Southern Comforts
Welcome to Raintree, Georgia—steamy capital of sin, scandal and murderTo her fans, Roxanne Scarbrough is the genteel Southern queen of good taste—she’s built an empire around the how-to’s of gracious living. To her critics—and there are many—Roxanne is a tyrant. And now somebody wants her dead. Chelsea Cassidy, Roxanne’s official biographer, knows that Roxanne is determined to keep her dark secrets buried, whatever the cost.But when Chelsea begins to unearth the truth about Roxanne’s life, her search leads her back into the arms of her college love, Cash Beaudine—a man Roxanne wants for herself. And suddenly Chelsea’s investigation takes on a very personal nature—with potentially fatal consequences.
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Welcome to Raintree, Georgia—steamy capital of sin, scandal and murder
To her fans, Roxanne Scarbrough is the genteel Southern queen of good taste—she’s built an empire around the how-to’s of gracious living. To her critics—and there are many—Roxanne is Queen Bitch. And now somebody wants her dead.
Chelsea Cassidy, Roxanne’s official biographer, knows that Roxanne is determined to keep her dark secrets buried, whatever the cost. But when Chelsea begins to unearth the truth about Roxanne’s life, her search leads her back into the arms of her college love, Cash Beaudine—a man Roxanne wants for herself. And suddenly Chelsea’s investigation takes on a very personal nature—with potentially fatal consequences.
Praise for the novels of
“[Ross] masterfully weaves a tale of momentum and curves. Between the intrigue and the steamy romance, you’ll be left breathless.”
—RT Book Reviews on Confessions
“JoAnn Ross takes her audience on a thrilling roller-coaster ride that leaves them breathless.”
—Affaire de Coeur on Confessions
“A steamy, fast-paced read.”
—Publishers Weekly on No Regrets
“A moving story with marvelous characters that should not be missed.”
—RT Book Reviews, 4 1/2 stars, on No Regrets
“JoAnn Ross masterfully paints a pictures of a magical, mystical land. With delightful touches of folklore storytelling, Ms. Ross tells a tale that delivers laughter, tears and so much joy.”
—RT Book Reviews on A Woman’s Heart
“A Woman’s Heart will find a place in every fan’s heart, as it is an extraordinary tale that will charm the audience. This is one time the luck of the Irish will shine on every reader.”
—Affaire de Coeur
To Jay
Dear Reader,
Confession time—I’m one of those women who keep home decorating and craft magazines in business. In 1995, as I made plans for that year’s Christmas, I decided all our windows would have a wreath made from roses from my garden. And the big front-door wreath would be created from pinecones I’d not only gild myself, but would drive three hours to the mountains and personally gather.
A week before two parties (a dinner party Friday and a cocktail party for fifty of my husband’s business associates the next night), my roses—laid out in bins all over the floor of our garage—still hadn’t entirely dried. When my husband suggested I simply buy dried roses from a florist, I insisted they had to be homegrown.
Meanwhile, while waiting for my roses to dry, I set about creating a tabletop duplicate of the twelve-foot-tall Victorian Christmas tree I’d spent a week decorating.
Did I mention I was also writing toward a January 1 book deadline?
Somehow it all came together, but five minutes before the first guests arrived, when I was outside, hot-gluing the last of those gilded sugar pinecones onto the front-door wreath, I screamed, “All those people who encourage women to do this stuff must die!”
And that’s how Southern Comforts was born. I hope you enjoy Chelsea Cassidy and Cash Beaudine’s story, and I promise that no Diva of Domesticity was actually murdered during the writing of this book.
JoAnn
Contents
Prologue
1989
It was a night made for romance. Outside the ballroom of the Hillcrest Country Club, sparkling stars filled the night sky like diamonds scattered over a jeweler’s black velvet cloth. Music drifted on air perfumed with the scent of lilacs, accompanying the soft sighs and whispers of lovers who’d slipped away to steal kisses in the shadows of spreading chestnut trees.
Inside the ballroom, seated at a damask-draped table, Chelsea Cassidy watched her cousin, Susan Lowell, dance with her groom.
The bride was, as brides are supposed to be, beautiful. She also looked as if she were dancing on air.
“I still don’t understand.” Chelsea’s date, Nelson Webster Waring, complained for the umpteenth time that night. He shook his head as he cut into his prime rib. “Why did you feel the need to actually have your name on that tacky story?”
For the umpteenth time that night, Chelsea tried to explain. “In the first place, I don’t consider it a tacky story—”
“A woman baring her breast in public?” Nelson arched a patrician brow that reminded Chelsea too much of the way her mother had looked at her so many times over the years.
“To feed her child, Nelson.” A champagne bottle, nestled in ice cubes in which pink rosebuds had been frozen, awaited the wedding toast. Tempted as she was to open the dark green bottle, Chelsea reached instead for her water goblet, only to have it taken away by a tuxedo-clad waiter.
“The woman unbuttoned her blouse to feed her infant daughter,” she said. “As women have, thank God, been doing since the beginning of time.”
