Chapter Fourteen

When she opened the refrigerator and saw shelves with a large covered glass bowl of endive and arugula salad, a tray of deviled eggs, a cheese platter with an assortment of fruit, and a bowl of cooked shrimp with what appeared to be cocktail sauce Francine wondered what time Keaton had come over to begin cooking. There were also bottles of wine on a lower shelf: white and rosé. She closed the door, and then walked over to peer through the glass of the double oven. Keaton had chosen game hens.

“When did you start cooking?”

“I got here around three.”

Francine walked over to stand next to him. “You did all of this in a couple of hours?”

He gave her a smile parents usually reserve for their children. “It’s all in the preparation. I put up the eggs to boil right after soaking the greens in cold water. Then I seasoned the game hens, washed and dried the salad leaves, and made the cocktail sauce while the eggs were cooling. The shrimp I bought from the supermarket deli, so that eliminated shelling, deveining, and cooking them. I cut up the cheese just before you walked in.”

“It would probably take me all day just to make the appetizers.”

“I doubt that, sweetie. Are you up to making the berry fizz?”

Her expression brightened like a child on Christmas Day who’d gotten everything on her wish list. “Yes!”

Keaton took off his apron and put it over her blouse, adjusting the length and looping the ties twice around her waist. He’d become the instructor and she the student when she did exactly as he’d asked. She smiled.

Francine stirred the concoction in a large pitcher filled with crushed ice with a wooden spoon. She poured a small amount in a glass, extending it to Keaton. “Tell me if I passed or failed.” She watched his Adam’s apple as he swallowed the berry-infused carbonated beverage with a hint of mint. “Well, Keaton?”

His impassive expression changed when he gave her a thumbs-up. “Perfect.”

Buoyed by his compliment, Francine filled another glass and sampled her first attempt at making the chilled, refreshing drink. “You’re right. That is good.”

Keaton kissed her hair. “From now on you’ll be responsible for making the drinks.”

“Drink or drinks?”

“Drinks,” he insisted. “I’m going to teach you how to make a peach sangria and a Bellini. They’re a wonderful alternative to mimosas when serving brunch.”

Francine wanted to remind Keaton that she wasn’t much of a drinker, yet that wouldn’t preclude her from making the cocktail for those who did drink. The soft chiming of a bell echoed throughout the apartment. “That must be Morgan and Nate.”

She crossed the kitchen, making her way down the staircase to open the door for her friends. Morgan reminded her of a little girl with the leopard-print velvet headband holding her hair off her face. Nate stood behind his wife carrying a wooden crate filled with bottles of wine.

Francine and Morgan exchanged air kisses. “Come on up.” She pressed her cheek to Nate’s smooth one. “Welcome.”

“Thank you again for inviting us.”

Closing and locking the outer door, Francine waited for Morgan and Nate to climb the staircase, then followed close behind. Keaton met them in the entryway, taking the crate from Nate. Francine made the introductions, the two men exchanging handshakes and a rough embrace.

Keaton patted Nate’s shoulder. “Thanks for the wine.”

“You’re welcome.” A slight frown appeared between Nate’s light brown eyes. “Why does your name sound familiar to me?”

Morgan slipped out of her high-heel, leopard-print booties, leaving them on the mat outside the door. “Keaton’s a filmmaker.”

“That’s it!” Nate said excitedly. “I worked on a set for one of your films when I lived in L.A.”

Francine’s eyelids fluttered wildly. She couldn’t believe how many connections Keaton had on Cavanaugh Island. Morgan had told her about the twenty years Nate had spent living on the West Coast. He’d worked building homes for a developer and after the collapse of the housing market he was employed as a carpenter building movie sets.

Keaton, appearing as shocked as Francine, recovered quickly. “Wow. Talk about a small world.”

Francine looped her arm through Morgan’s, escorting her into the living room. “It keeps getting weirder,” she whispered as they sank down on a love seat.

“This place looks fantastic. You should entertain more often. And what do you mean by weirder?” Morgan asked, her gaze following her husband as he and Keaton entered the kitchen together.

“What are the odds of Keaton moving to a Sea Island where he recognizes me from an off-Broadway play? Then I find out my father used to eat at his father’s restaurant when he played for the Steelers. Now it’s Nate. Who or what’s next?”

