Chapter
4
Yvonne stayed discreetly in the
background, quietly observing the mourners. No one would question
her right to be here. As the family’s housekeeper, she would be
expected to be present at the visitation tonight at Trendall
Funeral Home. She had asked Theron to stop by, to offer his
condolences to the family, but he hadn’t given her a definite
answer. Surely he wouldn’t disappoint her; she so seldom asked
anything of him. If he didn’t put in an appearance, Clarice would
be upset. Clarice was especially fond of Theron, something he’d
never questioned as a child but as an adult seemed to resent.
Although she didn’t want her son to forget their people’s past and
prayed that he would continue working for everything he believed
in, she wished he could learn to forgive. She had considered
telling him about the secrets from her past, wondering if it would
help him understand her and perhaps himself. But what if the truth
only fueled the anger inside him?
Yvonne silently watched the
never-ending line of mourners as they made their way closer and
closer to the family standing near the golden casket surrounded by
enormous floral arrangements. Every time someone spoke to her,
Georgette cried. Maybe Max should have asked the doctor to give her
a stronger dose of Valium. Despite her sincere weeping, Louis
Royale’s widow looked regal and undeniably lovely in her navy blue
suit and pearls, her jet-black hair fashionably styled and her
makeup flawless. At her left side, Mallory was a younger version of
Georgette, only her eyes were different. She had Louis’s dark azure
blue eyes, which made for a striking contrast to her ebony hair.
Poor little Mallory looked as if she’d rather be anywhere else on
earth than here. The girl was immature for eighteen and spoiled
rotten. Louis had lavished all the attention on her that he had
once given to Jolie.
Yvonne glanced at her wristwatch.
Seven-thirty. They were halfway through the three-hour visitation
and still no sign of Jolie. Clarice hadn’t spoken to her niece
personally but had left her numerous messages. She had tried to
prepare Clarice for the possibility that Jolie might not come home,
not even for her own father’s funeral. But Clarice could not be
swayed in her firm conviction that her niece would put in an
appearance.
Max stood to Georgette’s right, his
presence overpowering. Yvonne had sensed a unique strength in Max
the first time she’d seen him. He’d been a quiet brooding little
boy who had grown up hearing the ugly rumors about his mother and
the speculation about his own legitimacy. He was not an easy man to
like and didn’t seem to care what others thought of him. But people
tended to either admire or fear him. Yvonne admired him. Over the
years, she had watched him mature into Louis Royale’s right-hand
man and had witnessed his protective caring nature when it came to
his mother, his sister, and even to Clarice. He took his
obligations seriously. During the past five years, when Louis’s
health had begun to deteriorate, Max had taken over the bulk of
responsibilities for the businesses and the family.
Regardless of what others might think
of Max, Yvonne had the greatest respect for him. He was accepted by
the leaders of Mississippi society only because Louis had demanded
it. Max had always been an outsider, an outcast who wasn’t a true
blue blood. She understood bigotry, whether it was directed at
people because of the color of their skin or because of their lack
of pedigree.
Despite the speculations of a few
townspeople twenty years ago that perhaps an eighteen-year-old Max
Devereaux had killed the Desmond sisters in order to clear the path
for his mother to marry Louis, she had never taken those whispered
innuendoes seriously. She believed in Max’s innocence as strongly
as she believed in her brother Lemar’s innocence. Those rumors had
died down less than a year after the murders, only to resurface
again when Max’s wife, Felicia, had mysteriously disappeared nine
years ago. Her body was found months later by a couple of fishermen
in a swampy area of lowland near the river. Felicia’s murderer had
never been caught and speculation had run wild in Sumarville that
summer.
“Quite a circus event they’ve got going
on here,” Theron said, as he came up beside his mother. “I can just
imagine what tomorrow’s funeral will be like.”
Deep in thought, Yvonne hadn’t noticed
her son approaching. She gasped softly, then grabbed his arm.
