Southern Comforts (5 page)

“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 an
other 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.

What would have happened, Cash wondered, if she'd agreed to go to San Francisco with him that night? Would they have gotten married? Would he have become successful—and in turn, rich enough—to turn his back on the career he'd sought with such single-minded determination, to return home to his roots?

Hell.
Reminding himself that Sunday morning quarterbacking was an amateur sport, and that thinking about might have beens was for losers, Cash returned his thoughts back to Roxanne's running monologue.

“Of course the poor man couldn't possibly live in the house,” she was saying. “Not after having received such a crushing emotional blow. Not to mention such a public humiliation.”

As he ran his fingers through the dust coating a nearby window, Cash murmured something that could have been an agreement.

“So he sold it to Ezekial Berry. Who was, of course, a descendant of the Virginia Berrys of Atlanta. His wife, Jane, was one of the Chattahoochee Valley Fitzgeralds. She was pregnant with their first child at the time.”

There was simply no escaping it.
Who are your people?
Cash decided that the old European aristocracy had nothing on southerners when it came to tracking ancestral blood-lines.

He wondered how anxious Roxanne Scarbrough would be to work with him if she knew his background. “The
window glass has lost a lot of glazing,” he said. “But the majority of it, at least on this floor, seems in good shape.”

“Well, that's good news.”

“It could be all you're going to get.” He crossed the room. “The plaster's a mess.” He picked at the cracked and broken wall. “See this?” He plucked out some black fibers and handed them to her.

“They feel a bit like paint brush bristles.”

“Close. It's hair. Curried from the backs of horses or hogs undoubtedly raised on the plantation. Builders used it to help hold the plaster together.”

“How ingenious.”

“It's also expensive to replace.”

“Surely they don't use hog hair any longer?”

“No. Although, the technique's the same, with plaster or strands of Fiberglas in place of the hair. But a good plaster man is hard to find these days. And when you can find one, he doesn't come cheap.”

She tossed the black hairs onto the scarred wooden floor. “I told you, Mr. Beaudine, money is no object.”

Her words reminded Cash that he'd definitely come home to a new South. A booming South. A South on the rise. And riding that tide of economic prosperity were new people, creating new jobs, making new money. And spending it with an enthusiasm that made the old southern aristocracy sit up and take notice.

“Now where have I heard that, before?” he murmured as he squatted down and frowned at the ominous trail of sawdust running along the baseboard.

“In this case it's the truth,” she snapped, abandoning her spun sugar demeanor. “This home is my pièce de résistance. It's the culmination of my life's work. Everything I've done, everything I've struggled for, ends here. There will be,” she
repeated firmly, her eyes as hard as stones, her lips pulled into a thin line, “no expense spared to do this correctly.”

Cash couldn't help being impressed with her resolve. But he was still not entirely convinced. As they finished the tour of the house, risking the treacherous stairs to examine the second floor, he wondered if she realized that this project was a helluva long way from creating the ultimate Easter basket.

“That's another thing.” He leaned against the crumbling wall of the grand entry hall, folded his arms across his chest and looked down at her. “You're going to have to decide whether you want to renovate Belle Terre. Or restore it.”

“Renovate, restore, what's the difference?” She was clearly growing impatient at his unwillingness to embrace her latest enterprise.

“There's a big difference.” As her tone grew more harsh, he purposely kept his mild. “A restoration is a pure as possible replication of a home to its original state. While a renovation is exactly that—rebuilding to update the home with modern conveniences, to make it new again. And if authenticity has to fall by the wayside, too bad.”

Her frown revealed that she'd not exactly thought this little dilemma through. Cash wasn't surprised. He'd discovered that most people had a rather serendipitous view of turning some crumbling ruin into an exact replica of its former glory, while also wanting to toss in a few Jacuzzi tubs, microwave ovens and media walls for comfort and convenience.

“As a purist, I believe I'd favor restoration.” Her gaze slowly circled the high ceilings and hand-carved moldings. “However, having seen the bathrooms, I have to admit that there's a great deal to be said for renovation.”

Her eyes, which revealed intelligence and resolve along with the first sign of concern Cash had witnessed, met his.
“I don't suppose we could combine the two?” she asked hopefully.

“That's usually the way it's done.”

Her relief was palpable. “Then that's what we'll do. This project is incredibly important to me, Mr. Beaudine. I have a film crew on hand to document the reconstruction. I'm also in the process of negotiating with a writer, Chelsea Cassidy, to collaborate on my autobiography, which, will, of course, include the restoration of Belle Terre.”

