Best Kept Secrets (14 page)

Everett sat on the patio, enjoying the fading warmth of the sun on his face. He’d slept soundly, not waking until late afternoon. Samuel and M.J. were the perfect hosts. His room was spacious and sun-filled while M.J.’s cooking skills were without equal. He’d shamelessly requested two and three helpings of everything she prepared.

Samuel stepped out onto the patio with tiny cups of strong black coffee, placing one in front of Everett. “How long can you stay?” he asked, sitting opposite him.

“As long as you want. I have nothing waiting for me back in Winter Park.”

Once he returned to the States he hadn’t known where he wanted to settle, but decided on Winter Park because he’d spent
a week there with a college buddy. He got a room in a boardinghouse usually frequented by migrant workers. The room was clean, the rent reasonable and the food hearty and filling. There were several occasions when he considered looking for a job, but wanted to wait until he heard what Samuel was offering.

Samuel sat down and took a sip of the thick brew. “I want you to come back to Costa Rica with me.”

Everett sat up straighter. “Why didn’t you say something last night?”

The softness in Samuel’s face changed, as his expression became a mask of stone. “I’d hoped you understood me when I said I don’t discuss business at my table.”

“But we’d eaten,” Everett said in a quiet voice.

“It’s not about food, Everett.”

And it wasn’t about sitting down to eat. It was about Charles Cole, who used the dinner table as his soapbox to rant about his cotton crop. Night after night he had complained incessantly about the cycle of hiring workers who quit because they were too lazy to work hard, the brutal heat waves, weevil infestation, erratic weather conditions, and that he wouldn’t have to spend money hiring more workers during harvest time if his sons weren’t so
fuckin’ lazy
.

Everett stroked his mustache with a forefinger. “What it is about then?”

Leaning back on his chair, Samuel gave his guest a long, penetrating look. “It’s about you respecting my wishes as my employee.”

Everett stared at Samuel, his pulse racing and heart pounding. “I didn’t know I was an employee.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because you asked me to come.”

Samuel’s open hand came down on the table, rattling the cups and a vase filled with fresh flowers. “Cut the bullshit, Kirkland! You called me because you want something.”

Pushing back his chair, Everett stood up and leaned over the table. “And you asked me to call you because you need me.”

A half smile tilted the corners of Samuel’s mouth. “Sit down, Kirkland, stop the theatrics, and let me know whether you’re going to Costa Rica with me. Sit down,” he ordered again between clenched teeth when the accountant hesitated.

Everett sat down, gold eyes narrowing. There was a pregnant silence filled with a tension so thick it was palpable. “Yes, Samuel. I will accompany you to Costa Rica.”

“As the accountant for Cole International, Limited?”

He nodded. “Yes. As the accountant for Cole International, Limited,” he repeated.

Samuel picked up his demitasse cup, touching it to Everett’s. “I’ll drink to that.”

The tense moment over, Everett picked up his cup, repeating the gesture. “When do I start?”

“Today.”

“How much?”

“Sixty dollars a week, with a year-end bonus based on a percentage of profits. Your responsibility is to maximize profits, save taxes without evading them, and provide me with everything I’ll need for possible expansion.”

“What about investments?”

“What about them, Kirkland?”

“Do you intend to invest in the stock market?”

Samuel shook his head. “No. I’m not a gambler, and to me playing the market is nothing more than gambling.”

A smile parted Everett’s firm lips. “I agree. How about banks, boss?”

“What about them?”

“Do you like them?”

Angling his head, Samuel pulled his lower lip between his teeth. “No, but they serve a purpose for keeping one’s money safe.”

“What do you know about the Panic of 1893?”

“Not much,” he admitted honestly.

“There was economic disaster. Businesses failed, and a lot of folks lost everything.”

Samuel remembered his grandfather boasting that he was glad he hadn’t put his money in a bank like most of the other farmers. They were wiped out completely, whereas he was left with his small but hard-earned savings.

“What are you suggesting?”

Everett leaned forward, as if he were telling a secret. “Put your money where it’s safe. But leave enough to cover expenses for a year.”

“Is this advice or a warning?”

“It’s more of a hunch,” Everett admitted. “We’re currently in a postwar boom that’s like a balloon getting bigger and bigger, but the day is coming when it’s going to pop and we’re going to experience an economic crash that will make the eighty-seven and ninety-three panics look like a three-year-old’s birthday party.”

Samuel studied the face of the man who’d just predicted economic disaster for the United States. He wanted to tell Everett that he was being pessimistic, but decided to reserve comment on the subject.