“I don’t know, Francine. You’re the psychic. What do you see?”

“None of my visions are about Keaton. I can’t believe I’m sitting here running off at the mouth and you probably need something to eat.”

Morgan pressed a hand to her belly under a white poet blouse. “I’m always eating. What I’m trying to do is eat healthfully.”

“Wait here and I’ll bring you something to snack on until we sit down to eat.”

Francine couldn’t believe her first official dinner party was nothing short of perfection. Nate and Morgan raved about the appetizers and then dinner. Morgan ate slowly, savoring the mustard greens she’d been craving with fluffy cornmeal dumplings, red rice and sausage, and juicy, tender roasted hens. Keaton had added slivers of red onion, julienned carrots, grape tomatoes, and feta cheese to the endive and arugula, tossing them with a Greek-inspired vinaigrette. Morgan drank berry fizz, while Francine downed one glass of rosé.

Morgan dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Nate and I will have to decline your offer to spend a couple of days with you, because earlier today I got a call from the wife of one of my former professors at the Savannah College of Art and Design. He decided to retire and she’s hosting a surprise retirement/birthday party for him this coming weekend. Some of my classmates are meeting before the soiree, so Nate and I plan to drive up to Savannah tomorrow. I’m sorry to give you such short notice but—”

“Please don’t apologize, Mo,” Francine said. “There will be plenty of time for a grown folk sleepover before your addition is completed.”

Nate leaned back in his chair. He’d removed his jacket and tie and unbuttoned the top button on his white shirt. “Keaton and I have some catching up to do. We probably know some of the same people from when we lived in Cali.”

Keaton stared directly at Francine. “Some which I’d like to forget.”

“Same here, brother,” Nate drawled, extending his arm for a fist bump. “I know you told me about the renovations on the old Webber place. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go by and take a look at it.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Keaton angled his head. “I’d like that. Just let me know when and we’ll go together. What I’d really like to see is the Angels Landing restoration. I was floored when I saw the rendering at your wife’s office.”

Francine and Morgan exchanged a knowing look. It was apparent Keaton had found a buddy in Nate. She knew that since Nate’s return he’d spent most of his time filling furniture orders for Shaw & Sons Woodworking, Inc., and working with a crew to add the second story to the house Morgan had inherited from her grandfather.

Nate sat up straight. “Once it’s fully restored it will be a landmark masterpiece with the main house, gardens, and outbuildings.”

“I agree,” Morgan concurred. “Kara Hamilton is the sheriff’s wife. She owns the property and I’m certain she would be willing to let you use Angels Landing Plantation for a set if you decide to do a period piece. As an architectural historian I loved the fact that Roland Emmerich, the director of The Patriot, used Middleton Place in the film.”

Reaching for his wineglass, Keaton gave Francine a long, penetrating stare. “Francine has suggested I write a period piece.”

“That’s because my bestest friend is a history buff,” Morgan teased. “She eats, breathes, and lives for historical dramas. There were a few occasions when I wanted her to go somewhere with me but she turned me down because she didn’t want to miss her favorite cable program.”

“What about DVR?” Keaton asked.

Francine gave him her death stare. “I rarely tape a show.”

The topic of conversation segued from television and movies to the upcoming mayoral election, and finally sports. That’s when Francine stood up to clear the table, Morgan joining her as the two men launched into a debate, becoming sports analysts when discussing the recent Super Bowl. They didn’t seem to notice when she and Morgan retreated to the kitchen.

“I think my husband finally has someone to bond with,” Morgan whispered, as she scraped, rinsed, and stacked plates in the dishwasher.

Francine smiled. “All you have to do is mention sports and men who are complete strangers suddenly become best friends.”

“You like him, don’t you, Fran?”

“What’s not to like?”

“That’s not what I asked you. How well do you like him, Francine Dinah Tanner?”

She cut her eyes at Morgan. “There’s no need to blurt out my government name, Mrs. Shaw. I like him a lot.” Filling the sink with soap and hot water, Francine gently placed the crystal stemware into the soapy solution.

“Enough to give him some?”

“Morgan!”

“Stop blushing. Do you remember when you asked me the same question when I started going out with Nate?”