“Thank you for coming.”
“I’m here only as a favor to you.
Otherwise, I’d steer clear of this sideshow.”
She tugged on his arm. “Come with me. I
want you to speak to Clarice and pay your condolences to Georgette
and Mallory and Max.”
Theron groaned, then glanced around the
huge ornately decorated Magnolia Room. “So, Jolie didn’t show up.
Smart woman.”
“It’s not eight yet,” Yvonne said.
“There’s still time for her to—”
“Why would she come back? What’s here
for her now?”
“Her family.”
“Only Clarice. I’m sure she doesn’t
think of her stepmother, stepbrother, and half sister as
family.”
“No, she probably doesn’t. She couldn’t
accept Louis’s marriage to Georgette so soon after Audrey’s death,
but you’d think that once she grew up, she could have found it in
her heart to forgive her father and at least come for a visit now
and then.”
“Louis Royale made his
choices.”
Yvonne sighed. “That’s something you
and Jolie have in common—your inability to forgive.”
Yvonne led her son through the milling
crowd that lingered in the Magnolia Room. Despite the
air-conditioning, a stifling warmth permeated the area. Too many
people crammed into a small space. Too much body heat on a hot June
night.
“There’s Clarice.” Yvonne leaned closer
to Theron as she whispered, “You be on your best behavior with her.
Do you hear me? She’s mighty fond of you and doesn’t deserve
anything from you but love and respect.”
Clarice’s face beamed the moment she
saw Theron. She held out her hands. Yvonne nudged him in the ribs.
He took Clarice’s small lily-white hands in his big dark
hands.
“Thank you for coming.” Clarice
squeezed his hands. “You’ve neglected to come around and see me
since you’ve moved back to Sumarville.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry about that, but I’ve
been pretty busy getting settled in and setting up my
practice.”
Clarice removed one of her hands from
Theron’s grip and reached out to the tall muscular man beside her.
“Nowell, this is Yvonne’s son, Theron. He’s a brilliant young
lawyer and he’s come home to Sumarville only recently.” Clarice
turned to Theron. “My dear boy, this is Nowell Landers, a very
special friend of mine.” Clarice giggled quietly, then covered her
mouth with her hand, as if aware that laughter wasn’t appropriate
in the Magnolia Room. “I suppose I could say, as Mama would have,
that Nowell is courting me.”
Theron lifted his eyebrows, surprise
evident in his facial expression. He nodded to Nowell. “How do you
do?”
Nowell slipped a big arm around
Clarice’s waist. “Quite well, thank you kindly. And might I say
it’s a pleasure to meet you at long last. I’ve heard a great deal
about you, from your mother and from Clarice. They’re mighty proud
of you.”
“I’m afraid the ladies exaggerate. You
know how mothers and…and family friends can be.”
Yvonne tugged on Theron’s arm. “You
should speak to Max and—”
“By all means. Lead the
way.”
“We’ll have to get in line,” Yvonne
said. “I think the end of the line is outside in the hallway.
Earlier it was all the way outside and into the
street.”
“If we go to the end of the line, this
could take a good twenty minutes.”
“Mind your manners. Twenty minutes
won’t kill you.”
She ushered him out into the hall.
Several people glowered at them, but when a few smiled and spoke to
Yvonne, the others seemed to relax. It wasn’t that often that
African Americans entered the doors of the Trendall Funeral
Home.
“What’s going on with Clarice and that
guy?” Theron asked.
“You heard what she said—he’s courting
her.”
“I take that to mean that they’re
dating?”
Yvonne nodded.
“What’s he after? Hasn’t somebody told
him that all the money in the family belonged to Louis
Royale?”
“Lower your voice. Someone might hear
you.”
“And do you think that everybody in
Sumarville isn’t laughing behind her back? A man doesn’t
court a fruitcake like
Clarice, unless he thinks he’ll get something monetary out of
it.”