“Chelsea Cassidy is your biographer?” Having grown up having to fight for everything he'd accomplished, Cash had never been a big believer in fate. The idea of Chelsea coming to Raintree to ghostwrite Roxanne Scarbrough's life story had him reconsidering.

“You know Ms. Cassidy?”

“I read her article in this month's
Vanity Fair.
”

It had managed to be interesting, amusing and insightful. All at the same time. Which had been a surprise. He'd known that Chelsea was intelligent. And ambitious. But since their relationship hadn't included much conversation, he'd failed to realize she was extremely talented outside the bedroom.

“Considering her lightweight subject matter, the article was quite entertaining,” Roxanne sniffed. “She does, however, happen to be the most sought after writer in her field. It's quite a coup that she's agreed to write my life story.”

Roxanne failed to even consider the possibility that Chelsea might refuse the assignment.

“Won't it be difficult to collaborate?” Cash asked. “With her living in New York and you here in Raintree?”

One thing he didn't want to do was to agree to take on such a Herculean restoration project only to discover that the owner of the house was spending most of her time in the
Big Apple instead of where she belonged—on the job site making decisions.

“I'm sure it would be, if that's the way we were working,” Roxanne agreed. “However, I intend for Ms. Cassidy to move into my house with me. That way, I can continue to oversee the restoration of Belle Terre and she can get a true feel for who I am. And how I work.”

It was the truth, so far as it went. The one part of her answer that was an out-and-out lie was the idea that anyone would learn the truth about who she really was.

That idea brought back George Waggoner's letter. And caused another bubble of icy panic.

“We should discuss my fees,” Cash said. “I'm not inexpensive.”

“I didn't expect you to be. I demand the best, Mr. Beaudine. And am willing to pay for it. I was also told by your other clients that you usually work on an hourly basis, rather than a flat fee.”

So she'd checked him out. That wasn't so surprising, Cash decided. It also revealed that she had a sensible head on those silk-clad shoulders. Since his return to Georgia, he'd had more than one prospective customer want to hire him simply because of his illustrious reputation.

And then there were always those lonely wives who were more than willing to have their husbands pay to knock down walls and change roof lines while they received a little personal fix up in the bedroom.

Those jobs Cash had steadfastly refused.

“Flat fees are easier to calculate with new construction because there aren't so many surprises. With renovations, hourly fees seem to work best. Another way we can do it, since we're probably going to exceed whatever schedule we come up with by several weeks in a project this big, is for
me to bill you twenty percent of the total construction costs.”

“I believe I prefer that last option,” she mused. “However, we'd have to negotiate the payment schedule.”

“Of course.”

“And what extras you intend to bill for. Such as which of us pays for inspections, blueprints, telephone calls, fax charges and such.”

“You've done your homework.”

“Of course. I didn't reach the heights I've reached by being foolish about money, Mr. Beaudine.”

Cash nodded. “I'm beginning to understand that, Miz Scarbrough.”

“Then do we have an agreement?”

He glanced around the house, thought about the challenge it represented and knew that it could be a pile of crumbling bricks covered with Spanish moss and kudzu vines and he'd have no choice but to take it on, now that Chelsea was part of the picture.

“If we can work out the details,” he said, not wanting to let Roxanne think she could win the upper hand that easily.

She waved off his qualification. The diamonds adorning her fingers and wrists glistened like ice in the late afternoon sun streaming through windows in need of reglazing. “I'm sure there'll be no problem.” She held out her hand. “Shall we shake on agreeing to come to an agreement, at least?”

Cash took her outstretched hand. “Looks like you've just hired yourself an architect.”

Arizona

George Waggoner sat in the seat of the Greyhound bus speeding across the Sonoran Desert, stared blearily out the
window and decided that this had to be the shit ugliest country he'd ever seen. It was all dirt. And rocks. Hell, it reminded him of somethin' a tom cat would crap in.

“And on the eighth day, God looked down, slapped his forehead and said, hot damn, I finally found the place to put the world's litter box.”

Enjoying his little joke, he chuckled, which in turn drew a nervous smile from the young woman sitting across the aisle from him. George glared back.

Another goddamn slant-eye. Just like the one behind him. And the wrinkled up, yellow-skinned old bitch in front of him. Christ, the entire country was being overrun with the chinks, wetbacks and rag heads. Pretty soon there wouldn't be any room left for the real Americans. He took a slug from the bottle of rotgut whiskey he had wrapped in a paper bag and waited for the kick.

