Southern Comforts (19 page)

“That's better,” Jeb said.

“What's that?”

“Your smile. You looked awfully sober when you arrived this morning.”

“If I'd managed to stay sober last night, I wouldn't have the mother of all headaches today.”

“Ah.” His eyes twinkled. “I'm sorry.”

“You're not the only one.” She sighed. “My father was alleged to have been a two-fisted drinker. Obviously I didn't inherit his capacity for alcohol.”

“I had an uncle who was mighty fond of sour mash bourbon,” Jeb revealed. “One time, when I was home from college on a semester break, I made the mistake of going fishing with him. I don't remember crawling home, but I do remember hoping to die the next day. But he showed up at first light with a box of nightcrawlers, fit as a fiddle, looking forward to another day on the river. I think that ability comes with time. And practice.”

She returned his friendly grin with a grimace. “You're
probably right. Which is why I've decided to leave getting drunk to the experts from now on.”

The single glass of wine, along with Jeb's easygoing companionship, relaxed Chelsea. She remained in the garden for a long time, enjoying the sweet fragrance of the flowers, the soft spring air, the dazzling sunset that tinted the clouds to crimson and gold.

When she felt something brush against her leg, she jumped. Then she looked down and realized it was only a fat old orange cat.

“Well, hello.”

Although overweight, the cat proved light on its feet as it jumped agilely onto her lap and promptly settled down as if planning to spend the night. Its rumbling purrs sounded like a small motor in the still of the garden. As she stroked the marmalade-colored fur, Chelsea felt herself relaxing even more.

When her thoughts drifted to New York, to yesterday's scene with Nelson, to the eye-opening visit to the bank, she scowled. Her fingers tightened on the fur, earning a sharp feline complaint.

“You're right,” she told the cat, “it's too nice an evening to ruin it thinking about the past.” And although only a little more than twenty-four hours had gone by, Chelsea knew she'd already moved beyond the pain. And the hurt. Now, the trick was to keep from succumbing to resentment.

She resumed stroking the cat and willed herself to relax. Her wandering mind unsurprisingly returned to Cash.

He was a difficult man to understand. Far more complex than she'd given him credit for during their time together at Yale. Back then she'd taken him at face value: the leather-jacket-clad rebel who redefined passion. It had been simpler to think of their relationship as purely sexual. Easier.

“There you are!”

The voice jerked Chelsea out of her reverie, causing a physical start that made the cat dig its claws into her thigh. She looked up and saw an elderly woman moving toward her like a schooner at full sail.

“Honestly Cicero, if you don't stop straying off, I'm going to take you to Doc Martin and have your nuts cut off. That should put a halt to your carousing.”

She plucked the cat from Chelsea's lap. “You shouldn't encourage him,” she scolded. The scent of gin on her breath explained the slurred drawl.

“I'm sorry. He was just visiting.”

Chelsea bestowed her most conciliatory smile on the woman whose hair had been dyed the same bright orange color as the cat's fur.

“He had no business gettin' out.” She lifted the huge ball of fur to eye level. “Bad boy!” Cicero, Chelsea noticed, remained unfazed by her owner's irritation. “Males are all tomcats,” the woman huffed. “Whatever their species. There's no keepin' them home where they belong.”

Thinking of Nelson, Chelsea was inclined to agree. But before she could say anything, the woman had switched gears. “You're that New York writer.”

“Yes.” Chelsea was not surprised the word had gotten out. There wasn't much that stayed secret or personal in Raintree. “I'm working with Roxanne Scarbrough.”

“So I heard. And for the life of me, I can't figure out why anyone would think a Yankee writer could do justice to a southern woman.”

Irritation flashed, but Chelsea reminded herself that it wouldn't do her any good to get into a confrontation with a drunk. Even one decades older than herself.

“I'm going to try my best to live up to Ms. Scarbrough's expectations.”

“Good luck,” the woman muttered. “She's a bitch. But you've already probably figured that out for yourself.”

“I don't think—”

“Yeah, yeah. I understand. You don't wanta screw up the job. But let me tell you, that class act is exactly that. An act. The woman may act like Princess Di, but she's trailer trash. As for that tall tale about growing up in Switzerland, it's my opinion she read
Heidi
one too many times.”

That stated, she turned on her heel and marched away, none too steadily, down the garden path. Bemused, Chelsea went back inside where she found Jeb in the lobby.

“I just had the strangest encounter,” she said. “Do you know an older woman with orange hair?”

He looked up from sorting the mail. “Sounds like Mildred Landis. Was she tipsy?”

“I think she'd been drinking.”

