JoAnn Ross - Southern Comforts

“You’re going to love Belle Terre,” she assured him again, rising with a lithe grace that was the product of years of practice. “It’s marvelous. Even without the ghost.”

Cash was not surprised the house came with a resident ghost. It was de rigueur for homes of its era in this part of the country to boast of at least one.

Yet as he left the restaurant with Roxanne Scarbrough, passing the table occupied by a young woman whose flaming hair reminded him of Chelsea, it crossed Cash’s mind that he already had one too many ghosts in his life.

Chapter Three

New York

“So, how was Toronto?” Mary Lou Wilson asked.

“I’m sure it was delightful.” Chelsea’s irritated expression said otherwise. “All I saw of it was the airport and the hotel. I was hoping to interview Sandra on location, but a stupid rainstorm shut down shooting.”

The same rainstorm, it seemed, had followed her home. She scowled out the floor-to-ceiling windows of her agent’s Madison Avenue office and pretended interest in the Manhattan skyline. An icy spring rain streaked down the tinted glass.

While working with the actress’s publicity people to move the interview to Chelsea’s suite, it had crossed her mind that she should have asked the overly efficient Heather to arrange for the sun to shine.

“I’m sorry it didn’t turn out well.”

Chelsea shrugged. “It was a good interview. I just wanted more. But cutting things short did allow me more time to work on my book.”

Mary Lou smiled at her client. “Now that is good news. And speaking of good news,” she segued smoothly into the reason for having called Chelsea to her office, “it appears that interview with Charlie Gibson may just change your life.”

Chelsea opened her mouth to point out that her life was just dandy, thank you. But of course, that wasn’t exactly the truth. She wasn’t happy, dammit. And, despite her growing success—success that Heather would undoubtedly be willing to sell dear old Grandmother Van Pelt to achieve—she hadn’t been for a long time. Once again she felt as if she were spending her life on a treadmill.

No, Chelsea considered, she felt more like Lucille Ball in that old chocolate factory episode. The more she achieved, the faster and faster she needed to work to stay ahead.

“All right,” she said when her agent paused for an unnecessarily lengthy time, “I’ll bite. What are you talking about?”

“I had an interesting offer for you after the interview aired.”

Chelsea thought about Nelson’s ongoing argument that she belonged on television. “If it’s from the network, suggesting I replace Joan Lundon, tell them the answer’s no.”

“Actually, the call was from Roxanne Scarbrough.”

That was a surprise. “What in the world could America’s Diva of Domesticity want with me?”

“She’s looking for a biographer.”

“No way.” Chelsea folded her arms across the front of her silk jacket. In defiance of the weather, her suit was a splash of bright sunshine yellow. “I’d rather swim naked in the East River with a bunch of killer sharks than work with that woman.”

Mary Lou’s eyes narrowed, revealing surprise at Chelsea’s adamant refusal. “Am I missing something here?”

“Let’s just say that Roxanne Scarbrough and I had a slight personality clash and leave it at that.” Actually, it had been dislike at first sight—as clear and strong as one-hundred-proof grain alcohol.

“Roxanne thinks the world of you.”

Chelsea seriously doubted that Roxanne thought of anyone but herself. It also did not escape her notice that her agent and Roxanne Scarbrough seemed to be on a first-name basis.

“Tell me you’re not that Steel Magnolia from hell’s agent.”

It was no secret that Mary Lou Wilson had migrated to Manhattan from somewhere in the deep South. Indeed, the agent, while outwardly appearing the epitome of New York chic, went out of her way to cultivate her image as a publishing outsider. Chelsea had noticed, on more than one occasion, that the more prolonged the contract negotiations, the more Mary Lou’s voice took on a sultry slow cadence of the South, causing more than one misguided editor to let down her guard. Which with Mary Lou, Chelsea reminded herself now, was always a mistake.

“As it happens, Roxanne is one of my oldest clients,” Mary Lou confirmed.

“And one of the most profitable, too, I’ll bet,” Chelsea muttered.

She glanced around the professionally decorated office, seeing it with new eyes, now that she realized the attractive furnishings she’d always admired had undoubtedly been selected by the most vicious mouth in the South.

“You know I never discuss other clients’ earnings,” Mary Lou said mildly.

“I can’t believe you can even stand to be in the same room with that woman.” Chelsea studied the exquisite Ming vase on its ebony pedestal she’d always admired and wondered if it had been purchased with Mary Lou’s fifteen percent of Roxanne Scarbrough’s latest bestselling cookbook, Just Desserts.

“Roxanne is a bit of a challenge from time to time,” Mary Lou admitted with what Chelsea decided had to be the understatement of the millennium. “But she’s garnered the major percentage of the lifestyle market, and her fans love her.”

It crossed Chelsea’s mind that were she to write the truth about the beloved lifestyle maven, all those fans would disappear like Roxanne’s famous beer-battered popcorn shrimp at a Super Bowl party.

Although she’d throw herself off the top of the Empire State Building before admitting it, she’d actually tried the recipe at her last party and earned raves from all the guests. Even Nelson, who considered himself a gourmand, had been impressed.

“Why doesn’t she have her usual cowriter do the book?”

“Glenda Walker is excellent at interpreting Roxanne’s creative vision to the written word. But something like an autobiography is, quite honestly, beyond her talents.”

“You know I don’t want to ghostwrite.” And even if she did, Roxanne Scarbrough would not be on the top of her list of potential subjects.

“Roxanne has already agreed to give you coauthor credit.”

“Which still means she’d get fifty percent of a book I wrote.” Fifty percent less Mary Lou’s agency percentage of both their earnings, Chelsea amended, growing more and more uncomfortable with this entire situation.

“Actually, Roxanne suggested an eighty-twenty split. With you getting the larger share.”

“I don’t get it.” Chelsea blinked. Her fingernails drummed a rapid staccato on the wooden arms of the cream suede chair as she tried to figure out Roxanne Scarbrough’s angle. From what she’d witnessed in the greenroom, generosity was not the woman’s strong point. “What’s the catch?”

Mary Lou frowned. “You and I have a seven-year relationship.” There was an unfamiliar edge to her usually smoothly modulated drawl. “Surely you aren’t implying I’d suggest anything that wouldn’t prove beneficial to your career?”

Chelsea winced inwardly. Terrific career move, insulting your agent. “I’m sorry. Of course I’d never imply any such thing.”

Her recent restlessness made it impossible for her to think while sitting still. She stood up and began to pace, her short pleated skirt swirling around her thighs.

“It’s just that I can’t figure out why Roxanne would want me to work with her on her autobiography.”

“That’s simple. Thanks to the Melanie Tyler interview, you’re currently the hottest young writer in town. She also read your Vanity Fair article and decided that you’re very good at what you do.”

“I suppose I should be flattered,” Chelsea said reluctantly, pausing in front of the Ming vase. It really was lovely.