Chapter Eight
Keaton pounded his fist on the steering wheel after he pulled into an empty parking space behind the Cove Inn. If he hadn’t left Francine’s apartment he definitely would have embarrassed himself. The first time he saw her he was like a tongue-tied, starstruck adolescent meeting his favorite celebrity. He’d feared looking away because he didn’t want to miss a gesture or word of dialogue whenever she was onstage. Only after seeing her performance again did he acknowledge that he was obsessed with Francine Tanner.
The obsession persisted when he wrote the script with the intention of casting her in the lead. It waned only when her agent reported she’d quit the business. But now it was back and this time, stronger than before. His dilemma was learning to make a clear distinction between the former actress and the hairstylist.
Keaton placed a USB voice/audio disk recorder between himself and Hannah Forsyth. He had wanted to laugh when a clerk escorted him into the woman’s office. It was apparent the librarian was stuck in another era, with her oversize red-framed glasses, teased champagne-pink hair, and blood-red lipstick. “I hope you don’t mind if I tape our conversation, Mrs. Forsyth.”
She waved a hand with nail polish that was an exact match for her lipstick. “Of course not. Red told me you needed an overview of the history of Cavanaugh Island.”
There it was again, Keaton thought. Even as an adult Francine couldn’t escape her childhood nickname. “Francine did tell me that you’re the go-to person for historical information.” He’d stressed the name. Others may think of her as Red, but for him, the name had begun as an insult and he wouldn’t use it. Besides, the name Francine was just as beautiful as the person.
Hannah blinked slowly behind the large lenses before she smiled at him. “You can call me Miss Hannah, son.” Her green eyes were the same color as Francine’s.
Keaton returned her smile. “Miss Hannah it is.”
She laced her fingers together. “Now tell me, Keaton, why is it you want to know about Cavanaugh Island?”
He watched the older woman’s expression change from indifference to one that mirrored complete surprise when he told her he’d moved to Cavanaugh Island to live and to set up a movie studio on the old Webber property. “I plan for my first movie to be released under Grace Lowcountry Productions to be filmed here on the island, preferably using the locals as extras. I plan to employ young people wishing to break into the industry. They would be hired as interns to work in every phase of moviemaking.”
Hannah patted her lacquered coif. “Is Mayor Spencer White aware that you plan to build a movie studio here in the Cove?”
“Let me warn you, young man, that you’re probably going to get a lot of flak from the mayor because he wants to know about everything going on his town.”
His town. The two words resonated with Keaton as he successfully hid his annoyance behind a polite smile. If the mayor was elected, then the town didn’t belong to him but its citizens. “I had my attorney research all the statutes on the island, and there is nothing that precludes me from setting up a business enterprise here in the Cove.”
Drawn-on reddish-pink eyebrows lifted. “It appears as if you’ve done your homework,” Hannah said. There was a hint of pride in her voice.
“I never go into anything unless I research it thoroughly. That’s why I’ve come to you, Miss Hannah. I’ve been told that you are an icon where Lowcountry history is concerned.” Keaton gave her his winning smile, watching as a rush of color darkened her pale face with the compliment.
He didn’t doubt she was knowledgeable about the island’s history, but it was probably the griots, the oral storytellers, who would tell him things that would never appear in books. Just like the skill of weaving sweetgrass was passed down through generations, it would be the same with stories relevant to the Gullah culture. The history of the island was important to Keaton to capture the feel of the locale, but it was the culture of the people that would move the plot forward.
Lacing her fingers together on the conference table in her office, Hannah gave Keaton a lingering stare. “How much time do you have?”
He smiled. “I have as much time as you’re willing to allot me.”
She pointed to the USB device. “You can turn on that little gadget whenever you’re ready.”
Keaton pressed a button, waiting for the blinking red light to turn blue. “I’m ready.”
“I don’t think I have to tell you about the horrific institution of slavery that was once so pervasive in the South, and that slave labor, cotton, rice, and indigo made immoral men wealthy beyond their wildest dreams. Slaves in the Sea Islands differed from those on the mainland because of their isolation. If they’d lived on the mainland they would have been forced to give up their language, religion, and African customs. They weren’t flaunted here, but they weren’t eradicated completely because plantation owners didn’t live here year-round. Many of them had summer homes in town to escape the swamp fevers brought on by mosquitoes.”
“Are you saying the slaves were left unsupervised during this time?”