Jeb nodded. “That's Mildred, all right. I hope she didn't bother you.”

“No.” She thought about telling him what the woman had said about Roxanne, then decided the negative accusation was probably just a case of small-town envy. “She was just looking for her cat.”

“Poor Cicero. He manages to escape every so often, but she always tracks him down. Makes you understand why old Irving Landis didn't leave a forwarding address when he skipped town.”

“Landis. Is she—”

“Dorothy's mamma,” Jeb revealed. “And believe me, between working all day with Roxanne, and having to go home to Mildred, I don't envy the lady's life even a little bit.”

Chelsea murmured an agreement. And tried to put the disagreeable woman out of her mind. But as she tried to
work on her novel, Mildred's accusation kept going around and around in her thoughts, like a leaf in a whirlpool.

Mildred Landis was obviously an alcoholic. And, like so many people with drinking problems, she appeared to have a very large chip on her shoulder.

But, Chelsea reminded herself as she turned off the light and tried to go to sleep, just because she was a bitter, resentful drunk didn't mean that she wasn't right about Roxanne.

 

Damn.
George cursed as the room was thrown into darkness. He'd installed the hidden cameras in the bedroom while the owner had gone into Savannah yesterday. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to see a fucking thing, since the girl dressed and undressed in the bathroom like some kinda damn nun. He knew he should have installed some cameras in there while he'd been at it, but Townely had come home early and he sure as hell hadn't wanted to get caught. That would have ended up gettin' him a one-way ticket back to the pen.

He might not be a video expert like that New York bimbo who was makin' the film about Cora Mae, George allowed, thinking of all the fancy equipment she was lugging around all the time. But during a year stint in the country jail for drunk driving, he'd met a guy who did surveillance work for the mob who'd taught him enough about cameras to go into business for himself.

At first the women playing the starring role in his low-budget porno flicks had been willing participants. But unfortunately, the kind of cunts who'd get off on being filmed having sex were lousy actresses. It had been then George had come up with the idea of hiding the cameras in the closet.

The tapes had been good. At least better than when the
bimbos kept playing to the camera lens like they thought they were Marilyn Chambers. But porno films featuring consenting adults fuckin' were a dime a dozen these days. It seemed every Tom, Dick and Mary with a video camera was selling their home movies.

It was then George had come up with the great idea to add a twist to the plot.

Memories of the women who'd unknowingly starred in the rape and bondage videos made him stone hard. Wrapping his fingers around his penis, he watched the writer sleep. Her tossing and turning caused her to kick off the sheet and made the red silk nightshirt hitch high up on her hip. When her hand unconsciously slipped between her legs, his throbbing sex convulsed feverishly.

It was obvious the little gal needed a real man. And hot damn, he had just the one in mind.

The anticipation was all it took to make him come.

 

After a restless night spent dreaming of Cash, Chelsea woke up tired and cranky. But as she stood under the shower, willing the water to wake her up, her mind drifted back to that strange encounter with Mildred Landis in the garden. Even as Chelsea reminded herself that her job was to tell Roxanne's story—in Roxanne's words—the woman's assertions had piqued her natural curiosity. So much so, that while Roxanne was taking her daily swim, Chelsea decided to seek out Jo.

The filmmaker was in her room, her attention glued to a portable television.

“I hope I'm not disturbing your work,” Chelsea said.

“Of course not.” Jo waved her into the room. “I was just watching the tape of yesterday's visit to Belle Terre.

Chelsea looked at the screen just in time to catch a close-up of the laborer who'd been leering at her.

“God, that guy is creepy,” Jo muttered, unknowingly echoing Chelsea's thoughts. “I'll definitely have to edit him out.” She pointed the remote control toward the television, darkening the screen. “What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering how much research you did on Roxanne before you arrived here in Raintree to begin taping.”

“I located some early interviews. And her agent gave me some tapes of television appearances.”

“But nothing else? Nothing about her years before she became famous?”

“Since there was no reason for her to be interviewed before she was famous, all I know about her early years is what she's told me,” Jo said. “And most of that is already public knowledge.”

“The story about her parents dying in that car crash in Switzerland? And her being raised by doting servants in some rural alpine village until she returned to the States to go to college?”

“That's about it.”

“Didn't you think it was strange? That none of her parents' family took her in?”

“I thought it was a little unusual at first,” Jo allowed. “But Roxanne explained that the Swiss woman had been her nurse for years. And her husband was their chauffeur. Apparently her parents' will provided for them to have a comfortable living so long as they continued to care for her. Which was a pretty good deal.”