“Sh…” Yvonne cautioned, then lowered
her voice to a whisper. “Max agrees with you and I must admit that
I have my doubts, but Clarice refuses to listen to anything
negative about Nowell.”
Just as Theron started to reply, he
glanced behind Yvonne and seemed totally hypnotized by whoever or
whatever had captured his attention. Yvonne glanced over her
shoulder. Dr. Sandy Wells and Dr. Amy Jardien entered the line
directly behind them. Sandy and Amy were local general
practitioners, partners in a clinic that served the poor in the
community. Yvonne couldn’t help thinking what an odd twosome the
women made and how there had been a time when friendship between a
white woman and a black woman was frowned upon in these parts.
Unless of course, the black woman was the white woman’s maid.
Yvonne wondered what Sandy’s father thought of his daughter’s close
association with the daughter of Sumarville’s black undertaker?
Just the thought of Roscoe Wells sent cold shivers through Yvonne.
The man had once been a racist, a bigot, and a rumored member of
the Klan. And despite his political promises that not only had he
never been associated with the Klan and that he was now an advocate
of progressive race relations, she didn’t believe him. But others
did, even some of the African Americans who had helped reelect him
to the state senate four times.
“Hello, Mrs. Carter. How are you?”
Sandy Wells asked.
Yvonne forced a smile as she turned to
face the woman. Logic dictated that she be nice to Dr. Wells, who
had never done anything to Yvonne, had never in any way been
anything other than friendly and polite. But emotional reactions
were something else altogether. No matter how good a woman Sandy
Wells might be, she was the spawn of the devil. And no matter how
much Roscoe Wells declared himself a reformed racist, Yvonne would
never believe a word out of the man’s wicked mouth.
“I’m fine, Dr. Wells,” Yvonne said.
“And you?”
“Fine, but sad for Louis’s family, of
course. How is Georgette holding up?”
“She’s rather shaky, but Max is taking
good care of her.”
“Naturally. Max is a rock, isn’t he?
Such a strong man.”
Yvonne only nodded. She suspected that
Sandy Wells was halfway in love with her former brother-in-law and
perhaps always had been, even when her older sister Felicia had
been alive.
Sandy looked up at Theron. “I had heard
that you’d returned to Sumarville. Do you remember me from when we
used to play together when I visited Jolie at Belle
Rose?”
Theron nodded. “Yes, I remember you…and
your brother.”
Sandy lowered her voice. “Did Jolie
come home for the funeral?”
“She hasn’t arrived, yet,” Yvonne said.
Noticing the way her son was staring at Amy Jardien and she at him,
Yvonne thought it best to introduce the two immediately. “Theron,
you probably don’t remember Mr. Nehemiah Jardien’s youngest child,
Amy. She’s a doctor now.”
Theron held out his hand to the young
woman who tilted her head and smiled warmly at him. The girl was
undeniably lovely, with coffee-colored skin and large black eyes
that sparkled as she and Theron exchanged a lingering
handshake.
“I’m Theron Carter, Dr. Jardien,” he
said, emphasizing the word doctor.
“Yes, I know who you are. Everyone’s
been talking about your return to Sumarville. I’m pleased to
finally meet you.” Amy moistened her full lips
nervously.
“The pleasure is all mine,” Theron
assured her.
“If y’all will excuse me, I’m going to
break line,” Sandy said. “I see my brother is up there ahead of
us.”
Yvonne kept her forced smile in place,
then stood quietly as Theron and Amy continued their conversation.
She watched and listened, realizing how very mutual the attraction
between the two was. If it had been under any other circumstances,
she would have left them alone. A man hardly needed his mother
around when he was trying to impress a young lady. The best she
could do was look the other way, backward toward the line that had
formed behind them.
