Unfortunately, she’d been wrong.
The dining room was decorated in the same floral style as the rest of the house. Somehow, it managed to be both rich and light at the same time. Like lemon meringue pie. Or an airy puff pastry filled with rich, sweetened cream.
The curved legs of the Queen Anne table and spiderweb-backed chairs were distinctly feminine and vaguely sensual. The carpet was a monumental achievement of Persian woven art portraying a graceful pattern of curling vinery resting on a butter-toned field. Scattered across the luminous, thick-piled rug were colorful, fanciful birds and prancing dogs. Water lilies, reminiscent of those hanging in the Metropolitan Museum, floated serenely on the mural painted on the far wall. Lighted glass cabinets lined the other walls, filled with floral-patterned china.
“I’m a hopeless flower addict,” Roxanne said over the soft, melodious strains of Chopin piped into the room through concealed speakers as she noticed Chelsea’s study of her collection. “Like Monet, or Renoir, I must be surrounded by flowers.”
“I would imagine that makes you very popular with the local florists.” Chelsea’s gaze was drawn to a lush display of two dozen full-blown pink roses that had been casually, yet artfully arranged in a sterling champagne cooler atop an antique green marble-topped hunt board.
Roxanne laughed, seemingly delighted at the suggestion. “All the best florists in the state know my name.”
“Which isn’t surprising,” Jo said with a burst of youthful admiring enthusiasm. “Since I doubt if there’s anyone in America who isn’t familiar with the name Roxanne Scarbrough.”
“Aren’t you sweet? But I fear that’s an exaggeration, dear.” As a silent servant arrived with their salad plates, Roxanne rewarded the filmmaker with a smile that was a twin of the one she’d flashed so easily at Joan Lundon. “Hopefully, by the time we finish restoring Belle Terre, that will be true.”
The Caesar salad had been dressed in the flavors of the South with peanut oil, country ham and corn bread croutons. It was unusual and delicious.
“I can’t wait for you to see Belle Terre, Chelsea,” Roxanne said as the servant whisked away their empty plates. “It’s such an exciting challenge. And Cash has promised to restore the grand old house to its former glory, haven’t you?”
Chelsea, watching closely, couldn’t help noticing that the bright smile warmed and turned decidedly more intimate as it was turned on the only male in the room. Her first thought was that there was a lot more going on here than just a professional collaboration. Her second thought—and the one that truly concerned her—was why she should even care.
“I’ll give it the old college try.” He returned the smile with a friendly one of his own. And although he wasn’t addressing Chelsea directly, she had no doubt that the college reference was for her benefit. Reminding her of a time she thought she’d put safely behind her. A time when she’d realized she was coming too close to surrendering her heart along with her body. A time when her self-protective instincts had kicked in, making her refuse to look any further than their next clandestine meeting.
“I’m not certain I’ll be staying long enough to see the house,” she said, wanting to put her cards all on the table right now so she wouldn’t end up feeling obligated.
“You never know,” Roxanne said agreeably, surprising Chelsea with her sanguine attitude. Her only sign of discomfort was a faint toying with the ruby-and-diamond ring adorning her right hand. “You wouldn’t be the first northerner to fall in love with Raintree and decide to stay.”
“As lovely as the town is, I sincerely doubt that will happen.” Growing up in Manhattan, Chelsea had always thrived on the pulsating, hectic beat of the city. What New York’s critics called gritty and exhausting, she found energizing.
Ignoring Chelsea’s polite yet firm insistence, Roxanne’s gaze circled the table, including the others. “Ms. Cassidy is a vital link in the chain of our success.” Although her bright smile didn’t fade in wattage, her eyes were two sapphire blades. “We must all do our best to convince her to join us in our little enterprise.”
Once again Chelsea was surprised. She’d expected another tantrum, like the one she’d witnessed in New York. But instead, the woman was being unrelentingly cordial. Even friendly. Obviously, this overt southern hospitality was another carefully staged performance.
Before she could respond, the maid returned with crystal custard bowls of icy lemon sorbet to clear the palate for the next course.
“Tell me, Chelsea,” Roxanne said, “did you always want to be a writer?”
“For as long as I can remember. I’ve been accused of having ink in my veins.” Her father had told her that, Chelsea remembered with a little hitch in her heart. The day after her sixth birthday party. It had been the last thing he’d said to her. Right before he walked out the door of their Park Avenue apartment. Never to return.
“I wrote my first story when I was five years old.” And had illustrated it with crayons on a roll of butcher paper Tillie had brought home one day with an order of lamb chops.
“Imagine.” Roxanne was eyeing Chelsea with the interest an anthropologist might observe a member of a newly discovered Stone Age tribe. “Knowing your own mind at such a young age. I’m quite impressed. But of course, I suppose that had something to do with your father’s influence. Dylan Cassidy must have been quite a role model.”
It was certainly no secret that the Associated Press Pulitzer prize-winning reporter turned Emmy-winning war correspondent was her father. Neither was it common knowledge. Chelsea wondered if Mary Lou had mentioned it, or if Roxanne had done a little investigating on her own.
Her fingers tightened around the sterling handle of her fork. “My father was quite an act to follow.”
“Which is undoubtedly why you chose the type of work you do,” Roxanne decided. “Instead of concentrating on hard news.” Her tone was so smooth, her expression so pleasantly bland, Chelsea couldn’t quite decide whether or not she’d just been insulted.
“Celebrity journalism is safe,” she agreed. “At least most of the time.”
That earned a faint chuckle from Cash. Glancing over at him, he gave her a quick grin of approval she tried not to enjoy.
“It must be exciting,” Jo said, seemingly unaware of the little drama taking place, “going to all those parties with movie stars and famous athletes.”
“Reporting on parties isn’t the same as being invited to them,” Chelsea said.
“Still, I’d imagine it’s a good way to get close to people.”
“It’s one way.” Although glitzy parties did provide Chelsea the access she needed to her subjects, she’d overheard more than one celebrity complain that inviting the press to social events was like giving them a length of rope and inviting them to a hanging party.
“You know, I’ve never met a celebrity journalist before,” Cash said, entering into the conversation. “I have to admit I’m not sure what, exactly, it is you do. Although I suspect it’s not quite the same thing as Hedda Hopper gushing about Joan Crawford’s new fur coat or Elizabeth Taylor’s diamond earrings.”
Chelsea bristled. Then tamped down her knee-jerk response to what she suspected might be sarcasm and decided to take the opportunity to enlighten him, and even more importantly Roxanne, about how she worked.
“Things have definitely changed since the job was created to lionize stars and to enable them to be worshiped by the masses, without being envied. The old movie magazines, of course, were mostly just promotional vehicles for the studios,” she allowed.
“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