Best Kept Secrets (13 page)

She glanced up at him. “How?”

“Rumrunners and bootleggers bring it in from Canada and the Caribbean by boat,” he whispered. Her mouth formed a perfect O that elicited a soft chuckle from Samuel. His attention was diverted when he spied Basil Mansfield striding toward them.

Basil, a large man with a perpetual flush suffusing his redbone complexion, was the complete opposite of his snobbish wife. “Samuel, my boy, how nice of you to come.”

His gray-green eyes shifted to the slender, raven-haired
woman clinging possessively to his neighbor’s arm. Winnie had nagged him constantly to host a dinner party so she could meet Samuel Cole’s young wife. Now that he’d given in to her whining he was glad he had.

“Samuel, your wife is lovely.”

Covering the hand on his arm, Samuel inclined his head. “Thank you, Basil. I’d like to introduce you to my wife, Marguerite-Josefina. M.J., this is Basil Mansfield, our host and closest neighbor.”

M.J. removed her hand from her husband’s arm, offering it to Basil. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Mansfield.”

Basil switched the glass filled with a golden liquid to the opposite hand, tilting it at a precarious angle. Grasping M.J.’s fingers, he squeezed them tightly. “My, my, my, Marguerite-Josefina. You are as beautiful as your name.” His admiring gaze swept over her face. “Are you Spanish?”

M.J. forced a polite smile. “No, sir. I’m Cuban.”

“Is there a difference, little lady?”

“Yes, there is. Spanish is a language.”

Samuel felt the stiffness in M.J.’s body and knew it was time to circulate. He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew three cigars. “Basil, these are for you. Compliments of M.J.’s father.” He smiled at her. “Darling, may I get you something to drink?”

“Yes, please.”

Samuel nodded to Basil. “We’ll talk again later.”

“Thank you, darling,” M.J. whispered as Samuel led her to where a bartender stood behind a portable bar mixing drinks.

“You’re very welcome, my love.”

Samuel and M.J. shared a passionate look that made those close enough to witness the exchange smile.

M.J. glanced up over her shoulder, smiling at Samuel as he seated her. She watched as he rounded the long, rectangular
table and sat opposite her. Her gaze shifted to the place card next to her wineglass:
S. Cole. Guest
.

A slight frown furrowed her smooth forehead. The word had gotten out in the private residential enclave that Samuel Cole had returned to West Palm Beach with a wife, yet Winifred Mansfield had referred to her as Samuel’s guest. Why not Mrs. S. Cole? She’d spent less than an hour under the Mansfield roof and knew unequivocally that she and Mrs. Mansfield would never become friends.

“Winnie can be so gauche at times,” said a soft feminine voice on M.J.’s right.

Turning, she stared at a woman with a liberal sprinkling of freckles dotting her light brown face, finding her very pretty. Her hair was styled in a fashionable bob. Large, round, dark eyes, a pert nose and a heart-shaped mouth made her appear doll-like.

“I don’t understand.”

The woman leaned closer. “I’m Margaret Carson, but everyone calls me Peggy.”

M.J. flashed her dimpled smile for the first time since entering the Mansfield residence. “I’m Marguerite-Josefina Diaz Cole, but all of my friends call me M.J.”

The skin around Peggy’s eyes crinkled as she smiled. “May I call you M.J.?”

“Of course. But only if I can address you as Peggy.”

“Sure.”

M.J. angled her head. “What were you saying about Winnie?” she whispered.

“She hates it when anyone calls her that, but I do it just to mess with her.”

M.J.’s eyebrows lifted. “Mess?”

“It means to annoy. Where are you from?”

“Cuba.”

Peggy nodded. “I thought I heard an accent. Your English is very good.”

“My Spanish is much better,” M.J. admitted. “Samuel says words I don’t understand, and I have to ask him to translate them for me.”

“That’s because here in the South we use different words for something that will mean the same thing elsewhere. An example is that we’ll say ‘tote’ instead of carry.”

“It’s the same in my country.”

