Southern Comforts by Joann Ross Read Free Book Online Page B

when working to clinch a deal. Refusing to be steamrollered into anything, she lifted her chin in a stubborn angle.
    â€œI’ll have to think about it.”
    â€œOf course.” Mary Lou sat back in her chair and gave Chelsea a pleased, satisfied smile. “And while you’re thinking, why don’t you get out of this terrible weather?”
    â€œGood idea. Why don’t you call my editor and have her assign me an article about snorkeling in the Bahamas.”
    â€œActually, I had somewhere closer in mind. Roxanne thought you might want an opportunity to speak with her personally, at her home in Georgia, before coming to a decision. I agreed it was a good idea. She would, of course, pay all your travel expenses.”
    Promising to give Mary Lou an answer by the end of the week, Chelsea left the office. As she dashed through the cold rain toward the battered yellow cab the doorman had hailed for her, Chelsea couldn’t deny that the idea of a few days spent lying poolside in a warm southern sun sounded more than a little appealing.
    It would also allow her a breather from her recent nonstop schedule. It would force a time-out in her ongoing argument with Nelson. Just the memory of how she’d spent the weekend had her digging in her bag for her roll of antacids.
    Despite the French toast—which unsurprisingly, hadn’t turned out nearly as well as when Roxanne had prepared it for Joan Lundon—despite the fact that she’d told him time and time again that she was a print journalist, he’d spent the entire two days pushing the idea of her “branching out” into television.
    As she chewed the chalky tablets she seemed to be living on these days, it crossed Chelsea’s mind that the concentration required by ghostwriting Roxanne Scarbrough’s biography could take her mind off her problems.
    While giving her a whole set of new ones, Chelsea considered as Roxanne’s furious eyes and pursed lips came to mind.
    Â 
    Raintree
    It was the house that cotton built. Constructed in 1837, prior to the Civil War, it was the same Greek Revival style made familiar the world over by the most famous movie ever made about the South. Twenty-two Doric columns—three feet in circumference and forty feet high, Cash estimated—surrounded the two-story house, eight in front, and seven on either side.
    â€œThe walls are eighteen inches thick.” Roxanne ran her hand over the exterior facing. “And the bricks were made right here on the property.”
    â€œBy slave labor.”
    She shot him a surprised, faintly censorious look. “That wasn’t unusual for the time.”
    â€œUnfortunately, you’re right.” Deciding that if he was going to allow political correctness to enter into his business decisions—especially in this part of the country—he’d be broke before the end of the year, Cash put aside his discomfort with how the house had been constructed.
    â€œYour porch is crumbling.” He put a booted foot on one of the boards, crushing it like an eggshell. “It’s about to cave in.”
    â€œSo we’ll replace it. Surely that shouldn’t be so difficult.”
    â€œNo. But it’s the first thing that will have to be done, or workers won’t be able to get into the place safely.”
    â€œI hadn’t thought of that.” She rewarded him with an admiring look. “How clever of you.”
    â€œNot clever. I’m just not wild about the idea of having some plasterer break his neck.”
    Before risking the porch, he spent a long time examining the foundation. It appeared to be solid. And the cracks could be easily fixed.
    â€œI realize you’ve already had an engineering report,” he said, looking up at the massive columns. “And the foundation certainly looks secure. But since these are supporting the roof, I’ll want them professionally inspected, as well.”
    â€œI