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will be going to bed soon,” Yvonne said. “There’s nothing more that can be done tonight. Besides, Max will take care of everything.”
    â€œYes, of course he will. Max is such a good man.” Clarice patted Nowell’s cheek. “I do wish you and Max liked each other.”
    â€œDon’t worry about Max and me,” Nowell said. “He’ll eventually come around, once he realizes I’d never do anything to hurt you.”
    â€œMr. Landers, I really think I should get Clarice to bed.” Yvonne looked at him pleadingly.
    â€œCertainly. You go on with Yvonne.” Nowell turned Clarice around and placed her hand in Yvonne’s. “I’ll come by tomorrow morning. But if you were to need me, have Yvonne call the inn any time of the day or night.”
    â€œYou’re so dear and sweet, so much like…” Clarice’s thoughts seemed to trail off into nothingness, as if she’d suddenly forgotten what she intended to say.
    Nowell kissed her cheek, then turned and walked out of the front parlor and into the foyer. Clarice watched him leave, her gaze soft with tenderness. If that man broke Clarice’s heart, Max would have to stand in line to beat Nowell Landers to an unidentifiable pulp. Yvonne wouldn’t tolerate anyone hurting Clarice.
    No one, least of all her own son, understood her devotion to Clarice Desmond. But then, no one knew the secrets they shared. Secrets that bound them together forever.

Chapter 3
    While balancing the breakfast tray with one hand, Max eased open the door to his mother’s bedroom. Yvonne had fixed only toast and coffee. Georgette was a picky eater. He supposed that was why at fifty-six, she maintained her youthful figure. The early-morning sunshine filtered through the sheer panels covering the windows that faced east. After entering the room, he set the tray on the seat of one of the two Louis XV-style chairs flanking the fireplace. The room had been redecorated three years ago by a Memphis interior designer, a project his mother had greatly enjoyed.
    â€œGood morning,” Georgette said, as she lifted herself into a sitting position in the middle of the massive iron bed, which was draped in red-and-gold-print toile and dressed in antique Desmond linens.
    â€œDid you get any sleep?” Max asked.
    Georgette pushed the long strands of her black hair away from her face. A face that had aged well and still retained the great beauty on which she prided herself. And hair that a skillful beautician colored to subtle perfection. “On and off. Did you?”
    â€œA couple of hours. Maybe.”
    She glanced at the tray resting in the velvet-upholstered chair. “Did you bring my coffee?”
    â€œYes.” He lifted the tray and brought it to the bed. “And some toast, too. You should try to eat something.”
    He placed the tray on her lap, then removed the decoratively embroidered white cloth covering the meal. Four slices of lightly buttered cinnamon toast on a china plate. He lifted the small silver coffeepot and poured the hot black liquid into a china cup. The china and silver had been in the Desmond family for six generations.
    â€œDo you mind if we talk while you eat?” he asked. “We have a great many decisions to make.”
    Georgette brought the cup to her lips and sipped the gourmet coffee that she had sent in from New Orleans every month. “I suppose there are things that can’t wait. But I do so dread having to face the reality of Louis’s death.”
    â€œDo you want to go with me to Trendall’s this morning?”
    Shaking her head, Georgette responded quite adamantly. “Mercy, no! I couldn’t bear it. Please, darling, you handle all the details.”
    He had assumed this would be her reply. He loved his mother dearly but knew her shortcomings better than anyone. She was not an emotionally strong woman and depended on others to handle life’s