They weren't like the niggers back home, either. Back in Georgia, blacks with any brains at all could take one look at him and know that it was better just to stay the hell out of his way.

But these assholes were different. They were pushy. All the time crowding in where they didn't belong, talkin' their gibberish about Christ knew what.

Hell. It was bad enough that the government didn't do anything about keeping them out. Personally, if he was the president, he'd go on television and declare a national hunting day on immigrants. Make a bundle off sellin' the hunting tags that would pay off the national debt, and let good old boys like George Waggoner take care of the problem.

And not just a day, he decided. Hell, just pass a constitutional amendment making it open season on everyone who wasn't a red-blooded American. That'd be a guaran-goddam-teed way to solve the problem.

He took another pull from the bottle. Then pointed his
index finger at the woman across the aisle, aimed and pulled the trigger. In his mind's eye, he received a certain satisfaction from imagining that sloped head explode like an overripe crenshaw melon dropped onto the sidewalk from the top of the prison tower.

She gasped, her gaze locked on his, like a scared mouse hypnotized by a swaying cobra. Enjoying the fantasy, and her fear, he winked.

Visibly trembling, she jumped to her feet and hurried back up the aisle to the rest room. George barked a cigarette-roughened laugh that degenerated into a rattling cough. Then he settled back in the seat, returned to his bottle and contemplated the look on little ole Cora Mae Padgett's face when he showed up on the doorstep of Roxanne Scarbrough's fancy mansion.

New York

A
lthough Chelsea's suit was comparatively restrained, the emerald color proved a stunning foil for her brilliant hair. As she dashed into the Plaza's Palm Court, heads swiveled, watching her make a beeline for a table across the way.

“I'm sorry I'm late.” She bent down and kissed her mother's cheek. “I didn't think I'd ever get out of that interview with Bruce Willis.”

Deidre Lowell managed a brittle smile. “You could have simply informed the man that you had a luncheon date with your mother.”

Chelsea grinned, still riding the high of her successful morning. “I suppose I could have tried that,” she agreed. “But then I would have missed the neatest story about the day he and Demi took the kids to the zoo, and—”

“I'm sure it's a delightful tale,” Deidre cut her off. “However, I have an appointment for a facial at two, and
since I don't dare keep Rodica waiting, I suggest you sit down and order.”

The cool, perfectly rounded tones were all it took to puncture the little bubble of happiness Chelsea had been riding due to her successful morning. She'd discovered at an early age that unless she tried very hard to avoid it, conversations with her mother usually resulted in her apologizing. A bit resentful at feeling like a chastised six year old, she did as instructed.

They managed to exchange a bit of small talk about her mother's book club group and numerous charitable activities while they waited for their orders to be delivered. By the time their salads and cups of Earl Grey tea were delivered, Chelsea had actually begun to relax. Which was, of course, always a mistake.

Deidre's gaze swept over her. “You know, dear,” she said, “you really need to get your hair trimmed. You're starting to look like the Longworths' sheepdog, what was his name? Mercedes?”

“Bentley. And I've been busy.” Hating herself for falling into old patterns, Chelsea brushed her bangs out of her eyes.

“So Nelson has been telling me. He says your career has been taking up a great deal of time recently.”

Chelsea would have had to have been deaf not to hear the scorn her mother had heaped on the word
career.
She told herself that one of these days she was going to get used to the unwavering disapproval.

After all, her mother had made her feelings known from the beginning. In fact, frustrated by a teenage Chelsea's total lack of interest in proper pastimes such as dancing school at the Colony Club, tennis at the Meadow Club, and regattas at Newport, Deidre Lowell had shipped her off to Switzerland to be schooled in womanly graces.

Those four years in exile, which were, thus far, the worst
experience of her life. Even worse than her mother's bitter divorce from Chelsea's father when she was six. Or the death of Dylan Cassidy when she was ten.

Rather than deter her daughter from her chosen goal, all Deidre Lowell (she'd long since dropped the
Cassidy
acquired upon her ill-fated marriage to Chelsea's father) managed to do was make the flame burn hotter. Brighter. It was during those years when she'd been banished abroad that writing became the only fixed star in Chelsea's firmament.

“It's been hectic,” Chelsea allowed. “But I'd rather be too busy, than have no work at all.”

Her mother didn't answer. But the way her lips drew into a tight disapproving line spoke volumes.

“Nelson said you're going to write a book about Roxanne Scarbrough.”

“I'm considering it.”