“It might have been a good deal for the servants,” Chelsea argued with a frown. All morning she'd been thinking of what Jeb had told her about southerners' strong feelings concerning their roots. And families. “But Roxanne is a southerner. And I've gotten the impression that down here south of the Mason-Dixon line, family takes care of family.

“A little girl is orphaned and no one comes forward to
claim her. Not even some maiden aunt she never knew she had. Don't you think that's a little odd?”

“Odd, perhaps,” Jo admitted. “But not impossible.”

“So, you're just going to buy the story—hook, line and sinker? You're not going to investigate her past?”

Jo's normally perky expression turned puzzled. “I'm not taping “60 Minutes,” Chelsea. I'm merely filming a documentary on Roxanne's inimitable style. On how she achieved success and why millions of women strive to emulate her.”

“Even if she's a fraud?”

“Are you implying she lied about her past?”

“Not lying,” Chelsea hedged. “Perhaps embellishing is a better word.”

“Everyone embellishes.” Jo shrugged. “We're talking about a woman who teaches other women how to gild pine cones,” she stated matter-of-factly. “It's not as if Roxanne is running for president. If she does have some skeletons rattling around in her past, I suppose it's her right to keep the closet door shut.”

“There you are!” Roxanne's appearance in the open door forestalled Chelsea from answering. “I've been looking everywhere for you girls.” Her patented smile did not reach her eyes, making Chelsea wonder just how long she'd been standing there. And what, if anything, she'd overheard. “I'm ready for my interview.”

Chelsea knew that her father would not have let the matter drop. Dylan Cassidy would have locked onto the story like a pit bull on a particularly juicy bone and not let go.

But as she went back downstairs with Jo and Roxanne, Chelsea reminded herself that she'd gone out of her way not to fall into the trap of trying to follow in her father's
too large footsteps. She was inclined to agree with Jo. If it wasn't for that strange anonymous note she'd received her first night in Raintree. And Mildred Landis's admittedly unreliable accusation.

T
he rest of the week continued in the same pattern, with Chelsea following Roxanne from her house to Belle Terre, back to the house, trying to fit in interviews whenever possible.

“Of course I realize I have critics,” Roxanne told Chelsea late Friday afternoon. The fabric swatches and wallpaper samples Dorothy had spent the day acquiring from various Savannah wholesalers covered the conference table. “But I don't pay any attention to them.”

“Aren't you at least hurt—or irritated—by what they say about you?” Chelsea asked carefully. Although she hadn't seen any indication of Roxanne's temper, she continued to remain on guard.

“Of course not.” Roxanne turned toward Jo, who was busy adjusting the lighting at the other side of the room.

“Is your camera on, Jo, dear?” Roxanne asked.

“Of course, Roxanne.”

When wasn't it on? Chelsea wondered. The documentary filmmaker, who always seemed to be hovering somewhere
nearby, had already taped enough footage to rival the length of
Gone With the Wind.

“Good.” Roxanne nodded, satisfied. “Because I want to make certain this gets into our little film.” She folded her hands in her lap and looked directly at the lens. “My critics don't understand the power of dreams. Fortunately, my readers do.

“Those people who have described me as the hostess from hell, or the Diva of Domesticity, are those same people who've bought into the myth that modern 90s women aren't interested in beauty or comfort.”

She leaned forward in her chair. “I'll be the first to admit that life is far more complex for women today. I certainly don't spend my days lounging around on a satin chaise, eating Godiva truffles and drinking Dom Pérignon. I work hard.

“But I'm not alone. I often think about the woman who spends all day on her feet, ringing up people's groceries, who goes home to a family who doesn't care that her arches are aching and her head is splitting. They're hungry. They want dinner.

“The nurse who's running an emergency room, juggling child care and taking care of her aged parents puts in more hours in a day than the average Fortune 500 company CEO. And she's still expected to help with homework.

“All over America, women are working harder and achieving less satisfaction. Free time has almost disappeared from their lexicon.”

“Isn't that one of the issues your critics raise?” Chelsea interjected carefully. “That the nurse who's trying to cook hamburgers while coaching her kid for the upcoming spelling bee and trying to find someone to take her mother a hot meal every day doesn't have time to bake homemade Christmas cookies. Let alone wrap them in gold leaf.”

“Lord, I am beginning to wish I'd never suggested that gold leaf,” Roxanne flared. Out of the corner of her eye Chelsea viewed Jo preparing to stop filming. But Roxanne managed, with a visible effort, to compose herself.

“Of course I don't expect everyone to follow my suggestions exactly. That particular project was designed to force my publishers to use all color photos.”

