Best Kept Secrets (35 page)

West Palm Beach, Florida—October 9, 1933

“D
id you say something, baby?”

“Sammy! You haven’t heard a word I’ve been saying?”

Samuel pulled his stunned gaze away from the figures on the financial statements Everett had mailed him. He hadn’t been listening to what M.J. was saying about the aborted coup in Havana because he had to make a monumental decision as to whether to curtail coffee production in Costa Rica and Mexico. A worldwide depression had taken its toll on everyone—rich and poor alike.

The United States had elected a new president, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who in his inaugural address denounced the
nation’s financial leaders, saying, “These
money-changers
should be driven from the temple and never again be allowed to misuse other people’s money.”

The day he made his speech, more than thirteen million Americans were jobless, and in the final years of the Hoover administration scores of banks had failed, factories had closed, and farmers were evicted from their lands. Entire families were living in tarpaper shacks and competing with stray animals for scraps of food.

Although he eschewed politics and politicians alike, Samuel was impressed with the New Deal, the president’s economic plan of recovery for the country. Roosevelt had closed the nation’s banks for a seven-day holiday to allow for passage of emergency legislation by Congress and new regulations by the Treasury Department. He took the United States off the gold standard, passed a farm-relief bill to aid struggling farmers, and signed into law the National Industrial Recovery Act, which gave the government control over industry in an effort to bring the nation out of the Depression.

And despite the promulgation of the NRA, CCC, National Labor Board regulations, Samuel knew it would take years before the United States would regain its economic stability.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “My mind is somewhere else.”

M.J. folded the newspaper she’d been reading. “I said it’s good we canceled our trip to Cuba. Government troops killed more than a hundred people in Havana who’d used the National Hotel to stage a coup. In Ivonne’s last letter she wrote that she hardly goes to Havana anymore, because of the violence. Ever since President Machado declared a state of war everything has been crazy.”

“But he’s no longer the president.”

She nodded. “True. But how long do you think de Cespedes will remain in power without the backing of the United States?”

“I don’t know, M.J. You know I don’t follow politics.”

Her delicate jaw hardened. “Well, I do. And trust me, Samuel, when I predict that Cubans are going to trade one dictator for another if they support army chief of staff Fulgencio Batista to lead the country.”

Samuel half listened to his wife rail about Cuban politics. A knot formed in his throat when he realized what he had to do. He was spending more money than he was bringing in, and if he continued at the current rate he would be penniless by the end of the decade.

“I have to go to Miami,” he said after M.J. paused.

M.J. stared across the space separating her from her husband. It had taken him six months to move his possessions back into their bedroom, and during this time there were nights when they shared a bed, and others when they didn’t. The night all of his clothes filled the closets was the first night he asked if he could make love to her.

Their coming together was tentative, as if they had to learn each other’s bodies all over again, and when it ended she felt free, freer than she’d ever been in her life. Samuel hadn’t used a condom, and she hadn’t asked that he do so, because she wanted another child, a child that would represent a new start and the beginning of the rest of their lives together.

Teresa Kirkland’s name was uttered once—when Samuel told her that his former secretary and her husband had relocated to Miami. She did not want to know when Teresa delivered, or the sex of the baby.

And M.J. was mature enough to know that her husband wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last man to father a child out of wedlock; the affair would’ve become more palatable if Teresa hadn’t taunted her. Under another set of circumstances she would’ve ripped every blond strand out of Teresa’s head. She’d fought and won too hard-earned a victory to marry Samuel Cole just to give him up without a fight—whether verbal or physical.

“Why?”

Samuel registered the tremor in the single word. “I’m closing the Miami office.”

“Why?” she repeated.

“I can’t afford to keep it open. I’m losing too much money.”

M.J. blinked once. “What’s going to happen to Everett?” She always liked the quiet, elegant accountant.

Sighing audibly, Samuel closed his eyes. And when he opened them his gaze was steady, resolute. “I’m going to have to let him go. I plan to give him a generous severance payout.”

M.J. left her chair and sat on Samuel’s lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “What is he going to do?”

