Read Online Southern Comforts by Joann Ross - Free Book Online Page A

tale,” Deidre cut her off. “However, I have an appointment for a facial at two, andsince 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 managed to exchange a bit of small talk about her mother’s book club group and numerous charitable activities while they waited for their orders to be delivered. By the time their salads and cups of Earl Grey tea were delivered, Chelsea had actually begun to relax. Which was, of course, always a mistake.
    Deidre’s gaze swept over her. “You know, dear,” she said, “you really need to get your hair trimmed. You’re starting to look like the Longworths’ sheepdog, what was his name? Mercedes?”
    â€œBentley. And I’ve been busy.” Hating herself for falling into old patterns, Chelsea brushed her bangs out of her eyes.
    â€œSo Nelson has been telling me. He says your career has been taking up a great deal of time recently.”
    Chelsea would have had to have been deaf not to hear the scorn her mother had heaped on the word career. She told herself that one of these days she was going to get used to the unwavering disapproval.
    After all, her mother had made her feelings known from the beginning. In fact, frustrated by a teenage Chelsea’s total lack of interest in proper pastimes such as dancing school at the Colony Club, tennis at the Meadow Club, and regattas at Newport, Deidre Lowell had shipped her off to Switzerland to be schooled in womanly graces.
    Those four years in exile, which were, thus far, the worstexperience of her life. Even worse than her mother’s bitter divorce from Chelsea’s father when she was six. Or the death of Dylan Cassidy when she was ten.
    Rather than deter her daughter from her chosen goal, all Deidre Lowell (she’d long since dropped the Cassidy acquired upon her ill-fated marriage to Chelsea’s father) managed to do was make the flame burn hotter. Brighter. It was during those years when she’d been banished abroad that writing became the only fixed star in Chelsea’s firmament.
    â€œIt’s been hectic,” Chelsea allowed. “But I’d rather be too busy, than have no work at all.”
    Her mother didn’t answer. But the way her lips drew into a tight disapproving line spoke volumes.
    â€œNelson said you’re going to write a book about Roxanne Scarbrough.”
    â€œI’m considering it.”
    â€œWho on earth would buy such a book?”
    â€œPerhaps all those millions of people who buy her life-style books,” Chelsea said mildly. She refused to be drawn into a position of defending a woman she didn’t even like.
    â€œShe’s nouveau riche.”
    â€œI don’t know about the nouveau. But you’ve got the rich part right.”
    â€œHonestly, Chelsea.” Deidre frowned and took a sip of tea from the gilt-rimmed cup. “Must you joke about everything?”
    â€œI’m sorry. It’s just that I’m not sure people care about things like that anymore, mother.”
    â€œI believe you’re right.”
    â€œYou do?” Chelsea took a sip of her own tea and contemplated ordering champagne instead. After all, any occasion when she and her mother actually found something to agree about should be celebrated.
    â€œOf course. And that,” Deidre said stiffly, “is preciselywhat’s wrong with this country. People have lost all sense of values.”
    â€œI don’t believe gilding a few pomegranates will lead to the downfall of western civilization,” Chelsea argued