Magnolia Drive

by Rochelle Alers

  Now he realized why Devon hadn’t returned his calls. She had to have been devastated by the news that the man she’d been sleeping with was engaged to another woman. Rising to his feet, Keaton moved his chair until he was sitting next to her, his arm going around her shoulders.

  “Do you still plan to tell him about the baby?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  Dropping his arm, he stared at her strained profile. “What are you going to do? I know you intend to have the baby,” he interjected quickly, “but what are your future plans?”

  “I don’t know. New York City is a wonderful place to live and socialize, but I can’t see myself raising a child there. And as an entertainment attorney, I have the advantage of having a small number of select clients who pay quite well for my services. That means I can live anywhere.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “Gregory is also an attorney. We met in law school.”

  “Oh shit!” Keaton swore under his breath. “You’re playing with fire,” he warned his attorney. “What if he finds out that you had his baby? Do you think he’s not going to put two and two together and possibly sue you for joint custody?”

  “I doubt that, Keaton. Gregory didn’t have to buy the cow because he got the milk for free. His engagement isn’t a new thing. He’s been with her for a while. Oh, I didn’t mention that the fund-raising photo of them was taken more than three years ago. When Gregory and I ran into each other in New York he didn’t tell me at the time that his girlfriend was in Japan studying for a graduate degree in Asian studies.”

  Keaton knew he had to be there for Devon—at least emotionally, because she’d been estranged from her brother and parents for more than a decade. “When do you plan to go back to New York?”

  “I’m leaving tonight, but I’m going to stop in Chicago first to tell my mother and father that they’re going to be grandparents before the end of the year.”

  He smiled for the first time. “That’s good.”

  Putting her arms around his neck, Devon pulled his head down and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for hearing me out. You’re an incredible friend,” she said as a single tear escaped her eye.

  Keaton patted her hair. “Friends are supposed to take care of one another. Now, I want you to promise that you’ll call me with updates.”

  “I will.”

  “Say it like you mean it, Devon.”

  “I will call you so much you’ll get sick of hearing my voice.”

  “I doubt that. And when you want a change of scenery let me know and I’ll put you up.”

  Her smile was dazzling. “I like the sound of that.”

  He settled the bill, and then walked her back to her hotel, waiting until she disappeared into the elevator before returning to the lot where he’d left his car. Seeing his friend in tears had affected Keaton more than he wanted, and it was a blatant reminder that it didn’t matter that Devon was smart, attractive, and successful. She was going to join the growing number of single mothers—something she’d told him she never wanted to become.

  Concern for his friend plagued Keaton until he returned to his suite at the Cove Inn, changed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, booted up his laptop, and began working on his script.

  Keaton walked into Francine’s apartment Monday afternoon carrying a large canvas tote and was greeted by the sound of show tunes coming through various speakers and the smell of lemons. He knew it came from the wax she used to dust the tables and wood surfaces. “Honey, I’m home,” he called out in his best Ricky Ricardo imitation. Francine met him in the dining room, where she’d set the table for two. She wore a bibbed apron stamped with red and green apples over a pair of cutoffs and a tee, and had pushed her bare feet into a pair of flip-flops.

  Holding her arms out at her sides, she smiled. Going on tiptoe, she touched her mouth to his. “I’m ready for my lesson.”

  Dipping his head, Keaton brushed a kiss over her parted lips. “Where did you get the cute apron? It makes you look like a domestic goddess,” he added, teasing her.

  Francine executed a graceful curtsy. “I ordered it and several others online.” She peered into the tote. “What did you bring?”

  “Let’s go in the kitchen and I’ll show you.” Turning on her heels, Francine led the way into the kitchen, Keaton following.

  “I have a little surprise for you,” she said, peering over her shoulder.

  Keaton stopped short at the entrance to the kitchen when he spied the glass bowl filled with ingredients for a Greek salad. “You made that?”