“They should’ve been so lucky. The owners had overseers to look after their interests. Overseers were just that. They were hired to make certain everything ran efficiently. Most of them were crueler than the owners. Contrary to what many believe, there were a number of slave revolts throughout the South. History tends to concentrate on Nat Turner, but there were thousands of Nat Turners who preferred death to captivity. Only they weren’t on the same scale or the incidents never made it into the history books. It’s been documented that there were approximately sixty thousand escapees. The next time you go to Charleston, take notice of the wrought-iron fences surrounding some of the larger homes. Many of them rise six to eight feet above the street and end with sharp spikes. This was to keep blacks from scaling the walls, while giving the homeowners time to arm themselves. An interesting fact about Charleston is that free men of color didn’t live in segregated neighborhoods but alongside their white counterparts.”
“Why is Cavanaugh Island divided by towns rather than sections or neighborhoods?” Keaton asked.
“It all goes back to history. Thomas Cavanaugh, a disgraced nobleman who was a distant cousin of a British king, was given a land grant to set up a colony in the Americas. It was apparent he hadn’t mended his ways because he got involved in piracy, using this island as home base after plundering British merchant ships moored off the coast. He was caught and impressed into the British navy, forcing him to surrender the land grant. Others came seeking their fortune and were awarded grants because of their loyal service to the crown. The island was divided into three sections—the largest one going to Shipley Patton. He purchased slaves who knew how to drain swamps and divert water for irrigation before he set up a rice plantation. He was already growing cotton on the mainland, but decided Carolina gold, Sea Island cotton, and indigo were much more profitable crops.”
Keaton was aware that rice in the Lowcountry was referred to as Carolina gold. “Is there a difference between mainland and Sea Island cotton?”
Hannah smiled. “There’s a big difference. Sea Island cotton is Egyptian cotton.”
“Which makes it higher quality and more expensive than regular cotton.”
“Without a doubt. Patton was an anomaly in his day because all of his skilled laborers were free blacks. He built a grand house and owned the largest plantation, which he called Angels Landing. He learned early on that a freeman was a better worker than one in bondage. They weren’t beaten and were paid for their labor. If you want to know the intimate details of the Pattons, then you should speak to the griots. I deal only with what’s written, while they have an oral history passed down from great-grandmothers to daughters. What isn’t written is talk about Shipley’s second wife giving birth to a mixed-race boy she managed to pass off as her husband’s. The rumor was she was in love with one of the field slaves and both risked certain death if they were found together.”
Keaton was pleased the librarian had given him permission to tape her. The sordid story about a woman cuckolding her husband with a slave and making him raise the resulting child as his own made for an engaging plotline. “Tell me about Haven Creek.”
Hannah paused, sighing audibly. “It has a creek running through it, and it became a haven for former slaves who’d left plantations on the mainland after the Civil War, hence its name. It’s said the farms on the Creek fed the entire island. The farmers grew vegetables, planted fruit trees, and raised chickens, hogs, and milk cows. There aren’t as many farms now, but they still set up their fruit and vegetable stands a couple of days a week, starting in the spring and going throughout the fall harvest. Sanctuary Cove was exactly that. A sanctuary for runaways. There were sea captains who were covert abolitionists. They’d set up an underground railroad system wherein slaves would hide out in the swamps and marshes and wait for a signal when a ship was scheduled to sail north or to Europe with their holds filled with bales of cotton and rice. Again, you’ll have to talk to the griots about those who escaped and those who were found and punished for helping them.”
“How did life change here once the Civil War ended?”
“Many of the owners abandoned their plantations and those who’d worked the land for nothing claimed their share. They raised their children, attended church services, sent their children to colored schools, and were able to move around despite fear of reprisals. Some left, going north to find jobs or to escape Jim Crow laws, but the majority of them stayed. Over time a few of the old customs faded, yet many still remain. Although most of the young kids don’t speak Gullah they still understand what their grandmommas are saying. If you want I can give you some of the names of the griots who still live here.”
Keaton turned off the recorder. “Thank you for offering, but Francine has promised to introduce me to them.”
Hannah’s red lips parted. “Now, that’s a fine young woman.” She shook her head. “So much talent going to waste. When we read that she was performing off-Broadway we couldn’t stop talking about her. Then”—she snapped her fingers—“it was over and she came back. Folks had a lot to say as to why she came back. Some said she got hooked on drugs, while others claimed they heard she was seeing a married man and his wife threatened to ruin her career if she didn’t leave her husband alone.”
