Magnolia Drive

by Rochelle Alers

  He patted the mattress. “Come get into bed.”

  “I… I have to get a nightgown.” Francine chided herself for stuttering like a frightened virgin.

  Keaton whipped back the sheet. “You don’t need a nightgown. I’ll keep you warm.”

  Untying the belt to the robe, she shrugged out of it, leaving it on the foot of the bed. Her gaze met and fused with Keaton’s. He extended his arms and she ran and jumped on the bed and into his embrace. Burying her face against the column of his neck, Francine breathed a kiss there. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  Keaton flipped her on her back as if she were a small child. “That’s all going to change.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Remember what I said about making certain you eat?” She nodded. “I’m going to the supermarket tomorrow to buy enough food to stock your refrigerator and your pantry. I’ll come over every morning to make breakfast for you until your mother returns to work.”

  “I won’t let you in.”

  “Too late, sexy. Have you forgotten that you gave me a key?”

  “You were supposed to use it that one time.”

  “Oops, I forgot to give it back,” he teased with a wide grin. “As I was saying. I’ll make a nutritious breakfast for you, then I’ll stop by the shop, say around one, and bring you lunch. Then when you come home at night you’ll have just enough time to take a shower before we sit down for dinner together. After dinner we’ll unwind by watching your favorite historical dramas, taking walks on the beach, or just talking. Then I’ll tuck you into bed before it gets too late so you can get enough sleep to get rid of those dark circles under your beautiful eyes.”

  “You’re taking on a lot of responsibility.”

  “You don’t think you’re worth it?”

  “It’s not about whether I’m worth it, Keaton.”

  Supporting his weight on his forearms, he pressed her down into the mattress, not permitting her to escape. “What do you think it’s about?” Keaton angled his head. “Please don’t tell me you think I want something from you.”

  Francine felt as if a hand had closed around her throat, not permitting her to speak as old fears and insecurities crashed down on her like storm clouds. Every man she’d become involved with wanted something from her. It’d begun in high school and ended with her failed marriage.

  “It has crossed my mind.”

  He ran his hand over her face. “I want you to erase that thought. There’s nothing I want more than you.”

  Francine felt like crying, because she so wanted to believe him. Her hands moved slowly up his biceps, the muscles under his skin tightening and flexing. “I believe and trust you,” she whispered against his warm throat. “You talk about feeding me, taking walks along the beach, and watching television with me. What about your work?”

  “I’m still doing research. It’ll be a while before I begin my first draft.”

  “How many drafts do you do?”

  “As many as it takes for me to feel comfortable with it.” Keaton palmed her face. “I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.”

  “Okay.” Francine moaned softly when he kissed the corners of her mouth. “What are you doing?” she asked when his hand went from her face to her inner thigh.

  A chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I’m going to help you sleep.”

  She wasn’t certain what Keaton was talking about until he rained down light kisses over her throat, chest, belly, and even lower to her thighs. Francine wasn’t given time to react when he anchored her legs over his shoulders, his rapacious tongue searching the moist folds concealing her vagina until he found the opening he sought. Keaton’s mouth demanded and her body answered, his tongue plunging inside her quivering flesh, branding her as his own.

  Francine tried concentrating on any- and everything to stave off the telling ripples shaking her from head to toe. She didn’t want to climax just yet. Not only did she want it to last but to go on and on and on. However, passion was not to be denied. Her body stilled for several seconds, then shook as if she were experiencing a seizure.

  She screamed, not recognizing her own voice. The screams continued as multiple orgasms overlapped one another, leaving her spent. She lay with her chest rising and falling heavily as she tried catching her breath. Francine didn’t know when Keaton lowered her legs, drew the sheet over her moist body, and reached over to turn off the lamp. What she did remember was that he’d kissed her, permitting her to taste herself on her lips, and held her to his chest until her world went dark.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Francine did not have to look to see who’d come into the Beauty Box when all conversations faded away before there was complete silence. As promised, Keaton arrived at the salon every day at one with lunch in an insulated bag. With little or no fanfare he left the bag with the receptionist and then walked out.

  What he’d selected to prepare came as a pleasant surprise. One day it was shrimp salad on a bed of lettuce with sliced hard-boiled eggs, sliced avocado, and carrot sticks. On another he would prepare a broiled chicken breast with wilted spinach and couscous. He would alternate—one day hot and the next cold. Dessert was either sliced fruit or homemade oatmeal raisin nut cookies.

  She’d come to look forward to him sharing an early breakfast with her. Most mornings she would leave him in her apartment. He’d admitted to spending more time at Magnolia Drive than at the Cove Inn. He made it a practice to leave her house to return to the boardinghouse in time to watch the late-night news.

  Mavis claimed she was feeling much better and looking forward to returning to work, but Francine told her if she came back too soon she would probably experience a setback and then she would have to stay out even longer.

  The campaign for mayor and two other positions on the town council escalated to a fever pitch as it grew closer to election day. Candidates and campaign workers were out in force, handing out literature and making personal appearances, and Francine couldn’t remember a time in the Cove’s history when an election mirrored one with national overtones. The positions of mayor and town council member were part-time positions and the salaries were commensurate, so it wasn’t the money the various candidates sought. It was the status of being an elected official in their hometown.

