Chapter Six

Francine got up feeling more tired than she did before she’d gone to bed. She woke up twice during the night, tossing restlessly until falling back to sleep. What nagged at her was that she hadn’t been dreaming, so she was in a quandary as to why she hadn’t slept soundly.

She walked into the first-floor stainless-steel gourmet kitchen, stopping short when she saw her parents and grandmother sitting in the breakfast nook. When Mavis met with the contractor to renovate the space on the second floor for her mother-in-law’s apartment she had him update the main kitchen. Her father was the first to notice her.

“Come and join us, Frannie.”

She approached her father, throwing her arms around his neck, and kissed his clean-shaven cheek. Born Francis Daniel Tanner, he’d shortened his first name to Frank. He would turn sixty this coming summer, but looked at least a decade younger. His reddish hair was now completely gray, and a pair of large gray-green eyes, surrounded by minute lines, were his most striking feature. Standing six feet in bare feet, he tipped the scales at an even two hundred pounds. He told anyone who stood still long enough to listen that his two greatest accomplishments were becoming a father and keeping off the fifty pounds he’d lost after his football playing days.

“Good morning, Daddy. I thought you’d be on the road by now,” she said, before kissing her mother and grandmother. Frank was a hands-on franchise owner. He’d made it a practice to visit each of his restaurants every week. None of the managers knew the day or time when he would show up, forcing them to make certain everything passed Frank’s white-glove test.

“I decided to stick close to home this week.”

Mavis cut her eyes at her husband. “That’s because I told him it’s time he stop traipsing up and down the road so much. His restaurants are not going to fall apart if he’s not there every week.”

Patting his wife’s hand, Frank gave her a sidelong glance. “You know you want me home because you think I’m cheating on you.”

“Daddy!”

“Francis!”

Francine and Dinah had spoken at the same time. “Now, you know Mama doesn’t have a jealous bone in her body,” Francine said, while glaring at her father.

Mavis sucked her teeth loudly. “If you didn’t cheat on me when you played pro ball, you’re not going to cheat now—old man.”

Francine knew her parents had lived in separate states when he played for the Steelers. Mavis stayed with her in-laws in Charleston during the football season, and then moved back to the Cove with her husband once it ended. Unlike some of his teammates, Frank rented a furnished apartment in Pittsburgh instead of buying a house, mailed his paychecks home, and called his wife every night.

She picked up a plate and walked over to the chafing dishes, lifting the covers to find silver dollar buckwheat pancakes, slices of crisp bacon, sausage links, home fries, and scrambled eggs. Picking up a pair of tongs, she placed two pancakes, a slice of bacon, and a sausage link on the plate. Returning to the table, she sat down next to her grandmother.

Mavis stared at her plate. “Do you want me to cook a couple of eggs for you?”

Francine shook her head. “No thank you.” She preferred her eggs prepared over easy to scrambled.

“If you learned to cook, then you could make your own eggs,” Frank mumbled under his breath.

Her hand halted pouring juice into the glass at her place setting. “I’m going to take cooking lessons.”

“From whom?” Dinah questioned, staring at her granddaughter over her glasses.

“Keaton has promised to teach me.”

“Who’s Keaton?” the other two at the table asked in unison.

Francine didn’t know whether she’d spoken too soon, but now that his name was out she knew she had to explain his existence. “He’s the man I went out with last night. He comes from a family of chefs, so when I told him I didn’t know how to cook he offered to teach me. In my kitchen, of course,” she added, staring directly at her grandmother.

Dinah affected a smug expression. “I guess that means your date went well.”

Francine rolled her eyes upward. “It wasn’t a date, Grandma Dinah.” Her gaze swept around the table as she took a sip of freshly squeezed orange juice. She knew her mother would never question her about Keaton, but her father wasn’t as easygoing as his wife when it came to protecting his daughter’s emotional stability. And knowing this, Francine never told her father that Aiden had used her financially to advance his career. That had remained her and Morgan’s secret. In between bites of food she told her family about what had transpired between her and Keaton.