“What if she decided acting just wasn’t for her?” Keaton asked, defending Francine. He didn’t want to believe Francine had had a drug problem and he didn’t want to think of her having an affair with a married man. Based on what he knew of her, she didn’t fit into that category.
“No one works that hard to achieve success, then gives it up because she decides it’s not for her. You’re in the movie business. Do you know of any actors or actresses who’ve walked away from success?”
He knew quite a few off the top of his head, yet would not deign to discuss them with the chatty woman. “Is there anything else you feel I should know?” Hannah blinked slowly, reminding Keaton of a heavy-lidded owl behind her glasses.
“We do have an archive section here at the library. We have a collection of old journals, letters, and diaries from some of the older families that settled here. There are also copies of census records and bills of sale. If you want to see them, then I’ll have to contact the archival historian attached to the main library in Charleston. She’ll meet with you, answer your questions, and you’ll get to see the actual documents. We have a supply of white gloves you’ll have to wear when handling them. Let me know where I can reach you and when you’re available, and I’ll put in a call to her.”
Rising to his feet, Keaton took out the case with his business cards, handing one to Hannah. “I’m staying at the Cove Inn, but you can reach me at that number.”
Hannah stood up. “It’s been a pleasure talking to you.”
He inclined his head. “The pleasure has been mine. I’m going to hang out here to see if I can find a few books on the subject.”
“We have quite a few in our reference section, but you won’t be able to check them out. Have you tried the Parlor Bookstore? Deborah Monroe may also have some in stock.”
“I bought what she had.”
“The Cove was so lucky when Deborah moved here. She used to spend the summers in the Cove when her grandmother was alive. It was a crying shame when her husband drowned trying to save a kid who should have been in school when he went swimming. But she was blessed when she fell in love with a snowbird staying at the inn for the winter. He’d left to join Doctors Without Borders when he found out Deborah was pregnant with his baby. When he came back they got married. Having both of them living here is a plus for the island. We get to have a brick and mortar bookstore and a doctor who makes house calls.” Hannah made a clucking sound with her tongue and teeth. “Their little boy is such an adorable child. And oh so smart.”
Keaton knew it was time to take his leave or he would be subjected to an account of everyone living on the island. Plus, he wanted to talk to Francine about not warning him that the librarian was a gossip—something he abhorred. If the mayor hadn’t gotten wind that he planned to build a studio on the Cove he was certain the mayor would know about it before the sun went down.
Forcing a smile he didn’t feel, Keaton took a step backward. “Thank you again, Hannah.”
“You’ll let me know how you make out with the griots.”
“Of course.”
Keaton left the library, walking back to the Cove Inn. Hannah had given him only a glimpse into the history of the island. However, it was just enough to start his creative juices flowing.
It was a rare occasion that the Beauty Box didn’t open or close on time. However, this Saturday everything that could’ve gone wrong at the salon did. The receptionist had mistakenly booked this week’s customers for the following week, resulting in double bookings. It was five fifteen when Francine placed her last customer under the dryer, and she knew it would be impossible to go home, shower, and get dressed before Keaton arrived at seven.
Slipping into the employees’ bathroom, she pulled out her cell phone. “Grandma, I need you to do a favor for me,” she said when Dinah answered.
“What is it, baby?”
“I’m expecting Keaton to come over at seven, but I won’t make it home in time because I just put Cherrie Reynolds under the dryer. I’d like you to leave my door open for him.”
“Don’t trouble yourself none, Francine. I’ll make certain he’s comfortable.”
“Thanks, Grandma.” She called Keaton, leaving a voice mail message that she was running late and that her grandmother would leave the door open for him.
A wave of relief washed over her. She’d tried to convince the court stenographer to cut her near waist-length hair but to no avail. It would take more than an hour for her hair to dry completely, then another forty minutes for a blowout.
Francine used the time to sweep up hair, clean the mirrors, and sort the rollers at her station. One of the rules she’d instituted when she came to work at the Beauty Box was that every stylist was required to clean up her station before going home. She’d told her mother that she didn’t want to begin her day sweeping up after the staff.
