Magnolia Drive

by Rochelle Alers

  Keaton knew he had to rewire his brain to come up with a concept for a period piece because the essence of the Gullah culture was steeped in history—a history filled with pain and untold stories of survival against the greatest odds. He’d spent countless hours reading and researching Gullah history and culture online, eliciting scenes that would become a part of his script. His ability to write scripts that translated well to film came from a talent for character development. Keaton thought of dialogue as words on a page until the actor understood his character well enough to make it believable to everyone watching the actor. It’d been that way when he watched Francine’s performance in the off-Broadway play.

  Francine’s portrayal of Abigail had everyone in the theater riveted to their seats each time she took the stage. Not only could he hear her anguish when she pleaded for acceptance from her half sisters, it had become palpable. When she offered to give them enough money to allow them to move out of public housing and they’d torn up the checks, throwing the pieces in her face, the image of the silent tears rolling down Francine’s face elicited sobbing from theatergoers, and Keaton was no exception. He’d felt her character’s pain.

  Fast-forward nearly a decade and although Francine looked the same he knew she wasn’t. A marriage founded on deceit and avarice had made her wary of marriage and relationships, and Keaton suspected she’d been married to someone in the business, otherwise she would’ve disclosed his name.

  He slowed when entering the Cove’s downtown business district. All of the shops were closed and as he passed Jack’s Fish House he saw they’d dimmed their lights. Many of the benches in the town square were unoccupied, unlike on weekends when scores of high school students gathered there. He’d overheard the boardinghouse staff talk about the number of teenagers from the mainland who came to the island to meet at the fountain in the square before going down to the beach. Sheriff Hamilton and his deputies kept up regular patrols in and around the Cove to limit underage drinking and drug use.

  When he maneuvered into a parking space behind the Cove Inn, Keaton thought about the tarot card reader’s prediction. He had moved, taken the steps to control his career, and tonight he’d unconsciously let go of his past so he could have a normal relationship with a woman. He knew Francine would never agree to living with him, and that meant he had only one option: continue to date her without committing to a future.

  Keaton loved Francine, wanted to marry her, but he was afraid of getting his hopes up since she was so clearly against marriage. There were occasions when she appeared so indifferent he doubted whether she actually wanted to date him. Then she would literally and figuratively flip the script when he believed her feelings for him went beyond liking. She was an enigma, a chameleon, changing in front of his eyes, or was she a more adept actress than what she’d projected onstage?

  The questions continued to taunt Keaton as he swiped his keycard in the slot at the boardinghouse’s rear door. He mounted the staircase without encountering anyone. His steps slowed when he saw an envelope taped to the door to his suite. He’d just removed it when the door across the hall opened.

  “The editor of the newspaper left that for you.”

  Keaton smiled at the elderly woman with blue hair and close-set brown eyes that’d made it her responsibility to monitor his comings and goings. The night he’d stayed over at Francine’s Mrs. Benjamin had announced to those sitting around the breakfast table that he hadn’t come back to his room the night before. He’d been tempted to ask her if she had X-ray vision or if she sat by her door listening for his footsteps. If he hadn’t been raised to respect his elders Keaton definitely would’ve told her what he did was none of her business.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Benjamin.”

  “Do you know what he wants, Mr. Grace?”

  Turning his back, he rolled his eyes upward. “No, I don’t, Mrs. Benjamin.”

  “Aren’t you going to read it?”

  “Harriet, close that door and leave that young man alone!”

  Keaton smiled. Mrs. Benjamin’s husband had caught her snooping again. Thank you, he mused as he swiped his keycard, opening and closing the door and shutting out the image of his meddlesome neighbor.

  It took him several seconds to read the note from the editor of the Sanctuary Chronicle. Eddie Wilkes wanted to interview him about his proposed movie studio. He tossed the note on the table doubling as his desk. His reply to Eddie would have to wait. Opening the closet, Keaton took out a bag, filling it with underwear, T-shirts, jeans, sweats, and a leather case filled with toiletries.

