What She Doesn't Know

by Beverly Barton

  “Louis did what he thought was right,” Max said. “He tried to take care of everyone, but what he did was tie my family to Jolie from now until the end of our days.”

  “Oh?” She looked at her brother. “Where is Jolie?”

  “Yvonne drove her into town to pick up her car and her suitcases,” Gar said.

  “Then she’s coming back to stay at Belle Rose?”

  “She’s staying the night with Yvonne,” Max explained. “What she’ll do tomorrow is anybody’s guess.”

  Sandy asked, “Want to tell me how Louis entangled Jolie with you and—”

  “He willed Belle Rose to her.” Max knotted his hands into fists, wishing he could smash something and partially vent his frustration.

  “My Lord,” Sandy said. “Does that mean y’all will be moving?”

  Max shook his head. “Oh, no. Nothing so simple. Louis willed Belle Rose to Jolie…with the stipulation that Mother, Mallory, and I be allowed to remain in residence. And he split everything he possessed among Mallory, Jolie, and me.”

  Mallory came rushing down the stairs, then skidded to a halt when she saw her brother. “What’s this, another legal pow-wow? I hope y’all are figuring out a way to make sure Jolie never sets foot in our house ever again.”

  Max surveyed his little sister from head to toe. She had changed out of her teal-green suit and into a pair of denim shorts and a yellow T-shirt emblazoned with the logo G.R.I.T.S.—Girls Raised in the South.

  “I thought you’d be in bed by now,” Max said.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she told him. “And before you ask, yes, I gave Mother a sleeping pill and stayed with her until she dozed off.”

  “Hello, Mallory.” Sandy lifted her hand to wave.

  “Hi, there.” Mallory waved back at Sandy.

  As his sister walked past him, he noticed a key ring in her hand. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “For a ride. Okay? I need to get away for a little while. I thought I’d ride around. Get some fresh air. Get away from…I want to stop thinking about Daddy dying. And about how pitiful Mother is. And about how sorry for myself I’m feeling.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t go out tonight,” Max said. “It’s after nine and—”

  “Unless you hog-tie me, I’m going.” Mallory gave him one of her determined, don’t-try-to-stop-me stares.

  “Don’t be gone long,” he told her. “If you’re not home by eleven, I’ll come out looking for you.”

  “Make it midnight, will you? I think you have more to worry about than my curfew. Big sister dearest is probably busy plotting ways to annihilate us.” As Mallory passed Gar, she ran the tip of her bright pink fingernail over his cheek. “You’d better bone up on your law books before you have to face Jolie’s high-powered Atlanta lawyer.”

  Mallory sashayed out the double front doors and onto the veranda. Within minutes Max heard the roar of her yellow Corvette as she gunned it and sped down the driveway.

  R. J. had been in Sumarville just long enough to discover where the town’s seedy underbelly was located. The backroom poker games. The cockfights. The phone number to call to buy a woman for a couple of hours. Life could be good for a guy like him, who’d just won two hundred bucks playing cards and had a hard-on he was looking to ease before the night was over. It was just a matter of finding the right dancing partner. He preferred his women experienced but not pros. He’d never paid a hooker in his life. He didn’t need to; women usually flocked around him. Like bears to honey.

  R. J. cruised down Main Street, the top off on his Jeep, the night air whipping his long hair into his face. He felt lucky. Damn lucky. He was twenty-three, healthy, and free as a bird.

  Now, where could he find a good-looking gal on a Sunday night in Sumarville? The well-worn whores who frequented the hot nightspots weren’t what he was looking for—not tonight. He wanted some sweet young thing with a knock-out body and just enough experience to know what she was doing.

  The bright lights from the Dairy Bar a block up on the left, on Walnut Street, beckoned to him. Who knew, he might get lucky and find some preacher’s daughter sipping a cherry cola and just hoping some dangerous man would take her for a wild ride.