“So, he plans on setting up a movie studio here in the Cove?” Mavis asked.

“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Frank said before Francine could answer her mother’s question. “Think of the revenue it would bring to the island. He could hire locals as extras, pay shopkeepers to use their stores and other folks who are willing to open their homes for interior shots. Moviemaking isn’t just Hollywood anymore. It’s Vancouver, Chicago, New York City, and Pittsburgh. And now it can be Cavanaugh Island.”

Francine raised her glass in a toast to her father. “Spoken like the businessman that you are.”

Mavis dropped an arm over Frank’s shoulders. “I never thought of it in that way. I keep thinking that folks don’t want their laid-back lifestyle disrupted by having movie people hanging out here.”

Suddenly Francine felt the need to defend Keaton. “Independent films are very different from the big budget blockbusters produced by major studios. They don’t take as long to shoot because funding is limited and they’re always concerned with running out of money.”

“How long is not long?” Dinah questioned.

“Many times they can be completed in under a month. And because their budgets are minuscule when compared to the big box office films, the producer will hire unknowns, or if the script is good enough they’ll be able to entice an A-list actor to work for scale.”

Mavis traced the design on the handle of her fork. “What’s your involvement in all of this?”

Francine knew her mother was concerned with her leaving the Beauty Box. “I promised Keaton I would introduce him to some folks so he can research the Gullah culture for a script he wants to write. I told him I have no intention of resuming my acting career.”

“Is he okay with that?” Mavis asked.

“I didn’t give him a choice, Mama.”

Mavis glanced up at her daughter. “Did you tell him that because you believe I can’t run the salon by myself?”

“Please stop being melodramatic, Mama,” she chided. “I love doing hair and you know it. Where else can I work and be entertained by a shop full of comedians every day?”

“You ain’t lying,” Mavis drawled, smiling.

Francine stood up, stacking dishes. “Speaking of doing hair. It’s time I head over to the salon. Mrs. Harris is coming in at eight thirty, because she has to be at the airport at eleven.”

Frank waved to her. “Put those dishes down, Frannie. I’ll take care of them.” He kissed Mavis’s twisted hair. “You girls go to work. Mama and I have to decide what kind of trouble we’re going to get into today.”

Francine clapped a hand over her mouth. “I forgot to tell you that I invited Keaton to come here for Sunday dinner.”

Frank squinted at her. “Are you cooking?”

“Very funny, Daddy.”

“I’ll cook,” Dinah volunteered, “but you’re going to have to eat upstairs. I don’t know why I have a dining room if I never use it.”

Mavis smiled. “Should I bring anything, Grandma Dinah?”

“You can make dessert.”

“And there’s something else I should tell you, Daddy. Keaton is a serious Steelers fan. He says his father used to go to see you play. I told him you still have a few jerseys from back in the day. Could you please autograph one for his father?”

“Sure. What’s his father’s name?”

She winced. “I didn’t ask him. But his last name is Grace.”

Frank’s expression changed, becoming one of confusion. “Why does that name sound so familiar?”

“Keaton’s father owns and runs a restaurant in Pittsburg called Sadie Grace.”

“Oh she-e-e-at,” Frank drawled. “I know exactly who he is! His name is Scott, but everyone called him Scotty.” He wasn’t able to hide the excitement in his voice. “I used to go to Sadie’s at least three times a week. Most of the team would go there and order everything on the menu. We’d call Scotty in advance to let him know we were coming, and he’d shut down the place, with the ruse that he was hosting a private party. Our rationale was that we had to maintain our weight, but in reality it was because they served the best fried chicken, mac and cheese, collard greens, and peach cobbler this side of the Mississippi. I’d go back to my apartment, too full to move, fall across the bed, and sleep like a newborn.”

Mavis shook her head. “That’s why you came home after the season looking like a blimp.”

“Don’t hate, honey. I may have been a little round, but I did come home one of those seasons with a Super Bowl ring.”