  Picking up the house phone, he dialed information, asking the operator to connect him to an inn on King Street, and when he was connected, he made a room reservation for Mr. and Mrs. Keaton Grace. Keaton had decided against spending the night at the Charleston Place Hotel, where he was on a first-name basis with the hotel staff. Staying at the historical residences that were converted into boutique hotels was more private and intimate.

  Francine was ready when he drove up; he took her bag and stored it with his behind the rear seats, then assisted her up into the SUV. Her Corvette was nowhere to be seen, and he surmised she’d parked it in one of the three garages. She handed him his cell phone, which he’d left at her apartment.

  He slipped behind the wheel beside her. “Are you ready?”

  Francine flashed a bright smile, scrunching up her nose. “Are you ready?”

  Keaton slumped back in his seat. “Oh, it’s like that.”

  “Aye, milord,” she drawled, slipping into the character he’d come to look for.

  He drove away from the house, grinning from ear to ear. “I know it sounds clichéd, but with you I was born ready.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Francine waited for Keaton to unlock the door to the suite before stepping inside. “I decided on this place because of its history. It belonged to former plantation owners,” he added when she smiled at him.

  “It’s charming, Keaton.”

  When she saw the king-size, four-poster bed with a crocheted canopy, some of the bravado she’d exhibited back in the Cove had dissipated. It wouldn’t be the first time she and Keaton would sleep together but she had a feeling it would be the first time she made love.

  She knew he’d called ahead because there were lighted candles lining a buffet and dining room table. The scent from a vase of blood-red roses permeated the living/dining and kitchen areas.

  “I’m going to check out the bathroom,” she told Keaton as he turned and walked back to the bedroom.

  “Okay.”

  She entered the bathroom and again there were more candles, along with an assortment of bath gels and salts lining the shelf above a sunken tub with a Jacuzzi. Turning on the faucet, she emptied a capful of foaming gel under the running water. Within seconds the spell of lavender wafted to her nose.

  Francine returned to the bedroom where she found Keaton sprawled on the bed watching television. “I’m going to take a bath.”

  He sat up. “Would you like some company?”

  She hesitated. She’d never shared a bath with a man. “It’s lavender bubble bath.”

  Keaton swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I don’t care, because I’m going to enjoy washing every inch of your gorgeous body.”

  Francine opened her bag, which Keaton had placed on a luggage rack, and removed her cosmetic case and a bathrobe. She hadn’t brought any birth control, so she was going to rely on Keaton to protect her. Suddenly it hit her! Why did sleeping with Keaton appear to be scripted?

  It was as if she were playing a role in a daytime drama and the writers had agreed it was time for one of their lead couples to sleep together. But she had to push those thoughts aside. Francine knew she never would’ve agreed to permit Keaton to make love to her if she hadn’t had feelings for him. At first she thought it was because of the recurring erotic dreams that had left her shaken, while craving the feel of a man’s hands on her body. But then something inside her changed o
nce she realized he hadn’t put any pressure on her to sleep with him. He’d come to her in the middle of the night, lain beside her, and all the while hadn’t made an overture to seduce her.

  The thought that perhaps he was gay never crossed her mind. She’d dealt with enough actors on and off the stage to identify a man who preferred a same-sex relationship. There were some with whom she’d even had love scenes, knowing in the back of her mind that they were only acting.

  Whatever inhibitions she may have had vanished when rehearsing scenes that called for her to be partially clothed or completely nude under a sheet or blanket. Her instructors had shown Francine the proper technique for kissing a man, and how to use her body to convey without words the extent of her desire for her partner. The first time she’d had a kissing scene she was nauseated because the actor had sought to put his tongue down her throat. When he continued and she finally gagged she’d slapped him so hard there was stunned silence in the theater. The director was so impressed with her rage he decided to change the scene to include her slapping the man who attempted to force her to sleep with him. Then he directed her how to slap another actor without causing injury.

