Best Kept Secrets (23 page)

“But the pain and—”

“Stop it,” she whispered, halting his plea. “If it will make you feel better, I’ll have the next one in a hospital.”

“You want another baby?”

M.J. nodded. “Of course. I want more of
your
children.”

He frowned. “Children?”

“Yes. I want to teach all of them to speak, read and write Spanish. I want them to learn to play the piano, go to college, fall in love, get married and give us lots of beautiful grandchildren.”

Samuel cupped her hips, massaging the firm flesh under her silk nightgown. “You’ve really planned our future, haven’t you?”

“Don’t you make projections for your business projects?”

“Yes—I do.”

She offered her husband a confident smile. “That means we’re very much alike, my darling. You take care of your businesses, and I take care of my family.”

The fingers of Samuel’s right hand gathered fabric as he bared M.J.’s thighs. “When do you project we start increasing our family?”

M.J. moaned softly as the flaccid flesh between Samuel’s thighs stirred. “I want to wait until Nancy turns three.”

Without warning, Samuel reversed their position, supporting his greater weight on his elbows. “I don’t want to wait that long.” Lowering his head, he trailed kisses along the column of M.J.’s scented neck. “Let’s start now.”

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

“Really,” he repeated, easing her nightgown to her waist. He took his time arousing M.J. until she pleaded with him to take her. Samuel complied, sheathing his penis in her warm, moist, throbbing flesh.

He forgot everything and everyone as pleasure, pure and explosive, sucked him into an abyss from which he did not want to escape. Making love to M.J. wasn’t merely filling a moment of physical desire and release, but a communion of love and life that would continue long after they’d ceased to exist.

Waves of ecstasy washed over him, drowning him in a fiery explosion wherein he surrendered all he had and all he wanted to be to the woman he’d sworn to love forever.

West Palm Beach, Florida—May 1, 1929

S
amuel held his breath as he watched the Pan American Airways plane touch down in a bumpy landing on a runway in Key West, Florida. He’d been waiting hours for the plane to arrive. An early-morning thunderstorm had delayed the flight originating in Havana.

A smile softened the lines of tension ringing his mouth as his wife, son and daughter deplaned. His family had come home following a four-month mourning period.

Jose Luis Diaz de Santiago had died in his sleep on New Year’s Day at the age of sixty-nine, and his passing had taken its toll on M.J. She’d refused to believe her father was gone and
wasn’t coming back. The funeral Mass was interrupted twice when she fainted, and it was the first time in Samuel’s life that he felt completely and utterly helpless.

Out of respect for his wife’s relatives, he stayed a month longer than he’d planned to remain on the Caribbean island. Most days it was he who’d gotten up with Martin and Nancy, feeding, washing, and dressing them. M.J would not get out of bed, refused food and wouldn’t see anyone. It was when she’d lost her temper, screaming at the top of her lungs at Martin because he’d knocked on her bedroom door, that Samuel had been forced to take action.

He’d unlocked the door, picked her up and forcibly held her under the stinging spray of a cold shower until her teeth chattered and her lips turned blue. Tears that she’d held back, when informed of her father’s death, fell. He’d comforted her as he would a child until she crawled atop him and went to sleep in his protective embrace. She woke up hours later asking for food and water. It was a fragile beginning; he’d broken through the wall of grief to reconnect with his wife.

Martin saw him first. He ran toward him, arms outstretched. “Daddy!”

He caught his son in midair, swinging him around and around. At four, he was taller, heavier, and the hot sun had darkened his skin to a gleaming copper-brown.

Martin’s arms tightened around his neck as M.J., clutching Nancy’s hand, came closer. A shaft of sunlight slanted across M.J.’s face, and Samuel felt his composure slip. Dressed entirely in black, she appeared thinner, a specter of her former self, but her face radiated a maturity that had come from a healing he hadn’t been able to offer her. Closing the distance between them, he went to his knees and hugged his wife and daughter, struggling not to weep with joy.

He’d given in to M.J.’s wishes and hadn’t returned to Cuba after his extended stay. She’d claimed she needed to be alone,
to commune with her ancestors, and to reconcile with her country of birth.

“My baby. My sweet, sweet baby,” he whispered over and over. He pressed his mouth to Nancy’s fragrant silky hair.

“No!”

Samuel felt a small fist hit his chest. His eyes widened when he stared numbly at his daughter. Her large, dark eyes were filled with tears. Standing, he looked at M.J. “What’s wrong with her?”

M.J. patted his shoulder as she rose on tiptoe and brushed her mouth over his. “Please be patient with her, Sammy. She cried when I told her she had to leave Cuba.”

Samuel’s eyes grew hard. “What about you, M.J.?”

