Best Kept Secrets (34 page)

Miami, Florida—April 25, 1930

“M
r. Kirkland.”

Everett’s head came up, his eyes widening when he saw the doctor standing only a few feet away. He hadn’t heard the man’s approach, because he had dozed off in the chair. He glanced at a wall clock. It was after three in the afternoon. He’d been in the hospital more than twenty-four hours.

He stood up, unaware of the runaway pounding of his heart. The look on the young Negro doctor’s face foretold bad news. Had Teresa lost the baby? Or had she died?

“Yes, Doctor?”

“Your wife delivered a baby boy. We had to perform a procedure known as a Cesarean because the baby was breech.”

“Breech?” Everett repeated as if he were drugged or intoxicated. He was so tired he couldn’t think.

“He’d entered the birth canal feet first instead of headfirst.”

Everett caught the doctor’s arm in a punishing grip. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Dr. Jimmie Jones saw fear in the gold eyes staring at him. Everett Kirkland had carried his wife into the hospital the day before after her amniotic sac ruptured. The young woman spent the next twenty-four hours laboring to birth her baby. In the end he’d opted to operate or lose mother
and
child.

“Your wife is okay, as is your son. But I’m sorry to say she will never carry another child.”

Everett released the doctor’s arm and sagged weakly down to the chair. “What happened?”

“We couldn’t stop the bleeding. In the end we had to perform a hysterectomy.”

Pressing a hand to his forehead, Everett closed his eyes. His parents had had one child, and he was just informed that he would never father a child. The Kirkland bloodline would end with him.

“Mr. Kirkland?”

He looked up again. “Yes?”

“Would you like to see your son?”

“No, Dr. Jones. I’d like to see my wife.”

If the doctor was shocked by his response, he didn’t show it. “You can’t see your wife for a while. She’s in recovery. Go home and clean yourself up. She should be awake by the time you return.”

Nodding, Everett pushed to his feet and made his way slowly down the corridor and out of the hospital and into a tropical downpour. Marriage to Teresa had turned out to be more than he’d expected. He looked forward to leaving his office and going home to her delicious meals and intelligent conversation.

Her anger when she was told they were relocating to Miami was replaced with joy when her family purchased a house in a
section of the city that was referred to as Little Havana because of an influx of Cuban immigrants who had come to work in the many hotels and proposed vacation retreats along Miami Beach.

Their marriage was almost normal. The exception was even though they shared a bed, he’d kept his promise not to have sex with her. He wanted to wait until after she had Samuel’s baby before consummating their marriage.

The one time he walked into the bedroom and observed her very swollen body he’d imagined she was carrying his child. That was the first time in his life that he felt the pull of fatherhood.

He wanted Teresa to have another baby—his baby.

Everett returned to the Greater Miami Colored Hospital carrying a vase of flowers. He walked into the room assigned to Teresa and found her sitting up in bed breast-feeding.

Smiling, he leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Congratulations, Mrs. Kirkland.”

Dark smudges under Teresa’s eyes enhanced their light color. “Thank you.” Her voice was hoarse from hours of screaming. “The flowers are beautiful.”

“So are you,” he crooned, kissing her again.

He placed the vase on a table, then stared at the baby in her arms. A down of white gold covered his tiny round head. Everett’s features became more animated. “What color are his eyes?”

“Green. He looks just like his
abuleo
.”

“Better his grandfather than his father.”

“What would make you say that, Everett?” Teresa asked tentatively.

She watched as he took a chair at the foot of the bed, looping one leg over the opposite knee. Strange and disquieting thoughts began crowding her mind. She’d thought things were well between them. They’d stopping arguing, and she’d begun to think of themselves as a couple—a happily married couple. “I asked you a question, and I expect an answer.”

“You expect or you’d
like
an answer?”

Her forehead furrowed. She didn’t want to fight with him. “I’d like an answer, Everett.”

“If you’re going to have only one child, then better it look like your father than your ex-lover.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t know?”

“Know what, Everett?” Her query held a thread of panic. “What aren’t you telling me?”

