resting her hands at her waist, she shook her head. “Anyplace on the beach tonight is a good spot.” Unlike the night of the full moon, this time the beach was almost deserted.
She watched as he emptied the contents of the larger bag, spreading out a blanket on the sand, followed by a small hibachi and a bag of charcoal. It wasn’t until he reached into the small bag and removed a plastic container with graham crackers and another with marshmallows and chocolate bars did it dawn on her he intended to roast s’mores.
Going to her knees, she knelt on the blanket. “How did you know I love s’mores?”
“Your grandmother mentioned it the night I waited in her apartment for you.”
“You’re just full of surprises, Keaton. And that’s what I love about you.” She couldn’t see his expression but Francine did feel tension emanating from him. “What’s the matter?”
“Don’t ever tell me you love me unless you mean it.”
“It was just a figure of speech.”
“Not for me, Francine. Just… please don’t say it again.”
Francine wanted to stick her tongue out at him or make a face as she’d done as a child, but then reminded herself she’d left childhood behind years ago. “Is there anything you want me to do?”
“No, sweetie. I’ve got this.”
She began to wonder if perhaps the man with whom she’d found herself so enthralled had a split personality—a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. First he’d figuratively bitten her head off when she said she loved him, then within the next breath had called her sweetie. He had to be either one or the other, because she didn’t do well with mercurial moods. And she had never bought into the temperamental artist stereotype. Her answer to that was to save it for the stage, the camera, or the canvas—mediums established for displays of genius and/or expression.
Keaton could’ve bitten off his tongue for barking at Francine. She didn’t deserve to be the target of his increasing frustration about his growing feelings for her.
“I’m sorry, Francine. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.” The moment the apology left his mouth Keaton felt as if a weight had been lifted off him.
She’d uttered the word love so matter-of-factly he feared that his growing feelings for her wouldn’t be reciprocated. He knew he was falling in love with her. Her face, voice, and body haunted him whether in wakefulness or sleep. It was as if she had cast a spell over him. At first he’d attributed it to immersing himself in the African American folk magic of the Gullah people, but whenever he came face-to-face with Francine he knew it had nothing to do with witchcraft. He was falling in love with a woman who made him think of a future, something he hadn’t done in the past. Marriage, family, and a happily ever after. He’d always believed the sanction of marriage was forever, but knowing his sister’s marriage would end in divorce was a blatant reminder that people fell in and out of love all the time.
“Apology accepted.”
“I promise I will never use that tone with you again.”
Keaton intended to keep his promise. Even when he suspected Francine was angry with him she usually gave him what he thought of as the stink-eye, but she never said anything that she had to apologize for.
He continued to empty the bags, removing an iPod, with a dock and speakers. “I thought we could use a little night music.”
The brightness of her smile competed with the light from the lanterns. “My, my, my. You’ve thought of everything.”
“Almost.” He continued to empty the bags, handing her a bottle of Perrier. “It’s not champagne, but you’ll have to use your imagination.”
Within the span of fifteen minutes they were holding tongs with a graham cracker, a piece of dark chocolate, and a marshmallow, topped with another cracker over the smoking coals, the sweet aroma redolent in the salty air. Francine held the paper plate while Keaton took one of the gooey treats.
“Let it cool before you burn your tongue,” Francine warned him.
He took a bite, moaning softly. “Oh, man. That is good. I think it’s cool enough for you to eat.”
“You’re right. It is good,” she said after biting into the melted chocolate and marshmallow. They ate s’mores, washing them down with chilled sparkling water, and then lay together like spoons on the blanket listening to the eclectic playlist. “How come mine didn’t come out like yours?” Francine asked after a comfortable silence.
“What’s wrong with yours?”
“I don’t know. They just taste different. Maybe I didn’t use enough chocolate.”
Keaton pressed his mouth to the nape of her neck. “Are you cold?”
“Not now. Your body’s like a blast oven.”
He laughed. “I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or an insult.”
“It’s a compliment. You’re hot, Keaton, and I also want to thank you for offering to cook for my friends.”
“It’s no biggie, sweetie. I haven’t cooked since moving here, and I don’t want to lose my edg
e. I was supposed to cook for you, but flying out to California threw a monkey wrench in that plan.”