“Did you and Samuel meet in Cuba?”

“Yes.”

“You should know that once the word got out that he was married, a lot of women had hissy fits. That means a tantrum.”

M.J. waited until a waiter filled the water goblet at her place setting before asking, “Why?”

Peggy stared at M.J. as if she’d lost her senses. “Do you have any idea of what a catch your husband is? He’s young, handsome, ambitious and a successful businessman. Everyone sitting at this table, with the exception of Daniel Williams, who has his own law practice, works for someone else. Most are teachers, one is a pharmacist, another a dentist, and the rest work for banks and insurance companies. Samuel Cole is the only entrepreneur. In other words, he’s his own boss, makes his own hours, and doesn’t have to share his profits.”

M.J. digested what the chatty woman had just told her. It was apparent Peggy knew more about Samuel’s business than she did, and she attributed that to her upbringing. Upper-class Cuban women were afforded the security necessary to focus all their attention on their home, not on their husband’s business dealings.

“Were there a lot of women flirting with my husband?”

Peggy rolled her eyes. “Child, they were downright shameless. Winnie’s fast-ass daughter, who’s not here because she’s in college, took the rag off the bush. She was so loose that folks were beginning to refer to her as a hussy.”

M.J. decided she liked Peggy even if she couldn’t under
stand half of what she’d said. “Sammy never spoke to me of his other women.”

Peggy sucked her teeth. “That’s because there were no other women that I know of. He usually keeps to himself. But if someone invited him to a soiree he’d come, but always alone.”

An expression of satisfaction shimmered in M.J.’s eyes as her confidence spiraled appreciably. There was no doubt Samuel would remain a faithful husband, because she did not want to spend her time agonizing that he was having affairs with other women whenever he embarked on a business trip.

One night he’d disclosed that he planned to go to Costa Rica to confer with a representative of the United Fruit Company. When she’d asked when he was leaving, he’d admitted he was awaiting a telegram before he could confirm a departure date.

Most conversations halted as platters of baked ham, fried chicken, potato salad, collard, mustard, and turnip greens, candied sweet potatoes, rice and giblet gravy were passed around the table. It was M.J.’s first introduction to a Southern-cooked meal.

“Everything taste so good,” she said to Peggy.

“You’ve never eaten Southern food?”

M.J. shook her head. “No.”

“What do you cook?”

“Cuban dishes.”

Peggy placed a hand over M.J.’s. “If you want, I can teach you to cook our dishes.”

A ripple of excitement swept through M.J. “I’d love that. But don’t say anything to Samuel. I want to surprise him once I make cold-lard greens.”

Peggy laughed when M.J. said “cold-lard” for collards. “Don’t worry. It will be our secret. Why don’t you join the rest of us on Wednesday afternoons for our bid whist parties?”

“I don’t know how to play card games.” Although her aunt held weekly card parties at her Havana residence, M.J. never participated. She’d found the gatherings too smoky and boisterous.

“That’s okay. I’ll teach you.”

“Thank you, Peggy.”

Peggy smiled. “You’re welcome, M.J.”

“You smell so good that you should be on the table, beautiful lady.”

M.J. ignored the comment from the man on her left; he’d tried unsuccessfully from the moment he’d sat down next to her to engage her in conversation. He’d had too much to drink and most of his comments were not only inappropriate, but also disrespectful. It did not matter that his daughter overheard him or that M.J.’s husband sat less than three feet away.

Samuel’s expression was one of strained tolerance. He’d sat for more than an hour watching his wife recoil each time the intoxicated dentist leaned close enough for their shoulders to touch. He didn’t want to make a scene, and there was a possibility M.J. would become socially involved with the other women, but enough was enough.

Once dinner concluded, he pushed back his chair, circled the table and came up behind Dr. Cyrus Rhodes. He tapped him on his shoulder, then leaned down until his mouth was inches from the older man’s ear.

“May I have a word with you?”

