Magnolia Drive

by Rochelle Alers

  “I don’t either,” Francine whispered, “but you have to know that I love you, too.”

  Keaton lingered in the tub longer than he’d planned. Releasing Francine, he stood up and stepped out of the tub, and reached for a nearby bath sheet. His gaze met and fused with hers as he dried his body. He picked up another bath sheet, holding it out when she stood and stepped out. Slowly, gently, he blotted the moisture from her face, chest, arms, and legs. Her thighs trembled slightly when he drew the terry-cloth fabric between her legs.

  Tossing the towels in the tub, Keaton bent slightly, scooping Francine up in his arms. Her hands went around his neck at the same time she rested her head on his shoulder. It wasn’t until he placed her on the crisp sheets, his body following hers, that it finally hit Keaton that he’d waited more than eight years for this moment. When he’d walked into the small theater that seated fewer than three hundred theatergoers and he saw Francine Tanner walk onto the stage, he hadn’t known their lives would be inexorably linked. He’d gone back again to see her perform and would’ve gone back to see every performance if his schedule and wallet had permitted it.

  Reaching under a pillow, Keaton held a condom between his thumb and forefinger, smiling when Francine nodded her approval. Her gaze was fixated on his hands when he opened the packet and slipped the latex sheath over his erection.

  “You can breathe now, sweetie.” Francine had held her breath while he’d put on the condom, and he suspected she’d been apprehensive about a possible unplanned pregnancy.

  His hand splayed over her cheek, his fingers entwining the curls framing her face. Keaton’s head came down slowly, inch by inch, until his mouth hovered over hers, capturing her breath as she exhaled.

  Angling for a better position, he slanted his mouth over hers, slowly increasing the pressure until her lips parted slightly. Feeling the tension in her limbs, he knew he had to go slowly. Her mouth opened wider and it was what he needed to stake his claim, his tongue meeting hers in a heated joining that raced through his body like the rush of molten lava.

  The heat from Keaton’s mouth swept from Francine’s mouth to her core. Waves of passion shook her until she could not stop her legs from shaking. He suckled her breasts, worshipping them, and the moans she sought to suppress escaped her parted lips.

  His tongue circled her nipples, leaving them hard, erect, and throbbing painfully. His teeth tightened on the turgid tips, and she felt a violent spasm grip her womb. Her fingers were entwined in the cotton sheet, tightening and ripping them from their fastenings at the same time she arched up off the mattress.

  “Keaton!”

  His name was torn from the back of her throat as he inched his way down her body and held her hips to still their thrashing. Francine dissolved into a maelstrom of ecstasy when he buried his face between her legs. His hot breath seared the tangled curls between her thighs and she went limp, unable to move, unable to protest or think of anything except the pleasure her lover offered her.

  Francine registered a series of breathless sighs, unaware they were her own moans of sexual satisfaction. Eyes closed, head thrown back, lips parted, back arched, she drowned in the sensations taking her beyond herself and any passion she’d ever experienced. Then it began, rippling little tremors increasing and shaking her uncontrollably and becoming more explosive when they sought escape.

  Keaton heard her breath come in long, surrendering moans. He moved quickly up her trembling limbs and eased his erection into her body. He was met with resistance. How had he forgotten that it’d been years since she’d slept with a man? Knowing she had waited filled Keaton with immeasurable pride, and he prayed he would never do anything to make her regret her decision to permit him to make love to her. Gritting his teeth, he drew back and with a strong, sure thrust of his hips, buried his sex in the hot, moist, tight flesh pulsing around his.

  Sliding his hands under her hips, Keaton lifted her higher, permitting him deeper penetration, then quickened his movements. Francine assisted him when she wound her legs around his waist. There was only the sound of their labored breathing as both strained, tendons bulging in their necks, to get even closer. Then without warning, like lightning streaking across a summer sky, their passions peaked simultaneously, moans and groans harmonizing in a cacophony of explosive ecstasy.