  Her feelings for Keaton grew deeper because of respect and the realization he was a protector of women. He’d stayed in L.A. longer than he’d planned to help his sister resolve her volatile situation. And now it was his attorney who’d called him. Francine hadn’t wanted to eavesdrop on his conversation but he hadn’t attempted to walk away. She’d felt her heart turn over when he’d told Devon, “Remember that I’m here for you.” In that instant she knew Keaton was a keeper.

  She gave him a sensual smile. “I’ll see you inside.”

  Francine brushed her teeth, following up with a peppermint mouthwash. Stripping off her clothes, she left them on a chair and stepped into the warm bubbles, which floated up and tickled her nose. She’d rested her head on a bath pillow, luxuriating in the pulsing waters, and closed her eyes when she heard Keaton moving around the bathroom. He’d turned on the radio and the familiar voice of Faith Hill singing “Back to You” filled the bathroom.

  All of Francine’s senses were heightened when she heard him brushing his teeth, and then gargling. She opened her eyes, sitting up straighter. Keaton had placed a low table next to the tub and she tried not to gawk at his nude body in the flickering candlelight. He moved out of her line of sight and then returned, carrying two flutes of a sparkling liquid and setting them on the table. It was apparent he’d raided the minibar. Her eyes widened when he stepped into the tub, his semierect penis swaying heavily between muscled thighs. His eyes met hers and she was certain he could see the rapidly beating pulse in her throat as he lowered his body, sitting opposite her. There was a dusting of hair on his chest and a tattoo covering his entire right shoulder.

  “Is it too hot for you?” she asked. Francine said the first thing that came to mind.

  Keaton stared at her under lowered lids. “No. It’s perfect. Just like you.” Reaching for a flute, he handed one to her, then took the remaining one. His eyes never left hers when he touched his glass to hers. “Here’s to being all in.”

  She blinked once. “All in,” she repeated, then took a sip. Francine replaced the flute on the table and sank lower, until the bubbles concealed the tops of her breasts. She watched Keaton drain his glass. He moved closer, and without warning anchored his hands under her shoulders, shifting her effortlessly until she sat between his outstretched legs.

  “This is better,” he whispered in her ear.

  Francine lay with her back against his solid chest, his arms around her waist, unable to believe she felt so comfortable with a man she’d known only a few weeks. She knew he made films, his parents were chefs, his sister was undergoing a divorce, and his lawyer was pregnant. He’d admitted not having married or fathered any children, but he’d never spoken of the women in his past. Was there one he’d loved unconditionally and she’d not returned his love? Or was he incapable of loving?

  “You’re not drinking your sparkling cider. I ordered it because you said you’re not much of a drinker.”

  Keaton’s voice broke into her musings. Reaching for the flute, she took another sip. “I really appreciate that. I’m certain you don’t want to make love to a drunk woman.”

  He chuckled softly. “No, I don’t.”

  “There was a time when Cavanaugh Island had quite a few drunks. Kids in school used to whisper about their fathers sneaking off to buy moonshine from an illegal still that had been set up in the Creek. Some would be so tanked up they’d never make it home and when they did their wives forced them to sleep outdoors because they didn’t want their children seeing their daddies in that condition.”

  “Do they still sell moonshine?”

  “No. Someone decided to snitch and agents from the ATF came over from Columbia, destroyed the still, and arrested the family operating the illegal enterprise.”

  “How long ago did this happen?”

  “It was during my first year in high school. The bad thing about living in a small town is that nothing is sacred. If a man is cheating, then it’s only a matter of time before his wife will find out. If she doesn’t discover his indiscretion on her own, then someone would be sure to let the cat out of the bag. Some women seek out root workers to either stop their husband’s philandering or chase away the other woman.”

  “That’s unbelievable.”