“Yes. When I asked you there was no one around to overhear us.” Francine walked over to the radio and raised the volume enough so Keaton and Nate wouldn’t be able to hear their conversation. She opened the refrigerator door for Morgan. “Yes. Enough to give him some.”

Morgan’s dimples deepened. “Good for you. It’s about time you got that monkey named Aiden off your back.”

Francine had to agree with her friend. Telling Keaton about her failed marriage was akin to sucking in a lungful of oxygen after being trapped in a room filled with noxious gas. She hadn’t realized she’d been waiting for a man like Keaton to come into her life until their first night on the beach. She felt as if she’d known him for years instead of days.

“I told Keaton about him without mentioning his name or that he’s an actor.”

Morgan hugged her. “Good for you. Keaton is the whole package. He has a good face, he’s not a player, and he cooks well enough to give any woman an orgasm.”

Francine laughed at Morgan’s assessment of Keaton. He was good for her. So good that she knew she was more than ready for the next chapter in her life. A shadow fell over her and her head popped up. “Yes, Keaton?”

He pointed to the sink. “I would’ve done that.”

“It’s all right. You cooked, so I don’t mind cleaning.”

Keaton clapped his hands. “Ladies, I want you out of my kitchen pronto.”

Francine and Morgan executed a snappy salute as if they’d rehearsed it. “Yes, sir,” Francine drawled.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Morgan added.

“Oh, that’s how you get women to obey you,” Nate drawled, as he strolled into the kitchen.”

“Obey!” Morgan and Francine chorused.

Keaton put up his hands. “I’m not touching that one.”

Morgan poked a finger into Nate’s ribs. “You’ll pay for that once I get you home.”

“Run, Nate! Run!” Keaton said, laughing loudly.

Nate gave Keaton a rough hug, pounding his back. “It’s been good, Grace. We have to do this again. Next time it’s at our place.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Nate extended his arms to Francine. “Red, thanks for inviting us.”

She walked into his embrace. “Anytime. I know you’re busy, but you know you and Mo don’t have to wait for an invitation. And thanks again for the wine.”

Francine and Keaton walked with the Shaws as they descended the stairs, waiting with arms around each other’s waists as they drove off. She leaned into his tall frame. “Thank you, Keaton.”

“For what?”

She smiled up at him. “For making tonight very, very special.”

“It doesn’t have to end now.”

“I don’t want it to end.”

His expression changed, becoming serious. “You know what this means, don’t you?” Francine nodded. “It’s got to be all or nothing. The choice is yours.”

Francine took a step, pressing her breasts to his chest, knowing she could no longer deny his touch, his kisses. “All.”

Keaton cradled her face. “I want you to go upstairs and pack an overnight bag.”

“Where are we going?”

“Do you trust me, Francine?”

“Yes, I do, but I’d like to know where you’re taking me. And don’t forget I have to work tomorrow.”

He kissed the bridge of her nose. “I know you have to work. Please, baby, go upstairs and pack. I’ll be back in less than half an hour to pick you up.”

Francine normally didn’t like surprises yet she’d told Keaton she trusted him. “Okay. I’ll be ready by the time you get back.”

Driving slowly toward the Cove Inn, Keaton knew what he’d planned for himself and Francine would impact their lives. It would become the opening act to a play yet to be written. It would be a one-act production with two characters and no intermission or closing act.

He didn’t view sleeping with Francine as a conquest or triumph. Quite the contrary. Keaton saw it as a connection with a woman who in the span of a very short time had gotten to know him better than any woman from his past. He knew it was impossible, yet he felt as if she could read his mind. She would say something and it was like activating sensors in his brain where images appeared and he felt compelled to jot down what he saw.

Keaton knew he had to rewire his brain to come up with a concept for a period piece because the essence of the Gullah culture was steeped in history—a history filled with pain and untold stories of survival against the greatest odds. He’d spent countless hours reading and researching Gullah history and culture online, eliciting scenes that would become a part of his script. His ability to write scripts that translated well to film came from a talent for character development. Keaton thought of dialogue as words on a page until the actor understood his character well enough to make it believable to everyone watching the actor. It’d been that way when he watched Francine’s performance in the off-Broadway play.