“Mama said you were fat,” Francine chimed in, winking at her father. She’d been born the year her father retired.

Frank rose to his feet. “Your mama sometimes tends to stretch the truth.”

“You were fat,” Dinah said, deadpan.

He patted his flat belly. “That was then, and this is now. Just last night Mavis told me I was the sexiest man alive.”

Francine covered her ears with her hands. “That’s a little too much information for the breakfast table.” She wondered if she were married would she and her husband still make love at sixty. She lowered her hands. “Come on, Mama, let’s get outta here.”

“You’re going to have to forgive your father,” Mavis whispered as she and Francine left the kitchen. “There are times when he’s a little bit too frisky and loose with the tongue.”

Looping her arm through Mavis’s, Francine pulled her closer. “I think it’s wonderful that you and Daddy still make love after forty years of marriage.”

“What about you, Francine? You know I worry about you being alone so much. I thought when David Sullivan asked you to go to the Island Fair with him the two of you would hit it off.”

“David’s not my type, Mama. He’s too buttoned up. I think intense would be a good word to describe him.”

“Maybe it’s because he’s a lawyer.”

“Mama, please. I know lawyers who know how to have fun without being so serious.”

“You’re probably the one who can change him.”

Francine stopped at the foot of one of the staircases leading to the second floor. “I don’t want to change anyone, because that’s not who they are, no more than I’d want someone to change who I am. What you see is what you get. Either they take it, or they can leave it.”

“I know it didn’t work out between you and Aiden, but you can’t let him stop you from finding love again.”

Closing her eyes for several seconds, she blew out her cheeks. “I’m not like some women, who join online dating websites or troll clubs looking for a man. When the time is right someone will come into my life because he’s supposed to be there.” She hugged her mother, seeing the unshed moisture shimmering in her eyes. She knew Mavis worried about her because she was an only child and if she and Frank passed away she would be left alone.

“If I’m not married by the time I turn thirty-five I’m going to start the process of adopting a child.”

Blinking back tears, Mavis nodded. “That sounds doable.”

“Your car or mine?”

“Mine, of course,” Mavis said. “I’m too old to try and sit that low in your car. Not with my bad back.”

“I have to get my tote, then I’ll meet you outside.”

Mavis was sitting behind the wheel of the Lexus SUV that was a fortieth wedding anniversary gift from Frank when Francine slipped onto the passenger seat next to her. The drive from Magnolia Drive to the parking lot behind Moss Alley was accomplished in exactly seven minutes. It was a crisp January morning that called for a wool jacket or lightweight coat. The sun was bright, but the breeze coming off the water made it chilly.

The lock proved resistant as Francine jiggled it vigorously. “Mama, you’re going to have to replace the entire lock,” she said in exasperation. After a few more jiggles, it opened. She watched as Mavis reached into her tote for her cell phone, then scrolled through the directory and tapped the number for the local locksmith. Her mother left a message on his voice mail to come and replace the lock.

The two women went through the motions of turning on lights and readying the salon for business. Francine checked the voice mail, while Mavis put up a pot of coffee for the staff. The smell of brewing coffee filled the employee lounge when Mabel Kelly tapped on the front door. She had brought a tray of muffins and sweet breads from the Muffin Corner. One by one the staff arrived, hanging out in the lounge, eating and drinking, until Mavis informed them the first customer had arrived.

The morning passed quickly for Francine. She had two scheduled men’s haircuts, one shave, and one walk-in for a haircut. She had retreated to the lounge to sit and wait for her next customer when her cell phone vibrated in the pocket of her smock.

She stared, reading the text message from Morgan: Kara had a boy—7 lbs. 7 oz.—21 inches. Mom and baby doing well. She says the baby looks like Jeff, who is over the moon . Francine pumped her fist. She and Morgan had debated when to hold the baby shower, and it was better they’d decided sooner rather than later. She decided to wait at least a week before visiting Kara to catch a glimpse of the newest Cavanaugh Island resident.