“Who on earth would buy such a book?”

“Perhaps all those millions of people who buy her life-style books,” Chelsea said mildly. She refused to be drawn into a position of defending a woman she didn't even like.

“She's nouveau riche.”

“I don't know about the nouveau. But you've got the rich part right.”

“Honestly, Chelsea.” Deidre frowned and took a sip of tea from the gilt-rimmed cup. “Must you joke about everything?”

“I'm sorry. It's just that I'm not sure people care about things like that anymore, mother.”

“I believe you're right.”

“You do?” Chelsea took a sip of her own tea and contemplated ordering champagne instead. After all, any occasion when she and her mother actually found something to agree about should be celebrated.

“Of course. And that,” Deidre said stiffly, “is precisely
what's wrong with this country. People have lost all sense of values.”

“I don't believe gilding a few pomegranates will lead to the downfall of western civilization,” Chelsea argued lightly.

“Laugh if you want to, but the woman is a menace. Would you believe that I found Tillie in the kitchen, watching her television program and practicing folding napkins into the shapes of swans?”

“That is hard to believe.” Chelsea decided that if the longtime Lowell housekeeper, a woman infamous for having things her own way had actually become a fan, it was no wonder Roxanne topped the
NYT
bestseller list week after week.

“I nearly had a heart attack,” Deidre, who'd never been known for overstatement, said grimly. “I really don't believe you should encourage such things, Chelsea.”

“I haven't made up my mind whether I'm going to take the offer, Mother.”

“An interview with some self-appointed style maven is not exactly on a par with achieving world peace,” Deidre stated in the superior tone Chelsea knew well.

“True enough. But it could be important to me. It could mean a lot of national publicity.”

“That's precisely what disturbs me,” Deidre complained. “All this striving to get your name in the magazines. And newspapers. Good grief, Chelsea, you sound just like your father.”

Despite her frustration, that icy remark drew a quick grin. “I'm going to take that as a compliment.”

“You would.” Deidre shook her blond head. “I don't understand you.”

“I know.” And never had, Chelsea tacked on silently. “And as much as I'd love to try to explain it to you again,
you have a facial to get to. And I have to try to track down John Kennedy Jr. I heard the most amazing story this morning—”

“You know I refuse to listen to Kennedy gossip, Chelsea,” Deidre cut her off.

“I know, but—”

“Joe Kennedy was nothing but a shanty Irish bootlegger who married above himself. Even though Rose was Catholic, she could have done much better.”

“I know you believe that—”

“It's the truth. However, speaking of marriage, when are you and Nelson going to start planning your wedding?”

“How about the year 2002?”

“I do so hate it when you're flippant, Chelsea.”

Chelsea sighed. All her life she'd been inexorably maneuvered into an alliance between the Lowell and Waring families. Recalling all too well the acrimonious fights that had shattered her parents' marriage, Chelsea had feared repeating their mistakes. But whenever she tried to explain her concerns, Nelson would calmly point out that since Warings never fought, she had nothing to worry about. Even knowing that was true, Chelsea was still not ready to take the risk of making their relationship permanent.

“Nelson agrees we should wait. If nothing else, there's my trust fund to consider.”

“I don't know what was in your great-grandmother's mind when she came up with that ridiculous restriction. However, it's not as if you really need the money since Nelson is certainly well off in his own right. And the longer you wait to start your family, the more difficult it will be to bear children.”

Chelsea decided this was no time to point out that Rose Kennedy was forty-two when the youngest of her eight children had been born.

“I'm not ready to have children, mother,” she repeated what she'd already said so many times before. Although her mother didn't appear to have a maternal bone in her body, lately she'd begun to display a very strong sense of dynasty. “Right now it's all I can do to juggle my career.”

“Well, of course you'd hire a nanny,” Deidre said. “If you insist on continuing your work, a child needn't interfere with your writing. Or your life.”

“I have no intention of handing my child, when I do have one, over to some stranger.”

Having grown up in the rarified world of nannies and housekeepers and private schools, Chelsea had vowed to create a better, warmer world for her own children. She was looking forward to baking cookies, volunteering at school carnivals and attending Little League games. Just not now.

Deidre arched a perfectly shaped blond brow. “I suppose that criticism is directed at me?”

“No.” Chelsea took a deep breath. Why was it that conversations with her mother always turned out like this, she wondered miserably. “Of course not. I only meant that I wanted to be a more hands-on kind of mom.”