  He held back, refusing to ejaculate because he didn’t want it to end. He’d waited much too long to make love to Francine to have it end now. He reversed their position, bringing Francine with him until she lay sprawled over his body. Pushing into a sitting position, he caressed her damp back and trailed kisses along the column of her perfumed neck. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

  “I’m more than okay. I’m wonderful,” Francine drawled, placing soft kisses on his throat and shoulder.

  “I—”

  She stopped his words when she placed her fingertips over his mouth. “Please don’t say anything, darling.”

  Keaton realized Francine was one of those women who didn’t like to talk when making love, while he wanted to tell her how much he wanted and needed her in his life. His right hand moved over her bare hip, caressing the silken flesh. He drew in a deep breath, luxuriating in the intoxicating fragrance of the lavender mingling with the lingering scent of their lovemaking.

  His eyes went to her breasts when she braced her hands against the headboard on either side of his head. They shared a smile as Francine began to move again, grinding her hips against his erection in a slow, measured rhythm. Up and down. Around and around. Cupping her hips, Keaton let her set the cadence as he visually feasted on the motion of her firm bouncing breasts, the rush of color suffusing her face and chest, the sound of her labored breathing as her passions rose higher and higher.

  Lowering her head, Francine lightly touched her lips to Keaton’s, the tip of her tongue tracing the outline of his full, sensuous lower lip. Her body told him what her lips couldn’t: She loved him. She loved Keaton more than she’d ever believed possible for her to love a man, and sharing her body with him wasn’t enough. She wanted more, as in sharing a future with him. She closed her eyes against his intense stare, gritting her teeth when she felt the familiar flutters of her impending climax. She squeezed her thighs together to stop the pulsing, but it continued.

  “No, Keaton!” His hands held her waist as he moved her up and down the length of his manhood. “Please let me go.”

  “I can’t, baby. It feels so good.”

  Francine wanted to tell him it was better than good. “Love me, Keaton. Please love me,” she chanted over and over until it became a litany. She closed her eyes, gasping at the sweet agony tearing her asunder. It eased slightly before she was hurled higher, climaxing, her orgasms overlapping one another until she collapsed on Keaton, while struggling to catch her breath. She sighed when his deep moans of satisfaction reverberated throughout the bedroom. They lay together, joined, losing track of time. She emitted a small cry of protest when he changed their position again, pulling out of her warmth. “I have to get rid of the condom,” he said in her ear.

  Moving off the bed, Keaton pulled the sheet and lightweight blanket over her naked body. He’d paused for several seconds to stare at the sexy curve of her hips and incredibly long legs as twin emotions of pride and awe swept over him. He’d spent years fantasizing about Francine, never believing the fantasy would become a reality.

  He walked into the bathroom, discarding the condom and extinguishing the candles. Francine was snoring softly when he joined her in bed. Pulling her close to his chest, Keaton buried his face in her hair, and minutes later fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Francine opened her eyes. The warm body pressed against hers and the overhead canopy reminded her that she wasn’t in her own bedroom. Heat followed by a chill gripped her as the images of two hands, one atop the other, flashed into her head. The darker hand belonged to a man and the smaller one to a woman. At first she thought the hands belonged to her and Keaton, but she’d glimpsed the glint of a rin
g on one of the man’s fingers, and the woman’s fingers were not quite as fair in coloring as hers. Who, she thought, did the hands belong to?

  She turned her head, meeting Keaton’s eyes. It was apparent he’d awakened before she had. “Good morning.” The numbers on the clock on the bedside table read 5:40.

  Shifting onto his left side, he swept her mussed hair off her cheek. “Good morning. How do you feel?”

  Francine knew he was asking about the area between her legs. “It’s a little sore, but I should be all right in a couple of days. Were you hoping for seconds this morning?”

  His gaze went to her mouth as he twisted a curl around his finger. “No. All you have to do is show up at the salon walking as if on eggshells and everyone will know what you were doing.”

