Southern Comforts

“Well then, since we’ve all been introduced to one another, and been brought up to date on where we’re living, I suppose it’s time we go in to dinner.” Roxanne placed her hand on Cash’s arm, obviously expecting him to escort her into the dining room.

With a slow smile, he accepted. Dorothy followed behind the pair.

“Isn’t Cash Beaudine the most magnificent man you’ve ever seen?” Jo murmured to Chelsea as they brought up the rear of the little parade. “If I’d known Roxanne was going to hire him to restore her home, I would’ve paid her for the chance to do this documentary.”

“I suppose he’s good-looking.” Chelsea shrugged. “In a rather rough-hewn sort of way.”

“Just the way I like my men,” Jo said with a quick bold grin that, with her short, perky hairstyle, made her resemble a pixie. “I already spend too much of my time working with the artsy-fartsy Village types. When it’s time to let loose, I want my men rough and tough and basic. A good ole boy with an edge. Like this one.”

Not knowing exactly what to say to that, Chelsea merely murmured a vague response. It did cross her mind, however, as she observed Roxanne’s red nails glistening like fresh blood on the sleeve of Cash’s cream linen jacket, that Roxanne Scarbrough and Jo McGovern shared the same taste in dark, dangerous men.

As she once had.

But those days were nothing more than a youthful, rebellious fling. If there was one thing the loss of her beloved, larger-than-life father had taught Chelsea, it was to invest no more in a relationship than she could afford to lose. Cash Beaudine didn’t mean anything to her now, because he hadn’t meant anything to her then. The only thing they’d had in common was sex. Pure and simple. But it was over.

They’d made a clean break. And never looked back.

It had been better that way, Chelsea assured herself as she found her name on the dining room table, written in a flowing calligraphy on an ivory card held between the petals of a red porcelain rose.

As she sat down in the needlepoint chair seated across from the object of all her internal distress, Chelsea found him watching her, with that mocking, knowing way he’d always had, and couldn’t help remembering that night, standing in the window, watching him ride out of her life.

At the time, she’d thought it would be forever.

Unfortunately, she’d been wrong.

The dining room was decorated in the same floral style as the rest of the house. Somehow, it managed to be both rich and light at the same time. Like lemon meringue pie. Or an airy puff pastry filled with rich, sweetened cream.

The curved legs of the Queen Anne table and spiderweb-backed chairs were distinctly feminine and vaguely sensual. The carpet was a monumental achievement of Persian woven art portraying a graceful pattern of curling vinery resting on a butter-toned field. Scattered across the luminous, thick-piled rug were colorful, fanciful birds and prancing dogs. Water lilies, reminiscent of those hanging in the Metropolitan Museum, floated serenely on the mural painted on the far wall. Lighted glass cabinets lined the other walls, filled with floral-patterned china.

“I’m a hopeless flower addict,” Roxanne said over the soft, melodious strains of Chopin piped into the room through concealed speakers as she noticed Chelsea’s study of her collection. “Like Monet, or Renoir, I must be surrounded by flowers.”

“I would imagine that makes you very popular with the local florists.” Chelsea’s gaze was drawn to a lush display of two dozen full-blown pink roses that had been casually, yet artfully arranged in a sterling champagne cooler atop an antique green marble-topped hunt board.

Roxanne laughed, seemingly delighted at the suggestion. “All the best florists in the state know my name.”

“Which isn’t surprising,” Jo said with a burst of youthful admiring enthusiasm. “Since I doubt if there’s anyone in America who isn’t familiar with the name Roxanne Scarbrough.”

“Aren’t you sweet? But I fear that’s an exaggeration, dear.” As a silent servant arrived with their salad plates, Roxanne rewarded the filmmaker with a smile that was a twin of the one she’d flashed so easily at Joan Lundon. “Hopefully, by the time we finish restoring Belle Terre, that will be true.”

The Caesar salad had been dressed in the flavors of the South with peanut oil, country ham and corn bread croutons. It was unusual and delicious.

“I can’t wait for you to see Belle Terre, Chelsea,” Roxanne said as the servant whisked away their empty plates. “It’s such an exciting challenge. And Cash has promised to restore the grand old house to its former glory, haven’t you?”