A rush of emotion overwhelmed Francine at the same time tears pricked the back of her eyelids. All of her girlfriends were in motherhood mode, while she was left wishing for something that was just out of her grasp. Pity quickly became anger once she realized she’d let someone else define who she was. It had been eight years since Aiden had spoken those hateful words and like a fool she’d believed him. She shook her head. No more feeling sorry for herself. She was worthy of being loved and maybe it took going out with Keaton to make her realize she could enjoy a man’s company as much as he enjoyed hers.

It was Thursday, the salon’s late night, when Francine lay on a recliner watching the local news. Her six o’clock was running late. Her cell vibrated. Picking it up, she glanced at the display. “Hello.”

“Francine, this is Keaton. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

She smiled. “Your timing is impeccable. I’m taking a break.”

“If that’s the case, then I’ll make this quick. I picked up several books from the bookstore. Mrs. Monroe said if they’re not what I need, then I should bring them back. I’m developing a character and I’m stymied because she’s into casting spells using roots, candles, and oils. I need clarification on a few things.”

“Mark the pages that need clarification and drop the book off for me at my apartment. I’ll look them over later on tonight,” she said.

“How much longer will you be there?”

Francine estimated how long it would take for her to complete a cut and blowout. “Until about eight thirty.”

“Thanks, doll. Then I’ll see you around nine.”

“I’ll leave the side door unlocked. My apartment is at the top of the stairs on the right.”

She ended the call, staring at the phone. Francine realized the more involved she became with Keaton the more she would be pulled back into the theater. For her, theater wasn’t just about performing onstage or in front of a camera. It went beyond that. It was researching and developing, and breathing life into the character, working closely with the director to interpret the playwright’s or screenwriter’s script. Keaton wrote, directed, and produced his own films, which probably made him his own harshest critic.

Francine still hadn’t figured out whether it was coincidence or predestination that their paths would cross. She understood his rationale for putting down roots on Cavanaugh Island and she was no longer bothered by the fact he’d recognized her when she hadn’t known who he was. However, she was still attempting to process the connection between their fathers. Even with her psychic ability she would’ve never predicted her father would be on a first name basis with Keaton’s father.

She’d attempted to concentrate on Keaton when she lay in bed at night, waiting for a vision that would reveal why their paths had crossed. But it was as if a dark shade had been pulled down, not permitting her to see her future and his future. She’d always found it eerie that she could see what was going to happen in someone else’s life, but never her own.

Brooke stuck her head in the doorway. “Francine, your six o’clock is here.”

She smiled at the shampoo girl. “Thanks.” Pushing off the recliner, she returned to the salon floor to take care of her last customer for the day.

Keaton parked his truck only a few feet from the door leading to Francine’s apartment. Most of the windows in the house were dark and there were no cars parked along the driveway. It was still early by L.A. and New York City standards, but here on Cavanaugh Island everything seemed to go into sleep mode with the setting sun. Even the boarders at the Cove Inn who usually gathered in the parlor after dinner to chat over cordials retreated to their respective rooms and suites sometime between eight thirty and nine.

After living in three cosmopolitan cities, and now in Sanctuary Cove, Keaton realized he’d never fit well with the large, bustling metropolises. He’d come to welcome the slower pace, with no one seeming anxious or stressed to get where they needed to go. Francine had warned him of driving too fast and each time he got behind the wheel he made certain not to exceed the island’s unofficial speed limit.

Reaching for the shopping bags on the passenger seat, he got out and walked to the door. As promised, she’d left it unlocked. Setting down the bags, he took off his running shoes, leaving them on the mat next to a smaller pair. His sock-covered feet were silent as he climbed the carpeted staircase. Light spilled out into the hallway from the open doorway to Francine’s apartment. The odor of burning wood wafted to his nose and when he walked into the living room he saw the source of the scent. A fire flickered behind the decorative screen from the fireplace built into a wall made entirely of brick. Recessed lights reflected off the gleaming black concert piano set on the exquisite herringbone-patterned parquet floor.

