What She Doesn't Know by Beverly Barton Page B

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