Burying his face against his wife’s neck, Samuel shook his head. “I don’t know, darling. His house is paid for, so he doesn’t have to concern himself with losing it. Don’t forget that he’s an accountant. He’s a whiz when it comes to money and numbers. I’ll give him enough that will hopefully tide him over until we can pull out of this stinking depression.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Wednesday.”

Pulling back, M.J. stared at Samuel. There was something lurking behind the deep-set dark eyes that frightened her. He’d been thinking about going to Miami for some time, and she wondered whether he was going to fire Everett or see Teresa.

“What did she have?”

Samuel knew exactly whom M.J. was referring to. There would’ve been a time in his past when he would’ve feigned ignorance, but that was over. He was older, he’d changed, and now that he was thirty-five his focus was no longer amassing a fortune or building an empire. It was now his wife and children.

“A boy, M.J.,” he said in a quiet voice.

M.J. cursed herself for asking, but knew she could not spend the rest of her life wondering and imagining if every child she saw was her husband’s, the brother or sister of her own children.

A wry smile parted her lips. “Now you have two sons and two daughters.”

Samuel’s impassive expression did not change. “He’s not my son, M.J.”

Her arching eyebrows lifted. “If he’s not yours, then whose is he?”

“Everett’s. He’s a Kirkland, not a Cole.”

“I don’t want our children to know about him, Samuel. Promise me you’ll never tell them about him.”

Pulling her closer, Samuel kissed her hair. “I promise.”

Samuel walked into the small Miami-based office of ColeDiz International, Ltd. There was no one sitting in the reception area, so he headed for the back office.

He removed his hat before loosening the top button on his shirt. The heat inside the office was stifling. Where, he thought, were the fans?

The door to Everett’s office was partially opened and he could hear moans coming from the other side. Grasping the knob, he opened the door, and what he saw rendered him motionless and mute. Everett sat on the edge of his desk, trousers around his ankles while a woman knelt in front of him with his penis in her mouth. Both were so involved in the act that neither had noticed he was there. Backpedaling, Samuel closed the door and returned to the reception area to wait.

The telephone in the reception rang three times before the young woman came to answer it. Her eyes were as round as saucers once she recognized who sat in the waiting area.

“Excuse me,” she said, reaching for the telephone. She mumbled a greeting into the receiver, her hand shaking noticeably.

Not waiting to be announced, Samuel got up and retraced his steps. Everett stood with his back to the door as he belted his trousers.

“I hope it was good, Everett.”

The accountant froze, then turned slowly to see his boss standing in the doorway. As accustomed, he was impeccably attired. Samuel wore a tailored navy-blue pin-striped single-breasted blazer, gray flannels, white shirt and navy-and-white-striped tie.

Recovering quickly, Everett came around the desk, smiling. “Come in, Samuel, and close the door. I wasn’t expecting you.”

Rage glinted in Samuel’s eyes. He did not move. “From what I just witnessed I doubt whether you were expecting anyone. I’m the last one to lecture another man about fidelity, but I can say I never shit where I had to eat.”

Everett recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “Just why are you here, if not to spy on me?”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Everett. I’m here to close this office, and give you a severance package I feel is commensurate with your loyalty and years of service to ColeDiz.”

“You can’t!”

Taking half a dozen steps, Samuel walked into the office. It was his turn to gasp. Everett looked like he had when he’d first encountered him in Puerto Limon. He was emaciated, and the smell of alcohol was redolent in the small, sweltering space.

“What the hell have you done to yourself?”

Swaying to keep his balance, Everett groped for his chair and sat down heavily. “What I’ve done,” he slurred with a lopsided grin pulling down one side of his mouth. “It’s what you’ve done, King Cole. I save your precious reputation when I offer to marry your mistress and make her respectable, and the bitch pays me back by denying me my conjugal rights. So don’t stand there and act so fuckin’ pompous because I found someone willing to take care of my needs. The only time I can get some at home is when I beat the bitch into submission.”

Samuel launched himself at Everett, his hands going around the throat of the man he’d come to love like a brother. His eyes literally bulged from their sockets.