“I don't understand.”

“Of course you don't, dear,” Roxanne said patiently. “Which is why I'm going to explain it to you. When I first came up with the concept of marketing my style suggestions in coffee table book form, my publishers—who were incredibly shortsighted number crunchers, by the way—could not believe that modern, career-oriented women cared about creating a nice environment.

“Which, of course, is ridiculous, because years ago, women were taught to create a peaceful, appealing home for their husbands to escape to after a long hard day at the office. My question is, why shouldn't women deserve the same retreatlike atmosphere when they return home?”

“Perhaps they deserve it,” Chelsea agreed. “But there are a lot of women out there who'd tell you that what they need is a wife to take care of all those niceties they don't have time for.”

“You have to set the table,” Roxanne argued. “Why not use attractive china and cutlery? And how long does it take to pick up a bouquet of daisies at the supermarket on the way home, and put them in a nice little depression glass tumbler in the center of the table?”

“But you go beyond that.”

“Well, of course. If I didn't, I would have been a one-book author.” She gave Chelsea a placid, self-satisfied smile. “My fifteen books have sold millions of copies, and every single one is still in print.
Southern Comforts
maga
zine sells nearly two million copies each issue, and the advertising revenues are up ninety-four percent from when the magazine launched last year.

“My arrangement with Mega-Mart stores ensures that all those middle-class working women who can't afford sterling, or who weren't fortunate to inherit it, are still able to set a lovely table with Roxanne Scarbrough's signature flatware.

“And for less money than it costs to take a family of five to the movies, they can also buy a tablecloth and matching napkins for those special Sunday afternoon dinners at home. The designed to mix-and-match stoneware is also quite affordable.”

She crossed her legs and sat back in the chair again. “There will always be those provincial New Yorkers who dress as if they're going to a funeral every day of their lives, who live in their miserable little rabbit warrens in filthy canyons where the sun never shines, who somehow feel superior because they live in Manhattan.

“And each morning, they trudge their way through the filthy streets, stepping over those poor unfortunate homeless people who they no longer even see, to ride the subway to some miserable job working on a newspaper or magazine, where they attempt to eke out some personal satisfaction by trashing others who choose not to buy into the eastern seaboard mentality.

“There is nothing I can do to make these people appreciate my efforts. Although I must say, that if they incorporated just a little bit of the Roxanne Scarbrough style into their lives, they'd undoubtedly feel cheerier. But of course, that could result in their losing their jobs. Jobs that require them to look down their noses at anything they can't understand.”

“You make it sound so depressing,” Chelsea murmured,
thinking that although her own life in Manhattan was not so unrelentingly bleak, Roxanne had hit pretty close to home.

“It is. And that's exactly my point. Women don't have to live such bleak existences. Not if they'd listen to me. And let me help them.”

“Surely you don't believe that all it takes for a woman to achieve domestic bliss is imagination and a glue gun?”

Roxanne surprised her by laughing at that. “That's precisely what I'm saying. You'll see, Chelsea,” she said. “We'll make a southern belle out of you yet.”

That idea was so preposterous, Chelsea laughed.

But later that night, as she soaked in the special herbal bath salts Roxanne had insisted she take back to the hotel with her, and ate her way through the little gilt-wrapped box of white chocolate brownies that had also been pressed upon her as she'd left the house for the day, she had to admit there was something to be said for pampering.

 

It was nearly midnight. After going over the plans for hours, Cash decided it was time to call it a day.

“I think we've done about all we can for tonight, Roxanne,” he said, rolling up the set of working drawings.

“Do you have to leave? We haven't finished with the kitchen cabinets.”

That was true. They had, however, managed to add a pantry, eliminate the narrow hallway, as he'd suggested doing in the first place, and added a mudroom that prevented having to walk directly into the expanded kitchen from outdoors. Personally, Cash didn't feel that was such a bad night's work.

“I think I've got the idea of the new changes you want,” he assured her. “It won't take that long to finish the specs.”

“Fine. You can show them to me tomorrow evening.”
She pulled a long slender cigarette from the gold mesh case on the table between them. Cash leaned forward to light it for her.

Roxanne inhaled. “Vernon Gibbons is jetting in from Nashville for an afternoon meeting and I've invited him to dinner,” she said on a blue cloud of smoke. “Since his store will be carrying knockoffs of many of the furnishings and accessories, naturally he's interested in our progress.”

“I'm afraid I'm going to have to pass on dinner.”

“Oh?” Her perfectly shaped brow arched. Her red lips drew into a tight line as she inhaled more deeply on the cigarette.