Cyrus glanced up, training bloodshot eyes on Samuel. Although he’d whispered to him, his voice sounded abnormally loud in his ear. “Can’t it wait?”

“No, it can’t,” Samuel countered, his voice rising slightly. He smiled at M.J. “I’ll just be a few minutes. I need to speak to Cyrus about something.”

Cursing under his breath, Cyrus rose to his feet and walked out of the dining room, Samuel following. He stopped in the living room and turned to face Samuel, who’d caught his upper arm in a punishing grip.

“We’ll talk outside.”

“Now, just wait a damn minute, Cole, I—”

“Outside, Rhodes,” Samuel warned quietly. “I don’t think you’d want your daughter to witness me kicking your ass in someone else’s house. It’s your choice.”

It took the forty-two-year-old dentist a full minute before he was able to process Samuel’s threat. His life had been on a downward spiral since losing his only son in an automobile accident three years before. His occasional drinking escalated until he started and ended his day with a drink; he’d lost his private practice, and Mrs. Rhodes had taken to her bed, never to venture outdoors again.

Cyrus opened the door, stepping out into the cold, early-February night. “What do you want?”

Samuel glared at the man whose good looks were ravaged by alcoholism. “I want you to leave my wife alone,” Samuel said with a lethal softness that sent shivers up Cyrus’s spine.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t touch her, and don’t say anything to her.”

Cyrus weaved back and forth, spittle forming at the corners of his slack mouth. “You’re full of shit, Cole,” he slurred.

Forcing himself not to grab the drunken man by the throat, Samuel pushed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “If you touch my wife again, or even breathe on her, I will beat the shit out of you.”

That said, he turned and walked back into the Mansfield house to tell M.J. it was time they returned to their home. If he remained, then there was the possibility that he would physically assault a man unable to defend himself.

He found M.J. in the living room, where coffee, tea, liquors and trays of cake, pie, and sweet pastries awaited the dinner guests.

“Let’s go home.”

M.J. caught his meaning immediately. She’d had enough of the Mansfields and their supercilious guests. The only one she could relate to was Peggy Carson; they’d set a date when they would get together again.

She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “I am feeling rather tired.”

Samuel dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Go wait for me outside while I make our apologies to Basil and Winifred.”

“Don’t make me wait too long, Sammy.”

Running a finger down the length of her nose, he winked at her. “I won’t.”

M.J. made her way through the crowd to the front door. She didn’t have to wait long when Samuel joined her. “That was quick.”

They walked hand in hand in silence, both lost in their private musings. M.J. knew she would never become a part of her husband’s social milieu. The women did not like her, the men liked her too much, and for the first time since she’d left Cuba she felt like crying because she missed her homeland.

She’d sought out Samuel, fallen in love, and married him because she wanted to live as a liberated woman, but was forced to face the harsh realities of life. The price she had to pay to determine her own destiny was now too painful to bear.

Swallowing to relieve the tightness in her throat, she stopped and stared up at Samuel. She couldn’t see his expression in the shadows of the streetlamps. “I need you to promise me something.”

Releasing her hand, Samuel cradled her face. “What’s that?”

“Please don’t stop loving me.”

His expression stilled and grew serious. “Where is all of this coming from, darling?”

“I don’t know why, but right now I feel so alone.”

“You’re not alone, baby. You have me. You will always have me.”

Curving her arms around Samuel’s waist, M.J. rested her cheek on his chest. “You’re right, Sammy. I have you.”

But for how long?
a silent voice whispered inside her head.

T
he doorbell chimed and M.J.’s head came up as she stared at Samuel.

“He’s here.” Her voice was a whisper. Everett Kirkland had arrived.

Samuel, resting a hand on the small of her back, leaned over and kissed the side of her neck. “Everything looks beautiful. You are beautiful. And try to relax, baby,” he crooned, walking out of the kitchen to answer the door.

She wasn’t concerned with how the house looked. Instead of asking Peggy for a recommendation for a cleaning woman, she’d confronted Bessie about her frequent absences, who admitted she’d begun taking Lydia Pinkham, a
special tonic for female ailments, and that she was feeling much better.