A warning voice whispered in Teresa’s head that something was wrong. It couldn’t be her son because she’d checked to see that he was born with two ears, and ten fingers and toes. Her beautiful little baby boy was perfect. She glanced down when the sucking on her breast stopped. Her son had fallen asleep.

“You will never carry another baby,” Everett said in a voice so low she had to strain her ears to hear what he’d said. “You were hemorrhaging, so in order to save your life the doctor removed your uterus.”

Teresa wanted to laugh because the precious gift cradled to her breast was Samuel’s, and laugh at Everett for being a fool. He’d married her to save Samuel Cole’s reputation, but had been cheated out of siring his own children because his wife had been rendered barren. She grimaced as pain ripped through her lower belly when she shifted on the bed in an attempt to find a more comfortable position.

She forced her lips to part in what could pass for a smile. “I think we’re blessed, Everett.”

“For what?”

“At least we have a son.”

Everett wanted to tell her that the child wasn’t his. He’d tried to convince himself that the child she carried was his, but failed miserably.

“You’re right,” he said unconvincingly.
You have a son, Teresa
, he added silently. “What would you like to name him?”

Her green eyes met his gold ones. “Do you like Joshua?”

“That’s my middle name.”

She smiled. “I know. I like it because it’s strong and masculine.”

“Do you want to give him a middle name?”

“No. Joshua is enough.”

“Joshua Kirkland.” There was a lethal calmness in Everett’s eyes. “Let’s hope he’ll grow up to be worthy to carry the name of my father and grandfather.”

If Everett had sought to hurt Teresa, then he was successful. She turned her face, closed her eyes and feigned sleep. The child in her arms would be known as a Kirkland, but in reality he would never become Everett’s son.

Joshua was hers, hers
and
Samuel’s.

West Palm Beach, Florida—March 5, 1932

F
our-year-old Nancy and Josephine, a month shy of her second birthday, lay on their backs, staring up at the kite rising and falling in the wind.

“Higher, Daddy,” Nancy shouted.

Samuel smiled at his daughters reclining on the grass. “It’s high enough, cupcakes.”

“Higher, higher,” Josephine shrieked excitedly.

Samuel unwound the last of the string from the wooden dowel. “That’s it, girls. It can’t go any higher.”

They’d waited days for enough wind to go kite sailing.
Earlier that morning the weather forecast had predicted high winds from a storm coming off the Atlantic.

“Samuel!”

He turned around to find M.J. a few feet away, hands on her hips. The wind whipped her dress around her legs. Hemlines had dropped along with the onset of hard times.

“What’s the matter?”

“Where’s Martin?”

“I don’t know. He was here with us, then said he was going back to the house.”

Lines of concern formed between her eyes. “He’s not in the house.”

“Then look again, M.J. He has to be somewhere.”

“Samuel…”

The look on his wife’s face made Samuel’s heart lurch. Did she know something he didn’t? Nothing had changed between them. They were married, but in name only. He let go of the kite and it sailed high in the air, floating away as the two girls jumped up squealing uncontrollably.

“What’s the matter, M.J.?”

Eyes wide, she pressed a hand to her chest. “Do you think someone took him like the Lindbergh baby?”

The query was barely out of her mouth when Samuel reached down and grabbed his daughters, carrying them under his arms as if they were footballs. He started racing toward the house, leaving M.J. to follow them.

Lifting the skirt of her dress, she raced after her husband and children. The news of the kidnapping of the son of famed transatlantic aviator Charles A. Lindbergh had captured the country’s attention as the most intensive manhunt in American history was mounted to search for the twenty-month-old boy. President Hoover had issued an order for all federal agencies to assist in the search. More than 100,000 officers and civilian
volunteers searched the entire eastern seaboard, stopping cars and questioning passengers.

Martin wasn’t the son of a celebrity, but the fact remained he was the son of a wealthy man. Samuel Cole hadn’t lost his fortune as so many others had during the market crash and bank failure. He’d adjusted his lifestyle, employing only essential help.

Samuel reached the house first, setting his daughters on their feet; they hadn’t stopped giggling during the frantic sprint. “Stay here and don’t move,” he ordered M.J.

