Southern Comforts. JoAnn Ross
she agreed.
He had to give her credit for having a vivid imagination. The place, which was even more of a challenge than he’d expected, reminded him of the house the Addams family might live in were they to decide to relocate to the old South. But she was already planning balls. Which figured. Balls were a traditional southern event—like high school Friday night football—planned with all the attention that the Joint Chiefs of Staff gave to planning an invasion. And with as much hoopla and pageantry as a New Orleans Mardi Gras.
“The house has a marvelous history,” she told him as she followed him through the rooms. Lacy spiderwebs hung in all the corners, draped over fireplace mantels. “It was built by a young man, Edwin Blount, a distant cousin to Eugenia Blount Lamar.”
The name had been dropped as if he were expected to know it. He didn’t.
“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 another 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 bloodlines.
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