Chapter Sixteen

Keaton paced the length of his bedroom suite much like a caged cat. The restlessness had come from his wanting to begin drafting the script from beginning to end. He’d finished digesting a voluminous amount of research. He’d spent what felt like hundreds of hours studying the Gullah culture and his brain was quickly approaching overload. He’d met with the archivist and together they’d poured over diaries, letters, journals, census reports, bills of sale for slaves, and household accounts for landowners. He’d also interviewed Corrine Hamilton, recording hours of the oral history of Cavanaugh Island. The scenes and characters had come alive in his head, eliciting an excitement he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

It’d been more than a week since he’d seen Francine, although she called him every night to repeat some of the stories she’d overheard when eavesdropping on her mother and grandmother when they gathered in the kitchen with their friends when she’d been warned to “stay out of grown folks’ bizness.”

Keaton could hear the fatigue in her voice and limited their conversations to ten to fifteen minutes. Her mother had been instructed by an orthopedist to take several weeks off from work in order to rest her back, which had left Francine with the responsibility of running the salon, while taking on Mavis’s clients as well as her own, and looking in on her grandmother before and after work.

The memory of the night they’d stayed over in Charleston still lingered around the fringes of his mind, occasionally eliciting erotic dreams. He knew if he worked himself to the point of exhaustion it would keep him from thinking about Francine. Keaton missed her more than he’d thought possible—her smile, her laugh, listening to her when she morphed into the Cockney tavern maid. He also missed the demure blushes she wasn’t able to control and her passion when they’d shared an intimacy that left him wanting more. He was tempted to stop by the Beauty Box to see her, but decided to wait until his scheduled appointment.

After breakfast at the inn they’d returned to the Cove, where he left her at her front door. However, he wasn’t able to escape the eagle-eyed women sitting on their porches or the few who were sweeping or hosing down porch steps. They’d stopped whatever they were doing to stare directly at him when he drove past. The Magnolias’ neighborhood watch was on patrol.

Keaton had waited two days before calling Eddie Wilkes and when the editor returned the call Keaton had turned off the ringer on his phone; he’d been up for more than twenty-four hours, reading and transcribing the archival notes. They played phone tag for days until Keaton finally connected with the man, confirming a date and time to meet.

Keaton sat on a worn leather chair staring at the editor of the Sanctuary Chronicle as he moved a stack of old newspapers from one corner of his desk to another. Each time Keaton shifted the springs on the chair groaned as if in pain. Eddie had asked if he would come to the newspaper office because he wanted to talk to him, while Keaton surmised that meant an interview. Keaton also assumed he and the newspaper reporter were about the same age. The date on the degree hanging on the wall behind the desk was the same year Keaton graduated from college.

Eddie looked as if he’d been in a rush to get dressed because he hadn’t bothered to tuck the hem of his shirt into the waistband of his slacks. His sandy-brown hair complemented his redbone complexion. “I’m sorry you had to wait for me, Mr. Grace.”

Keaton waved a hand. Eddie’s secretary had directed him to sit in the newspaper’s waiting room because her boss was running late. “Please call me Keaton.”

When Eddie sat down on his chair it, too, squeaked under his weight. He managed to look sheepish. “One of these days I’m going to get some new office furniture.” Patting the desk, he pulled a pair of glasses from under several pieces of paper and put them on. “This morning is not going too well for me. I got a call from the principal at the high school that my son was placed on an in-school suspension for pushing another kid who’d gotten in his face. Do you have children, Keaton?”

“No, I don’t.”

“The only thing I’m going to say is to think long and hard before you decide if you want to become a parent. Do you know what’s wrong with these kids nowadays? They have more rights than their parents,” he said, answering his own question. “You can’t talk hard to them or they’ll accuse you of verbally abusing your child. You can’t hit them, because then it’s physical abuse. I remember my grandmother used to tell me to go outside and get a switch so she could light up my behind. She didn’t have to do it too often because I was a quick study. Just do the right thing and you don’t get whipped.”