His gaze swept over the furnishings in the living/dining area. Constructed without walls, the space gave the appearance it was larger than it actually was. Either Francine had a gift for decorating or she’d commissioned a professional to furnish her apartment. The sofa, chairs, tables, and fabrics were all in keeping with the warmer, semitropical Lowcountry climate. She’d used a light palette on the seat cushions with splashes of green, royal blue, and bright yellow in throw pillows. An off-white cushioned window seat stamped with palmetto leaves spanning a quartet of tall windows beckoned one to come and sit a while.

He hadn’t taken more than a half-dozen steps when she came into his line of vision. His reaction to seeing her damp hair framing her scrubbed, lightly freckled face and the white tank top molded to her firm breasts was like a punch to the gut. Bare feet with toes painted a deep rose-pink peeked out from under the hem of a pair of light blue cotton lounging pants. He marveled that she could appear so innocent and yet wanton at the same time. His gaze followed hers; she was staring at his feet.

“You didn’t have to take your shoes off.”

He lifted his shoulders. “I saw yours on the mat.” Keaton handed Francine the shopping bags.

“I wear those whenever I go biking. I leave them downstairs because I don’t want to track mud on the staircase. Come on back to the kitchen with me.”

He followed her through the living/dining room and into an eat-in kitchen. “The book is in the small bag and the larger one has a little something for you.”

She smiled at him over a bare shoulder. “You didn’t have to bring anything for me.”

“Yes, I did. I was raised never to come to someone’s house empty-handed. By the way, your place is beautiful.”

“Thank you. However, I can’t take credit for decorating it. My best friend, Morgan, is responsible for everything you see.”

“Is he local? I’m asking because I’m going to need a decorator once my home is ready.” Keaton had stopped by the construction site earlier that morning. All of the spaces were framed and Sheetrock had been installed in three of the proposed four bedrooms. The head of the construction crew reported if they stayed on schedule, Keaton could expect to take up residence by the middle of March.

“Morgan Dane is a she and the Cove’s architect. You’ve probably passed her shop. It’s Dane and Daniels Architecture and Interior Design. Abram Daniels is her interior decorator.”

“I have,” he confirmed. He remembered peering through the plate-glass window of the design firm. “When I contact her should I say you referred me?”

“A little name-dropping can’t hurt. Please sit down.” Francine pointed to one of the stools at the cooking island.

Keaton glanced around the stark-white kitchen with black appliances. The space was spotless. “I could do some real serious cooking in here.”

She set the bags down on the black granite countertop. “Well, you’ll get your wish once we begin my lessons.”

“Do you have a cleaning service?”

“I don’t cook, but I can clean and do my own laundry.”

He watched as she emptied the bag with a bottle of wine and the cellophane-wrapped bouquet of flowers. Her lips parted slightly as their eyes met. “Thank you. I’ll save the wine for my first completed dinner.” She gave him a hopeful expression. “Please don’t start me off with a recipe that requires more than seven ingredients.”

“I was thinking about linguine with clam sauce.”

“Red or white?” Francine asked.

“Whatever you prefer.”

“I’m kind of partial to white. The first time I ate it was in a tiny restaurant in New York City’s Little Italy and I couldn’t stop raving about it.”

Keaton angled his head, smiling. “I also prefer white. You’ll have to put together a side salad, plus make your salad dressing.”

“That sounds complicated, Keaton.”

“What does?”

“Making my own dressing. Why can’t I use store-bought?”

Propping his arms on the countertop, Keaton wondered why Francine had chosen not to learn to cook for herself, especially since her mother and grandmother could. Most girls he’d grown up with were at least able to cook pasta, even if the sauce came from a jar they’d bought at the supermarket. There were simple dishes she could put together that required one pot. Chili, pot roast with vegetables, and baked chicken called for very few ingredients and didn’t require close monitoring.

“Store-bought dressings are loaded with calories and preservatives. To make it from scratch you’ll need oil, vinegar, herbs, and spices.”

