What She Doesn't Know Read Free Page A

the whites; Jardien for the blacks. Burial was still a segregated event in Mississippi, even in the twenty-first century.
    Max shoved his wallet into his back pocket, clipped his cellular phone onto his belt, then raced out of his room and down the stairs. He picked up his car keys off the intricately carved commode in the foyer as he headed for the front door. Hurriedly tapping in the security code, he wondered if he should stop by Yvonne’s cottage to tell her about Louis’s death. No, better just phone her on the way and have her come to the house and prepare things for the family’s return. Yvonne had been a part of the household long before he and his mother moved into Belle Rose. Indeed Yvonne and her brother had grown up on the plantation along with the Desmond sisters, and Yvonne’s mother had been the family’s housekeeper.
    Within five minutes of his sister’s call, Max headed his Porsche toward town, his foot heavy on the gas pedal. He just hoped that Mallory would be able to handle things until he arrived. His half sister was only eighteen and quite immature for her age. She’d been spoiled rotten by their mother and Louis. Sometimes Max wondered if Louis had doted on Mallory and spoiled her so shamelessly because his only other child had cut him completely out of her life.
    As the sleek black sports car sped along the back roads of Desmond County, Mississippi, Max made a mental list of what needed to be done as soon as possible. He wished that contacting Jolie Royale wasn’t on that list. He hadn’t seen Louis’s elder daughter since she was fourteen; nor had he spoken to her once in all the years since Louis had sent her away from Belle Rose. No matter how many times Louis had issued her an invitation to come home, even if just for a visit, or how many times Aunt Clarice had pleaded with her to return to Sumarville, Jolie had adamantly refused. She had told her father and her aunt that she would never set foot on Belle Rose property as long as that woman lived there. That woman being Georgette Clifton Devereaux Royale.

    Yvonne lifted a fresh-baked skillet of cornbread from the oven, then turned it out onto a plate. Since he’d moved back to Sumarville after living in Memphis for the past eight years, her son, Theron, came to her house for a late dinner every Thursday evening. She had wanted him to move in with her, but he’d laughed at her suggestion.
    “Mama, I’m thirty-eight and have lived on my own since I left for college twenty years ago,” Theron had told her. “Besides, you know I’d never live on the old plantation. Belle Rose may be home to you, but not to me.”
    She didn’t necessarily believe her son was wrong to feel the way he did about her living in the cottage provided by Louis Royale, the same cottage her mother had occupied all the years she’d been the housekeeper for the Desmond family. Theron was a new breed of black man. A modern African-American who resented anything connected to the old ways, to anything that even hinted of subservience to whites. But there were things Theron didn’t know, things he couldn’t possibly understand. The Desmonds had been her family. As long as Clarice lived, Yvonne would never leave her. How could she ever explain to Theron the deep emotional bond that existed between Clarice and her? Even if she told him the complete truth, would he be able to accept her devotion to a white woman?
    “Supper sure looks good.” After she placed the cornbread on the table, Theron pulled out a chair for her. “You’re the best cook in Desmond County.”
    Yvonne simply smiled modestly as she sat down and lifted a white linen napkin from atop the white linen tablecloth. She had always loved nice things: elegant linens and china and crystal. Although her home was modest compared to many, she took pride in the cottage and its contents. She had learned from the Desmond sisters how to conduct herself as a proper lady.
    “Being a true lady has nothing to do