Every muscle in Yvonne’s body tensed
when she caught a glimpse of him only moments before she heard his
booming Baptist preacher’s voice. She froze to the spot, although
every instinct within her told her to run. Roscoe Wells played the
politician, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with his
constituents. The stocky, ruddy-faced Roscoe’s shock of white hair
perfectly matched his thick white mustache. He swept through the
crowd, his charisma capturing one and all.
Yvonne held her breath as he passed by,
all the while praying that he would not speak to her. He paused
momentarily and stared at her. She thought she would scream; indeed
she was screaming quite loudly inside her mind. He smiled at her.
The damn man actually smiled at her, then quickly moved on and into
the Magnolia Room, totally disregarding the long line of waiting
mourners. Roscoe Wells didn’t wait in line, didn’t adhere to the
rules that governed others. After all, he was a Wells, and his
family’s roots were as deeply planted in Sumarville soil as were
the Desmonds’.
Theron patted her arm. “Mama, are you
all right?”
She took a deep breath. “Yes, I’m fine.
Why do you ask?”
“Because the look you gave Roscoe Wells
could have curdled milk. I’m glad to see that you’re capable of
recognizing at least one white rattlesnake when you see
it.”
“Daddy thinks that man is only
pretending to have had a change of heart,” Amy said. “But for a
long time now, folks have believed that he truly did repent from
his past sins.”
“That old bastard won’t ever change,”
Theron said. “With his past history, I don’t see how any of our
people could put their trust in him.”
Amen, Yvonne thought. If the African
American community knew what she knew, he wouldn’t be able to get
elected as dog catcher.
Max’s black Porsche sped down the
country road away from Belle Rose and toward town. The night sky
spread out overhead like a dark, diamond-studded, velvet canopy.
Before he’d left, he had made sure everyone was accounted for and
taken care of, to the best of his ability. Mallory had escaped to
her room the minute they arrived home. But what should he have
expected from her? She was just a kid. A spoiled little girl who
was ill equipped to handle tragedy let alone lend comfort to
others. In the days and weeks ahead she would need almost as much
attention and pampering as his mother. Thank God for Yvonne. She
was the only member of the household strong enough to actually be
of help. She had given Georgette a mild sleeping pill and put her
to bed. And when Max had abruptly asked Nowell Landers to leave,
Yvonne had stepped in to soothe Clarice’s rattled
nerves.
He supposed he should have stayed at
home, gone to bed, and prayed for sleep. But the tension inside him
coiled tighter and tighter until he couldn’t bear another minute
trapped inside Belle Rose’s ancient walls. He needed to escape, if
only for a couple of hours, to a place where no one depended on
him, no one asked anything from him. For the past few years, he had
found an undemanding sanctuary in Eartha Kilpatrick’s arms.
Sometimes he wondered why the woman put up with him, why she
allowed him to wander in and out of her life without asking him for
anything more than sex. He supposed half the town knew about their
relationship, but he didn’t give a damn and apparently neither did
Eartha. She was a good ole gal and deserved more than he could ever
give her. But he’d told her from the beginning, been honest with
her all along. He had no intention of ever remarrying. And as far
as loving another woman—folks would be ice-skating in hell before
that would happen.
The tepid night air, heavy with warm
moisture, settled around Max as he zipped the Porsche into the
parking lot at the Sumarville Inn. Perspiration dotted his brow and
dampened his white shirt. In the distance a rumbling roar and a
groaning whistle announced that a freight train had just crossed
the bridge over Owassa Creek. After putting up the top on his car
and locking the doors, he kept his key chain in his hand as he
entered the inn’s lobby. The clock on the wall behind the check-in
counter read twelve-twenty-three.
Max recognized the guy behind the
counter. R. J. Sutton. Young. Twenty-four at most, possibly
younger. Good looking in a low-class, dangerous sort of way. He had
a tatoo of a scorpion boldly displayed on his forearm and a gold
stud glimmered in his left ear. Was this
what I would have looked like in my twenties, Max wondered, if
Philip Devereaux hadn’t married Mama and brought us to Sumarville
before I was born?