“My grandmother waited for you to come and get the groceries you left at her place, but when I told her you had to go away she used them so they wouldn’t go bad. As for you losing your edge, I don’t think that’s going to happen. You truly missed your calling when you decided not to become a chef.”
“I don’t think so,” Keaton replied. “There are enough chefs in my family.”
“Daddy told me he met your father when he played football.”
Keaton nodded. “Dad used to tell me stories about the players coming in after practice or a game. It was the only time when there were never any leftovers.”
“My mother said when Daddy came after the season ended he’d eat her out of house and home. If he hadn’t gone on a diet to lose his game weight he probably would tip the scales at three fifty. Right now he’d around two hundred.”
“I weigh more than he does,” Keaton admitted. “I’m two fifteen.”
“How tall are you?” Francine asked.
“Six-three.”
“You’re three inches taller and twenty years younger than my father, so you’re good.”
“I have to work hard not to put on weight because I spend a lot of time sitting.”
“You can come bike riding with me or you can walk the beach like a lot people do before the temperatures reach three digits. During June, July, and August all businesses shut down between noon and two.”
“That’s like siesta in Europe.”
Francine laughed softly. “The tradition goes back more than a hundred years. Sometimes it’s so brutal the mayor issues weather emergencies. Last year they mandated businesses close from noon to four in order to conserve energy.”
“That’s smart. What do you do during siesta?”
“I always go home, take a shower, and change my clothes. Right after the Memorial Day weekend we operate on a summer schedule. My mother and grandmother cook on Sundays for the entire week. They’ll make a ham, roast several chickens, and occasionally a turkey. Then they make the sides: slaw, potato salad and greens, rice and sweet potatoes. All I have to do when I come home is heat up a plate in the microwave and I’m done.”
“Does your father cook?”
Francine nodded. “Yep. Mama taught him.”
“Who taught your mama?”
“Her mama. My maternal grandmother was employed as a cook by one of Charleston’s wealthiest families. I believe it was my mother’s cooking that prompted my father to propose to her. Then there’s Grandma Dinah. A lot of folks here claim Grandma’s dishes come as close to those at Jack’s Fish House as anyone in the Lowcountry.”
“I’m still pissed that I missed dinner at your house.”
“Now that you’re back you can expect another invitation. Grandma Dinah’s first love wasn’t cooking but the stage, but her mother was dead set against a career where in those days actresses were regarded as harlots, trollops, and prostitutes, so she threw all of her energy into learning how to cook. Home cooking is only one piece in our patchwork quilt of Gullah culture, but the kitchen is the most important room in the house.”
“I notice people down here do eat a lot, but there aren’t too many who are overweight.”
“That’s because there are no fast-food restaurants on the island. Even if you eat at Jack’s every day you’re getting locally grown produce without the additives and preservatives. Otis and Miss Vina buy their hogs from a local farmer and it’s the same with their chickens. And most of the seafood comes from local waters.”
“I guess you’re out of luck if you’re looking for sushi.”
“Yuck! I don’t like raw fish.”
“Did you try it when you lived in New York?” Keaton asked Francine.
“Once and I swore never again. This Gullah prefers her fish fried, broiled, or baked.”
“You can take the girl out of the South, but you can’t take the South out of the girl.”
“Do you have Southern roots, Keaton?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Then you should know the significance food plays in our heritage. How our ancestors were able to create scrumptious dishes from leftover scraps that now appear on gourmet restaurant menus. All you have to do is look at the number of cooking shows on network and cable TV. It’s as if we’ve suddenly become obsessed with food. For years our kitchens have been the gathering place to catch up on what’s going on in our lives and community. And don’t forget about Sunday dinner with the table groaning with platters of fried chicken or baked ham along with all the sides. It made sitting in church and listening to the long-winded pastor extolling the wonders of heaven while warning us against the pitfalls that lead to hell and damnation worthwhile.”
Keaton nodded in agreement. “I remember those sermons when I used to spend my summers with relatives in Tennessee. One day my aunt invited Pastor Evans to Sunday dinner. He was a big man with a big voice and an even bigger appetite. Every time he said, ‘Bless you, Sister Thelma,’ he would take another piece of fried chicken. My cousin, who was two years younger than me, started crying when the man reached for the last piece on the platter that had been piled high with two cut-up chickens. My aunt was so embarrassed when he cried out, ‘Mama, please don’t let him take the last piece.’ The man had eaten a whole chicken by himself, unaware or not caring whether anyone else had had a piece.”
