“And who are you, Max?”
“I’m the bastard son of a New Orleans whore, who can’t even tell me who my biological father is because she doesn’t know for sure. It’s possible that she killed a man who could have been my father. A sleazy pimp. And I’m the nephew of a man who murdered six people, including my wife and your mother. God only knows what kind of blood runs through my veins. How could you ever look at me, ever hold me in your arms, ever…without wondering.”
“You’re a good man, Max. It doesn’t matter who your father was or that Georgette was once a prostitute or that she might have killed an evil wicked man. And as for Parry…you’re nothing like him. You’re strong and brave and caring and everything a man should be. You’re everything I want.”
“Are you saying that you’ll stay in Sumarville, that you’ll marry me, that you’ll…”
“Yes, yes, yes. I’ll stay. I’ll be with you wherever you are. And I’ll marry you today, if that’s what it takes to convince you. And I want your babies. Our babies.”
Tears glistened in Max’s eyes. He reached out and grabbed Jolie, then held her so fiercely that she could barely breathe. He released her abruptly, grabbed her shoulders and held her away from him. “This is your last chance to change your mind,” he told her. “If you stay, I’ll never let you go.”
“I’m staying,” she told him. “I’m staying with you for the rest of my life.”
He clasped her face with his hands, lowered his head, and kissed her. And Jolie knew that she was truly home. Home to stay.
Epilogue
The day that Mallory Royale went into labor would forever after be considered a red-letter day for the family. At precisely twelve noon, Mallory’s first contraction hit her. At one-twenty, Jolie’s obstetrician informed her that she was pregnant. At two o’clock, on a late lunch break, Theron proposed to Amy. And at three o’clock, R. J. Sutton rang the doorbell at Belle Rose.
By five-thirty, the entire extended Desmond-Royale-Devereaux family had congregated in the maternity waiting area of Desmond County General. Max and Jolie. Georgette, Yvonne, Clarice, and her Jonathan. Theron and Amy. And at eight that evening R. J. Sutton cut his daughter’s umbilical cord and vowed to his little girl and her mother that they could count on him to take care of them.
At ten-forty-five, Jolie lay naked in Max’s arms, the tingling aftershocks of her orgasm radiating through her body. She rose up, lifted her head, and stared at the husband she adored.
“Aunt Clarice is very excited about there being a baby at Belle Rose again, after all these years,” Jolie said. “I can’t imagine how thrilled she’ll be in another seven months when there are two babies at Belle Rose.”
“Two babies?” Narrowing his gaze, Max stared at her.
“Since Mallory had a little girl, I think I might like our first child to be a boy.” Jolie rolled over on top of Max. “What do you think, Max? Would you like for our baby to be a boy? Do you want a son?”
“Our baby.” Max threaded his fingers through Jolie’s hair, clutched the back of her head and forced her down until they were eye-to-eye. “Mrs. Devereaux, is this your subtle way of telling me that you’re pregnant? That we’re going to become parents?”
“Yes, Mr. Devereaux, it is. And I am. And we are.”
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