“You beat her!” he bellowed, tightening his grip. Everett’s head flopped as if he were a rag doll. “Where the hell is she?”

Gurgling sounds came from the accountant’s throat as he clawed at the fingers choking off precious life-sustaining air. As quickly as the attack had begun it was over. His eyes filled, tears rolling down his face as he struggled to breathe.

“Where is she?” Samuel repeated.

Holding his bruised throat, Everett mumbled a silent prayer that his life had been spared. “She left me five months ago. She’s staying with her parents.”

Samuel hadn’t realized he was sprawled over the desk until a stack of folders fell to the floor. He stood up, his chest rising and falling heavily. His body was soaked with sweat. He wasn’t sure whether it was from the suffocating temperature or rage.

“And the boy?”

Everett’s red-rimmed eyes closed briefly. “She took him with her.”

“I’ll be right back.” Samuel walked out of the office to the front. The receptionist stared straight ahead. There was something about her that reminded him of Daisy. “Dial this number for me,” he ordered without preamble. The woman followed his instructions, then handed him the telephone.

“This is Samuel Cole. I need you to bring a couple of men over to the ColeDiz office. I want you to pack up everything and ship it to my office in West Palm Beach. Yes, today. I’ll wait here for you.”

He handed the receptionist the telephone, then reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, withdrawing two envelopes. “This is for you, Miss Nelson. Your services will no longer be needed. Good luck in finding employment elsewhere.” She hesitated, then took the envelope. Samuel glared at her from under lowered eyebrows. “You may go—
now.
”

She retrieved her handbag from a file drawer and walked out,
Samuel closing and locking the door behind her. His temper had cooled considerably when he reentered Everett’s office.

He extended the remaining envelope. “This is for you.” Everett stared at it, his arms crossed over his chest. “There’s a West African proverb that says, ‘God gives nothing to those who keep their arms crossed.’ Take it, Everett. There’s enough in this envelope for you to take care of your family until things change.”

Everett grunted. “When are they going to change? Spare me the bullshit, Samuel. No one knows when anything is going to change.” His demeanor changed, softening. “I don’t need money. I want to work. Please let me come back to the West Palm office. Teresa can stay here with her family.”

Samuel wanted to grant his request because he and Everett worked well together, but he had no way of knowing whether Teresa would reconcile with her husband. His reconciliation with M.J. was still too tenuous to leave anything to chance.

“I can’t, Everett. Please take it.”

A swollen silence ensued as both men relived the good and not-so-good times they’d shared. The seconds ticked off to minutes before Everett finally accepted the envelope. He reached for his jacket slung over the back of a chair, slipped his arms into it, then giving Samuel Cole one last, lingering look, walked out of the office for the last time.

Samuel was rooted to the spot until he heard the resounding slam of the front door. Then he sat down on a worn leather chair and waited for the movers.

West Palm Beach, Florida—October 17, 1946

“I
don’t believe it. The son of a bitch cheated the hangman when he swallowed a cyanide capsule.”

Samuel did not glance up from the letter his secretary had just transcribed and typed for his signature. “Who cheated the hangman?” he asked his son.

“Hermann Goering.”

“Who?”

“Hitler’s number-two goon. The Nuremberg Tribunal said the Nazi bastard was a ‘leading war aggressor and a creator of the oppressive program against Jews.’”

Samuel scrawled his signature, then blotted the ink. “How many did they hang?”

“Nine. The reporter who wrote the article said a few begged for forgiveness, while others were defiant. One bastard named Streicher shouted ‘Heil Hitler’ as the noose was tightened around his neck.”

His head came up, and he stared at his son. Twenty-one-year-old Martin Diaz Cole, a recent college graduate, was now a ColeDiz International, Ltd., employee.

“They should’ve doused them with kerosene, then roasted them up like pigs on a spit.”

Martin grimaced, dimples creasing his brown cheeks. “Damn, Dad. That sounds a bit heinous, even for you.”