Francine’s giggles carried easily in the night. “What did your aunt do?”
Keaton’s laughter joined hers as he remembered the look of terror on his cousin’s face. “She punished my cousin. He couldn’t leave his room for a week except to eat and use the bathroom. She never invited Pastor Evans back to her home no matter how much he publicly praised her cooking. And what we didn’t know was that my aunt had been warned about the minister’s prodigious appetite and she’d prepared a third chicken that she’d put away so none of us knew about it except my uncle. Normally two chickens would feed my aunt’s family of six and she’d always end up with enough left over to turn into salad the next day.”
“That is hilarious. I would’ve given anything to have seen your cousin’s face when he said that. Better yet, the pastor’s face.”
“The good pastor either ignored my cousin or he was completely clueless as to what he’d done when he did take the last piece. It’s something I tease my cousin about to this day whenever we have family reunions.”
They fell silent again, and Keaton thought Francine had drifted off to sleep. He blew on her scalp and she shuddered visibly. “Now that I’m going to have houseguests for the next few days, do you still want to go to the Happy Hour on Saturday?”
“That’s up to you. I made a reservation for the two of us. If Morgan and her husband are up to going, then I’ll call and change it to four. Or I can cancel and we can stay home.”
“Even though Nate’s cousin is part owner of the club, he doesn’t frequent it too much.”
“Why don’t I switch the reservation to the following weekend?” Even though he rarely went to clubs himself, Keaton thought it would be nice to take Francine to a place with live music and dancing.
Turning over to face Keaton, Francine rested her leg on his. “Thank you.”
He kissed the end of her nose. “You’re welcome.” His left hand searched under her sweater, pressing his palm to her bare belly. “I’m not the only one who’s hot.” He felt the rush of her breath against his throat when she exhaled audibly. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to touch you, baby. And one of these days I’m going to kiss and taste every inch of your body until you either beg me to stop or I pass out from pleasure. It’s going to be your choice, Francine.” He felt her trembling and Keaton knew it wasn’t from the wind coming off the ocean because her skin was warm to the touch. He withdrew his hand. “I’d better get you home before we end up doing something we’ll both regret.”
Keaton waited for Francine to put on her shoes befor
e he rounded the vehicle to slip into his. He drove back to Magnolia Drive not wanting the night to end. Everything about his relationship with Francine was easy, uncomplicated. Once his bruised ego recovered from her refusal to accept a role in his film he realized his relationship with her had she accepted would’ve been vastly different than it was now. It would’ve been actor and director, the professional line indelibly drawn where he could not cross it.
It suddenly hit him when he maneuvered up close to the side of the house, only feet from her door. Francine was the first woman he’d met that he thought of as a friend before the possibility of becoming lovers. Guys had their guy friends and women their girlfriends. But it wasn’t often a man could go out with a woman and count her as a friend. This is not to say he wasn’t physically attracted to her because he was. However, the physical attraction didn’t come with an all-encompassing need to sleep with her as it had with some of the women in his past.
Keaton waited until she’d unlocked the door leading to her apartment before pulling her close to his chest. “I had a wonderful time tonight.” When she glanced up at him through lowered lashes he felt as if he was being seduced. Her mouth and body said one thing while her eyes sent out signals he had no problem interpreting.
“So did I,” she admitted in a breathless, whispery voice. Francine put her arms around his neck, pulling his head down. “Thank you.” She brushed her mouth over his. “Good night, Keaton.”
He pulled her closer, one hand at the small of her back, molding their bodies from chest to thigh. The glow from the light fixture above the door turned her into a statue of gold as his gaze moved lazily over her face and down to her throat, longing to fasten his mouth to the spot. His gaze reversed itself, lingering on her mouth.
His lips brushed hers, the gentle kiss surprising Keaton with the amount of control it took for him not to devour her mouth. Raising his lips from hers, he buried his face along the column of her neck, breathing a kiss on the silken perfumed skin.
He kissed her neck again. “Good night, beautiful.” Keaton waited for Francine to close and lock the door. It was as if he were paralyzed because he couldn’t move. He didn’t want to leave her. Not tonight. Only because he didn’t want to spend the night alone.
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