Her head popped up when the front door opened. She smiled at Alice Parker. Alice, wife of Representative Jason Parker, had thrown her hat into the political ring when she announced her intent to oppose Spencer White in the upcoming local election. The natural blonde flashed her practiced winning smile. The mother of two school-age children looked every bit the politician in a navy-blue wool pantsuit, tailored white shirt, and leather pumps. The semiprecious and precious stones in her American flag lapel pin gave off sparks under the track lights. She was also wearing a campaign button—PARKER FOR PROGRESS superimposed over a palmetto tree—under the flag.
Alice and her husband were opponents of developers looking to buy tracts of land on the Sea Islands to build golf courses, overpriced hotels, and gated communities. Jason, whose roots on Cavanaugh Island could be traced back three hundred years, decided to move back after he married and had children. The Parkers wanted a place with a strong sense of values and history in which to raise their son and daughter. In that instant Francine realized Bernice Wagner had correctly likened Alice to a Barbie doll. The petite, blond, blue-eyed woman with tiny features did resemble a doll.
“Hi, Alice. What can I do for you?”
“I just opened my campaign office in a storefront off Beech Street, and I’d like to know if you would please put one of my campaign posters in your window.”
“Of course I will.”
Francine and her mother had decided they would support Alice’s candidacy for mayor. Alice’s political platform included a revitalization of the Cove’s downtown business district and community development grants for those living in homes deemed unsafe or not up to code, while the incumbent touted that he was going to let his past record speak for him.
“Thanks, Francine. I’ll have someone from my office bring over the posters and a few campaign buttons.”
“Please have him bring them before six. After that I’m going to lock the door.”
“He’s not in the office, so I’ll tell him to drop by Tuesday morning.”
Francine locked the door behind Alice. She was the only one left in the salon and had no intention of accepting a walk-in. She’d spent the day trying not to think about Keaton in an attempt to convince herself he was nothing more than a friend. But the erotic dream was a reminder she wanted him for something more than friendship. It’d been so long since she’d slept with a man.
She now was faced with the decision of should or shouldn’t she.
Since declaring their friendship when they first entered high school Francine and Morgan had promised never to keep secrets from each other. They were forthcoming when each lost her virginity, complaining the men weren’t worth their giving up their most precious gift. Even when Morgan left the States to study in Europe they continued their close friendship with letters and then e-mails. But her growing feelings for Keaton would remain her secret and hers alone, so she wouldn’t keep her promise to her friend. After her failed marriage, she wasn’t sure if her heart could take that kind of embarrassment again.
As soon as Keaton stepped off the last stair he saw the woman sitting on the chair beside the table outside Francine’s apartment. Light from wall sconces shimmered off her short hair.
“You must be Keaton Grace.”
He smiled. The woman had to be Francine’s grandmother. Their voices were similar, as were their eyes. She was the picture of elegance, with pearl and diamond studs in her pierced lobes, a matching strand around her neck, and a classic white blouse, black tailored slacks, and a pair of black leather wedge shoes.
“I am.”
The woman stood up, tilting her head to stare up at the tall man. “I’m Dinah Tanner, Francine’s grandmother. She asked me to open the door for you because she’s stuck at the salon.” She pointed to the shopping bags he held in each hand. “What do you have there?”
“I told Francine I would cook for her in a couple of days, so I decided to bring over some things and store them in her refrigerator.”
“You can put them in my refrigerator. She can get them later.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll wait in her place.”
Dinah narrowed her eyes over her half-glasses in a gesture that reminded him of Francine. “I do mind. Come on, son. I’m not going to bite you. I’m glad you’re going to cook for her. That child doesn’t eat enough to keep her strength up.”
“She starves herself?” he asked Dinah.
“She eats, but never three meals a day. If she eats breakfast, then she’ll skip lunch. And if I don’t force her to eat dinner she’ll skip that too. Now, please follow me.”
He had no choice but to follow, staring at her ramrod-straight back. Dinah wasn’t tall, but her slender figure made her appear taller. Light from strategically placed sconces glinted off silver hair with streaks of red.
He walked into the older woman’s apartment, taking in the foyer in one sweeping glance. Francine may resemble her grandmother physically, but their decorating styles were complete opposites. Francine favored a minimalist style while the opposite with the older woman’s American eclectic.
Tables were overflowing with decorative pots of flowering plants and vases of freshly cut flowers. Framed black-and-white photographs of landscapes, the world’s capital cities, and children dressed in their country’s native customs covered an entire wall.
Dinah led him through a living/dining area with furniture reflecting a vintage mix of romance, warmth, and charm. The grouping of a sofa, love seat, and a club chair, covered with checks and stripes and floral prints, surrounding a low oak table with a stack of books and a crystal bowl filled with tiny seashells evoked a homey feeling.