Francine’s portrayal of Abigail had everyone in the theater riveted to their seats each time she took the stage. Not only could he hear her anguish when she pleaded for acceptance from her half sisters, it had become palpable. When she offered to give them enough money to allow them to move out of public housing and they’d torn up the checks, throwing the pieces in her face, the image of the silent tears rolling down Francine’s face elicited sobbing from theatergoers, and Keaton was no exception. He’d felt her character’s pain.

Fast-forward nearly a decade and although Francine looked the same he knew she wasn’t. A marriage founded on deceit and avarice had made her wary of marriage and relationships, and Keaton suspected she’d been married to someone in the business, otherwise she would’ve disclosed his name.

He slowed when entering the Cove’s downtown business district. All of the shops were closed and as he passed Jack’s Fish House he saw they’d dimmed their lights. Many of the benches in the town square were unoccupied, unlike on weekends when scores of high school students gathered there. He’d overheard the boardinghouse staff talk about the number of teenagers from the mainland who came to the island to meet at the fountain in the square before going down to the beach. Sheriff Hamilton and his deputies kept up regular patrols in and around the Cove to limit underage drinking and drug use.

When he maneuvered into a parking space behind the Cove Inn, Keaton thought about the tarot card reader’s prediction. He had moved, taken the steps to control his career, and tonight he’d unconsciously let go of his past so he could have a normal relationship with a woman. He knew Francine would never agree to living with him, and that meant he had only one option: continue to date her without committing to a future.

Keaton loved Francine, wanted to marry her, but he was afraid of getting his hopes up since she was so clearly against marriage. There were occasions when she appeared so indifferent he doubted whether she actually wanted to date him. Then she would literally and figuratively flip the script when he believed her feelings for him went beyond liking. She was an enigma, a chameleon, changing in front of his eyes, or was she a more adept actress than what she’d projected onstage?

The questions continued to taunt Keaton as he swiped his keycard in the slot at the boardinghouse’s rear door. He mounted the staircase without encountering anyone. His steps slowed when he saw an envelope taped to the door to his suite. He’d just removed it when the door across the hall opened.

“The editor of the newspaper left that for you.”

Keaton smiled at the elderly woman with blue hair and close-set brown eyes that’d made it her responsibility to monitor his comings and goings. The night he’d stayed over at Francine’s Mrs. Benjamin had announced to those sitting around the breakfast table that he hadn’t come back to his room the night before. He’d been tempted to ask her if she had X-ray vision or if she sat by her door listening for his footsteps. If he hadn’t been raised to respect his elders Keaton definitely would’ve told her what he did was none of her business.

“Thank you, Mrs. Benjamin.”

“Do you know what he wants, Mr. Grace?”

Turning his back, he rolled his eyes upward. “No, I don’t, Mrs. Benjamin.”

“Aren’t you going to read it?”

“Harriet, close that door and leave that young man alone!”

Keaton smiled. Mrs. Benjamin’s husband had caught her snooping again. Thank you, he mused as he swiped his keycard, opening and closing the door and shutting out the image of his meddlesome neighbor.

It took him several seconds to read the note from the editor of the Sanctuary Chronicle. Eddie Wilkes wanted to interview him about his proposed movie studio. He tossed the note on the table doubling as his desk. His reply to Eddie would have to wait. Opening the closet, Keaton took out a bag, filling it with underwear, T-shirts, jeans, sweats, and a leather case filled with toiletries.

Picking up the house phone, he dialed information, asking the operator to connect him to an inn on King Street, and when he was connected, he made a room reservation for Mr. and Mrs. Keaton Grace. Keaton had decided against spending the night at the Charleston Place Hotel, where he was on a first-name basis with the hotel staff. Staying at the historical residences that were converted into boutique hotels was more private and intimate.

Francine was ready when he drove up; he took her bag and stored it with his behind the rear seats, then assisted her up into the SUV. Her Corvette was nowhere to be seen, and he surmised she’d parked it in one of the three garages. She handed him his cell phone, which he’d left at her apartment.

He slipped behind the wheel beside her. “Are you ready?”

Francine flashed a bright smile, scrunching up her nose. “Are you ready?”

Keaton slumped back in his seat. “Oh, it’s like that.”

“Aye, milord,” she drawled, slipping into the character he’d come to look for.

He drove away from the house, grinning from ear to ear. “I know it sounds clichéd, but with you I was born ready.”