Chelsea, watching closely, couldn’t help noticing that the bright smile warmed and turned decidedly more intimate as it was turned on the only male in the room. Her first thought was that there was a lot more going on here than just a professional collaboration. Her second thought—and the one that truly concerned her—was why she should even care.

“I’ll give it the old college try.” He returned the smile with a friendly one of his own. And although he wasn’t addressing Chelsea directly, she had no doubt that the college reference was for her benefit. Reminding her of a time she thought she’d put safely behind her. A time when she’d realized she was coming too close to surrendering her heart along with her body. A time when her self-protective instincts had kicked in, making her refuse to look any further than their next clandestine meeting.

“I’m not certain I’ll be staying long enough to see the house,” she said, wanting to put her cards all on the table right now so she wouldn’t end up feeling obligated.

“You never know,” Roxanne said agreeably, surprising Chelsea with her sanguine attitude. Her only sign of discomfort was a faint toying with the ruby-and-diamond ring adorning her right hand. “You wouldn’t be the first northerner to fall in love with Raintree and decide to stay.”

“As lovely as the town is, I sincerely doubt that will happen.” Growing up in Manhattan, Chelsea had always thrived on the pulsating, hectic beat of the city. What New York’s critics called gritty and exhausting, she found energizing.

Ignoring Chelsea’s polite yet firm insistence, Roxanne’s gaze circled the table, including the others. “Ms. Cassidy is a vital link in the chain of our success.” Although her bright smile didn’t fade in wattage, her eyes were two sapphire blades. “We must all do our best to convince her to join us in our little enterprise.”

Once again Chelsea was surprised. She’d expected another tantrum, like the one she’d witnessed in New York. But instead, the woman was being unrelentingly cordial. Even friendly. Obviously, this overt southern hospitality was another carefully staged performance.

Before she could respond, the maid returned with crystal custard bowls of icy lemon sorbet to clear the palate for the next course.

“Tell me, Chelsea,” Roxanne said, “did you always want to be a writer?”

“For as long as I can remember. I’ve been accused of having ink in my veins.” Her father had told her that, Chelsea remembered with a little hitch in her heart. The day after her sixth birthday party. It had been the last thing he’d said to her. Right before he walked out the door of their Park Avenue apartment. Never to return.

“I wrote my first story when I was five years old.” And had illustrated it with crayons on a roll of butcher paper Tillie had brought home one day with an order of lamb chops.

“Imagine.” Roxanne was eyeing Chelsea with the interest an anthropologist might observe a member of a newly discovered Stone Age tribe. “Knowing your own mind at such a young age. I’m quite impressed. But of course, I suppose that had something to do with your father’s influence. Dylan Cassidy must have been quite a role model.”

It was certainly no secret that the Associated Press Pulitzer prize-winning reporter turned Emmy-winning war correspondent was her father. Neither was it common knowledge. Chelsea wondered if Mary Lou had mentioned it, or if Roxanne had done a little investigating on her own.

Her fingers tightened around the sterling handle of her fork. “My father was quite an act to follow.”

“Which is undoubtedly why you chose the type of work you do,” Roxanne decided. “Instead of concentrating on hard news.” Her tone was so smooth, her expression so pleasantly bland, Chelsea couldn’t quite decide whether or not she’d just been insulted.

“Celebrity journalism is safe,” she agreed. “At least most of the time.”

That earned a faint chuckle from Cash. Glancing over at him, he gave her a quick grin of approval she tried not to enjoy.

“It must be exciting,” Jo said, seemingly unaware of the little drama taking place, “going to all those parties with movie stars and famous athletes.”

“Reporting on parties isn’t the same as being invited to them,” Chelsea said.

“Still, I’d imagine it’s a good way to get close to people.”

“It’s one way.” Although glitzy parties did provide Chelsea the access she needed to her subjects, she’d overheard more than one celebrity complain that inviting the press to social events was like giving them a length of rope and inviting them to a hanging party.

“You know, I’ve never met a celebrity journalist before,” Cash said, entering into the conversation. “I have to admit I’m not sure what, exactly, it is you do. Although I suspect it’s not quite the same thing as Hedda Hopper gushing about Joan Crawford’s new fur coat or Elizabeth Taylor’s diamond earrings.”