“Some of what you’re saying is true but I believe the breakdown in the family unit has to take the most blame.”

Eddie nodded. “You’re right about that. There was a time when fathers were in ninety-nine percent of the homes here on the island. The exception was if he’d died. Today that average would be closer to eighty-seven percent. It’s still better than the national average for women heading single-parent homes, but for us on Cavanaugh Island it’s still not good enough.” He shifted another stack of paper. “I know you didn’t come here to listen to me bitch and moan about my kid.”

Keaton crossed one denim-covered leg over the opposite knee. “I’m curious as to why you wanted me to meet with you.”

“I’d like to interview you for my ‘What’s New?’ column. Cavanaugh Island is a small barrier island when compared to Hilton Head, and the Cove is even smaller, so there’s always a lot of talk when someone new decides to put down roots.”

“Do you know who I am?”

Eddie ducked his head. “I must admit I did research you online.”

Keaton knew there was plenty of information on him on the Internet for the editor to glean enough to fill up a column. “What else do you want to know?”

“Why did you decide to move here?”

Leaning back in the creaky chair, Keaton crossed his arms over his chest. “I suppose it’s the same reason anyone would want to live here. I wanted a slower pace, someplace where I’m not jolted awake by the sirens of first responders or gunshots. I want to live where, if I do decide to marry and raise a family, my children could grow up as children. I know I wouldn’t be able to shield them from some of the problems plaguing our youth in larger cities, but at least I would have some control over their environment.”

Eddie smiled and nodded. “That’s the reason I didn’t move away. Once the kids leave here to go to high school on the mainland some of them just act the fool because they believe no one’s watching them. What they forget is that they have to come back home and when they do there’s hell to pay. They get the business from every member of their families.” He patted his shirt’s breast pocket. “It starts with me, because I took my boy’s driver’s license. He’s going to have to work hard to get this baby back.”

Keaton’s relaxed stance belied his impatience. He wanted to get back to his room at the Cove Inn and his research project. And the talk about parenthood was a constant reminder that he had to decide whether he wanted to marry and father children. After all, he was forty-one and not getting any younger. And he didn’t want to be one of those fathers who were too physically challenged to play with their young children. He remembered the tarot card reader’s prediction that he would never marry or father children if he didn’t let go of his past.

Keaton had let go of his past once he realized he was in love with Francine. But even if he wanted her as his wife he knew it would never become a reality. She’d been emphatic when she said she did not want her life encumbered with a husband. Her ex had blindsided her with his duplicity, making it difficult for Francine to trust a man to love her for herself.

“What else do you want to know, Eddie?” he asked, using the man’s name for the first time.

“You’re a producer, director, and screenwriter. Is there any truth in the rumor that you’re planning to build a movie studio on the old Webber property?”

“The rumor is true.”

Eddie picked up a pencil, and using shorthand symbols, jotted down Keaton’s response on a white legal pad. “Why Sanctuary Cove when you could’ve chosen Charleston?”

“Why not Sanctuary Cove? Having a movie studio here will help the town’s economy. Even before I begin filming I will have hired camerapeople, set designers, carpenters, painters, animal trainers, set dressers, and still photographers. Then there will be people responsible for costumes and makeup, stunt people, those responsible for props, lighting cameramen, a gaffer, key grip, and best boy. Don’t forget the cinematographer, caterers, visual, sound, and special effects. All of that translates into employing professionals and interns looking to break into moviemaking. I hope that answers your question.”

Eddie rolled the pencil between his thumb and forefinger. “I guess I didn’t think of it that way. All I thought about was hordes camping out here just to get a glimpse of some movie star.”

“That’s not going to happen because there will be security and because the studio sits on private property and trespassers will be subject to arrest.”

The journalist pinched the bridge of his nose above his glasses with his free hand. “And I don’t think they’d want to have to deal with the sheriff and his deputies. They have a no-tolerance rule with outsiders starting trouble on the island.”