  She rested her hand along his jaw, grazing the emerging stubble with a fingernail. It was as if she were seeing Keaton for the first time, although she’d shaved him twice. The skin on his face was soft and firm to the touch, his thick, dark eyebrows silky and his eyes—his eyes appeared to see inside her to uncover her true feelings for him. Francine had openly admitted to Keaton and Morgan that she liked him. But if she were truly honest she would’ve told them she was falling in love. It’d begun so quietly, without fanfare, that she wasn’t aware of it until she’d agreed to make love with Keaton.

  He was everything the men of her past wouldn’t or couldn’t be. First, he hadn’t pressured her to sleep with him—something she’d encountered much too often, and because he was obviously solvent he didn’t need her to support him.

  “They can surmise what I’ve been doing, but I doubt if they’ll be able to prove it, especially if some of the more inquisitive ones in the Magnolias don’t see your truck parked outside my house all night.”

  “There were a couple of nights when I did park outside your home.”

  A slight frown appeared between her eyes. “I forgot about that.”

  “I didn’t. That’s why we’re here instead of in the Cove.”

  “Listen to you,” Francine crooned. “You sound like us locals who shorten the names of our towns to the Cove, the Landing, and the Creek.”

  Keaton nuzzled her neck. “I am a local, or I will be when I move into my house.”

  “As long as you don’t forget to register as soon as you can so you can vote in the next local election. As a supporter of Alice Parker’s candidacy I have an invitation to attend a Valentine’s Day fund-raiser at her home. I’d like you to be my plus one.”

  “Are you asking me out?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Okay. I’m honored you asked me to be your plus one.” Rolling over on his back, Keaton stared up at the ceiling. “I notice folks on the island take their elections quite seriously.”

  Francine assumed a similar position. “You just don’t know the half.” She told him about Alice Parker challenging the incumbent and how townspeople had taken sides. Those loyal to Spencer thought he was doing a good job, while his former supporters believed he hadn’t done enough to stop the developers that were still attempting to get longtime residents to sell their homes so they could put up condos, hotels, and golf courses, and overpriced gated communities.

  “That definitely would spoil the ambience and natural beauty of the island.”

  “What will the design of your studio look like?”

  “I was thinking a four-thousand-square-foot Charleston Single House with a two-story porch overlooking a garden. It will be protected by closed-circuit cameras, a wrought-iron fence, and an electronic gate.”

  Francine frowned. “Isn’t that excessive?”

  “Not if I want to insure the building.”

  Her frown disappeared. “I didn’t think of that.” She turned over again. “By the way, I had a chance to look at the floor plans.”

  “Which style do you like?”

  “Even though I had Morgan decorate my apartment in a Zen style, I prefer the ones labeled simple country charm because your home is a farmhouse. The tables and chairs have a country look with a subtle contemporary side.”

  “I like it simple,” Keaton confirmed. “Maybe one of these days you’ll come with me to see the house.”

  “I’d love to. I think it’s time I get up and take a shower.”

  Keaton rested a leg over hers, stopping her when she moved to sit up. “What time do you have to be at the shop?”

  “I’m usually there around eight thirty, but I need to go in earlier because my mother will be home for the rest of the week.”

  “I’ll call downstairs and make a reservation for breakfast before we head back.”

  Francine tried to move his leg off hers but it was like attempting to lift a log. When it appeared he wasn’t going to let her get up she tried another approach. Smiling, she reached between his legs, holding fast to his flaccid penis.

  “No!” Keaton bellowed when she began to stroke him.

  She increased the motion. “Move your leg, baby.”

  Jerking as if he’d been hit by a jolt of electricity, Keaton fell off the bed onto his back, bringing Francine with him as she lay sprawled over his chest. He glared up at her. “That’s a low blow.”

  Pressing her fist to her mouth, Francine smothered the giggles threatening to escape. “I did not blow you, milord,” she said in a clipped British accent.

  Keaton’s shoulders shook as he struggled not to laugh. “What am I going to do with you, wench?”