She looked at him from under her lashes. “Are you going to be one of those chefs who scream when the student makes a mistake?”

“First of all, I’m not a chef. And second, I don’t yell. Not even on the set.”

“So I’m dealing with Mr. Laid-back?” she said teasingly.

Keaton laughed under his breath. He wasn’t as laid-back as he was controlled. He’d always felt yelling and screaming at someone, especially if he was in charge, was a sign of insecurity. There was never a reason or need for intimidation. He’d always believed he could catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

“The only thing I’m going to say is I’ll never raise my voice to you.”

Francine cradled the bouquet to her chest, inhaling their fragrance. “These peonies are gorgeous. Excuse me while I put them in water.”

She opened a cabinet under the countertop, retrieving a faceted cut crystal vase. Filling it with water from one of the twin sinks, Francine methodically arranged the flowers with the greens and baby’s breath. Standing back, she admired her handiwork, then set the vase on the table with seating for four positioned near a window.

“Was this apartment here when your parents moved in?” Keaton asked Francine when she returned to the cooking island and sat down opposite him.

“No. When they bought this place it was so rundown Daddy claims it should’ve been demolished by a wrecking ball.”

“What happened?”

“After talking to the architect he realized its historical significance and decided it would be better to renovate it.”

“How long did it take?”

“Almost two years. My parents were high school sweethearts. They eloped a day after graduating, much to the disapproval of my maternal grandparents. My mother is the youngest of four. She came along when her mother was close to fifty. What Grandma Emmajean believed was menopause had become a change-of-life baby. With her older siblings already out of the house and married with their own families, Mama was left to care for her elderly parents.

“She compromised and instead of going away to college she went locally, while Daddy enrolled in Notre Dame on a full athletic and academic scholarship. The year Daddy was drafted by the Steelers my mother’s father passed away. Grandma Emmajean followed a year later. Folks claimed she died of a broken heart. My parents lived apart whenever my father played ball. Once Mama discovered she was pregnant, she stayed with her in-laws in Charleston, but only during football season.”

Keaton listened intently when Francine told him how her parents lived in the house where her mother had been raised until their new home in the Magnolias was refurbished. The grand house had belonged to several generations of cotton brokers who lost their fortune following the 1929 market crash. Subsequent owners made repairs but none had the resources to restore the house to its original grandeur.

Frank had invested his football earnings in a fast-food franchise. Two years later he purchased a second, eventually becoming the owner of five. The year she celebrated her thirteenth birthday Frank gave Francine a gift usually reserved for adults—her own living quarters. The walls in adjoining bedrooms on the second floor were removed to create a two-bedroom apartment.

“Weren’t you rather young to have your own place?” he asked.

“Not really,” she said, smiling. “Remember, I was still living under my parents’ roof. It was their way of forcing me to become independent. I had to keep it clean and I wasn’t allowed to have boys over, even with my parents in the house. The second bedroom was for my girlfriends whenever I had a sleepover. When the kids at school found out I had my own apartment my life became a living hell.”

“Haters?” he asked.

Francine nodded. “And then some. It was bad enough they made fun of my red hair and freckles, but knowing I had an apartment took the rag off the bush.”

Throwing back his head, Keaton laughed. “I haven’t heard that phrase in years.” He sobered quickly. “Did you have a lot of sleepovers?”

“Yes, but only with Morgan. We were high school outsiders.”

He leaned over the countertop. “But look at you and Morgan now. Both of you are successful businesswomen.” Keaton wanted to remind Francine that if she hadn’t given up acting she probably would’ve become an award-winning stage or screen actress. She was just that good.

A hint of a smile parted Francine’s lips. “I guess you can say the local gals have done all right for themselves.”

“The local gal I’m looking at is more than all right.” A flush of color suffused her face and Keaton knew Francine was uncomfortable with the compliment. He’d believed she would be more secure since she used to perform in front of live audiences.

She blinked. “You’re flirting with me.”

He smiled. “Guilty as charged. Does it surprise you that I am?”

“I don’t know.”