Chelsea bristled. Then tamped down her knee-jerk response to what she suspected might be sarcasm and decided to take the opportunity to enlighten him, and even more importantly Roxanne, about how she worked.

“Things have definitely changed since the job was created to lionize stars and to enable them to be worshiped by the masses, without being envied. The old movie magazines, of course, were mostly just promotional vehicles for the studios,” she allowed.

“There seem to be four schools of thought in celebrity journalism these days. Unfortunately the type that gets the most press, is the one who seems to admire any famous person who manages to get through a day without committing rape or murder.”

“And that’s not you,” Cash guessed.

“Hardly. Others approach a story with their own prejudices, and if the facts don’t fit their view of the situation, or the person, they ignore them.”

“I do hope that’s not you,” Roxanne said.

“Not at all. Others have a reporting style more suited to 60 Minutes. Sort of a ‘gotcha,’ where they take shots at famous people and try to make their subject look foolish. Or guilty of something.”

“I know that’s not you,” Jo said.

“I try to remain fair to my subjects and myself by reporting the truth,” Chelsea said. “Without any personal bias, and not worrying about whether or not it demeans or flatters the subject.”

“I remember reading a bio line about you in Vanity Fair,” Jo said. “It mentioned you beginning your own newspaper when you were still a girl.”

Despite her earlier discomfort with the situation in general, and Cash in particular, Chelsea laughed.

“I talked my great-grandmother into buying me a junior printing press when I was ten. The type was rubber, instead of metal, and each piece of paper had to be individually hand stamped, but I loved it.”

“How innovative of you,” Roxanne said. “I’m quite impressed with your ambition.”

“I’m not sure I had any choice in the matter. As I said, I was born a writer.” Chelsea decided the time had come to turn the attention back to their hostess. “So, what made you decide to beautify the world, Roxanne?”

“Like you, I had no choice.”

The tiny pinched lines that suddenly appeared above Roxanne’s top lip hinted at hidden depths. Perhaps even secrets. Everyone had secrets, Chelsea reminded herself. One of hers was currently sitting across the table from her. Her curiosity stimulated, she wondered what secrets she might discover behind Roxanne’s attractive, carefully constructed facade.

“I have always had a deep visceral need to be surrounded by beautiful things.”

“Well, you’ve certainly managed to do that,” Jo piped up enthusiastically in a way that had Chelsea thinking that she seemed more cheerleader than documentary filmmaker. “Your home is absolutely stunning.”

Roxanne’s gaze swept around the room with obvious satisfaction. “Yes,” she agreed. “It is.”

The dinner of glazed carrots and snow peas, sweet potato soufflé, roast quail that had been boned, stuffed, then cunningly reassembled to look like its former self, was perfect. Roxanne, Chelsea suspected, would accept nothing short of excellence.

“This sure beats the hell out of the buckshot quail I grew up eating,” Cash drawled as he cut into the tender bird.

Roxanne shook her head in mock resignation. “What is it about southern gentlemen and their addiction to hunting?” She took a sip of wine and eyed Chelsea over the rim of the stemmed glass. “Tell me, Chelsea, dear, is your Nelson a hunter?”

Chelsea didn’t know which she found more surprising: that Roxanne knew about Nelson, or the way Cash seemed to stiffen at the mention of the man he’d always insisted was so wrong for her.

“Actually, Nelson prefers golf.”

“A tedious pastime,” Roxanne scoffed. “All those men dressed in horridly garish clothing chasing a little ball around for hours and hours. I will never understand the appeal.” She turned toward Cash. “I assume you’re a golfer.”

“Never had time to take it up,” he said, not mentioning that in the early years, he couldn’t afford the balls, let alone the clubs. He turned the conversation to Roxanne’s beloved Belle Terre, which she was more than happy to talk about for the rest of the evening.

Dessert was a rich bread pudding drenched in a caramel whiskey sauce that left Chelsea feeling soporific. Even the caffeine in the French roast coffee blend couldn’t overcome her sudden exhaustion.

She turned down the offer of brandy in the parlor. “As much as I’ve enjoyed this evening, I think I’d better take a rain check. It’s been a long day.”

“I do wish you were staying in one of the guest rooms,” Roxanne complained. “Then you’d only have to go upstairs to bed.”

“It’s so convenient,” Jo said, revealing that she was ensconced somewhere upstairs. “And far nicer than any hotel.”