“I'm going to New York to check out a house on Long Island that's being demolished. The millwork is from the same time period as Belle Terre. I thought I might be able to pick up some interior doors. And, if we're lucky, get enough crown molding to replace what's rotted in the library and dining room.”

“Oh.” Appeased, she relaxed her expression. She put the cigarette out in an ashtray, stood up with a lazy grace, then, as if tired from a long day of work, began rubbing at the small of her back. Cash suspected the gesture, which caused her full breasts to press against her royal blue silk blouse, was done for his benefit.

“The house used to be owned by a Vanderbilt,” he said. “Wish me luck, I'm hoping for wonderful things.”

“So am I.” Before he could perceive her intentions, she twined her arms around his neck and lifted her lips to his.

Her mouth was lush and wet. As she pressed her voluptuous body against him, her scent, dark and sexy, surrounded him. When her tongue trailed a circle of sparks around his mouth, Cash had no doubt that this was a game Roxanne played often. And well.

“Roxanne.” After removing her arms from around his
neck, he put his hands on her waist and broke the contact of their bodies. “You're an incredibly sexy woman—”

“And you're an incredibly sexy man.” She smiled and pressed a pampered hand against his chest. Her nails gleamed like rubies beneath the sparkling glitter of the chandelier.

“And it's not that I don't find you appealing. Hell, any man would—”

“Why do I hear a
but
in there?” Her eyes turned as cool as frost.

“I don't believe in mixing work and pleasure.”

“That's not what I hear.” Her finger slipped between two shirt buttons. Her bright nail teased across his skin. “Marian Fuller told me that as good as you were designing corporate boardrooms, you were even better in the bedroom.”

He sighed, telling himself that he should not be all that surprised by her revelation. She'd told him she'd checked him out. That being the case, it was inevitable she'd run into a few women from his less than sterling past in San Francisco.

“That was a long time ago. And since then I've decided that getting emotionally involved with a client—”

“Or a client's wife,” she interjected, drawing a bit of blood by pointing out exactly what an unprincipled bastard he'd been in his younger years.

“Or a client's wife,” he agreed gruffly. The admission had him comparing his own behavior with that of Chelsea's worm of a fiancé. Although he hated to admit it, he didn't come off all that well himself. When Roxanne turned her attention to another button, he caught her wrist, retrieved her hand and held it between both of his to keep it out of trouble.

“The thing is, I came to the conclusion that mixing sex and work only complicates things.”

“Not if the parties involved take it for what it is,” Roxanne argued. “No strings. No commitments.” Her eyes were liquid pools of enticement as she looked up at him. When she touched the tip of her tongue to her top lip, the move so blatantly sexual as to be almost a caricature, Cash had to restrain himself from laughing. “I'm not that bad in bed, myself, Cash.”

He had no doubt of that. He also suddenly realized how a male black widow must feel on his wedding night.

“I believe that's probably one huge understatement, Roxanne. But I'm still afraid I'm going to have to pass.”

“I could get a new architect.”

“You could.” He decided there was no point in reminding her that they had a contract. “But you're not going to find one who'll do as good a job on your house. Not to mention the fact that all those hours of tape your little filmmaker has taken of us working together would have to be tossed out.”

She looked up at him, studying him thoughtfully. “Marian also said you were extremely intelligent. She failed to mention you were principled.”

“That's probably because she never saw all that much evidence of any principles. As I said, that was a long time ago.”

The dry humor in Cash's tone soothed her irritation and embarrassment and proved contagious, causing Roxanne to laugh.

“You've no idea how much that makes me wish I'd met you when you were younger.” Proving that she was nothing if not tenacious, Roxanne placed a hand against his cheek. “You realize, that after Belle Terre is renovated, I'll no longer be your client.”

Sherman's ghost would be invited to afternoon tea at Belle Terre before he allowed himself to get personally in
volved with this woman. Before Cash could think of something to say that would let her down gently, the library door opened.

“I'm sorry.” Embarrassed color, like a fever, flooded from the collar of Jo's flowing black blouse up to her short, spiky brunette hair. “I didn't mean to interrupt.”

“That's all right, dear,” Roxanne said on a sigh that underlined her surrender. “Cash was just leaving.” Switching gears once again, she said, “Which will give me the opportunity to view the tape of my interview with Chelsea that you shot this afternoon.”

As he escaped the house, Cash found himself tempted to drive over to the inn. Although Chelsea would undoubtedly be in bed at this late hour, the idea of her warm and sleep tousled was unreasonably appealing. And her defenses would undoubtedly be down.