“What don’t you know?” he asked.

Francine averted her gaze, staring over Keaton’s shoulder. He was a very attractive man. Whether wearing a tailored suit or a sweater and jeans he exuded a masculine sensuality that was almost palpable.

“I was always shy when it came to boys because I was often the brunt of their immature jokes. Not only did they make fun of my hair and freckles, it was also my height and weight. They called me Little Orphan Annie, Carrot Top, and Bean Pole. One boy came up to me and asked why I had fly shit on my face. When I told him they were freckles, he laughed, saying that’s what his mother called freckles. People talk about bullying as if it’s something new. There have always been bullies, but nowadays it appears more pervasive because kids are using cyberspace to spew their venom.” She paused. “It was worse for Morgan and me because we didn’t have brothers to protect us.”

“Why didn’t you tell your father?”

Francine gave Keaton a look that spoke volumes. “So he’d end up serving time for killing some kid? My father is extremely overprotective when it comes to me. It wasn’t easy, but I managed to survive. I joined the drama club and while onstage I didn’t have to be Francine Dinah Tanner, but Maggie from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof or Stella in A Streetcar Named Desire. Once I realized I’d been bitten by the acting bug I asked my mother if I could take acting lessons. Four days a week she drove me to Charleston to study with a woman who ran a theater company until I was old enough to get a driver’s license. I learned to play the piano, sing, dance, and perform in musical theater numbers.

“After enrolling at a local college, accelerating and graduating in three years instead of four, I applied to the Yale School of Drama. I celebrated for days after I received my acceptance letter. Those were the best three years of my life, and with a graduate degree in fine arts to my credit I headed straight for New York City.”

“Were you the quintessential struggling actress waiting for her big break?” Keaton questioned.

Francine shook her head. “Quite the contrary. My father sent me a check every month to cover the rent on my Upper West Side apartment and all ancillary expenses. Not having to worry where my next dollar was coming from left me better prepared for auditions. I attended an open casting call for Sisters and was lucky enough to be called back twice. The third time was the charm.” She flashed a wry smile. “Even though I got rave reviews I became a one-hit wonder. Once the play closed I couldn’t get another role. I did a few commercials, because redheads are usually given priority status. After a while I gave up and moved back here.” She couldn’t tell Keaton that her so-called fairy-tale marriage had ended and as Aiden’s star rose hers had fallen.

“So you became a hairstylist.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Why a stylist?”

“Why not? I love doing hair. And working alongside my mother is a plus. She may run the Beauty Box like a marine drill sergeant but the system she’s set up works. Even after she retires I don’t plan to change anything.”

“Do you like styling hair as much as you did acting?”

“Better.” Instead of interacting with a live audience she interacted with her customers, who were also people she’d known all her life. “Do you have a nut allergy?” she asked, deftly changing the subject.

He sat up straight. “No. Why?”

Slipping off the stool Francine walked over to the kitchen table, picking up an airtight container. “My mother made an assortment of tartlets for dessert I’d like to share with you.” She placed three tartlets, one of each variety, on a plate and set it down in front of Keaton. Mavis had added strawberry cheesecake and caramelized lemon to her traditional pecan tartlets. “Would you like coffee?”

“Yes, please. I’ll brew it,” he volunteered, getting to his feet.

Keaton brewed two cups of coffee from the single cup coffeemaker, while Francine set out a tiny cup of cream and sugar along with napkins and spoons. “Do you ever eat in front of the fire?”

She went still. “No. But I do picnic on the beach in front of a fire. Does that count?”

“Nah.” Carrying the coffee mugs, he walked out of the kitchen, leaving her to follow.

Francine felt an emotion she hadn’t experienced in a while. It was a nervous excitement because Keaton was the first man she’d invited to her apartment. Although being around him elicited a feeling of being slightly breathless, he still made her feel very safe. Maybe it had something to do with his laid-back personality.

Instinct told her she had nothing to fear from Keaton; however, she wasn’t as certain about herself, because she feared liking him too much.