  Francine curtsied again. “Yes, I did. I went online early this morning and found a site featuring easy recipes. I figured I’d start with a salad because it doesn’t require cooking. I even made the dressing. I want you to be honest with me when you taste it.”

  Resting the tote on the floor, Keaton pulled her into a close embrace, burying his face in her hair. “If you followed the directions, then I’m certain it’s going to be delicious.”

  “One of these days I’m going to prepare an entire meal for you.”

  He closed his eyes. “I’m certain you will.” He wanted to tell Francine that cooking together in the kitchen of his new home was something he wanted more than anything. He also wanted to go to bed with her and wake up beside her as a husband and the father of the children he hoped to have with her.

  Francine pushed against his chest and he released her. “What’s my first lesson?”

  Reaching into the bag, he removed a package with a large roasting chicken, and plastic bags of asparagus, tiny red potatoes, carrots, celery, and onions. “This is also an easy recipe because you’re going to make an entire meal in one pot.”

  “How long will it take to cook?”

  “That all depends on when you want to eat,” he explained. “A roaster this size cooked at three hundred seventy-five degrees should take about ninety minutes. But I prefer cooking it at around three hundred twenty-five for at least three hours to ensure it will be moist and juicy. The lower temperature and slower cooking always makes for a moist dish. That’s why slow cookers are so popular.”

  “My mother makes her pulled pork in a slow cooker.”

  “Do you have one?”

  Francine shook her head. “No. But I’m definitely going to buy one, along with a cookbook with Crock-Pot recipes.”

  Keaton felt her excitement. “Come on, Iron Chef, let’s get you started on this chicken. Once you put it in the oven I want you to come with me to see the house. The construction crew just finished installing the floors.” Harvey Rose had called him earlier that morning to inform him that the renovations on the main house were close to completion. All that remained was painting. As requested by Keaton, he’d hired a night crew to finish the project a month earlier than projected. He still had to wait for the furniture delivery, but he planned to buy a blow-up mattress and a folding table and chairs to use in the interim. He was even willing to sleep on the floor if it meant living under his own roof.

  He took out a white box stamped with the Muffin Corner’s logo. “Red velvet cake.”

  Francine moaned softly. “No one can make red velvet cake like Lester Kelly.”

  Keaton removed the last item from the tote, placing it on the countertop. “This is the first draft of my script.”

  She picked up the bound pages. “You finished it!?”

  “It’s only a draft. It will go through a number of revisions before I’m completely satisfied with it.”

  Francine pressed it to her chest. “I can’t wait to begin reading it.”

  “You’re going to have to wait until after you put the chicken up and we see the house.” Francine placed the script on the table in a corner of the kitchen, then picked up a pair of latex gloves and put them on. “You don’t need the gloves, sweetie. You’re going to prep a chicken, not dye it,” he teased.

  Francine wiggled her fingers. “I get creeped out if I touch raw meat.”

  He wante
d to laugh, but didn’t. Maybe, he mused, Francine’s aversion to cooking came from her loathing of touching the flesh of animals. However, he wasn’t going to challenge her, because he was more interested in the results rather than the method it took to achieve the meal. He knew they were going to have fun cooking together.

  Francine held on to Keaton’s hand when he led her up the porch to the house he would eventually call home. She’d followed his instructions when he told her how to prepare the roasted chicken with vegetables. She experienced a measure of satisfaction when she finally placed the one-pot meal in the oven, while carefully adjusting the temperature so it wouldn’t cook too quickly.

  The last time she’d accompanied him to the house the floors were covered with drop cloths, boxes of appliances were lined up along a wall in the living room, banisters and newel posts on the staircase leading to the second floor were unfinished, and workers were still installing Sheetrock in some of the spaces to create rooms and alcoves.

  “How did they finish so quickly?” she asked, peering out a window of a second-floor bedroom that overlooked what would eventually become a garden. The landscaper had sectioned off parcels of earth for what she predicted would be a flower garden.

