JoAnn Ross - Southern Comforts

“This isn’t about flattery. It’s about money. As I told Roxanne, you’re got a helluva career ahead of you. It certainly wouldn’t hurt her to hitch her already successful wagon to your rising star.”

“Even if I were a reincarnation of Truman Capote, why would she be willing to give up such a large portion of potential earnings?”

“That’s simple.” Mary Lou folded her hands on the top of her glossy desk. Her smile reminded Chelsea of a Cheshire cat. “She has this idea—and by the way, I agree—that the book, like her consultant agreement with the Mega-Mart stores, will serve as a marketing tool for all her other projects.”

Eventually making her far more profit than royalties from her autobiography would ever earn, Chelsea considered.

“That makes sense.”

“Although she’s extremely talented, Roxanne’s true genius has always been marketing,” Mary Lou agreed.

In spite of herself, Chelsea was tempted. It certainly would gain her a great deal of international exposure, since Roxanne Scarbrough was a household name all over the world. But still, the idea of working with the unpleasant woman was less than appealing.

On the other hand, eighty percent of a guaranteed bestseller was nothing to sneeze at.

“Her last three books stayed at the top of the Times list for six months,” Mary Lou said.

“The offer is tempting,” Chelsea admitted reluctantly.

“It could catapult you into superstar ranks. Then, of course, there would be the additional audience you’d pick up. An audience that would provide a built-in market for your novel. When you get it finished.”

“Hopefully in this lifetime,” Chelsea muttered. Heaven help her, she could feel herself being drawn to the bait. Which wasn’t all that surprising, since she could probably name five writers off the top of her head who’d push a rival beneath a crosstown bus for the opportunity she was being offered. But still...working with Roxanne Scarbrough?

As much as she liked and respected Mary Lou, Chelsea reminded herself that the agent could be devious. Especially when working to clinch a deal. Refusing to be steamrollered into anything, she lifted her chin in a stubborn angle.

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“Of course.” Mary Lou sat back in her chair and gave Chelsea a pleased, satisfied smile. “And while you’re thinking, why don’t you get out of this terrible weather?”

“Good idea. Why don’t you call my editor and have her assign me an article about snorkeling in the Bahamas.”

“Actually, I had somewhere closer in mind. Roxanne thought you might want an opportunity to speak with her personally, at her home in Georgia, before coming to a decision. I agreed it was a good idea. She would, of course, pay all your travel expenses.”

Promising to give Mary Lou an answer by the end of the week, Chelsea left the office. As she dashed through the cold rain toward the battered yellow cab the doorman had hailed for her, Chelsea couldn’t deny that the idea of a few days spent lying poolside in a warm southern sun sounded more than a little appealing.

It would also allow her a breather from her recent nonstop schedule. It would force a time-out in her ongoing argument with Nelson. Just the memory of how she’d spent the weekend had her digging in her bag for her roll of antacids.

Despite the French toast—which unsurprisingly, hadn’t turned out nearly as well as when Roxanne had prepared it for Joan Lundon—despite the fact that she’d told him time and time again that she was a print journalist, he’d spent the entire two days pushing the idea of her “branching out” into television.

As she chewed the chalky tablets she seemed to be living on these days, it crossed Chelsea’s mind that the concentration required by ghostwriting Roxanne Scarbrough’s biography could take her mind off her problems.

While giving her a whole set of new ones, Chelsea considered as Roxanne’s furious eyes and pursed lips came to mind.

Raintree

It was the house that cotton built. Constructed in 1837, prior to the Civil War, it was the same Greek Revival style made familiar the world over by the most famous movie ever made about the South. Twenty-two Doric columns—three feet in circumference and forty feet high, Cash estimated—surrounded the two-story house, eight in front, and seven on either side.

“The walls are eighteen inches thick.” Roxanne ran her hand over the exterior facing. “And the bricks were made right here on the property.”

“By slave labor.”

She shot him a surprised, faintly censorious look. “That wasn’t unusual for the time.”

“Unfortunately, you’re right.” Deciding that if he was going to allow political correctness to enter into his business decisions—especially in this part of the country—he’d be broke before the end of the year, Cash put aside his discomfort with how the house had been constructed.

“Your porch is crumbling.” He put a booted foot on one of the boards, crushing it like an eggshell. “It’s about to cave in.”

“So we’ll replace it. Surely that shouldn’t be so difficult.”

“No. But it’s the first thing that will have to be done, or workers won’t be able to get into the place safely.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” She rewarded him with an admiring look. “How clever of you.”

“Not clever. I’m just not wild about the idea of having some plasterer break his neck.”

Before risking the porch, he spent a long time examining the foundation. It appeared to be solid. And the cracks could be easily fixed.

“I realize you’ve already had an engineering report,” he said, looking up at the massive columns. “And the foundation certainly looks secure. But since these are supporting the roof, I’ll want them professionally inspected, as well.”

“I certainly don’t want the roof caving in during my gala open house ball,” she agreed.

He had to give her credit for having a vivid imagination. The place, which was even more of a challenge than he’d expected, reminded him of the house the Addams family might live in were they to decide to relocate to the old South. But she was already planning balls. Which figured. Balls were a traditional southern event—like high school Friday night football—planned with all the attention that the Joint Chiefs of Staff gave to planning an invasion. And with as much hoopla and pageantry as a New Orleans Mardi Gras.

“The house has a marvelous history,” she told him as she followed him through the rooms. Lacy spiderwebs hung in all the corners, draped over fireplace mantels. “It was built by a young man, Edwin Blount, a distant cousin to Eugenia Blount Lamar.”

The name had been dropped as if he were expected to know it. He didn’t.

“Eugenia was a president-general of the Daughters of the Confederacy,” she explained at his politely blank look.

“Ah.” He nodded. “That Blount.”

Her eyes narrowed momentarily, as if suspecting she’d heard a tinge of sarcasm in his mild tone. Obviously deciding she’d imagined it, she went on with her story.

“They were to be married in the gardens out back. But the bride ran off with her daddy’s cotton broker on the day of the wedding. Poor Edwin.” She sighed dramatically. “It was a terrible scandal.”

“I can imagine.” Cash’s mutinous mind conjured up another image of Chelsea, seated behind him on his Harley, escaping from her cousin’s wedding.

It had been their last night together. And their hottest. He could remember every single detail except how many times she’d come. They’d both lost track long before dawn. Before he’d taken her back to her safe, traditional, old-money life. And her stiff-necked boyfriend.