Bessie had cleaned the house thoroughly and a hundred hours of instruction at the convent school should have prepared M.J. for this moment, but the sound of the doorbell had momentarily shattered her confidence. Playing hostess for her father had not counted because she was merely a substitute for Carlotta, dress rehearsals for when she would become mistress of her own household.

Within minutes Samuel returned to the kitchen—alone. “It wasn’t Everett.”

Unconsciously M.J.’s brow furrowed. “Who was it?”

“Someone from Western Union.”

She met her husband’s steady gaze, her heart pounding a runaway rhythm. “Is it the telegram you were expecting?”

“Yes.”

“When are you leaving?”

Samuel glanced away. “I’m not sure.”

“That’s not an answer, Samuel.”

“It’s the only answer I have right now. I have to wait and see if I can book passage on a ship sailing to Costa Rica.”

Feeling his loss even before his actual departure, M.J. nodded. “How long will you be away?”

“At least a week, maybe more. I’m going to ask Bessie to stay here with you until I come back.”

“No, Sammy,” M.J. said, shaking her head. “I’m not a child who needs to be looked after. I’ll be all right staying here alone. Besides, Bessie should be home with her children at night.”

He lifted questioning eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

“Very sure,” she lied smoothly.

She did mind, but didn’t want him to think of her as immature. It was to become the first time she would stay alone for an extended time. She’d lived with her parents, but a year following her mother’s accident she was sent to the convent
school. Then she lived with her aunt while attending classes at the
universidad
.

“I have my books, piano, working in the garden and the radio to entertain me. And if I get really bored, then I’ll go shopping and spend your money. Remember, I still have another bedroom to decorate.”

A hint of a smile played at the corners of Samuel’s mouth. “I thought you wanted to wait and turn it into a nursery.”

A shadow of color appeared on her cheeks. “I’m just going to look for wallpaper patterns.”

“Just don’t pick out anything that’s too frilly for my son.”

“What makes you think I’m going to have a boy first?”

He ran a finger down the length of her delicate nose. “Because there hasn’t been a girl baby in my family for thirty years.”

“Maybe…” The words died on M.J.’s lips when the doorbell chimed for the second time that afternoon.

Samuel’s gaze fused with his wife’s. “That must be Everett.”

Everett Kirkland stared at the door, waiting for an answer to his ring. He’d spent hours in the back of a bus during the ride from Winter Haven to West Palm Beach, one time having given up his seat to a white passenger, only to arrive at an enclave where Negroes lived as grand as those who’d once enslaved their ancestors.

Samuel Cole’s home was a one-story, Spanish-style Colonial with a red-tiled roof. A wry smile twisted Everett’s mouth. It was apparent the cotton-turned-soybean farmer was a visionary.

Unfamiliar with soybeans, he’d researched everything he could find about them, and there was no doubt the legume would become a crop for the twentieth century.

He hadn’t believed Samuel when he’d asked him if he wanted to become wealthy, because there was something about the younger man that reeked of arrogance and self-importance. It had only taken Everett seconds to recognize that Samuel
Cole was totally lacking in humility. The door opened, and the object of his musings stood in front of him. Samuel looked the same as he had in Costa Rica. He wore a
guayabera
, sharply creased tan slacks and a pair of leather sandals.

Samuel smiled, extending his right hand. “Come in, Everett.”

Everett shook his hand and stepped into the spacious entryway. “Thank you. Good seeing you again, Samuel.”

Samuel’s sharp penetrating gaze swept over the man he had come to think of as his accountant. Everett had put on weight. He appeared well groomed and had added a clipped mustache to his clean-shaven face.

“You’re looking well.”

“I’m feeling much better.”

Samuel’s smile widened as he patted his back. “Once you’ve eaten my wife’s cooking you’re going to feel wonderful.”

Everett froze, his expression mirroring his shock. “I…I thought, I…I didn’t know you were married.”