  “I had the contractor hire a night crew, because I was seriously thinking of checking out of the Cove Inn and moving back to the Charleston Place. At least at the hotel I wouldn’t necessarily have to eat in a communal dining room.”

  Francine turned to stare at the man she loved beyond description. “You know you could always come over and eat with my family whenever you want.”

  Resting his hands at her waist, Keaton pulled her close. “You know what I want, Francine.”

  She nodded, then said, “I do know. But I need time to think about it. Are you willing to wait?” Francine knew Keaton was referring to marriage. She knew she was being unfair to Keaton because she continued to compare him to Aiden.

  Keaton’s hands moved up to cradle her face. “Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere and neither are you.”

  She smiled. “Does this mean we’re stuck with each other?”

  Keaton returned her smile, his gaze lingering on her mouth. “As if we were joined at the hip,” he teased.

  Resting her head on his shoulder, Francine breathed in his masculine smell mingling with the familiar scent of his cologne. “I love your house.”

  “Our house,” he corrected. “I want you to think of it as your house, too.”

  Francine pulled her lower lip between her teeth rather than tell Keaton that she didn’t want him to put pressure on her about their future. “I asked for time, Keaton,” she said instead.

  “My bad,” he apologized.

  They continued touring the house, and she attempted to imagine what the rooms would look like when fully furnished. She was partial to the front and back porches, the latter screened in, because of the ceiling fans resembling banana leaves. It was so easy to fantasize about hosting dinner parties and celebrating holidays in the expansive farmhouse with family and friends. A secret smile curved her mouth when she thought about the sound of tiny feet running over the polished wood floors. Everything she wanted, and had talked about with Morgan when they were young girls, was right in front of her. All she had to do was open her mouth and tell Keaton she would marry him. But an unforeseen uneasiness held her captive and she wasn’t able to say what lay in her heart.

  “They’ve finished but you still can’t move in until the furniture is delivered.”

  “Yes, I can. I’m going to Charleston tomorrow to pick up an inflatable mattress and a table and chairs. Then I’m going to shop for pots and housewares. I plan to move out of the boardinghouse before the end of the week.”

  “Will you have a housewarming?”

  “Eventually… don’t worry. We’ll have plenty of time for that.”

  Francine noticed he’d said “we” instead of “I.” What good was her gift for seeing into the future of others when she couldn’t see into her own? Even when she’d tried concentrating on Keaton she couldn’t discern anything. Was it, she wondered, because their futures were truly linked that they’d become one?

  “I think it’s time we get back so I can check on my chicken.”

  Keaton kissed her forehead. “Spoken like a true chef.”

  When they returned to her apartment Francine gasped when she opened the oven to find the chicken had turned a beautiful golden brown. The meat thermometer she’d inserted into the thickest part of the thigh registered 180° F. “How do I test it for doneness?” she asked Keaton as he stood behind her.

  “You can pierce the thigh with a long fork to see if the juices run clear or you can wiggle the leg and if it comes away from the breast, then it’s done.”

  “It’s done!” Francine couldn’t disguise her excitement when she realized she had actually cooked something.

  “Turn off the oven and leave it in there for another five minutes. Then you can take it out to let it rest so the juices will distribute evenly while you grill the asparagus.”

  “How long will it take for the asparagus to cook?”

  “It won’t take more than ten minutes. I’ll heat the grill while you drain the asparagus and pat them dry with a paper towel before you season them.”

  Francine opened the fully stocked refrigerator and took out the asparagus she’d placed in a bowl of ice water to keep them from wilting. Keaton, in preparing lunch for her, had stocked the refrigerator and pantry. There were jars of exotic spices she’d never heard of on a revolving rack. He’d even stocked the wine rack with bottles of merlot, rosé, and dry and fruity whites. In honor of preparing her first meal she’d decided to serve a blush to accompany the chicken.