She flashed her dimpled smile. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Her smile faded. “And I’m not going to. You asked us to come back, and here we are. I’m tired and the children are tired. We were up early to catch the plane, but had to wait three hours before we could take off. Please take us home.”

Samuel set Martin on his feet, one hand going to the small of M.J.’s back. He glanced at her delicate profile under a stylish black cloche. “I’ve chartered a boat to take us up to West Palm.”

The driver Samuel Cole hired to drive him to the airport got out of his taxi with their approach. In less than five minutes he stored luggage in the trunk and drove away from the airfield for the short ride to the pier where a boat awaited their arrival.

Samuel, M.J., Nancy and Martin lay together on a large bed in a spacious cabin of a sleek cruiser. The rocking motion had put the children to sleep as soon as their heads touched the pillows.

“Martin needs a haircut,” Samuel said softly as he ran a hand over his son’s curly hair. “I’ll take him with me when I go next week.”

M.J., having removed her hat, dress and shoes, stretched like a cat. “There’s something you need to know about the children,” she said cryptically.

“What is it?”

“They haven’t spoken English in months. In fact, I can’t get them to speak it.”

Samuel recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “What do you mean you can’t get them to speak English?”

M.J.’s serene expression did not change. “If I say something to them in English they reply in Spanish.”

“What the fuck have you done! How the hell am I supposed to communicate with them?”

M.J. came to a sitting position as if jerked upright by an invisible wire. “Don’t ever use that gutter language in the presence of my children as long as you live!”

Samuel waved a hand. “They’re asleep, M.J.”

She pushed her face so close to his he could feel her breath on his throat. “I don’t care if they are unconscious, Samuel Cole. Don’t do it again!”

“How do you expect me to react? You’ve kept them away from me for so long that Nancy doesn’t want me to touch her. She doesn’t see me as her father, but a stranger. And whenever I spoke to you to tell you that I was coming back to Cuba your response was, ‘Please, Sammy. I need more time.’ I can understand you wanting to mourn the loss of your father, but not at the risk of alienating me from my children. This will be the last time you will keep me from my children.”

“My children,” she mimicked nastily. “It’s always your children, Samuel. They are not trophies or priceless baubles you can put on display whenever you want to solidify your standing as West Palm Beach’s Negro Man of the Year.”

The resentment within Samuel that had been building for months surfaced, boiling and spilling over when he said, “If I can’t have my wife, then I’ll settle for my children.”

Her eyes widened until he could see their chocolate-brown centers. “What are you implying?”

“I can’t say it in Spanish, so you’ll have to settle for the English equivalent.”

Without giving M.J. a chance to come back at him, Samuel slipped off the bed, walked out of the cabin, closing the door behind him. He’d waited months to be with his wife and children, but what should’ve been a warm reunion was marred with accusations and blame.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d denied M.J. anything, but this time he wasn’t going to compromise. She would never take their children away from him again.

Samuel and M.J. were like two strangers as they sat in the backseat of the chauffeur-driven Model J Duesenberg, flanking Martin and Nancy, who chattered incessantly to each other in Spanish.

The chauffeur was one of six on the payroll of ColeDiz International, Ltd. Aside from his private secretary, Nora Harris, he had hired a bookkeeper to assist Everett, a typist/file clerk fluent in English and Spanish, the chauffeur-mechanic, and a maintenance man.

Everett had suggested they move the office to one of the high-rise office buildings going up in the middle of downtown West Palm Beach, but Samuel was hesitant to relocate. He and his accountant had continued their routine of reading the business sections of major newspapers, while closely monitoring the trading on the New York Stock Exchange. Another record was broken on November of the prior year when the governing committee of the exchange ordered a suspension after the trading volume reached 6,954,020 shares. Those wishing a seat on the Stock Exchange now had to pay $550,000 for the privilege.

Two weeks later the market went into a sharp decline with Radio Corporation of America, International Harvester and Montgomery Ward as heavy losers.

Samuel closed his eyes and rested the back of his head on the leather seat. He’d prefer risking the future of his empire on the turn of a card or a roll of the dice to gambling with Wall Street. Since going into business for himself he’d learned to keep his business expenses separate from his personal, paid his taxes and kept a large amount of cash in a vault built beneath the floor of a room in his home.

“Samuel. Wake up, Samuel. We’re home.”

The sound of M.J.’s voice woke him. He hadn’t realized he had fallen asleep. He looked out the side window. The bright orange rays of the setting sun reflecting off the lake threw a strange fiery glow on coral columns and every light-colored surface of the large house designed in Spanish and Italian revival styles. Barrel-tiled red roofs, a stucco facade, balconies shrouded in lush bougainvillea and sweeping French doors that opened onto broad expanses of terraces made for an imposing showplace. The magnificent structure was surrounded by tropical foliage, exotic gardens and the reflection of light off sparkling lake waters.