  Francine had always suspected Spencer was using his position as mayor as an entrée into politics because he’d set his sights on representing the state of South Carolina either as a state senator or as a member of Congress. And despite his vocal protests about developers coming to Cavanaugh Island to purchase tracts of land that would eventually squeeze out locals with reassessed real estate taxes they would never be able to afford, he had yet to work with the members of the council to draft a resolution that would bar them from doing business in the Cove. Francine knew she wasn’t the only one who believed that a few developers had Spencer in their pockets, and were counting on him to win reelection so they could use another ruse to gain the confidence of those willing to sell their land for more money than they could otherwise ever hope to earn in their lifetime.

  Kara said a few had come to her with a blank check hoping to purchase the antebellum mansion and the two thousand acres that made up Angels Landing Plantation, but she had no intention of selling out to developers that planned to turn the historic property into another millionaire’s paradise as they’d done on many of the other Lowcountry Sea Islands.

  Francine turned off the dryer of a man who’d gotten a special conditioner made with avocado and olive oil. She beckoned to Brooke. “You can wash him out now.” He’d come into the shop for a haircut, and when she checked his scalp she found it dotted with dry patches.

  She decided she wasn’t going to let anything or anyone bother her today. Later on that evening she and Keaton would join a select group of invitees to Alice and Jason Parker’s home for the pre–Valentine’s Day party. All of the invitations were hand delivered with a warning not to tell anyone they’d received it. Not knowing w
ho else was invited added to the overall mystique of what promised to be a wonderfully festive gathering.

  Mavis had put in a rare appearance earlier that morning to pick up employee time sheets so she could write out paychecks. When asked when she was coming back her reply was “any day now,” although Francine knew her mother was being overly optimistic. She still had another full week before the doctor would medically clear her to return to work.

  Francine had searched her closet for something to wear, then decided she wanted a new dress. The invitation indicated semiformal attire, and she drove to Charleston and spent hours in several boutiques until she found a dress she liked. Luckily she was able to find a pair of stilettos in a color that was a perfect match for the dress. She hadn’t worn a pair of heels since the night of Kara’s baby shower and that now seemed so long ago. Kara and Jeff had sent out invitations to friends and family to witness the christening of their son the third week in March. When Kara called Francine to make an appointment for a haircut and facial because this would be the first Valentine’s Day she would celebrate as Mrs. Jeffrey Hamilton, Francine suspected the Hamiltons were also invited to the Parkers.

  Patience, the salon’s receptionist, moved from behind her desk, carrying the bag Keaton left with her into the lounge. “I’m taking bets that it’s beef today,” she announced loudly.

  Francine had just washed and dried her hands when she overheard the receptionist. She and Mavis had staggered lunch hours so half the employees ate at twelve and the other half at one. Patience was instructed not to schedule anyone during a designated lunch break.

  She rolled her eyes at Patience. “Mind your business and put my lunch down.”

  “Miss Patience is hatin’ ’cause her man don’t bring her lunch,” Danita teased.

  Patience glared at the nail technician. “No, I’m not. Besides, my man can’t bring me lunch because he works over in Goose Creek.”

  “That’s not that far,” Danita countered.

  “It’s far enough,” Patience mumbled.

  Francine unzipped the bag. Then she noticed everyone staring at her. “It would serve y’all right if I ate in my car.”

  Brooke moved closer. “Come on, Francine, show us what he brought you today.”

  If it hadn’t been for the salon staff, Francine knew she wouldn’t have kept it together during her mother’s convalescence. They’d helped with walk-ins, shampoos, and deep conditions.

  She felt the heat from their gazes on her when she took out a glass container with meat loaf, oven fries, green beans with slivered almonds, and a smaller container with sliced strawberries, kiwi, and pink grapefruit sections. Keaton had also included a note: Your first cooking lesson is scheduled for Monday.

  Patience jumped up and down. “I told you it would be beef today.” She pressed two fingers to her forehead. “I told y’all I was psychic.”

  Candace emitted an unladylike snort. “Yeah, you psychic all right. What happened to your psychic powers when you booked all those customers on the wrong week?”

  Only the receptionist’s dark complexion concealed the rush of heat in her face. “Even psychics can be wrong sometimes.”

  The masseuse, Taryn Brown, walked in at the same time she overheard Patience’s excuse. “That’s because you’re no psychic. And stop telling folks you’re one, because one of these days you’re going to run into a real one who will put a root on you and shrink your head like they do in New Guinea.”

  Francine waved her hand. “That’s enough talk about roots and spells.” Their conversation led her thoughts to Keaton. After their many conversations and interviews, he was now well versed in the various types of incense, oils, and brews, and the color of candles used to cast a spell for good or evil. He’d become so immersed in the Gullah culture that he’d begun keeping a journal of Gullah words and phrases. She’d wrestled with the idea of whether to confide in Keaton about her own psychic abilities, because she knew if they were going to have a truly honest and open relationship he deserved to know she could discern the future.