  “That is for you to find out, milord.” She got up and walked into the bathroom, feeling the heat of Keaton’s gaze on her naked body.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Keaton paced the length of his bedroom suite much like a caged cat. The restlessness had come from his wanting to begin drafting the script from beginning to end. He’d finished digesting a voluminous amount of research. He’d spent what felt like hundreds of hours studying the Gullah culture and his brain was quickly approaching overload. He’d met with the archivist and together they’d poured over diaries, letters, journals, census reports, bills of sale for slaves, and household accounts for landowners. He’d also interviewed Corrine Hamilton, recording hours of the oral history of Cavanaugh Island. The scenes and characters had come alive in his head, eliciting an excitement he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

  It’d been more than a week since he’d seen Francine, although she called him every night to repeat some of the stories she’d overheard when eavesdropping on her mother and grandmother when they gathered in the kitchen with their friends when she’d been warned to “stay out of grown folks’ bizness.”

  Keaton could hear the fatigue in her voice and limited their conversations to ten to fifteen minutes. Her mother had been instructed by an orthopedist to take several weeks off from work in order to rest her back, which had left Francine with the responsibility of running the salon, while taking on Mavis’s clients as well as her own, and looking in on her grandmother before and after work.

  The memory of the night they’d stayed over in Charleston still lingered around the fringes of his mind, occasionally eliciting erotic dreams. He knew if he worked himself to the point of exhaustion it would keep him from thinking about Francine. Keaton missed her more than he’d thought possible—her smile, her laugh, listening to her when she morphed into the Cockney tavern maid. He also missed the demure blushes she wasn’t able to control and her passion when they’d shared an intimacy that left him wanting more. He was tempted to stop by the Beauty Box to see her, but decided to wait until his scheduled appointment.

  After breakfast at the inn they’d returned to the Cove, where he left her at her front door. However, he wasn’t able to escape the eagle-eyed women sitting on their porches or the few who were sweeping or hosing down porch steps. They’d stopped whatever they were doing to stare directly at him when he drove past. The Magnolias’ neighborhood watch was on patrol.

  Keaton had waited two days before calling Eddie Wilkes and when the editor returned the call Keaton had turned off the ring
er on his phone; he’d been up for more than twenty-four hours, reading and transcribing the archival notes. They played phone tag for days until Keaton finally connected with the man, confirming a date and time to meet.

  Keaton sat on a worn leather chair staring at the editor of the Sanctuary Chronicle as he moved a stack of old newspapers from one corner of his desk to another. Each time Keaton shifted the springs on the chair groaned as if in pain. Eddie had asked if he would come to the newspaper office because he wanted to talk to him, while Keaton surmised that meant an interview. Keaton also assumed he and the newspaper reporter were about the same age. The date on the degree hanging on the wall behind the desk was the same year Keaton graduated from college.

  Eddie looked as if he’d been in a rush to get dressed because he hadn’t bothered to tuck the hem of his shirt into the waistband of his slacks. His sandy-brown hair complemented his redbone complexion. “I’m sorry you had to wait for me, Mr. Grace.”

  Keaton waved a hand. Eddie’s secretary had directed him to sit in the newspaper’s waiting room because her boss was running late. “Please call me Keaton.”

  When Eddie sat down on his chair it, too, squeaked under his weight. He managed to look sheepish. “One of these days I’m going to get some new office furniture.” Patting the desk, he pulled a pair of glasses from under several pieces of paper and put them on. “This morning is not going too well for me. I got a call from the principal at the high school that my son was placed on an in-school suspension for pushing another kid who’d gotten in his face. Do you have children, Keaton?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “The only thing I’m going to say is to think long and hard before you decide if you want to become a parent. Do you know what’s wrong with these kids nowadays? They have more rights than their parents,” he said, answering his own question. “You can’t talk hard to them or they’ll accuse you of verbally abusing your child. You can’t hit them, because then it’s physical abuse. I remember my grandmother used to tell me to go outside and get a switch so she could light up my behind. She didn’t have to do it too often because I was a quick study. Just do the right thing and you don’t get whipped.”