“Good evening, Mr. Devereaux.” The guy
nodded and smiled. “Can I help you?”
“No, thanks. Ms. Kilpatrick is
expecting me.”
It was a lie, of course. He hadn’t
bothered to call Eartha. Max didn’t like having to explain himself
to anyone, least of all some minimum-wage flunky. He’d have to
speak to Eartha about this boy. There was something about him that
made the hairs on the back of Max’s neck stand up. Instinct warned
him that if the guy stayed around too long, he was bound to cause
trouble. And God knew that was the last thing he needed right
now—more trouble.
As Max turned and headed down the
corridor leading to the rooms and suites on the first floor of the
inn, he singled out the key to Eartha’s suite. Since her girls had
left town, she’d moved from her apartment into the hotel. She’d
given him a key this past winter. Tonight when she had stopped by
the funeral home, she had squeezed his hand as she’d told him how
very sorry she was about Louis. And she’d given him that look, the
one that said she was hungry for him. Max didn’t have the slightest
idea whether she had other lovers; he really didn’t care. But he
suspected that although Eartha had known more than her share of
men, she was the type who took them on one at a time.
He inserted the key in the lock. Lucky
for him she had left the safety latch undone. When he shoved
gently, the door eased open. She’d also left a light on in the
sitting area, a lamp beside the sofa. Max grinned. Had she hoped he
would come by tonight? The bedroom door stood wide open. Max’s sex
swelled and throbbed. He entered the room quietly. In the
semidarkness he saw only the outline of her body beneath the sheet.
Her left arm draped one pillow, her long red hair spread out over
the second, and a third teetered on the edge of the bed. Lifting
first one leg and then the other, he removed his shoes and socks,
then sat down on the bed and pulled the sheet away from Eartha’s
body. Whimpering, she curled into a fetal position. Max eased down
alongside her, then took her into his arms. She came awake with a
jerk, her eyelids snapping open and her mouth poised to scream. Max
slapped his hand gently over her mouth. She struggled momentarily.
He nuzzled her neck, then whispered into her ear.
“It’s me,” he said and the moment he
felt her relax against him, he slid his hand down her neck and over
her chest to cup one large round breast.
“Max,” she sighed against his
mouth.
He kissed her, parting her lips and
sliding his tongue inside. She rubbed rhythmically against him,
then hurriedly ripped at his shirt until she pulled it from his
slacks and undid all the buttons. He slipped his hand up inside her
skimpy mint green teddy and cupped her slender hip.
“I’d thought you weren’t going to make
it,” she told him, then ran a series of hot wet kisses over his
chest and down his lean belly. While he continued caressing her hip
and fondling her breast, she unbuckled his belt and unzipped his
pants. With heated passion they rushed to remove the remaining
barriers of clothing; then Eartha slithered down Max’s body, her
mouth and hands wild. She circled his erection and pumped him
gently. He groaned deep in his throat. Positioning herself so that
he could continue his attentions to her breasts, she began licking
him like a lollipop. And when he thought he couldn’t stand anymore,
she took him into her mouth and closed her lips around
him.
God, she was good at this! And unlike
some women, she didn’t seem to have a problem going down on a man;
indeed she seemed to enjoy it.
He ached, needing release badly.
Seeming to know exactly what he wanted, she continued, bringing him
closer and closer to the brink. As the blood rushed through his
body and echoed a deafening roar inside his head, he climaxed in
her mouth. She swallowed and licked him clean, like a purring
kitten washing herself.
Groaning, Max closed his eyes as his
orgasm exploded through his nerve endings, tightening and then
relaxing his muscles. When Eartha straddled him and laid her
slender form on top of him, he took several deep
breaths.
She kissed him tenderly. “Sleep for a
while. I’ll wake you in a few hours and you can fuck me real good
before you go home.”
