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they argued about was whether she would work.

      More and more lately, it seemed that not only was Nelson determined to act as her advisor and manager, he was also even more ambitious when it came to her career than she was.

      As she sat in the back of the cab crawling through the crush of morning traffic, Chelsea decided that one of their problems was that Nelson had no career of his own to focus on. Perhaps, if she broached the subject carefully, she could make him see that by going to work, he’d be more personally fulfilled.

      Today was Thursday. They had a long weekend ahead of them after she returned from Toronto. Plenty of time for an overdue, calm discussion. About her work, his lack of work, and where, exactly, their relationship was going.

      Perhaps, she thought with a renewed burst of her typical enthusiasm, Sunday morning she’d make Nelson French toast. The fancy kind, with Grand Marnier, that Roxanne Scarbrough had demonstrated for Joan Lundon on the show.

      Not to soften him up. But to show him how much she cared. How much she wanted things to work out.

      Feeling reassured, Chelsea pulled a notepad out of her bag and began composing a list of questions for her interview with the woman Hollywood insiders were touting as the new Julia Roberts.

      * * *

      “I have your tickets,” Heather Van Pelt said, handing Chelsea an envelope as she exited the editorial meeting. “Your boarding pass is attached—you’re on the aisle, in the first row of first class. A driver and car will be waiting for you as soon as you clear customs, and I’ve upgraded your room at the Four Seasons to a suite.

      “I thought it would give you more room to work,” she continued as she easily kept up with Chelsea’s dash toward the bank of elevators. The meeting had run long; if Chelsea didn’t leave now, she’d miss her plane.

      “Did you clear the extra expenses with accounting?” Chelsea asked as she dug through her bag and pulled out the roll of antacids she was never without these days. Although the magazine had generous travel allowances, she wasn’t accustomed to a suite for overnight turnaround trips like this one.

      “Of course.” Heather’s smile was calm and self-confident, befitting a young woman who’d grown up in the lap of luxury in Greenwich, Connecticut. “At first they weren’t all that enthusiastic about the idea. But I can be very convincing when I put my mind to it.”

      Chelsea had not a single doubt of that. From what she’d seen, Heather’s talent for persuasion rivaled Chelsea’s mother’s. Since being hired after her graduation last June from Bennington, she’d made herself indispensable, even volunteering for personal errands, which made Chelsea feel a bit guilty. But not so guilty that she’d turn down any assistance that came her way.

      “You really are a wonder,” she said with honest appreciation. “If things go well, I may actually manage to get another chapter done on my novel.” She’d been slogging away at the suspense story centered around the murder of a thoroughly unlikable movie star for the past two years; trying to squeeze time in between her hectic work schedule and her on-again, off-again, and now on again relationship with Nelson.

      “That’s what I was thinking,” Heather said with another of those smiles that was as smooth as her sleek blond hair.

      Although the job of editorial assistant paid starvation wages, Heather always managed to look as if she’d stepped right out of the pages of Town and Country magazine. Once, after Liz Smith had shown up at the office for a lunch date with Chelsea, the gossip columnist had declared that the new editorial assistant was Vanity Fair’s answer to Princess Di.

      The difference, Chelsea had considered at the time, was that Heather Van Pelt possessed far more self-confidence than the most celebrated member of Britain’s royal family. She was also more ambitious. Chelsea knew Heather wanted her job. Since she didn’t have any intention of giving it up anytime soon, such single-minded zeal didn’t disturb her. Especially when it resulted in upgraded plane tickets and hotel reservations.

      Raintree

      Amidst the Camelot environs of her lushly wooded landscape, Roxanne Scarbrough sat in the library of her Tudor-style home leafing through the mail her assistant Dorothy Landis had left on her Louis Quatorze desk. On the corner of the desk, an electric fan was ineffectually attempting to stir the moisture-laden air.

      Roxanne was not happy. Trust the air conditioner to choose today of all days to give out! The temperature outside was unseasonably warm for April. Although it was not yet noon, a thick, wet heat had seeped into the house through the window screens, permeating everything, making her sweat.

      No. Ladies never sweat, she reminded herself with a brisk mental shake. As moisture beaded on her forehead and between the cleft of her breasts, she remembered telling Oprah about her southern grandmother’s stern edict that horses sweat, men perspired and ladies glistened.

      Of course, beloved old Maw Maw, with her infinite wealth of southern aphorisms, was, like so much of Roxanne’s outwardly perfect life, a fictional invention. Still, the stories she’d spun during that afternoon taping had added a charming southern warmth to the interview.

      The bundled-up Yankee audience, still shivering from the Chicago blizzard raging outside Harpo Studios, had, as always, eaten it up, and her clipping service subsequently reported that the “glisten” quote had appeared in sixty-five papers around the country over the next week.

      It wasn’t always easy being Roxanne Scarbrough. But, she considered with a self-satisfied smile, no one did it better.

      The breeze from the fan stirred the fragrance of potpourri she’d created from pink freesia and Lady Banks roses growing in the formal gardens.

      When she’d first planted the garden, several members of the Raintree garden club had warned her against including the old-fashioned rosebushes. Local legend prevailed that when a Lady Banks got old enough to shade your grave, you’d die. Not the least bit superstitious, Roxanne had ignored the caution. But knowing a good story when she heard one, she’d included the myth in her latest lifestyle book, Strolling Through Grandmother’s Southern Garden.

      She skimmed a fax she’d received this morning from her agent regarding Chelsea Cassidy. Although at first glance, she’d considered the writer to be a definite lightweight, the deft way she’d handled her interview and the Vanity Fair article Roxanne had read on the flight back from New York proved that appearances were definitely deceiving.

      Roxanne had no concerns about the writer rejecting the proposal her agent was going to make. People did not say no to Roxanne Scarbrough.

      Especially men, she considered with a slow smile ripe with feminine intent as she glanced over at the mantel clock. She should have left a half hour ago for her luncheon engagement. Not that she was in any particular hurry. It was, after all, a lady’s prerogative to keep a gentleman waiting.

      However, in this case, it would be a blessed relief to leave the house. The stifling humidity clogged Roxanne’s lungs, making her feel as if she were trying to breathe underwater. Her dress—a silk wash of watercolor flowers with a dangerously plunging neckline, selected specifically for today’s lunch with Cash Beaudine—already seemed too hot and heavy against her heated skin.

      Deciding to open one more piece of mail, she picked up a sterling silver letter opener in the Francis I pattern she claimed she’d inherited from her unfortunately deceased mother, and slit open a cheap dimestore envelope marked Personal that had been forwarded from the staff of Good Morning America. Obviously another piece of fan mail. Considering the inferior stationery, this was a person in dire need of lifestyle training.

      The paper was badly ink stained, as if the letter had been written with one of those horrid plastic ballpoint pens one saw everywhere these days. As her eyes skimmed down the wrinkled page, Roxanne’s heart clenched. The scrawled handwriting was all too familiar.

      “Dear Cora Mae...”

      She pressed a beringed hand against the front of her silk dress and wondered if she could be having a heart attack. Black spots

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