He was angry with himself for stuttering. It had taken years of choosing his words carefully before taking deep breaths to control the stutters that had made him an object of constant ridicule as a child and young adult.

“I wasn’t married when we met in Costa Rica.”

“Look, Samuel, I can always come back another time. I don’t want to intrude on you and your new wife.”

“That’s nonsense,” Samuel countered, reaching for Everett’s single piece of luggage. “You’re here because I need you. Come, let me show you to your room where you can unwind before we sit down to dinner.”

Everett nodded as if in a trance, following Samuel through a living room, a formal dining room and down a carpeted hallway to the rear of the spacious house. Each table, lamp and rug had been selected to harmonize with the structure’s Spanish architecture.

Samuel stopped at the first bedroom on the right. “This
room is yours. The bathroom is across the hall.” He handed Everett his bag. “Take your time settling in.”

Everett didn’t know why, but he felt a profound well of emotion sweep over him. It was the second time Samuel Cole had offered him a chance to redeem himself. Firstly, he had given him enough money to escape an existence wherein he was dying slowly—a minute at a time. Now he had invited him into his home because he claimed he needed him.

Samuel didn’t need him. Everett Joshua Kirkland needed Samuel Claridge Cole.

Shaved, showered and dressed in a white shirt and black slacks and shoes, Everett walked out of his bedroom, looking for his host and hostess. The mahogany sleigh bed in his bedroom had beckoned him to come and lie down; although exhausted he had resisted. He hadn’t gotten much sleep during the ride down, sandwiched between two oversize passengers, whose snores reverberated throughout the rear of the bus.

He found the kitchen. Samuel stood at the stove with a woman, his arm around her waist as she sprinkled something into a large pot. There was a tightening in the nether region of his body as he stared mutely at the long black hair caught on the nape of a long slender neck with a white ribbon. She turned and smiled up at Samuel, her lips touching his in a brief kiss.

Everett felt like a voyeur watching the couple; shame assailed him as if he were a thief; his body had betrayed him; he was lusting after another man’s wife, a woman under whose roof he would reside, a woman whose food he would eat, a woman whose husband had promised him an opportunity to fulfill his dreams.

The changes going on in his body reminded him that he hadn’t slept with a woman since he’d contracted tuberculosis. He saw a young prostitute a few times while he waited for Eladia to return to Puerto Limon, but after he exhibited all of the signs of the disease even she refused to share a bed with him.

He had recently celebrated his twenty-ninth birthday and gained ten of the thirty pounds he’d lost; the hardness in his groin signaled a return of his virility; he was alive and ready to embrace life.

He backed out of the kitchen, waiting for his penis to return to a flaccid state. He waited and swore a solemn oath. There wasn’t anything he would not do for Samuel Cole. Humming softly to make his presence known, he reentered the kitchen.

“Something smells wonderful.”

Samuel and his wife turned, both smiling. Everett felt as if he’d been poleaxed when he saw the face of the woman with the black waist-length hair. She was young
and
breathtakingly beautiful.

M.J. wiped her hands on a cloth, extending the right one. “Hello, Everett. I’m Marguerite-Josefina, but I’d prefer that you call me M.J.” She hadn’t waited for Samuel to make the introductions.

Everett closed the distance between them and grasped her fingers. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance.”

M.J. smiled up at the man who appeared as if a strong wind would blow him down. His face was made up of sharp angles that made it look as if it had been haphazardly put together. His light brown eyes, flecked with gold, were warm and friendly.

She lifted an eyebrow. “Are you always so formal?”

He looked awkward. “Yes, ma’am. My parents were both in their forties when I came along, and after they passed I lived with an elderly aunt.”

Samuel saw M.J. grimace. Everett had referred to her as
ma’am
. “Do you think you can put aside your upbringing and relax this weekend?”

“I’ll try,” Everett said, smiling broadly.

“Good. I hope you brought your appetite, because M.J. has really outdone herself preparing tonight’s dinner.”

“Sammy, darling, could you please take the roast into the dining room?”