Keaton had met the taciturn lawman when he introduced himself during a foot patrol in the Cove’s downtown business district. They’d chatted briefly after he told Sheriff Hamilton he was now the new owner of the Webber property. Jeffrey had reassured him his studio would be off-limits to any unauthorized visitors.

“Is there anything else you want to know?” he asked Eddie.

“Not right now. I think you gave me what I needed to fill in the blanks. Once I complete the article I’ll let you see it before we go to press. That way if there are any inconsistencies, you can correct them. By the way, have you attended any of the open town council meetings?”

“No.”

Eddie removed his glasses. “There’s one tonight that should be quite interesting. The mayor and his town council meet the second Tuesday of each month to bring residents up to date on proposed new ordinances, budget items, and reports from department heads, including but not limited to transportation, engineering, housing, fire, police, and the school board. After the regular meeting the candidates running for mayor are scheduled to debate each other before next month’s election. Tonight’s meeting will be at the library because they’re expecting a larger than usual turnout. I believe you might be interested in what they have to say about the future of the Cove. It begins at eight, but you should get there a little earlier so you won’t have to stand up.”

“I’ll try and make it.”

Keaton left the newspaper office and walked back to the boardinghouse. He’d known about the town council meetings from the local townsfolk. After a meeting it was all they would talk about for days. Seemingly the upcoming mayoral election had most riveted to their televisions when Charleston’s local news aired, or they bought up copies of the Sanctuary Chronicle as soon as it was delivered to the supermarket, Muffin Corner, and the Parlor Bookstore, forcing the editor to increase its circulation. The biweekly’s circulation had been in slow decline over the years and if it hadn’t been for the ads Cavanaugh Island’s only paper would’ve gone out of circulation.

Keaton read the paper every two weeks from the front to the last page. The Chronicle’s headlines were more provocative than the articles, while he did manage to discover something about the island and its citizens he found interesting. It was truly a hometown paper, highlighting the accomplishments of schoolchildren, graduations, births, deaths, weddings, and the milestone birthdays of longtime residents and of those serving in the military.

However, it was the folktales Francine recounted when he spoke to her at night that Keaton found most fascinating and frightening at the same time. He felt like a voyeur, peering into a window to the past. She spoke of forbidden love between the wives of plantation owners and male slaves. And how the mixed-race newborns that could never pass into the white race were suffocated at birth, or the black midwives would concoct excuses for the babies’ darker complexions, such as the lack of oxygen from the umbilical cord being wrapped about an infant’s neck. One plantation mistress solved this dilemma by taking only mulatto men to her bed. The result was a baby she was able to raise as her own. Fortunately, her cuckolded husband was too busy drinking, gambling, and visiting the slave quarters to satisfy his taste for darker women to notice his wife’s similar predilection.

Whenever she spoke of roots and spells he’d felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Keaton had found himself transfixed when Francine told actual stories she’d heard or read involving hexes, and she’d suggested he research the infamous Dr. Buzzard, a professional root doctor rumored to dispense charms to help find love, bring money, or cure whatever ailed one. There were a number of root doctors who, if you paid them enough, would curse your enemy. She’d given him the name of another conjurer. The legendary High Sheriff of the Lowcountry was rumored to have been made bulletproof by magic. These conjurers were known to visit cemeteries to work their spells as determined by the phases of the moon.

Keaton was particularly fascinated by her account of Angels Landing’s most prominent family. The Pattons were synonymous with scandal, beginning with the nineteenth-century patriarch, Shipley Patton, and continuing into the twenty-first century with Taylor Patton. If he wanted to know more about the Pattons she suggested he contact Corrine Hamilton, grandmother of the island’s sheriff. It had been Corrine’s great-great-great-grandmother who’d hidden the son of Oakes Patton after Oakes’s wife had placed a hit on her husband’s mistress and children. The Patton line would’ve ended with Oakes if Corrine’s ancestors hadn’t saved his son’s life.