“Haven’t we always had little recessions?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll just have to wait and see if your hunch is right, won’t we?”

Everett, sure of himself and his rightful place in the universe now that he’d secured a position earning three times the salary of most working-class Americans, inclined his head and pressed his hands together in a prayerful gesture.

“We will not speak of this again until the time is right for you to withdraw your money.”

Samuel drained his cup, then dabbed at the grounds on the tip of his tongue with a napkin. He recognized a quiet assur
ance in Everett Kirkland that hadn’t been there before. Did his number man know more than he was disclosing? Was he a con man whose intent was to get him to take his money out of the bank so he could rob him?

Although he’d hired the accountant to oversee his books and Everett had given him the information he needed to negotiate with the representative of Puerto Limon’s United Fruit Company, he still had to prove that he could be trusted. He would follow Everett’s advice and withdraw some of his funds, albeit slowly for an extended period of time, and leave them with the only person he entrusted with his life: Belinda Cole.

“I hope that time never comes,” he said in a quiet tone.

“So do I,” Everett concurred.

S
amuel Cole and Everett Kirkland left West Palm Beach at dawn Tuesday, February 17, 1925; the following morning they boarded a merchant steamship in Miami for Costa Rica while M.J. prepared for her first Wednesday bid whist luncheon. She’d informed Peggy Carson that although she didn’t play she was willing to host the gathering.

Samuel had gotten up early, M.J. offering to cook breakfast for him and Everett, whom she’d come to like and respect. Intelligent, polite and still a little too formal with her, Everett had become a welcome guest. Both men declined, saying they would eat on board the ship.

Glancing at a clock on a kitchen shelf, she noted the time.
It was 7:10. In less than five hours the four women who had committed to attend would walk through her door. Hoping to take advantage of the warm weather, she’d elected to hold the get-together on the patio overlooking the garden. She’d given Bessie Tuesday off in lieu of coming on Wednesday.

“Watcha fixin’, Miz Cole?”

Turning around, M.J. smiled at Bessie Wright. The thirty-five-year-old mother of ten affected a grin that showed her teeth, four of the upper ringed in gold. Short and full-figured, she’d just completed the eighth grade when she married a neighbor’s son who’d begun courting her at thirteen. She gave birth to her first baby at fifteen, then one every other year for the next ten. Bessie cleaned houses and her handyman husband held down several jobs to earn enough to care for their family.

“I’m making
frituras de cangrejo
.”

“Say what?” Bessie drawled.

“Crab fritters,” M.J. translated, smiling.

Bessie bobbed her heard. “Sounds good. I loves me some crabs.” She placed her handbag on a high stool. “What do you want me to do?”

“Make the beds, clean the bathroom, and dust everything. By the time you’re finished I’ll need your help setting up outside.”

Bessie rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth. “I hope you ain’t makin’ a mistake invitin’ dem high-fluentin’ heifers to yo place,” she mumbled under her breath as she made her way over to a closet where she kept her cleaning supplies.

She liked working for Mrs. Cole. Maybe because she was a foreigner she was different from the other women whose houses Bessie cleaned. They tended to talk down to her, not at her, and they thought she didn’t know that they checked their silver and jewelry regularly to make certain she hadn’t taken anything. What they didn’t understand was that she needed to work to put food on the table for her family, not get arrested for stealing stuff she wouldn’t use or need.

“If you want help cookin’ somethin’ jest holler,” Bessie said, opening a closet to retrieve a mop and pail.

The two women shared a knowing smile. Bessie always offered to help with the cooking even though Mrs. Cole fixed foods with funny names and even stranger ingredients.

“Thank you for asking, but I’m okay.”

M.J. put together a menu she hoped would please her guests. Most were classic Cuban recipes passed down through the centuries. Four hours after entering the kitchen she finished with her preparation, then made her way to the patio where she and Bessie set the table with an heirloom tablecloth and napkins, china and silver.

M.J. stood back and surveyed the table, finding it to her liking. She returned to the house, finding everything immaculate, and the clean scent of lemon oil mingled with the tantalizing smells of tropical herbs and spices. She had less than half an hour to take a bath and dress.

She had just secured the last pin in the chignon pinned on the nape of her neck when the doorbell rang. The clock on the dressing table beside her vanity chimed the hour. It was exactly noon.

M.J. had instructed Bessie to greet the women, escort them out to the patio and serve liquid refreshments until she joined them. What she hadn’t wanted was for Winifred Mansfield to think she was
that
thrilled about seeing her again. If Winnie, as Peggy referred to her, hadn’t been responsible for forming the group, M.J. wouldn’t have invited her, knowing the woman had sought to make a match between Samuel and her daughter.

