Southern Comforts

“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.