Keaton was still trying to decide in what style he wanted to decorate his new home. He definitely didn’t want the modern furnishings he had in L.A. He detested clutter but didn’t quite want minimalism. Maybe after talking to the interior decorator he would be able to combine the two.
“Your home is lovely.” Dinah stopped abruptly, almost causing him to bump into her if his reflexes had been slower.
“Thank you. Most of the things you see belonged to my mother and grandmother. I had the chairs reupholstered with fabric that was as close to the original as I could find.”
“They are beautiful pieces, Mrs. Tanner.”
She wagged a finger at him. “If you’re dating my granddaughter, then I want you to call me Miss Dinah.”
Keaton smothered a smile. It was obvious one person in Francine’s family approved of his dating her. Never had he been more honest than when he admitted to Francine that he liked her. It wasn’t just her body; it was her sense of humor, quiet Southern charm, and the palpable sexiness he felt whenever they shared the same space. She hadn’t lost her Southern drawl completely and every once in a while it would creep into her speech patterns. Kids may have teased her because of her curly red hair but he liked the curls because it made her look as if she’d just been made love to.
As soon as the image of his making love to Francine popped into his head Keaton banished it. That was a subject he didn’t want to dwell on because he’d told her sex was something he could get from any woman. What he wanted was to get closer to Francine, to get to know her better. Besides, the island was small and he couldn’t risk the chance of ruining his chances with Francine by sleeping around, even though it didn’t seem to bother some of the retirees living at the boardinghouse. On several occasions he’d spied a few sneaking in out of one another’s rooms. His reaction was either to smile or to pretend he didn’t see them. Keaton wasn’t one to judge someone’s actions—especially if it didn’t affect or impact his lifestyle. He’d lived in his gated L.A. suburban community for five years, and during that time had rejected the invitations of his neighbors to attend their pool parties and barbecues. He’d managed to escape the gossip so intrinsic in the entertainment industry by remaining semireclusive.
Keaton knew that was realistically impossible in the Cove or in any town on the island with a documented census of less than two thousand permanent residents. If he’d lingered at the library Hannah probably would’ve given him an account of everyone on Cavanaugh Island, including their birth dates. The fact that she didn’t know the reason Francine had given up her acting career was as puzzling to him as it was to others, and he’d begun to wonder if it had been more than disillusionment that made her walk away from the stage when her star was rising.
All thoughts of Francine and her aborted career vanished when he stood at the entrance to a kitchen any cook or chef, in particular, would covet. The ultramodern stainless steel kitchen reminded him of the one in Sadie Grace’s II. Granite countertops, a butcher-block preparation table, rich cherrywood cabinetry, gleaming copper-clad pots suspended from racks over the cooktop and grill—everything he’d need to prepare for a dinner party. The refrigerator and freezer were built into a wall. His gaze lingered on a commercial double wall oven before shifting to a microwave, preparation table, twin dishwashers, and utility sinks. Cleanliness must be a Tanner trait because there wasn’t a speck of dirt on the spotless stone terra-cotta floor.
“How often do you cook in here, Miss Dinah?”
When she smiled, a network of fine lines deepened around her eyes. “Every day. The only exception is when my daughter-in-law spells me.” She pointed to the shopping bags. “They look heavy. Rest them on the bench over there.”
Keaton set the recyclable bags on the wrought-iron bench and began emptying them. He removed plastic bags with sweet potatoes, lemons and limes, pears, fresh spinach, containers of fresh berries, romaine lettuce, fresh herbs, frozen green peas, Parmesan and blue cheese, bottles of extra-virgin olive oil and vinegar, bottles of club soda, and a small jar of honey. The local supermarket yielded a cornucopia of fresh fruits, vegetables, and herbs grown on the island. Taking off his jacket, he placed it over the back of the bench.
“What are you planning to make when you cook for her?” Dinah asked, watching as he stored everything on shelves and in drawers of the refrigerator/freezer.
“I figured we’d start with a pear, blue cheese, and pecan salad. Spinach pesto chicken breast with roasted sweet potato wedges and baby peas will be the entrée.”
“What are you drinking?”
“It will be a modified virgin mojito. Instead of rum I’m going to use fresh berries along with mint.”
Dinah smiled. “That sounds delicious.”