“The offer is always open,” Roxanne said. “If you decide to change your mind.” She rose from the table to see her guest to the door. Dorothy, who hadn’t yet finished her dessert, instantly jumped to her feet.

When Cash stood up as well, Chelsea first thought he was merely being polite. A minute later, she was reminded that manners—southern or otherwise—had never been his style.

“I’ll drive Chelsea to the inn.”

The declaration affected Chelsea like a jolt of adrenaline.

“That’s not necessary,” she and Roxanne said together.

“Really, Cash,” Roxanne continued, “it’s Dorothy’s job. For which, I might add, she’s very well paid to do.”

“I need to see Jeb about some work he wanted done to his gazebo, anyway,” Cash said. “No point in Dorothy having to go out of her way.” Somehow, without using any outward force, he was deftly herding them all toward the front door.

“Roxanne, I can’t remember ever having a better meal. It was a true masterpiece of culinary achievement.” He took hold of her hand and in a gesture that left Chelsea openmouthed, lifted it to his lips. “Though spending time with you is downright hazardous to a man’s waistline.”

“Don’t worry, Cash.” Her voice was a sultry purr. “With all the work you’ll be doing at Belle Terre, you’ll burn off any extra calories.”

Chelsea was uncomfortable watching Roxanne’s avid, greedy eyes moving over Cash’s face, eating him up as if he were a piece of rich, whiskey-soaked pudding. She cleared her throat, drawing Roxanne’s attention back to her.

“Dinner was wonderful,” she seconded Cash’s review of the meal. “What time would you like to get together tomorrow to discuss the book?”

“First you need to see Belle Terre. Why don’t I have Dorothy pick you up at ten? We can drive out to look at the house, then discuss our little project after that.”

She was, of course, being steamrollered again. But as exhausted as she was, Chelsea decided not to argue. “I’d like to see the house.” She turned to Jo. “But I have to ask that you don’t videotape me at the site. Unless I agree to the collaboration.”

“Until,” Roxanne said coyly.

She may be tired. But she wasn’t a fool. Chelsea tilted her chin. “Unless,” she repeated.

A significant little silence settled over the foyer as the war of wills was waged.

Roxanne was the first to back down. “Unless,” she agreed with a smile that didn’t begin to reach her eyes. Chelsea knew the woman was not surrendering. Rather, she’d wisely chosen to retreat from the battlefield and fight another day.

Roxanne Scarbrough was outrageously egotistical. And, Chelsea suspected, ruthless. But she was also talented, intelligent and fast becoming an American phenomenon. Chelsea knew she’d never like the woman. But then again, when you earned your living as a celebrity journalist, it was probably best not to write about people you admired.

Once, when profiling Diane Keaton, Dominick Dunne had revealed missing the actress the moment he’d dropped her off at her hotel. Chelsea could not imagine ever feeling that way about Roxanne.

“Well,” Cash said, seemingly determined to move things along, “we’d better get going.”

Chelsea said polite goodbyes to Roxanne, Dorothy and Jo. She did not say anything to Cash. Not on the way down the long brick sidewalk to the driveway, although she couldn’t resist arching a brow at the black Ferrari.

As soon as she settled into the black leather seat, she leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and promptly fell asleep.

Chapter Six

The unseasonably warm spring night was drenched with the sultry scent of sun-ripened flowers. The fact that he was too tall to drive the Ferrari with the top up had never proven that much of a problem for Cash. He simply kept an eye on the barometer, avoided getting caught in rainstorms if possible, and enjoyed the feel of the wind as he raced through the dark and nearly deserted streets of Raintree.

Achieving success in California had allowed him to return to Georgia in style. He’d come a helluva long way from that kid who’d been born in a sharecropper’s shack and had spent his teenage years sneaking peeks through keyholes in the whorehouse. He was no longer the rough, angry young man who’d seduced a passionate, old-money WASP princess at Yale.

He’d come to terms with his past. Was pleased with his present. And definitely looking forward to the future, including the restoration of Roxanne Scarbrough’s beloved Belle Terre.

So why was it, he wondered, slanting a sideways glance at the sleeping Chelsea while paused at the town’s single stoplight, that this redhead from his past could walk into a room and suddenly make him feel sixteen years old again? A hot, horny teenager who knew too much about sex and nothing about love.