Racing to the staircase, he took the stairs two at a time. He flung open doors, searching bedrooms, dressing rooms and bathrooms. Retracing his steps, he bounded down the stairs and began on the first story.

Samuel could not fathom losing one of his children. He walked into the kitchen, his face covered with sweat. “Have you seen Martin?” he asked Bessie.

She shook her head. “No, sir. Not since breakfast.”

His steps slowed as he looked into the downstairs bathroom, pantry. Samuel’s hands were shaking when he opened the door to the room where his mother slept whenever she came for a visit. M.J. had given her one of the bedroom suites, but Belinda said climbing the staircase aggravated her arthritic knee.

Sprawled across the bed, facedown, was his son. Walking on trembling knees, he sat on the side the mattress and buried his face in his hands. His son was safe!

Once his respiration slowed to a normal rate, Samuel reached over and placed a hand on Martin’s head. He pulled it away. The boy was burning up!

Gathering him off the bed, he walked back to where he’d left M.J. and their daughters. Tears of relief sparkled in her eyes when she saw them.

“Oh, Samuel,” she sobbed. “He’s okay.”

“He has a fever.”

M.J. noticed the bright spots of color on her son’s cheeks for the first time.
“Dios mio!”
she gasped, crossing her chest.

“Call the doctor, M.J. Tell him it’s an emergency.”

“What’s wrong with Martin, Daddy?” Nancy asked.

“I don’t know, baby girl. But I want you and your sister to stay away from him until the doctor comes.”

Josephine stomped her foot. “I baby girl!”

Shaking his head while rolling his eyes, Samuel turned and headed for the staircase. His daughters were so competitive that whenever he attempted to referee their squabbles they turned on him.

M.J. sat next to Samuel on a padded bench in the hallway outside their son’s room. She laced her fingers through his and rested her hand on his shoulder. He stiffened slightly, then relaxed.

She closed her eyes. He smelled so good. He felt so good. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d touched, been this close. And despite all that had happened between them she knew she would never stop loving Samuel.

M.J. and Samuel came to their feet when the door opened. The elderly doctor shifted his bag from one hand to the other. His dark eyes in an equally dark face belied his seventy-plus years of living.

“You son is going to be all right in about a week.”

“What’s wrong with him, Dr. Rose?” M.J. asked.

“If you’d looked under his clothes you would’ve seen the vesicles.”

“What?” Samuel and M.J. chorused.

“Blisters. Martin has chicken pox. He probably hasn’t been feeling well for a while, but once the blisters come out he’ll begin to feel better. They’re going to itch, so try to keep him from scratching them because they can leave scars. Give him a warm bath or shower and let him air-dry. Repeat the shower
or bath several times a day during the worst outbreak. This will help dry the scabs sooner and make them fall off without having to be scratched or rubbed off.”

M.J. stared at Samuel, wondering if he’d ever had chicken pox, because she hadn’t. “Is there anything you can give me to put on the rash?”

“Make an oatmeal poultice. It will help speed drying up the blisters.”

Samuel pulled his hand from his wife’s. “What about the girls?”

“There’s no doubt they’ve also been exposed, but they don’t necessarily have to come down with the disease. It’s better if they do before starting school.”

M.J. smiled at the elderly doctor. “May I go see my son?”

He lifted bushy white eyebrows. “Are you with child, Mrs. Cole?”

“Oh…no,” she stammered, giving Samuel a sidelong glance. She and Samuel hadn’t slept together in more than two years. “Why?”

“Chicken pox can be dangerous for a pregnant woman, especially in her last trimester. Have either of you had the disease?”

“I have,” Samuel confirmed.

“I haven’t,” M.J. said.

“Well, Mr. Cole, it looks as if you may have to play Florence Nightingale. I’ll check back in a couple of days.”

Samuel cupped the doctor’s elbow. “I’ll see you out, Dr. Rose.”

M.J. waited until Samuel escorted the doctor down the staircase; then she pushed open the door to her son’s room. She stood at his bedside watching him sleep. In a moment of panic, she thought she’d lost him. Running her fingers through her short hair, she mumbled a prayer of thanksgiving.