His notes made for fascinating reading and once he began drafting the script he was confident he’d be able to bring the characters to life on the screen.

Keaton spied Francine with her mother and grandmother the moment he walked into the library’s largest meeting room for the scheduled town council meeting. It was like seeing her for the first time. Her hair was pinned atop her head in sensual disarray, and when their eyes met he saw the dark shadows under her brilliant eyes. His heart stopped for a beat, and then started up again. She appeared thinner, exhausted, and he wondered whether she was eating and sleeping enough.

Mumbling apologies as he wended his way down the row where she was seated, Keaton nodded to Mavis and Dinah. “Miss Dinah. Miss Mavis, how are you feeling?”

Mavis smiled. “I’m feeling much better. Thank you for asking. You know you owe us a visit. My husband still has to give you that jersey for your father.”

“Let me know when it’s convenient for me to come by.”

Dinah patted his shoulder. “You know you don’t need an invitation. Our doors are always open to you.”

Keaton saw curious stares directed his way. Let them look and let them talk, he thought. He was past caring who saw him with Francine, and had tired of pretending they were nothing more than barber and customer. He hunkered down in front her, taking her hands and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“Wait for me in the parking lot and I’ll follow you home.”

Leaning closer, Francine kissed Keaton’s cheek. “Okay. Love you, sweetie.”

He focused his gaze on her mouth. “Love you back.”

Francine ignored the audible gasp from the woman sitting on her left who hadn’t bothered to pretend she wasn’t eavesdropping on her and Keaton’s conversation. She wanted to tell Keaton that she missed him, that she needed him. The gossip and bickering at the Beauty Box had escalated during her mother’s absence, and because Francine didn’t have her mother’s personality it had gone on unchecked. She’d found it virtually impossible to keep order and openly reprimand some of the clients who’d watched her grow up. Like all of the children on the island, she’d been raised to respect her elders. Screaming at them wasn’t an option and she was left to endure the uproar whenever the topic of the upcoming election was mentioned.

Francine slumped in her chair and closed her eyes. She wasn’t as physically exhausted as she was mentally. Managing the shop without the assistance of her mother made her aware of how difficult it was for Mavis to run a successful business. However, Mavis made it look so easy.

Whenever she spoke to Keaton she made certain not to disclose her dilemma. Talking about the narratives she’d overheard whispered took her mind off the drama in the Beauty Box. However, Francine knew she had to decide what action to take to restore order before her mother returned. The doctor still hadn’t cleared Mavis to return to work. Whatever solution she came up with had to be handled without impinging on the first amendment right of free speech. The shop’s no-gossiping rule pertained to the salon’s employees and not its customers.

Talking with Keaton every night had kept her calm and for that she loved him. It helped to take her mind off what she would have to encounter the next day whenever Alice Parker’s or Spencer White’s name was mentioned. Inasmuch as Francine wanted Alice as the Cove’s first woman mayor, she hated that it’d polarized the townspeople. In another five weeks it would be over and folks would be forced to resign themselves to the outcome of the election.

Those who were standing around talking scrambled to find a chair when the members of the council filed into the room, followed by the mayor. Spencer took his seat at the table in the front of the room, rapping a gavel and calling the meeting to order at exactly eight o’clock. A murmur went up from the assembly. It was the first time since becoming mayor that Spencer had begun a meeting on time.

Keaton got his first look at the dapper mayor with movie-star looks. He’d never been one to closely follow politics, yet he always voted in national and occasionally local elections. If someone were to ask about his first impression of Mayor White, Keaton would’ve said “slick.” Every issue of the Chronicle included a profile of both mayoral candidates up to and including a special issue the weekend before the election.