“That's what you say now.” Deidre gave her daughter a knowing look across the table. “The first time you change a diaper or go hours without sleep because of a teething baby, you may change your mind.”

The idea of Deidre Lowell dirtying her manicured hands by changing a diaper made Chelsea smile. “I guess that's a risk I'm going to have to take.”

“Again, I'm not surprised. You always have been a risk-taker, Chelsea.” She put her napkin down onto the table and stood up, prepared to leave. “Just like your father.”

As before, she did not make it sound like a compliment. Having apologized enough for one day, Chelsea took it as one.

After a week of uncharacteristic vacillation—during which time she changed her mind at least a dozen times, although she still had misgivings about the proposal—Chelsea decided to take Roxanne Scarbrough up on her offer to visit Raintree, Georgia.

Since Raintree was too small for its own airfield, Chelsea was required to land in Savannah. From the air, the riverside city looked like an island, surrounded by pine forests and salt marshes. As the plane touched down on the runway, Chelsea, who'd never considered herself at all psychic, started to shake inside, like a tuning fork trembling at a discordant chord.

As promised, Roxanne's assistant was waiting for her as she exited the jetway.

“Hello, Ms. Cassidy,” Dorothy Landis greeted her with a welcoming smile. “It's good to see you again.”

“Hi. It's good to be here.” That wasn't exactly the truth, but Chelsea was trying to keep an open mind.

“Ms. Scarbrough is so pleased you decided to take her up on her offer to visit us. She's personally prepared the guest suite for your arrival.”

Being forced into meeting with the doyenne of decorating was one thing. Spending even one night under the same roof with the unpleasant woman was decidedly less than appealing.

“I'd planned to check into a hotel,” Chelsea hedged as they made their way through the passengers crowding the terminal.

When Mary Lou had assured her all the arrangements had been made, she'd conveniently withheld this vital bit of information. Chelsea decided she and her agent were going to have to have a little chat when she returned to New York.

The friendliness momentarily disappeared from the assistant's eyes, leaving behind the hard edge Chelsea had wit
nessed in the greenroom. “That's certainly not necessary. Besides, Ms. Scarbrough insists you stay with her.”

“Then I'm afraid Ms. Scarbrough's going to be disappointed.”

Dorothy gave her a long, thoughtful look. Then, apparently recognizing tenacity when she saw it, shrugged her acquiescence.

“Raintree has a lovely old inn. We'll stop there on the way to the house.” That matter settled, Roxanne's assistant turned to more practical concerns. “Let's retrieve your luggage, then we can be on our way.”

“We can skip the baggage claim.”

“Surely you brought more than this single bag. And your—uh—purse.”

Chelsea almost laughed at the disparaging look Dorothy gave her well-worn leather duffel bag. The same bag her mother had once declared to resemble a pregnant sow. “It's all I need. Since I'm not going to be here all that long.” Chelsea figured it would probably take twenty-four hours, tops, to confirm that there was no way she would be able to work with Roxanne Scarbrough.

“Oh, dear.” Dorothy's pale hazel eyes held little seeds of worry. “Ms. Scarbrough was expecting you to stay at least the week.”

“It appears this is Ms. Scarbrough's day for disappointments.”

Dorothy gave her a judicial sideways glance. “Do you know, I believe we may have misjudged you,” she murmured. “I'm getting the impression that you're a great deal tougher than you appeared the morning we met in New York.”

“Unlike your employer, appearing on national television isn't exactly a normal, everyday occurrence for me.”

“Ms. Scarbrough certainly has a great deal of media ex
perience,” Dorothy agreed mildly. “In fact, a television crew is in Raintree, taping a documentary on her career.”

An autobiography and a documentary. Chelsea couldn't decide whether to be appalled or impressed that the woman whose sole claim to fame was arranging flowers and setting luxurious life-style standards no mortal woman could possibly hope to achieve could have been put on such a lofty pop culture pedestal.

The setting sun stained the sky over Savannah the hue of a ripe plum. The air was perfumed with the scent of flowers and a hint of salt drifting in from the marshes surrounding the city, and the sea, which was twelve miles down the winding Savannah River. The lovely old houses with their great verandas and lacy railings and fences reminded her of New Orleans.

“This is truly lovely,” Chelsea said as they drove through the city.

“It is, isn't it?” Dorothy said. “There's a local saying that Savannah is a lady who keeps her treasures polished for the pleasure of her guests.

“The city was originally established in 1733, by James Oglethorpe, to practice agrarian equality. The idea was that the goods the settlers produced would be sent back to enrich the British Empire.