  R. J. turned right off Main Street and headed straight for the local teenage hangout, one of the few places in town open on a Sunday evening. He parked his Jeep, jumped out and ran a hand through his hair, then swaggered into the Dairy Bar. At the counter he ordered a burger, fries, and a Coke. All fluttering giggles, the girl who waited on him did everything to attract him, short of stripping naked and saying, “Take me now, big boy.” She was definitely interested in him, but she wasn’t his type. A bit too skinny and flat chested for his taste. He winked at her, figuring the harmless flirtation would make her day.

  Taking his time in order to let the females look him over, he found an empty booth, set his food on the table, then slid into place. As he sipped on his cola, his gaze casually scanned the area. Already three good-looking babes were giving him the once-over. Two blondes and a redhead. What did he prefer tonight—vanilla or strawberry?

  He could make the first move and take his pick, but the kind of girl he wanted was the kind who would come to him. So he waited. Acting cool, he began eating and made a bet with himself that he wouldn’t finish his meal before one of the girls would come over and introduce herself.

  In his peripheral vison he saw one of the blondes heading in his direction; the bosomy one with a heart tattoo on her shoulder.

  “Hi, there.” She all but purred as she sat down across from him. “I’m Jamie Gambrell. I haven’t seen you around before. You must be new in town.”

  “Well, hello, there, Jamie.” He flashed her one of his irresistible smiles. “I’m R. J.”

  “So, are you expecting somebody, like a girlfriend?” she asked.

  “I fly solo most of the time,” he replied. “It leaves me free to meet new people.” He reached across the table and took one of Jamie’s hands in his. “Tell me, how old are you?”

  She giggled. “Nineteen. And I can prove it.” She rummaged around in the small beaded bag draped over her shoulder and pulled out a driver’s license. “Here, take a look.”

  R. J. checked out the license she handed him. He could usually spot a fake I.D. This one looked genuine. Well, well, well. So, Miss Big Tits was legal. Yeah, he was lucky tonight and going to get luckier.

  He tossed the license back to her. “There’s not some burly country boy who’s got a claim on you, is there?”

  “There was,” she said. “But we broke up a few weeks ago.”

  “Well, then, sweet thing, how’d you like to take a ride with me?”

  “Where to?”

  “I don’t have to work tomorrow,” he told her. “We could drive down to New Orleans and have us a real good time.”

  “New Orleans? You’re kidding? Wow, I’d love to, but if I’m not home by one, my father would have the Highway Patrol out looking for me.”

  “Forget New Orleans. How about we ride around until we find someplace to park where we can look at the moon.”

  “Sure. As long as you have me home before one.”

  “No problem.”

  R. J. slid out of the booth, picked up his trash, dumped it, and then reached out and wrapped his arm around Jamie’s waist. She waved to her friends who watched from a back booth.

  “See y’all later,” she hollered, then snuggled to R. J.’s side.

  He was halfway to his Jeep when he saw her. Mallory Royale sat in her canary yellow Corvette, staring up at the sky, tears streaming down her cheeks. A damsel in distress, in need of a strong shoulder to cry on.

  Remember, she’s got a big brother who’s already warned you to stay away from her. Yeah, yeah, sure. When had he ever been afraid of big brothers or fathers or boyfriends or even husbands? But Max Devereaux is no ordinary big brother, he reminded himself.

  So, was he out of his mind? He already had a willing woman hanging all over
him. If his guess was right, he’d have her panties off and her body penetrated five minutes after they parked on some dark secluded road. So why the hell did he want to take his chances with the princess over there? Because he liked a challenge and Jamie was easy prey?

  R. J. stopped dead still and untangled himself from Jamie’s clinging arms. “I see a friend of mine over there and she looks like she needs me.” He gave Jamie a little shove toward the Dairy Bar. “Why don’t you go back in there with your girlfriends and we can hook up another night.”

  “Huh?” Jamie stared at him, obviously puzzled by his sudden change of heart. “You mean Mallory Royale is a friend of yours?”

  “Yeah, we’re old friends.”

  “I thought you said you were new in town.” Jamie planted her hands on her trim hips and glowered at R.J.

  “I’ve been around long enough to make a few friends.” He swatted her on the behind. “Go on. I’ll look you up later.”

