What She Doesn't Know by Beverly Barton Page A

were in attendance, including the governors of three states and various U.S. congressional represenatives and senators. No other man in Mississippi had been as well-thought-of as Louis Royale. His business and political associations had been far-reaching. He had been respected by all who knew him and loved by his family and close friends. Naturally, his elder daughter’s absence had been noted by several who had offered their condolences to Georgette, Mallory, and Max. When asked why Jolie wasn’t here today, Georgette had been rendered speechless, thus prompting Max to respond. He’d said simply that Jolie had been notified and was expected at any time.
    With his arm around his mother’s shoulders, he all but dragged her away from the casket. Weeping pitifully, she clung to Max, her black gloved hands tightening on his forearm and wrist. He eased her onto the front pew, one of two on each side of the aisle that had been reserved for immediate family. When he pulled away from his mother, she reached out for him.
    “Don’t leave me,” Georgette whimpered.
    Max leaned over, took his mother’s hands and whispered, “There are things I have to attend to.” He glanced at his sister who sat as solemnly as a wooden statue on Georgette’s left. “Mallory is right here with you, and I’ll come back as soon as I can.”
    Georgette nodded, but Max felt the trembling in her hands just as he released his hold on her. His poor mother was going to be lost without Louis. Max looked at Mallory who stared back at him with a blank expression on her face.
    “Take care of Mother until I come back.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Mallory!”
    “I heard you,” she replied.
    Max scanned the reserved pews. His mother and Mallory sat side-by-side on the first bench to the left. Uncle Parry, bleary-eyed but thankfully sober, kept his arm around Mallory’s shoulders, occasionally patting her affectionately. A handful of Louis’s distant relatives congregated in the second pew; some of the people Max had never met. Aunt Clarice occupied the first bench on the right, along with Nowell Landers. Yvonne Carter sat on the other side of Clarice, her bright hazel eyes ever watchful. He suspected she was as wary of Nowell’s attentions to Clarice as he was and was equally incapable of dissuading her from continuing her relationship with the man. Max had the greatest respect for Yvonne, who was as devoted to Clarice as any mother or sister might have been. He had no idea what deep bonds joined the women, but he suspected that their abiding friendship superceded the normal bounds of servant and mistress. Indeed, he’d never seen the two act in any manner other than as friends. Even when Yvonne waited on Clarice and fussed over her, they acted and reacted as if they were family.
    On the second pew to the right various Desmond relatives, none of whom bore the surname, sat proudly, their southern aristocratic noses in the air. Not a one of them were closer kin to Clarice than a second cousin once removed.
    As Max made his way up the aisle, he spotted the Wells family—father and son—seated together. Roscoe Wells was an old reprobate. A former Klansman who had changed his ideology to adapt to modern times and today’s voters. At nearly seventy, he still tried to maintain a level of authority over his two children, neither of whom paid him much heed. Garland, affectionately called Gar by his friends, resembled his father physically, being short and stocky with a loud infectious laugh; but he was a quieter, softer version of his charismatic father. And a better man by far.
    Sandy sat two rows behind her father and brother, the distance between them making a bold statement. Sandy was for all intents and purposes her now-deceased mother’s daughter, a friendly, outgoing do-gooder, who had taken it upon herself to right many of the wrongs her father had perpetrated before his well-known change of heart. Max had always been fond of Sandy,