What She Doesn't Know by Beverly Barton Page B

as was everyone who knew her, and a part of him regretted that he could never return the affection she felt for him. He’d known for years that she was in love with him or at least thought she was. She was absolutely nothing like Felicia. If only he had fallen in love with the younger Wells daughter instead of the elder. If he had, his life would have been so much simpler. And a great deal happier. But he’d been mad about Felicia, and she had used his wild passion against him. By the time she disappeared, shortly before their third anniversary, he had not only stopped loving her, he had grown to despise her. Felicia had been her father’s daughter—a conniving, manipulative, self-serving monster.
    As he passed the pew where Sandy sat on the end, she stood and held out her hand to him. He paused long enough to give her a hug and accept an affectionate kiss on the cheek, then he hurriedly broke away and continued down the aisle. Two o’clock was fast approaching and he wanted to double check with McCoy Trendall to make sure all the arrangements he’d made for today’s service would be carried out just as he had instructed. Louis deserved only the best. Making sure his funeral was an unforgettable event was the last thing he could do for his stepfather—a final tribute.
    A squad of talented bagpipers had been flown in to play “Amazing Grace” directly before the minister spoke. The choir from the black Sumarville Freewill Baptist Church would take turns with the white First Methodist’s choir, both singing their own style of spirituals. Mississippi’s governor would offer the eulogy.
    McCoy met Max in the vestibule and pulled him aside. “We have things under control. No need to worry. I promise that everything will go off without a hitch.”
    “Do you have the outdoor loudspeaker system working?” Max gazed through the open doors to where a large crowd waited on the steps and sidewalk below.
    “I’ve checked it myself. It’s working just fine.”
    Max nodded, shook McCoy’s hand, and made a mad dash through the crowd in the vestibule. After being forced to pause and shake hands with several people, he escaped into the men’s room. Thankfully, the room was empty. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, along with a small black notebook, looked up the number he needed and dialed.
    “This is Maximillian Devereaux,” he said. “I’m calling to check on—”
    The voice on the other end of the line assured him that the New Orleans jazz band he’d hired to play at the reception at Belle Rose following the funeral was in fact already at the mansion. He breathed a sigh of relief. Louis had loved jazz and the two of them had often driven down to New Orleans for a boys night out. Max thought it only fitting that the music played this afternoon for Louis’s mourners be the music he had loved.
    Max glanced in the mirror over the sink area and noticed his tie was slightly crooked. He straightened his tie, braced his shoulders, and swung open the rest room door. In a few hours this would all be over, all the pomp and circumstance, and then he would be faced with the reality of Louis’s death.
    Just as Max returned to the sanctuary and was nearing the front pew, he heard a buzzing hum rising from the crowd. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and instinct cautioned him that something was wrong. The murmurs grew louder until he distinctively heard someone say Jolie . His gut tightened. He stopped at the end of the third pew to the left of the aisle and slowly glanced over his shoulder. He swallowed hard and cursed softly under his breath.
    The woman, dressed in a simple beige linen suit, walked down the aisle, her head held high, her expression solemn. She didn’t look much like the plump teenager he remembered. But he would have recognized her anywhere. This fashionably dressed curvaceous woman bore a striking resemblance to her mother and her aunts. She was without a doubt a true Desmond. Golden blond