She still hadn’t moved when Samuel stood in the doorway holding Nancy and Josephine. Although slender, he possessed tremendous upper body strength.

“The girls wanted to see Martin.”

Nancy placed a finger over her lips. “Shhh-hh, Daddy. Don’t wake him up.”

Josephine repeated the gesture. “Yeah,” she whispered.

Samuel and M.J. shared a smile, one reserved for lovers.

M.J. closed the distance between them, holding out her arms for Josephine. “I think it’s time for you to take a nap.”

“Do I have to take a nap, Mother?” Nancy asked.

“Yes, you do. In fact, all of us are going to take a nap.”

Nancy smiled up at her father. “Even you, Daddy?”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Yes, cupcake.”

M.J. waited until later that night to seek out her husband. She found him in his library. He’d fallen asleep on a leather chaise. She sat on the edge, shaking him gently. He came awake immediately.

“Is Martin all right?”

“Yes, Samuel.”

Light from a floor lamp displayed what she’d ignored for too long. At thirty-four, Samuel Cole’s hair was more than salt-and-pepper; he would be completely gray by thirty-five. His face was as lean as it’d been eight years before. There were new lines around his eyes, lines she attributed to pain and hopefully remorse.

“Do you want something?” His voice was filled with neutral tones.

“Yes. I’d like you to consider sending Martin to a private school.”

“Why?”

“I’m afraid of what happened to the Lindbergh baby possibly happening to our children.”

“What else do you want?”

“I want you to hire a full-time driver who can double as a bodyguard.”

He lifted a black eyebrow. “What else?”

An attractive blush suffused her cheeks and she glanced
away, unable to meet his direct stare. “I’d like you to move back into the bedroom.”

“Why, M.J.?”

“Because I’ve missed you.”

“It took you two years to come to that conclusion?”

“Samuel, don’t make this harder on me than it actually is.”

“You, Marguerite-Josefina? Why is it always you?”

“It wasn’t me who sinned with another man, Samuel.”

“I suppose I should be grateful for that, because none of our children look like me.”

“Jodete y aprieta el culo!”

He stared at her, complete surprise on his face. “I hope you don’t use those words in front of the children.”

She leaned closer. “Never.”

Samuel stared at the too-perfect face, a face he’d found hypnotic when he first glimpsed it, and a face that a Cuban artist had immortalized for perpetuity.

He wanted to scoop her up in his arms, take her upstairs and take her without tenderness and foreplay, ram into her celibate flesh until she gasped for breath, then pull out, leaving her unfulfilled. As unfulfilled as he’d been for the past two years.

But he wasn’t going to fall into her arms and into her bed because she asked. He’d let one woman lead him by the gonads, and he vowed it would not happen again.

“I can’t fuck myself,” he whispered, translating her slur, “nor will I fuck you, M.J. Not now. Not when you deem it.” Samuel ignored her soft gasp. “If or when I move back into our bedroom it will be when both of us want it. You’ll know and I’ll know when the time is right.

“Now as to your request to enroll our children in private school and hire a bodyguard, I’ll let you know at the end of the month.” Rising on an elbow, he pressed his mouth to hers. “Good night.”

Stunned by his rejection, M.J. watched her husband turn over and present her with his back. “I hate you, Samuel!”

“No, you don’t,” he mumbled, smiling.

“I do hate you,” she sobbed.

Shifting, Samuel moved off the chaise, eased her down to the Persian rug and covered her body with his. Unshed tears turned her eyes into pools of gleaming onyx. They widened as a smile softened his features. She’d felt his growing erection.

Gasping, he closed his eyes. “I’m surprised it still works.”

M.J. buried her face against his throat. “What have I done to you?”

“Nothing, baby. It’s what I’ve done to you.”

They lay together on the floor, offering each other silent absolution. Samuel got up, pulling M.J. with him. They made their way through the quiet house, up the staircase, down the wide hallway and into their bedroom.

No words were spoken as they undressed and climbed into bed together. They did not make love; that would come later—once they learned to trust again.