“The only difference between a Nazi and a Klansman is that one wears a hood and the other a swastika.” He capped his fountain pen. “I hope you don’t use that language in front of your mother.”

Martin stared at his father, trying not to laugh. “I’m absolving myself of any blame for bad language.”

“Why?”

“Because I learned it from you.”

Samuel put down the pen and studied his firstborn. Martin’s genes had compromised: he’d inherited his mother’s dimples and delicate features. Martin’s curly hair, height and coloring had come from his father.

“I paid for four years of college so that you could get a degree in business, not profanity.”

Martin glanced at the watch strapped to his wrist. “I suppose that’s a not-so-subtle hint for me to leave.”

Leaning back in his chair, Samuel ran a hand over his cropped steel-gray hair. “Please don’t let me chase you.”

“It’s time I leave anyway. I have to go home and pick up my luggage.”

“What time is your flight?”

“Two.”

“Do you have the blueprints for the villas?”

“Don’t worry so much, Dad. I have everything.” Saluting, Martin stood up and walked out of his father’s office. He was going to Costa Rica to oversee the construction of a vacation retreat.

It had taken a world depression and a second world war within a span of twenty years for Samuel Cole’s dream to come full circle. He’d built an empire, a legacy, for his children, grandchildren, and hopefully his great-grandchildren.

The company’s profits dropped dramatically between 1933 and 1938, resulting in a drastic decrease in coffee production. Samuel abandoned the Costa Rican coffee plantation and focused on those in Mexico, Puerto Rico and Jamaica.

A year before Martin graduated from college, ColeDiz underwent restructuring. Samuel moved the office into a new high-rise office building, employed an in-house attorney versed in international tariffs and maritime law, increased his clerical staff, hired a chief accountant, two accounting clerks, an executive secretary and two part-time typists.

Martin worked with him during the summer and school holidays, and had accompanied him when he visited his Caribbean holdings. His son took to business like a duck to water, exhibiting negotiating skills that made Samuel feel like a neophyte.

Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, ColeDiz made a comeback with Roosevelt’s New Deal and an increase in the manufacture of armaments for the war in Europe.

Crossing his arms behind his head, Samuel smiled. Life was good. Martin had become an integral part of the company, Nancy was engaged to a fellow college student, Josephine was a freshman at Spelman College in Atlanta, Georgia, and nine-year-old David had been labeled a music prodigy.

Samuel’s smile widened when he thought about his youngest son, who was the complete opposite of his older brother and sisters. He was content to spend hours by himself practicing the
piano, making up lyrics for songs, and would at a moment’s notice break into song.

Samuel doubted whether David would ever become involved with the family business, but M.J. belayed his doubts when she said all of their children had inherited the Cole gene for competitiveness, so there was hope for their youngest child.

A soft buzz, followed by the voice of his secretary, shattered the peaceful silence. “Samuel, are you expecting a Mrs. Kirkland? Because I don’t have her down in your calendar.”

Samuel sat up; his breath solidified in his throat as he mentally replayed Charlotte Rowland’s query. She must have gotten the name wrong. He pressed a button on the intercom and picked up the telephone receiver.

“Did you say Mrs. Kirkland?”

“Yes. She’s been waiting almost an hour. I didn’t want to disturb you while you were meeting with Martin.”

There was a long, brittle silence as Samuel stared at a wall covered with a soft, wheat-colored fabric. He knew one Mrs. Kirkland, and that was Teresa. What, he wondered, was she doing in West Palm Beach, and why had she come to see him after so many years? Had something happened to Everett? Her son?

Not once, since she’d become Mrs. Everett Kirkland, had he thought of her child as his. That pain was too much for him to bear. It was cowardly, but easier to claim that he’d fathered four and not five children.

“Is she alone?” he asked after what seemed an interminable pause.

“Yes, she is.”

Samuel knew he wasn’t prepared to see Teresa again after so many years, but to come face-to-face with the son he’d denied and abandoned to the responsibility of another was a weighted guilt he would carry to his grave.

He knew he couldn’t send Teresa away without finding out why she’d come to see him. “Give me a minute, then send her in.”

