Southern Comforts by Joann Ross

it.”
    â€œHow innovative of you,” Roxanne said. “I’m quite impressed with your ambition.”
    â€œI’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?”
    â€œLike 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.
    â€œI have always had a deep visceral need to be surrounded by beautiful things.”
    â€œWell, you’ve certainly managed to do that,” Jo pipedup 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.
    â€œThis 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.
    â€œActually, Nelson prefers golf.”
    â€œA 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.”
    â€œNever 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 thecaffeine 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.”
    â€œI do wish you were staying in one of the guest rooms,” Roxanne complained. “Then you’d only have to go upstairs to bed.”
    â€œIt’s so convenient,” Jo said, revealing that she was ensconced somewhere upstairs. “And far nicer than any hotel.”
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œI’ll drive Chelsea to the inn.”
    The declaration affected Chelsea like a jolt of adrenaline.
    â€œThat’s not necessary,” she and Roxanne said together.
    â€œReally, Cash,” Roxanne continued, “it’s Dorothy’s job. For