Spencer had earned the distinction of becoming a third-generation mayor of the Cove. His grandfather had been the Cove’s first black mayor, serving six four-year terms. Spencer’s father then ran for the vacated office and won. Spencer had married a model-turned-actress, who’d spent more than half of their brief, two-year marriage in Los Angeles. They’d parted amicably, and he’d joined the ranks of a small number of single men on Cavanaugh Island who were in their early forties.

Spencer straightened his tie as he cleared his throat, garnering the attention of all in the room. “I’d like to thank everyone for coming out tonight. Before we start our official meeting I’d like to acknowledge a few new faces.” His tone and words, along with his cropped hair, tailored suit, flawless brown skin, and even features, made him the consummate politician. He gestured to Keaton. “Sir, do you mind telling us who you are and what brought you to Sanctuary Cove?”

Keaton felt dozens of eyes directed at him. He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I’m Keaton Grace, and I’m currently living at the Cove Inn until my house is renovated. I bought the old Webber property.”

Spencer smiled, showing everyone his porcelain veneers. “Congratulations, Mr. Grace. I, along with everyone on the town council, had hoped someone would purchase that property because not only had it become an eyesore but we’re always looking to increase our tax rolls.” A smatter of laughter followed his statement. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell your fellow citizens?”

Stretching out his legs, Keaton crossed his booted feet at the ankles. He was ready for the esteemed politician. Hannah had warned him Spencer would be less than happy that he hadn’t been apprised of his intent to build a movie studio in his town. Affecting an expression of indifference, he shook his head.

“No, Mayor White.”

“Are you certain?” Spencer insisted, his toothpaste-ad smile slipping.

“Very certain,” Keaton said.

Lacing his fingers together, Spencer shot Keaton a long, penetrating stare that was more a glare. “Aren’t you in the movie business, Mr. Grace?”

Keaton nodded. “I am.”

“If that’s the case, then perhaps everyone would like to hear about your future plans as it pertains to your livelihood.”

A shadow of annoyance crossed Keaton’s face. If the mayor believed he was putting him on the spot, then he was delusional. The years he’d spent working in Hollywood were like swimming with blood-crazed sharks. He’d learned to remain completely still, not moving until he was certain of a means of escape.

“Everyone can read about it in the Chronicle.”

“Are you certain you don’t want to give us a hint?”

Keaton nodded. “I’m very certain. I don’t think Eddie Wilkes would appreciate it if I cut into his circulation with a spoiler.” It was his turn to flash a saccharine smile. “Everyone will just have to pick up a copy of the Chronicle to find out about my plans for the Cove.”

“Let’s move it along, Spencer,” someone called out from the back of the room. “I didn’t come out here tonight to listen to you get into folks’ business.”

Spencer’s eyes narrowed as he banged the gavel. “You’re out of order, Henry.”

“And you’re looking to lose my vote,” shouted the locksmith, refusing to back down from the reprimand.

The threat was not lost on Spencer as he continued with the introductions of first-time attendees. Keaton had come up with another adjective for the man: bully. The mayor’s bravado appeared to take its leave when Alice entered the room and sat in the back.

Keaton met Francine’s gaze when she turned and smiled at him. Both had noticed the incumbent’s expression when his challenger walked into the meeting room. It was uncertainty.

The official meeting went quickly, most of the department heads giving condensed reports to allot time for the hour-long debate. During the first half hour Spencer and Alice answered questions from the moderator, who worked for a local Charleston-based television station. During the second half hour the questions came from the floor.

Although ineligible to vote, Keaton knew he would vote for Alice if he could. She was intelligent and insightful, and gained the approval of everyone in the room when she announced she would work as a full-time mayor for a dollar a year. Unfortunately for Spencer, he did not offer the same. The office of mayor was a part-time position, and despite having a lucrative Charleston-based practice, he hadn’t declined the five-figure salary from the town relying on the revenue from snowbirds and tourists to keep it out of the red.

The night ended with the candidates shaking hands with those in attendance, as Keaton made his way to the parking lot to wait for Francine. He was really beginning to feel like a part of the town.