Keaton returned her smile. “It is. If you have a pitcher I’ll make up a batch so you can sample it.”
Dinah’s smile grew wider. “Would you mind if I help you? I hate sitting around doing nothing.”
Reaching into the bag, he took out a bibbed apron. “You can use this. I don’t want you to ruin your blouse.”
“I don’t need it,” she said. “I have my own supply.”
Smiling, he nodded. “You begin making the berry fizz by mashing them along with the mint leaves.”
Dinah emptied the berries and mint into a colander and rinsed them with a tractable nozzle. “Francine is very lucky.”
He gave her sidelong glance. “How’s that?”
“She told me you’re going to teach her to cook.”
“I did promise her.”
Dinah rested her hands at her waist over a ruffled apron decorated with red and green apples. “Do you know how long I’ve tried to get her to let me teach her to cook?”
Keaton shook his head. “How long?”
“Twenty years. Right after her parents set her up in her own apartment I told her if she was going to live quasi-independently, then she would have to learn to cook for herself. But she claimed she never had a reason to since her mother and I cooked for her. Then she went away to college, living and eating on campus. She was so frightfully thin when she moved back here from New York that I thought she was sick. It took about three to four months for her to put back on a fraction of the weight she’d lost. I knew she’d changed when she refused dessert. The only thing she’d eat was something she called s’mores.”
Keaton wanted to tell Dinah that perhaps Francine was just naturally slender. He estimated Dinah to be in her eighties and she was still slender herself. “I think she looks nice the way she is.”
He found nothing wrong with Francine’s body and despite her lean frame, she had curves. Her breasts weren’t overly large or small. They were in proportion to her body. And it was her long legs that seemed to go on forever that had garnered his rapt attention when he watched her strut out of Jack’s as if she were on a runway. Maybe others found fault in her, but for Keaton she was ideal.
Reaching for the pitcher, he walked over to the refrigerator and filled it with crushed ice from the door. He added a bottle of club soda; the bowl of mulled blueberries, blackberries, and raspberries; mint leaves; sugar; and lime juice to the pitcher and stirred it vigorously. He poured the icy concoction into a glass, handing it to Dinah.
“Let me know if it needs to be sweeter.”
She took a sip, a smile spreading across her delicate features. “It’s delicious. Light and refreshing. It’s the perfect summer beverage.”
Keaton poured some into his glass and sampled it. “It is nice.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re starting without me.”
He turned to find Francine standing at the entrance to the kitchen and his gaze moved lazily over her body. Fitted jeans revealed her long legs and narrow waist. He hadn’t heard her come in. Reaching for another glass, he half filled it with the berry fizz. “Come,” he said, extending the glass.
Francine walked into the kitchen, kissing her grandmother’s cool cheek, then pressed a kiss to Keaton’s clean-shaven jaw. She knew she’d shocked him with the open display of affection when she registered his intake of breath.
When Francine had parked her car next to Keaton’s, she’d expected to find him in her grandmother’s apartment, but she never would’ve guessed that he would be preparing food in her kitchen. Dinah had made it known the day she moved in that only she would cook in her kitchen. However, it appeared as if that declaration had been for naught, because Keaton appeared as at home in the space as her grandmother was.
She took the glass from Keaton, their fingers touching. A nervous smile trembled over her lips when she felt a slight shock from the contact. “Thank you.” The sweet-tart taste of berries, mint, and lime and the carbonation of the club soda were like a party in her mouth. “Wow! This is really nice.” She extended the glass. “May I have a refill please?”
Keaton complied. “Your grandmother has the recipe, so she can make it for you.”
Francine peered at him over the rim of the glass. “I think this is something I can make myself. It may take several tries, but I think I’ll be able to master it.”
Dinah peered over the lenses of her glasses at her granddaughter. “So, it’s like that?” she teased. “Now that you have a boyfriend who can cook you’re not going to need me to cook for you?”
She couldn’t stop the heat creeping up her chest to her face. If Keaton hadn’t been there she would’ve told her grandmother that Keaton wasn’t her boyfriend, but a friend. There was definitely a difference between the two. To her, a boyfriend meant something more personal, even intimate. She and Keaton weren’t going to make love, they were going to the movies.
“I’d love to stay and chat, but I need to shower and change.”
“Did you eat dinner?” Dinah asked.
“Yes, I did, Grandma.” Francine smiled sweetly. “I really have to go or Keaton and I will miss the beginning of the movie.”