Samuel patted Everett’s back, winking. “If you want to eat you’ll have to work.” He handed him a soup tureen. “Follow me.”

The two men made short work of carrying dishes from the kitchen into the dining room. M.J. had set the table with one of two patterns of china she had shipped from Cuba that had belonged to her mother and grandmother. She and Bessie had spent hours polishing silver, washing and drying china and crystal glassware.

Samuel seated M.J. on his right, then sat down at the head of the table, leaving Everett to sit on his left. There was a moment of silence as the three bowed their heads to say grace.

Picking up a pitcher of chilled lemonade, Samuel filled M.J.’s goblet. He stared at his guest. “If you want something stronger I could always ask one of my neighbors if they have a bottle they’re willing to part with.”

“Please, no,” Everett insisted. “I haven’t had anything to drink since I’ve come back.” America’s ban on alcohol had helped him recover his health more quickly than he would have if he’d continued to drink. Whenever he drank he usually lost his appetite.

“Where were you?” M.J. asked.

“Costa Rica.” Everett took another spoonful of creamy pumpkin soup.

Her gaze lingered on Everett. “Are you going to accompany my husband when he leaves for Costa Rica?”

“M.J.” Samuel’s voice, though soft, held a thread of warning. “You know we do not discuss business at the table.”

“It’s not business, Samuel,” she retorted, her dark eyes flashing fire. “I was merely asking Everett a question.”

“It is a question I can’t answer, Mrs. Cole, because your husband and I have not discussed it,” Everett said, hoping to defuse an uncomfortable situation.

M.J. offered Everett a supercilious smile. “Thank you, Everett, for being so direct.”

A shadow of anger swept over Samuel’s face as he kept his gaze glued to his plate. Not only had his wife defied him, but she had done so in front of a stranger. He’d established the rules the first day of their honeymoon: they would never talk about his business when dining. He wanted to sit down and enjoy his food and his wife’s company.

Everett broke the uncomfortable silence that ensued when he asked M.J., “Where in Cuba are you from?”

She flashed a dimpled smile. “How did you know I was from Cuba?”

“The black beans and rice.”

“I see you recognize our
moros y cristianos
. Do you speak Spanish, Everett?”

He nodded. “A little.”

“I’ve been tutoring my husband.”

“How are the lessons coming, Samuel?” Everett asked.

“Very slowly,” he admitted, unable to meet M.J.’s gaze.

What he couldn’t tell Everett was that their lessons were always at night whenever they were in bed together. The assignment wasn’t learning a new word or phrase, but a passion in which the result would be the beginning of a new life. Samuel wanted children, but more for M.J. than himself. Caring for a baby would fill up the hours when he had to travel or attend business meetings. He’d spent the past week mulling over options for Cole International, Ltd., and had reached a decision to move his business out of his home and into an office building.

M.J. listened intently as Samuel and Everett discussed sports and the absence of Negroes in professional baseball before the topic segued to national and world politics. Dinner ended and even after she’d cleared the table they still hadn’t moved.

Usually Samuel helped her clean the kitchen, but tonight was the exception. He had a friend, someone whose interests were
similar to his, someone with whom he could discuss
business
at the table.

She washed dishes, pots, silver, glassware, then put everything away. She left the kitchen and made her way down the hallway to her bedroom.

A sense of strength came to M.J. as she prepared for bed. She’d defied her father to marry Samuel, live in a foreign country and become an independent woman.

And that meant she couldn’t throw a tantrum whenever Samuel informed her he had to leave her. Peggy had extended an invitation for her to join the other wives in their enclave for their regularly scheduled Wednesday bid whist luncheon, but she had declined. Everett Kirkland’s presence had changed everything; she would accept their invitation to join them for their next get-together.

Climbing into bed, she lay on Samuel’s pillow, the lingering smell of his aftershave wafting in her nostrils. She would join the ladies, but would invite them to meet at her house. It was time they were introduced to some Afro-Cuban cuisine and hospitality.