A short-sleeved pale pink dress in delicate georgette with a dropped waist and handkerchief hem was perfect for the afternoon garden party. Uncapping a tube of lipstick, M.J. applied
a deep rose-pink color to her lips. Her tan had faded. Her face was now the color of a newly ripened peach.

Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she took a deep breath, pinched her cheeks to create the illusion that she’d applied rouge, then turned on her heel and left her bedroom. For a brief moment she wished Samuel were there with her. But he was hundred of miles away on a ship heading for Puerto Limon, a city situated along Costa Rica’s Caribbean coastline.

She heard the women before she saw them. One was exclaiming excitedly that she’d never seen a rose that particular color. M.J. knew she was referring to a deep red-purple hybrid.

Stepping out onto the patio, she affected a warm smile. “Welcome, ladies. Thank you for coming to my home,” she said softly.

Peggy, holding a glass filled with a citrus drink, turned and returned her smile. “Hello, M.J.” She waved her free hand. “I believe you’ve met the others, but let me introduce you to them again. Winifred Mansfield, Shirley Yates and Edna Burgess.”

She nodded to the trio. Peggy told her that Winifred and Shirley were former schoolteachers, and Edna had been a nurse before she married her pharmacist husband. She’d also confided that the women had attended college with the hopes of finding a suitable husband, and once married were content to become housewives and mothers.

Winifred stepped forward. “Before we sit down to eat, could you please give us a tour of your lovely home?”

M.J.’s smile was dazzling. “Of course. We’ll begin in the living room.”

She led the women through the kitchen and into the living room, exchanging a knowing glance with Bessie. All of the ladies, with the exception of Winifred, complimented M.J. on the meticulous care with which she’d chosen items for her home. The eclectic mix of country French and Spanish provincial furnishings gave each room its own distinct personality.

Shirley pointed to the piano. “Do you play, Marguerite?”

“Yes, I do.”

Edna ran her fingertips over the side of the black concert piano. “Please play something for us.”

An attractive blush spread over M.J.’s face. “Perhaps another time.”

Winifred studied a framed painting on a wall between two tapestry-covered chairs of Jose Luis with his grandparents. “Who’s the woman in this picture?” she asked M.J.

“She was my great-grandmother.”

Eyes wide, Winifred straightened and stared at M.J. “So, you’re an octoroon,” she said cheerfully, as if uncovering a secret.

M.J. glared at Winifred. She’d never denied her African blood. In fact, she was proud of it. “Mulatto, quadroon or octoroon. It doesn’t matter what you call me because in Florida I’m still a Negro.”

“You talk as if you don’t have racism and segregation in Cuba,” Winifred spat out, her words dripping with venom.

“We have racism and segregation. But what we don’t have is cowards who hide their faces behind bedsheets and hang black Cubans for sport.” She forced a smile. “I’m certain you did not come here to debate international politics, so please let us retire to the patio.”

Peggy lagged behind as Shirley, Winifred and Edna made their way to the rear of the house. “We’ve learned to ignore Winnie because she’s going through her changes. She’s so prickly that she and Basil are now sleeping in separate bedrooms.”

“How do you know this?” M.J. whispered.

“Our housekeepers are cousins. And you know how hard it is for hired help to keep their mouths shut. So, if you have something you don’t want Bessie to know, then don’t speak of it in front of her.”

Digesting this information, M.J. instructed Bessie to begin bringing out the food. The crab fritters, potato-and-shrimp
puffs and empanadas had been left warming in the oven. Potato and green plantain chips were used to scoop up the potent
mojo criollo
, the Creole garlic sauce, which also accompanied the warm miniature
pan con lechon
, Creole pork sandwiches.

She’d made an exception and prepared one fried dish:
masitas de pollo frito
—fried chicken morsels. M.J. served the crisp, tender chicken with white rice and the garlic sauce.

There was little or no conversation as the four women sampled foods that were as pleasing to the palate as to the eye. Winifred removed a flask from a large sack, passing it around the table. Peggy, Edna and Shirley added a generous amount of scotch to their lemonade. Within minutes they were as animated as circus monkeys.

M.J. refused the liquor because she’d found its taste unpleasant. She much preferred wines: sherry or champagne. If her guests drank illegal alcohol, then there was no doubt they also smoked cigarettes.

Shirley leaned back in her chair. “I think I ate too much.”

“Me, too,” Edna concurred.

“Where did you learn to cook like this?” Peggy asked M.J.

She dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “At school.”

Winifred shot her a look of disbelief. “What kind of school did you attend?”