  Jamie swirled around and stomped back toward the Dairy Bar. R. J. sauntered over to the Corvette and stopped on the driver’s side.

  “Need some company, Miss Royale?”

  Mallory gasped. By the surprised expression on her face, apparently she hadn’t heard him approaching. “Mr. Sutton, is that you?”

  “Call me R. J.” He leaned forward just enough to reach her face, then wiped the tears from her cheeks with his fingertips. “You look like a lady who could use a friend right about now.”

  Mallory swallowed. Fresh tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. “I don’t know what I need.”

  He opened the driver’s door. “Get in the other seat,” he said.

  She stared up at him, then without questioning his request, she moved over the console and into the passenger seat. R. J. slid behind the wheel, turned the key in the ignition and revved the motor; then he fastened her seat belt before securing his.

  “I know what you need,” he told her. “You need me.”

  Chapter 8

  Pleasant Hill had been in Garland Wells’s family for six generations, the house built by slave labor in 1840, making it the oldest plantation house in Desmond County, predating even Belle Rose. As a boy Gar had loved living here, even if sometimes he hated being Roscoe Wells’s son. Having a father despised by so many people had been difficult for Gar and Sandy when they were children. And as they grew to adulthood, their political and social views differed from those of their “former” white supremacist father, especially Sandy’s. Once his baby sister left for college, she never lived at home again. Garland, on the other hand, had returned after law school to live in the family mansion with Roscoe, who had seemed terribly alone after Felicia’s marriage to Max. Felicia had been their father’s favorite child. Physically she had been as beautiful as their mother, but in every other way she had been her father’s daughter. Sometimes it bothered Gar to think about the bad blood that ran in his veins—an insidious evil that went back generations. Somehow Sandy seemed to have escaped the curse of genetics, but Felicia hadn’t And Gar wasn’t sure about himself.

  Although he didn’t kid himself that his father—the old racist leopard—had truly changed his spots, Gar liked to believe that if any small change of heart on Roscoe’s part was genuine, it had been due to his influence. Gar considered himself a modern-thinking Mississippian, open-minded enough to accept that change was necessary, to realize that the great-great-grandchildren of slave owners had to coexist on equal terms with the descendants of slaves. That fact was simply part of a legacy that blacks and whites alike had to accept.

  Sandy pulled her Lexus up in the driveway but didn’t kill the motor. Garland undid his seat belt, then turned to his sister. With her short brown hair, dark brown eyes, and slender figure, Sandy was attractive, but not in the breathtaking way Felicia had been. However, what Sandy lacked in beauty, she made up for in brains and temperament. He had no doubt that the youngest Wells child had turned out far better than her elder siblings. Gar supposed he was a decent enough fellow, but he didn’t possess Sandy’s good heart. And Felicia, rest her soul, had been a first-class bitch.

  “Aren’t you coming in for a few minutes?” Gar asked.

  Sandy harrumphed. “When pigs fly.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt you to just come in and say hello,” Gar told her. “After all, he is your father. And he’s not getting any younger.”

  “You’ve tried that tactic numerous times. It hasn’t worked before and it isn’t going to work now or in the future. I washed my hands of that old reprobate a long time ago. I’m sorry that you’re stuck with him, but that was your own doing.”

  Gar nodded, then leaned over and kissed Sandy’s cheek. After opening the door, he stepped outside, then bent over and peered back into the car. “The inability to forgive your fathers for their sins is something you and Jolie seem to have in common.”

  “Jolie always was a smart girl.” The corners of Sandy’s lips lifted into an almost smile. “I hate I missed getting to talk to her after the funeral.” Sandy sighed. “God, I remember when we were kids. Jolie and I were so close. I loved her—and liked her—far more than I ever did Felicia. She’s one of the best friends I’ve ever had.”

  “If you befriend her now, you’ll find yourself making an enemy out of Max. You’ll have to choose sides.”

  Sandy nodded. “Yes, I know.”

  “We haven’t loved wisely, have we?”

