Southern Comforts by Joann Ross Page A

together.”
    â€œHow ingenious.”
    â€œIt’s also expensive to replace.”
    â€œSurely they don’t use hog hair any longer?”
    â€œNo. Although, the technique’s the same, with plaster or strands of Fiberglas in place of the hair. But a good plaster man is hard to find these days. And when you can find one, he doesn’t come cheap.”
    She tossed the black hairs onto the scarred wooden floor. “I told you, Mr. Beaudine, money is no object.”
    Her words reminded Cash that he’d definitely come home to a new South. A booming South. A South on the rise. And riding that tide of economic prosperity were new people, creating new jobs, making new money. And spending it with an enthusiasm that made the old southern aristocracy sit up and take notice.
    â€œNow where have I heard that, before?” he murmured as he squatted down and frowned at the ominous trail of sawdust running along the baseboard.
    â€œIn this case it’s the truth,” she snapped, abandoning her spun sugar demeanor. “This home is my pièce de résistance. It’s the culmination of my life’s work. Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve struggled for, ends here. There will be,” sherepeated firmly, her eyes as hard as stones, her lips pulled into a thin line, “no expense spared to do this correctly.”
    Cash couldn’t help being impressed with her resolve. But he was still not entirely convinced. As they finished the tour of the house, risking the treacherous stairs to examine the second floor, he wondered if she realized that this project was a helluva long way from creating the ultimate Easter basket.
    â€œThat’s another thing.” He leaned against the crumbling wall of the grand entry hall, folded his arms across his chest and looked down at her. “You’re going to have to decide whether you want to renovate Belle Terre. Or restore it.”
    â€œRenovate, restore, what’s the difference?” She was clearly growing impatient at his unwillingness to embrace her latest enterprise.
    â€œThere’s a big difference.” As her tone grew more harsh, he purposely kept his mild. “A restoration is a pure as possible replication of a home to its original state. While a renovation is exactly that—rebuilding to update the home with modern conveniences, to make it new again. And if authenticity has to fall by the wayside, too bad.”
    Her frown revealed that she’d not exactly thought this little dilemma through. Cash wasn’t surprised. He’d discovered that most people had a rather serendipitous view of turning some crumbling ruin into an exact replica of its former glory, while also wanting to toss in a few Jacuzzi tubs, microwave ovens and media walls for comfort and convenience.
    â€œAs a purist, I believe I’d favor restoration.” Her gaze slowly circled the high ceilings and hand-carved moldings. “However, having seen the bathrooms, I have to admit that there’s a great deal to be said for renovation.”
    Her eyes, which revealed intelligence and resolve along with the first sign of concern Cash had witnessed, met his.“I don’t suppose we could combine the two?” she asked hopefully.
    â€œThat’s usually the way it’s done.”
    Her relief was palpable. “Then that’s what we’ll do. This project is incredibly important to me, Mr. Beaudine. I have a film crew on hand to document the reconstruction. I’m also in the process of negotiating with a writer, Chelsea Cassidy, to collaborate on my autobiography, which, will, of course, include the restoration of Belle Terre.”
    â€œChelsea Cassidy is your biographer?” Having grown up having to fight for everything he’d accomplished, Cash had never been a big believer in fate. The idea of Chelsea coming to Raintree to ghostwrite Roxanne Scarbrough’s life story had him