M.J. stared at the women ranging in age from mid-forties to late twenties. Peggy, at twenty-nine, was closest to her in age. She told them about growing up in Cuba, attending the convent school, and the courses she’d taken that were taught by nuns.

“What about college?” Winifred asked.

“I’ve completed two years.”

“What were you studying?”

“Latin American history and philosophy.”

“What did you plan to do with that?” Shirley asked.

“I hadn’t made up my mind.”

Winifred put down her drink. “How old are you, Marguerite-Josefina?”

“Twenty.”

“Twenty!” Shirley, Edna and Winifred chorused in unison.

“I thought you were at least twenty-eight,” Shirley admitted.

Winifred placed a hand over her bosom. “Good Lord! Samuel married a child.”

Peggy rolled her eyes at Winifred. “M.J. is only a year younger than your Celeste.”

“We are not discussing my daughter, Margaret!”

“What’s wrong with you, Winnie?” Peggy snapped angrily.

“There’s nothing wrong. And don’t call me Winnie, you spiteful bitch!”

Peggy recoiled as if she’d been slapped. “How dare you!”

Winifred pushed back her chair and stood up. “You’re impossible to be around since you found out that you are barren.”

Tears welled in Peggy’s eyes. “You didn’t have to say that.”

“Well, I did,” Winifred retorted, sneering.

M.J. stood up so quickly her chair tipped over. “
Bastante!
Enough!” she repeated in English. “Mrs. Mansfield, I want you to leave my home.” Her eyes shimmered like bits of volcanic rock. “I’d like for all of you to leave. Now.”

Winifred snatched her large purse off a stone bench. “Who do you think you are? You’re nothing but a foreigner trying to put on airs. Samuel Cole only married you because you’re the closest he’ll ever get to a white woman without getting lynched. Why couldn’t you stay in Cuba or marry one of your own men?”

Shirley patted Winifred’s back as if to comfort her. “Come, honey. You need to lie down and rest.”

Peggy blinked back tears. “I’m sorry, M.J.”

Turning her back, M.J. stared at a blooming rosebush. She wanted them all gone—even her new friend. Something had told
her the night of the Mansfield soiree that the women didn’t like her. They’d viewed her as a foreigner, an interloper who had taken one of their most eligible bachelors. She righted her chair, sat and stared into space until Bessie came and cleared the table.

“Don’t pay them no mind, Miz Cole. They ain’t nothin’ but heifers who ain’t happy and ain’t never gonna be happy. They mens buys them fine houses but fool around wit other women. They only marry them because they talk all fancylike. You be the youngest, but you the lady they alls want to be.”

M.J. forced a smile that made her face ache with the effort. “Thank you for all of your help today.”

She sat at the table long after the sun had moved behind a copse that left the patio and the garden in the shade. She hadn’t moved when Bessie came to tell her that she was leaving.

When she did finally get up and go into the house Marguerite-Josefina Isabel Diaz Cole was not the same as when she’d gotten up that morning. It was as if she had to grow up within a matter of hours.

There was no more girl left in her.

She’d become a woman in every sense of the word.

Samuel and Everett checked into the Casa del Caribe three days after leaving West Palm Beach. It was only mid-February, and the heat was brutal. Both craved a shower, clean clothes and a cold drink.

The proprietor remembered Samuel, offering him his best room. This time he would have a private bath. Ironically, Everett was given the same room Samuel had occupied during his previous visit.

Samuel checked his watch. “I’ll meet you down here in an hour.”

Nodding, Everett picked up his bag. He couldn’t tell Samuel that he didn’t have a watch, that he’d sold it to buy rum, but it would be the first thing he’d buy once Samuel paid him.

“Aren’t you going to check the time, Everett?”

He gave his boss a direct stare. “I would if I had a watch.” A perceptible nod and a slight lifting of an eyebrow were Samuel’s only reaction to his revelation. “I won’t be late.”

Turning, he headed for the staircase, feeling the heat from Samuel’s gaze on his back. It wasn’t until he unlocked the door to his room that Everett was able to relax. He’d spent a week with Samuel, yet knew nothing more about the man than what he’d gleaned in their first meeting.

It was as if there were two Samuels—one the businessman who listened intently and remembered everything, the businessman who offered to pay him three times what Henry Ford gave his assembly line workers. Ford had increased the prevailing $1.75-a-day wage to five dollars to counter resignations and firings. The other man was husband and host who was relaxed, friendly and adored his wife. His demeanor and voice changed whenever he was in M.J.’s presence. And it was obvious his adoration was reciprocated.