The corners of his mouth lifted in a
weak smile as he patted her naked butt before she slid to his side
and lifted the sheet to cover them.
Jolie drove through Sumarville. Little
had changed in twenty years. Most of the old buildings had been
restored and a few had been torn down and replaced by ones she was
sure met with the approval of the historical society. Strange how
tiny the town looked to her now, after having lived abroad, in New
York, and in Atlanta. Sumarville somehow had maintained that lazy,
leisurely small town feel. At one-fifteen in the morning, there
wasn’t a sign of life anywhere in the downtown area.
She parked her Escalade in front of the
Sumarville Inn. She could have flown and arrived sooner, but she
had preferred to drive. She had needed those long hours on the road
to build up her courage and to gird her loins for battle. Aunt
Clarice and Yvonne would be the only two people happy to see her.
They would welcome her with open arms. The Devereaux clan would no
doubt prefer to shoot her on sight. Their animosity suited her just
fine. There was no love lost between them.
But she had to admit that she wondered
about her half sister. Did Mallory despise her the way Georgette
and Max did? More than likely. But it didn’t really matter, did it?
After all, Mallory was really Max’s sister, not hers.
Jolie removed a small suitcase from the
back of her SUV, then locked the vehicle before heading toward the
inn’s front entrance. A young, lanky, model-handsome man sat in a
chair behind the counter, his eyes closed and his mouth slightly
parted. She cleared her throat. The man’s eyes opened and he
stretched. Slowly. Languidly. Then he smiled at her, and she
wondered how many hearts this young stud had broken.
He stood and came toward her, only the
counter separating them. “Yes, ma’am. Can I help you?”
“I’d like a room, please.”
“Just for tonight?”
“No, for tonight and tomorrow night,”
she replied.
“Cash or credit card?”
“Credit card.”
She unsnapped her shoulder bag, opened
her wallet, and removed one of her Platinum cards. When he took the
card from her, he read her name.
“Jolie Royale.”
She nodded.
“Are you Mr. Louis Royale’s daughter?”
he asked.
“Yes. His elder daughter.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He went through the usual
procedure to register her, then handed her a key. “Room
two-oh-seven. Take the stairs to your left.”
“Still no elevators in this
place?”
“No, ma’am. Afraid not.”
Jolie accepted the key he offered,
picked up her suitcase, and walked away.
“Ms. Royale?”
“Yes?” She glanced over her
shoulder.
“I’m sure sorry about your
father.”
“Thank you.”
Jolie realized that she had to get used
to accepting condolences. People would expect her to be in
mourning. Damn, that was one of the many things she hated about
living in a small town—having to live up to people’s expectations.
How many Sumarville residents actually endured lives of quiet desperation? How many
generations of her own family had spent every waking moment
constructing their day-to-day living according to society’s rules
and regulations, forever concerned about what other people would
think of them?
Jolie didn’t give a damn what anybody
in Sumarville thought of her, but Aunt Clarice would care. And so
would Mama, if she were alive. Perhaps she owed it to her family—to
the Desmonds—to at least act the part of a true Southern
lady.
After making her way upstairs, she
quickly found Room 207, unlocked the door, and went inside. She
flipped on the light switch and was pleasantly surprised by the
simplicity of the room’s decor. Fairly typical for an
economy-priced hotel/ motel but clean and neat.
She tossed her suitcase on the bed to
her left, then kicked off her sandals, removed her sundress, and
fell across the bed to her right. Staring up at the ceiling, she
thought about tomorrow. Her father’s funeral. She couldn’t—no, she
wouldn’t—pretend emotions she didn’t feel. She had come home for
the funeral. That would have to be enough. After all, she wasn’t
here to pay her respects to a father she had lost long ago; she was
here to please Aunt Clarice.
And to find out if Belle Rose was hers
now. “And if it is?” she asked herself aloud. Jolie smiled,
thoughts of bittersweet revenge playing inside her
head.