  She sprinkled salt, fresh pepper, garlic powder, and grated Parmesan cheese on the asparagus spears before drizzling them with olive oil. Using a pair of tongs, she placed them on the surface of the heated grill, searing them on one side before turning. The mouthwatering aromas filling the kitchen reminded Francine that she’d had only a cup of tea and a slice of toast for breakfast.

  She plated the asparagus, while Keaton expertly carved the chicken before he placed it on a platter and took it into the dining room. Francine had to admit they worked well together. Within minutes the bowl of salad and the cruet with the dressing she’d made from vinegar, garlic, dill, oregano, salt, pepper, and olive oil were set out on the table.

  She handed Keaton the bottle of chilled wine and a corkscrew. “Will you do the honor of opening it?”

  His eyebrows lifted a fraction. “I suppose wine is in order today because we must toast this momentous occasion.” Keaton seated Francine before rounding the table to sit opposite her. He uncorked the bottle, filling the wineglasses with white zinfandel. Smiling, he raised his glass in a toast. “Here’s to a wonderful dinner prepared by a woman who one day will become legendary when it comes to hosting Cavanaugh Island dinner parties.”

  “Hear, hear,” she intoned.

  Francine had to admit she’d done very well with her first meal. The chicken was moist and flavorful, as were the accompanying vegetables. The asparagus, Greek salad, and dressing elicited effusive compliments from Keaton that made her blush. He cleared the table, while she brewed coffee to go along with the slices of red velvet cake.

  A half hour later she sat on the window seat reading the first draft of Keaton’s script while he lay dozing on a recliner. Francine couldn’t believe he’d captured the essence of Lowcountry culture so expertly. How, she wondered, had he picked up the vernacular so quickly? The two most riveting characters were the mother and daughter conjurers who were willing to do whatever someone wanted if they were paid what they’d requested from their prospective clients. Their deviance caused the hair on her arms to stand up.

  She was only pages from the end of the script when Keaton opened his eyes.

  “What do you think?”

  Francine shivered noticeably. “Lottie and her mother are witches.” It wasn�
��t a question but a statement.

  He nodded. “Witches who are also time travelers. This is my first attempt at writing a paranormal script.”

  “Have you thought of who you would cast for Lottie and Annie Mae?”

  Sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the recliner, Keaton placed his feet firmly on the floor. “I respect how much you like doing hair, but I really believe you would be perfect in the role of Lottie. I’ve made her a redhead because Montague Summers’s translation of Malleus Maleficarum indicated red hair and green eyes as traits of a witch, werewolf, or a vampire during the Middle Ages.”

  Francine set the script on the cushioned seat. “You developed this character in the hope I would accept the role even though I told you I’d given up acting?”

  “Yes.” He didn’t want to lie to her.

  Rising to her feet, Francine’s hands went to her hips. “When I asked what you wanted from me and you told me nothing I believed you, Aiden. But, it’s apparent I’ve been too trusting.”

  Keaton sprang up as if pulled up by a powerful wire. “What did you call me?”

  “Keaton.”

  “No, Francine. You called me Aiden. Was he your ex?” The seconds ticked off. “The fact that you’re not saying anything says he was. And was he an actor? Is that why you decided to leave the business, because you didn’t want to run into him or be reminded of what you once had?”

  “You’re the one who seems to have all of the answers, Keaton.”

  Shaking his head, he approached her. “I may have answers, but not the ones I want.”

  “What the hell do you want to know?” she screamed. “Yes, I was married to Aiden Fox, and yes, he’s the reason I gave up acting. And do you want to know something else about me? I’m psychic. I see visions.”

  “What? I can’t believe you, Francine. I specifically asked you if you were a psychic and you lied and said no. You talk about not being able to trust me, when I can’t trust you to be honest with me. You talk about needing time to figure out whether we’ll be together. Well, baby, you’re not the only one.”