  Gar slammed the door. As Sandy drove away, he stood in the driveway, watching her hasty departure. He didn’t envy his little sister. As the attorney for both Louis Royale and Max Devereaux, the choice had already been made for him. Until he’d seen her again, he hadn’t realized how much he’d hate not being on Jolie’s side in this matter. But for Sandy, the choice would be even more difficult. Sandy had kept in touch with Jolie all these years and had visited her in Atlanta several times. And he was well aware of Sandy’s feelings for Max. The poor girl had been in love with him for as long as Gar could remember. He’d never forget how bravely she’d faced Max’s wedding to Felicia. Hell, she’d even served as Felicia’s maid of honor.

  But Sandy’s feelings for Max weren’t reciprocated and never would be. Gar understood, only too well, how tormenting love could be, especially a hopeless love. Sometimes it seemed to him that all three of the Wells siblings had been cursed at birth.

  The double front doors opened onto the portico and light from the foyer blended with the two torchlights on either side of the entrance. Gar took a deep breath, then turned to face his father. Still wearing his white shirt and black trousers that had been part of his funeral attire, Roscoe inclined his head toward the fading red taillights of Sandy’s Lexus.

  “That girl was in a damn hurry to leave, wasn’t she?” Roscoe cleared his throat, then spit into the nearby shrubbery. “You’d think, considering the way her mama raised her, she’d have the good manners to at least come in the house just to see how I’m doing.”

  Having learned in the past not to respond to his father’s comments about Sandy, Gar climbed the steps to the front portico and laid his hand on his father’s shoulder.

  “Have you taken your medicine?” Gar asked.

  “Yes, I’ve taken all those damn little pills that Mattie laid out for me. I swear she’s the most aggravating woman. I’d fire her again, but I know it wouldn’t do any good. You’d just hire her back the way you have the last five times I fired her.”

  Gar’s firm touch urged Roscoe to turn and enter the house. “Mattie’s a good, honest woman who does her job well. She’d be difficult to replace. Good housekeepers don’t grow on trees.”

  “When I was a boy, families like ours had their pick of nig—” Roscoe laughed. “I’ve been trying to break myself of the habit for years and stop using that word, even in my own home. Don’t want it slipping out at an inappropriate time. Might lose me some of my black voters.” Roscoe entered the house, Gar at his side. “What I was saying is that when I was a boy, you had your pick of black women to do the dom
estic work. Most folks with our kind of money usually had at least four or five house servants. And in my papa’s day, men in his position could get all the pussy they wanted from those gals.”

  Gar closed and locked the front door. “Those times are long gone, Daddy.”

  “Yeah, don’t I know it.” Roscoe sighed loudly.

  “Are you going up to bed now?” Gar headed toward the stairs. No use correcting his father. No use wishing for the impossible.

  “Hold up, there.”

  Gar glanced over his shoulder. “Do you need something?”

  “Yeah. I need to know what happened at Belle Rose tonight,” Roscoe said. “How did Louis divvy up things? And is that Miss Jolie Royale going to be staying around these parts for long?”

  Gar slumped his shoulders. He could claim client /attorney privilege and refuse to answer, but Roscoe knew as well as he did that the terms of Louis’s will would be common knowledge by this time tomorrow.

  “Louis equally divided everything among Max, Mallory, and Jolie. He provided a trust fund for Georgette and Clarice. And he left Yvonne a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Well, won’t she get even more uppity than ever,” Roscoe said. “That gal’s always thought she was better than she was.”

  “Who are you talking about?” Gar asked.

  “Yvonne Carter!” Roscoe spoke the name with contempt.

  “Daddy, I don’t know where you got such a notion. Yvonne is a nice woman and—”

  “I know more about that pale-skinned, hazel-eyed witch than most folks.” Roscoe waved his hand, dismissing the subject. “Enough about that. What did Louis do with Belle Rose?”

  “He bequeathed it to Jolie.”

  Roscoe let out a long, low whistle. “Well, shit’s going to hit the fan now. She’ll kick the whole kit and caboodle of ’em out. Everybody except Clarice.”

  “She can’t. There’s a stipulation in the will that allows Georgette, Max, and Mallory to stay on at Belle Rose. Jolie can’t kick them out.”