He studied her profile and told himself that he’d certainly seen more perfect women. Her nose was not the classical slender style favored by girls of her New York set, but slightly pug. It was also familiar.

When Roxanne revealed that Chelsea’s father had been Dylan Cassidy, he’d realized her illustrious family tree boasted an appealing crooked branch. Although he’d only been thirteen when the reporter had been killed in a civil war in some forgotten third world country, Cash remembered the man’s death well.

Not only had he delivered the newspapers that carried the news in a half-page obituary, all the girls in the whorehouse practically declared a day of mourning. Dylan Cassidy—looking like Indiana Jones in his khaki shirt with the epaulets, along with that hint of brogue he’d brought to America with him from his Irish homeland—had apparently provided a dash of much needed fantasy for a group of women who’d given up fantasizing.

The light turned green. Cash stepped on the gas while doing some quick, mental arithmetic. Chelsea would have been ten when her father’s bullet-riddled body being dragged through those dusty streets had been repeated in newscast after newscast.

Pity stirred. Cash tamped it down as he pulled up in front of the inn. As soon as he cut the engine, Chelsea woke up.

“I suppose I should apologize.” She shifted in the seat and ran her hands through the long slide of hair.

“For what?”

“For falling asleep. It wasn’t very polite.”

“I don’t recall either of us being all that concerned with politeness.” He plucked the key from the ignition. “Not when we were spending every chance we got fucking our brains out.”

Ignoring her sharp intake of breath, he opened his door and unfolded his long length from the car. Before he could come around and open her door, she was standing on the sidewalk.

“You’re still as rude and hateful as ever, I see,” Chelsea snapped as they walked into the cozy lobby.

“And you’re still as drop-dead gorgeous as ever. Even if you are too damn thin.”

His hand was on her back in a possessive, masculine way that annoyed her. But not wanting him to think he held the power to affect her in any way, she did not insist he take it away.

“A woman can never be too thin,” she quoted her mother’s axiom as she strode briskly across the pine plank floor.

“That’s a crock. Men like a woman to have some meat on her bones. Something to hold on to while they’re tangling the sheets.”

“Some men aren’t fixated on sex.”

“Some men need to learn to prioritize.” His hand slid beneath her hair. His fingers cupped the back of her neck.

Chelsea tossed her head and inched away. “You’ve done your duty, Cash. You can leave now.”

“Without escorting you up to your room? Honey, I don’t know how your Yankee fellas do things in New York City, but no southern gentleman worth his salt would let a woman wander around all by her lonesome late at night. Even in a friendly town like Raintree.”

“Good try. But we both know that you’re no gentleman. You’re just trying to talk your way into my room. And my bed.”

A couple approached. From their surreptitious, suddenly interested glances, Chelsea realized that they’d heard her gritty accusation.

“Actually, now that you mention it, though I’ve admittedly spent the evening thinking about what I was going to do when I finally got you alone, believe me, sugar, talking wasn’t one of the options.

“Besides, if I wanted to jump your bones, I sure as hell wouldn’t need to wait until we got to your room to do it. I’ll bet the keys to that shiny black Ferrari parked outside that there’s a janitor’s closet around here somewhere.”

The couple was pretending interest in a revolving rack of bright postcards. At Cash’s provocative suggestion, the woman gasped and out of the corner of her eye, Chelsea saw the man grin. Refusing even to acknowledge that reminder of her outrageous behavior on that last night they’d spent together, Chelsea balled her hands into fists at her sides and managed, just barely, not to slug him.

She was no longer the young dream-driven girl who’d been fixated on this man. She’d worked hard and achieved a measure of success. In fact, her celebrity profile of Tom Wolfe had even earned a begrudging, “Nice work, dear,” from her mother.

She’d changed over the intervening years since her time with this man. But the one thing that seemed the same, dammit, was the way Cash Beaudine could still get beneath her skin.

She began marching up the stairs, Cash right beside her. Openly fascinated, the couple followed at a discreet distance.

“You really haven’t changed a bit.” Chelsea gritted her teeth.

“Not in any of the ways that count,” Cash agreed cheerfully. His arm looped around her waist. “I still like my whiskey neat, my cars fast, and my women hot.”