But in that question lies the answer to the others. Livy’s parents weren’t white trash from the wrong side of the tracks, a family for whom a marriage to a doctor’s son—even a shotgun marriage—would be a step up the social ladder. They were Marstons. Natchez royalty. The worst thing Leo and Maude could possibly imagine would be anything that might slow the momentum of their perfect daughter’s perfect life. Marriage would never have entered their minds. They wouldn’t want a single soul to discover that Livy was pregnant, and they would want the resulting child to disappear from the face of the earth. I can’t believe Leo let Livy carry the child to term.

As for Livy keeping the pregnancy from me, her psychology was simple enough. She had ambitions, and marriage at eighteen wasn’t one of them. When she thought of marriage, she envisioned someone who could not possibly be found in the backward and somnolent state of her birth. Yet for the past few days she has acted as though she’d like nothing better than to spend the rest of her life with me.

“She never told you anything about me?” Jenny asks in a small voice.

“Not a word. I never suspected that Livy had a child. No one did.”

“Well, she does. She may not want me, but she’s my mother.”

“Jenny, I know this sounds pathetic, but . . . I don’t know what to say.”

“I know I sprang this on you at a terrible time. I’m so sorry about your maid.”

“It’s all right.”

She takes a tentative step toward me. “Will you do me a huge favor, Mr. Cage?”

“If I can. What is it?”

“Will you get a blood test?”

My stomach flips over. “A paternity test?”

“It’s just one tube of blood. For a DNA test.”

“Jenny—”

“I know you feel like you’ve been hit with a ton of bricks. I don’t want to creep you out or anything. But when I saw you sitting down there today, you looked so vulnerable. The way I feel all the time. I just knew you were more compassionate than—her. Even if you didn’t want anything to do with me, I knew you’d be nicer about it.”

My mind has slipped away again. Livy’s reaction to Jenny’s appearance in Atlanta seems incomprehensible. I can understand her being shocked, or afraid of what her husband might think. But to be so cruel . . .

“It is possible, right?” Jenny asks. “I mean, you were sleeping with Livy Marston in high school?”

“Yes.”

She shakes her head as though she still can’t believe we’re talking face to face. “This is so scary. But it’s liberating too. I really thought you were going to just run out of here. Straight to a judge to get a restraining order against me.”

“Jenny—”