  Peering up over her shoulder, Francine tried reading Keaton’s expression in the flickering candlelight. “Not to the Gullah. Prominent among the culture is the belief in herbalism, spiritualism, and black magic.” Keaton brushed his mouth over the nape of her neck. She gasped when his hands covered her breasts, gently kneading them until her nipples were hard as pebbles.

  He kissed her again. “Tell me about it tomorrow because I don’t want to end up with nightmares tonight after talking about spooks and mojo.”

  Francine managed to slip out of his loose embrace and straddled him. She touched her mouth to the tattoo on his shoulder. It was Melpomene and Thalia: the masks depicting tragedy and comedy.

  “Will you wash my back?”

  “Is that all you want me to wash?”

  She kissed Keaton under his ear. “Use your imagination.”

  Francine closed her eyes, reveling in the magic of her soon-to-be lover’s hands on her mouth, throat, and breasts. The water cooled, the bubbles disappeared, and Keaton turned off the jets swirling the water around their writhing bodies, then opened the drain for the tub to empty out.

  Her mouth was just as busy as she caught Keaton’s earlobe between her teeth, worrying it and eliciting gasps from him. They’d become sculptors, fingers stroking muscle, sinew, curves, dips, and her sex. Francine closed her knees, sandwiching Keaton’s hand between her thighs.

  “Don’t baby,” he whispered. “Please let me touch you.”

  Her knees slowly parted as if pulled apart by an invisible wire, and she inhaled as his finger gently stroked the swollen flesh at the apex of her thighs. The sensations she’d dreamed about came back, and this time it was no fantasy. It was very real.

  Keaton stared directly at Francine, watching a myriad of emotions cross her features as he continued to slowly caress her clitoris. She was beautiful, magnificent. The darkening of her eyes, heightened color in her face, and skin stretched taut over her high cheekbones revealed her rising passion. Resting his forehead on hers, he kissed her with all of the passion that was coursing throughout his body. He devoured her mouth as if he’d been denied food for days. He increased the pressure until her lips parted, permitting him the access he sought when his tongue touched hers.

  He’d never related to other women as he had to Francine. With her he could be himself. She was beautiful, charming, seductive, sexy, witty, and she made him laugh. In the past he’d taken himself and life much too seriously. Before relocating to Cavanaugh Island he’d spent more time alone than with people, writing and revising scripts.

  Li
ving in the Lowcountry had changed him—for the better. He’d learned to kick back and relax. He now took time to enjoy the sunrise and sunset. Seeing Francine and walking the beach had become the highlights of his day. Keaton had watched her interaction with Morgan. Their closeness was more than obvious when he saw them in the kitchen together giggling like teenage girls. Her demeanor at the dinner table was less effusive, more reserved, and several times he’d caught her staring off into space. Initially he thought her bored or that her mind had drifted but within seconds she picked up on the conversation as if she hadn’t missed a word.

  Combing his fingers through her curling hair, he held it off her face. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered reverently. “Everywhere.”

  Francine lowered her eyes, unaware of the effect of the demure gesture on Keaton. “Whenever I’m with you I feel beautiful.”

  “You’re beautiful all the time, Francine. You’re even beautiful when you’re sleeping, awake, bumping, blowing, and cutting hair at the Beauty Box.”

  She affected a sexy moue. “You were watching me sleep?”

  He nodded. “Sleeping Beauty has nothing on you. You’re much sexier.”

  “Stop, Keaton, before you give me a big head.”

  “No, sweetie. Right now I’m the one with the big head.” As if to verify what he’d just disclosed, he reached between his thighs and rubbed his swollen penis against her mound. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

  A slight frown appeared between Francine’s eyes. “I’m not afraid, Keaton.”

  “I’m not talking about hurting you physically,” he said correcting himself. “What I don’t want is to hurt you the way your ex-husband did. I love you too much to do that. I don’t know what’s going to happen between us, but I’m willing to wait and see where it leads.”