Southern Comforts. JoAnn Ross
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 rooflines 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 tomcat 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 restroom. 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.
Chapter Four
New York
Although 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