  They continued to make love and the encounters were always spontaneous and passionate. One Sunday after she’d returned from church Francine accompanied him to see his house. The walls, windows, and floors were completed, and the contractor was awaiting the arrival of the kitchen cabinets and appliances to complete the renovation. She loved the idea of having ceiling fans in every room, including the front and back porches. Abram had ordered the furniture Keaton had chosen, with her input, and the anticipated date of delivery was less than six weeks away—April Fool’s Day, which had made them laugh uncontrollably.

  The confrontations at the salon had de-escalated after the town hall debate. Skeptics who’d believed Alice didn’t have a chance of defeating Spencer were silenced, those who’d supported Spencer were reevaluating their decision, and those who’d supported Alice when she’d first announced her candidacy were buoyed by the success of the lopsided debate.

  Francine retrieved a fork from a drawer in the utility kitchen and sat at the table to enjoy her lunch. She felt a little smug, having a personal chef. Though she’d tried to downplay it by saying it was only temporary, that Keaton would stop delivering lunch once her mother returned to the salon.

  When she reassessed her relationship with Keaton, Francine knew she’d hit the jackpot. He was everything she’d looked for in a man, with a little extra thrown in for good measure. He was a wonderful cook and an exquisite lover.

  Keaton had just turned down the collar of his shirt when his cell phone rang. He recognized the ringtone immediately. Picking up the instrument, he activated the speaker feature. “Hey, Devon. How are you?” It’d been weeks since he’d last heard from his attorney. As promised, he’d called her and left a voice mail on her cell phone. Three days later he called again—this time leaving a message with her secretary, who told him Devon was out of town.

  “You should be asking where I am.”

  His hands stilled, tightening the tie under the collar. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in Charleston. I just checked into the Francis Marion Hotel on Upper King Street. As soon as I settle in I’ll drive over to see you.”

  “We can’t meet until tomorrow. I have a prior engagement tonight.”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “What time tomorrow?” he asked.

  There came a pause, then Devon said, “I’m willing to work around your schedule.”

  “How’s three in the afternoon?”

  “Three works for me.”

  “You don’t have to come to the island. I’ll drive to Charleston.”

  There was another pause, this one longer than the one before it. “Okay. Have fun, Keaton.”

  “Thank you.”

  Disconnecting the call, he slipped the phone into the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. Keaton didn’t want to think about Devon, but about Francine and their upcoming date. Francine informed him that the names on the guest list were known only to Alice and her husband. She’d timed the event to coincide with the House’s recess. Adjusting his shirt’s cuffs, he picked up his jacket, keycard, and key fob before walking out of the suite and into the mild February night.

  He drove slowly, the scent of salt water coming in through the open windows. When he’d first checked into the Cove Inn the days seemed to move as slowly as a sloth. That changed when he sat across the table from Francine at the Charleston Grill, where he once again found himself enthralled by her presence. That had been six weeks ago. Now there didn’t seem to be enough hours in the day. He saw her for breakfast, delivered lunch to the salon, and spent a few more hours with her over dinner. They talked about anything and everything but themselves.

  Not only had he fallen in love with her, he also loved her enough to propose marriage. He’d heard women complain constantly about a man’s inability to commit. However, with him the tables were turned because it was Francine who’d refused. Maybe he was being paid back for his refusal to marry Jad
e.

  He arrived at the Tanner house, parking alongside the door to Francine’s apartment. Tapping a button for the Bluetooth, he scrolled through the directory for her number. It rang twice.

  “I’m on my way down.”

  “Wait there. I’m on my way up.”

  The only time he didn’t call to let her know he was on his way up was when he knew she wouldn’t be home. She may have given him a key, but he still respected her right to privacy. Keaton was out of his truck and up the staircase in less than a minute. He entered the apartment, coming to a complete stop when he saw her standing in the middle of the living room. Recessed lights had become a spotlight as they shimmered on her burnished hair, which was swept up in an elegant twist. His gaze moved from her subtle makeup highlighting her eyes and mouth and down to the lacy electric-blue, body-hugging, long-sleeved dress with a matching underslip ending at her knees. His gaze moved even lower to her long, smooth bare legs in a pair of matching silk sling backs. His body reacted violently and he folded his hands over his fly so she wouldn’t detect his erection.

  He blinked. “I didn’t believe you could get any more beautiful.” The admission was torn from his heart.

  Smiling, Francine laced her fingers together to stop their trembling. “Thank you.”

  She’d admitted to Keaton that whenever she was with him she felt beautiful, as if she were the only woman in the world. There wasn’t anything she didn’t love about him, and if she had created a wish list with five qualities she wanted in a man Keaton would’ve gotten five out of five.

  He was generous, even tempered, laid-back, funny, and sexy as hell. He wasn’t blessed with Spencer’s too-pretty-to-be-a-man’s good looks but a classic attractiveness that wouldn’t fade with age. Her heart beat a double-time rhythm when Keaton half turned, reached into the pocket of his trousers, and handed her a small black velvet box.