Samuel hung up the phone and reached for the jacket to his suit he’d left on one of the chairs next to his desk. Slipping his arms into the sleeves, he then tightened and straightened his tie. He was standing behind his desk, ready for Teresa Kirkland, when the door to his office opened.

He’d believed he was ready until he saw her.

If he’d changed in seventeen years, so had she. When they’d parted she was a girl, but there was no girl left in the fashionably dressed woman staring back at him.

Forcing his legs to move, Samuel moved from behind the desk, his gaze meeting and fusing with hers. The closer he came, the more obvious the changes. There was a minute scar on her left cheekbone that hadn’t been there before, and something told him the slashes around her mouth were not the result of smiling.

She tilted her head to look up at him, giving him a glimpse of the silver hair she’d pinned up under a wide natural straw hat. A slight smile softened his mouth when he recognized the haunting, sensual fragrance wafting from her body. It was Chanel No. 5. He’d bought it for her the day they’d gone shopping in St. Thomas. She also wore his other gift: the pearl necklace and earrings.

A short, black hip-length jacket, buttoned to the neck, flared out at the hips to accommodate the fullness of a matching skirt. Wrist-length black leather gloves and high-heel, ankle-strap shoes pulled her winning look together.

Her pale green gaze was steady before she glanced away. “I’m sorry about not calling for an appointment, but I felt if I had I wouldn’t have been granted access.”

Cupping her elbow, Samuel escorted her across the expansive office to an area where he held small, impromptu meetings. The action gave him the time he needed to get used to seeing her again. He’d forgotten how well spoken she’d been, and still was.

“If you’d called, I would’ve seen you,” he said, seating her on a love seat.

A pale eyebrow lifted slightly. “Thank you. I know you’re busy, and because I don’t have an appointment, I’m going to make this visit very brief.”

He sat down opposite her, crossing one leg over the other knee. “What can I do for you?”

Teresa was stunned by Samuel’s cool appraisal, his impersonality. He appeared totally in control of his emotions, whereas her heart was pumping so hard her chest hurt. However, she had to admit Samuel Cole had matured exquisitely. There was no excess fat on his lean face. The new lines around his eyes added character rather than age. And the hair that had begun graying in his twenties was now a gleaming silver gray. He was impeccably groomed, as she’d expected him to be.

“I need your influence on behalf of
my
son.” She was hard-pressed not to laugh when his jaw tightened when she referred to
their son
as
my son
.

Samuel was momentarily speechless in his surprise. It had taken Teresa seventeen years to contact him, and it was not for herself but her son. But the son she spoke of was also his son.

“What do you want from me?”

The pulse in Teresa’s throat beat erratically at the threatening quality in his deep, drawling voice. The tense lines in her face relaxed as she called on the waning strength it took for her to travel from Miami to West Palm Beach to reunite with the man responsible for making her a mother.

“I want you to help him get into West Point.”

Samuel blinked once. “The military academy in New York?”

“Yes.”

“How can I help him?”

“Use your political influence. He needs letters of recommendation from elected officials.”

“I have no such influence.”

Her nerves tensed immediately. “You have it, Samuel, even if you’ve chosen not to exploit it.” Opening her purse, she withdrew an envelope. “Take it.”

He obeyed like an obedient child. “What’s in here?”

“My son’s name, address, telephone, his school principal, and a listing of his grades and test scores. I’ve never asked anything from you in seventeen years. The least you can do is grant me this one request.”

She stood up and walked out of the office, leaving Samuel staring at the space where she’d been.

It was a full five minutes before he opened the envelope and read the contents. His eyes widened as he stared at the grades Joshua Kirkland had earned.

The boy was brilliant!

Samuel sat, losing track of time as he relived the seconds, minutes, hours and days he’d spent with a little slip of a girl on a beautiful, seemingly magical island what now seemed so long ago.

Hot tears burned his eyes when he realized that even though he loved his wife, he still loved Teresa. She’d had his child, but what she did not know was that he’d kept a small piece of her inside him, a small piece he would treasure forever.