The day M.J. had informed him that she was pregnant again, he’d contacted an architect to draw up plans for a house to be erected on a twenty-acre lot he’d purchased after Martin’s birth. It took six months to finish building the three-story, twenty-four-room, four-bedroom suite house. Nancy had celebrated her first birthday when M.J. completed decorating the interior. Putting in the gardens—tropical, exotic Japanese and boxwood—had become an ongoing project. M.J. would’ve expanded her gardens if he hadn’t sold off eight acres to a man who built a golf course for Negro golfers.

He’d given his wife the children she wanted, a house with enough room for family and other guests to come and stay for an extended period of time, and a staff to ensure a well-run household.

All Samuel wanted from M.J. was her love and understand
ing. He’d curtailed his traveling and hadn’t slept with another woman since the birth of his son.

She professed that she wanted more children, but that was not possible if they lived apart. He wanted more children—as many as M.J. would be able to give him—but before that became a reality they would have to resolve a few issues.

Eddie Grady had opened the passenger-side door for him. Samuel stepped out and scooped Martin off the seat. He stared at the curious dark eyes staring up at him. “You’re home, son.”

Martin gave him a tentative smile, the dimples he’d inherited from his mother deepening with the gesture. Both children looked like M.J. His only contribution to their gene pool was his coloring and hair.

A chill raced over him when Martin took his hand. Even if his daughter hadn’t remembered him, his son did. Mothers had their daughters, while fathers had their sons. At that moment life couldn’t have been better for Samuel Claridge Cole.

Samuel used a guest room to shower and ready himself for bed. Tying the belt to his robe around his waist, he made his way down a wide hallway to the suite he shared with M.J.

The sight that greeted him stopped him in his tracks. “What’s going on here?” M.J. lay in bed with Martin and Nancy asleep beside her.

“Hush, Sammy, or you’ll wake them up.”

He failed to be aroused by the soft swell of breasts rising and falling under the revealing décolletage of an ivory-white nightgown, or the loosely braided raven-black hair falling over her shoulder.

“Why aren’t they sleeping in their own bedrooms?”

“They’re used to sleeping with me. It’s going to take time before they go back to sleeping by themselves.”

Samuel glared at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. “Let me know when you want
me
in your bed again.” Turning
on his heel, he left the bedroom and made his way to one at the opposite end of the hallway.

M.J. stared at the space where her husband had been. Hot tears pricked the backs of her eyelids. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand how bereft she was. The death of her father, and her aunt Gloria’s decision to leave Cuba and marry her longtime lawyer-lover, twenty-two years her junior, and live with him in Spain, signaled a complete break with her island homeland.

She still had relatives on the island, but it was different without Papa and
Tia
Gloria. Ivonne had married, become a mother of two young boys, and was expecting her third before the end of the year. Everyone had made plans for their futures whereas she gathered her children close to her bosom, holding on to them as if she feared they would disappear.

She smothered them with hugs and kisses until they screamed in protest. The love she should’ve shared with her husband she lavished on Martin and Nancy. She thought it would’ve ended once Samuel issued an ultimatum that if she did not return to Florida he would come to Cuba and get her.

She loved Samuel with all of her heart, but somehow along the way she had come to love her children so much more.

A single tear trickled down her cheek and into the valley between her breasts. M.J. knew she had to do something quickly, or she would lose her husband. Making certain her son and daughter were still asleep, she slipped out of bed and padded on bare feet down the carpeted hallway, looking into each bedroom.

She found Samuel in bed with a mound of pillows supporting his head and shoulders. An open book lay on his lap. His head hung at an awkward angle, indicating he’d fallen asleep.

A smile found its way around her expression of uncertainty as she walked to the bed. Lifting the sheet, she slipped in beside him. He moaned softly, shifted, but did not wake up. M.J. reached over and turned off the lamp on the bedside table, then settled down to sleep with her husband.

Samuel came awake before dawn, all of his senses on full alert. At first he thought he’d imagined her—her smell, the velvety smoothness of the slender leg thrown over his. His fingers touched the silky curtain of hair spread out on his pillow.

She’d come to him.

Lowering his head, he trailed a series of kisses over a bared shoulder, down the length of her arm. Turning her hand over, he licked her palm. Her fingers quivered. He licked it again, eliciting a gasp from her.

Samuel glanced up to find M.J. smiling at him. “Don’t stop there,” she whispered.

His smile matched hers as he moved over her. “What are you doing here?”