Best Kept Secrets

by Rochelle Alers

  “What’s the matter?”

  She took a deep breath. “I’m scared, Papa. I know in my heart that I love Samuel, but I’m so frightened.”

  Jose Luis felt a fist of fear squeeze his own heart as he stared at the young woman who’d suddenly appeared so childlike that he yearned to take her in his arms and cradle her as he’d done in the months following her mother’s death.

  She’d chosen to wear a fashionable black-and-white midcalf silk evening gown that skimmed over her slender body. Its sophistication matched the wealth of coal-black hair done up in a twist on the nape of her long, graceful neck. The onyx-and-diamond earrings in her pierced lobes were a gift he’d given her for her eighteenth birthday.

  “What frightens you, Chica?”

  “I don’t know if I can be a good wife to Samuel.”

  “All you have to do is love him, be supportive, and have a lot of patience.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  “That’s because it is, my child.”

  “Papa, what I’m going to face is so different from me playing with my dolls and pretending to get them ready because their father had promised he was going to take them out for sweets.”

  “No one is born knowing how to be a wife, husband, mother or father. We learn every day in the same manner students learn from their professors every day.

  “You were given an excellent education. You were taught the academics as well as how to cook, supervise a household staff. I’m certain you’ll make Samuel a wonderful wife.”

  A tentative smile inched the corners of her mouth upward. “Do you think he’ll be a good husband, Papa?”

  Wondering how much he should tell his daughter about her future husband, Jose Luis said, “What I believe is that he will bring you great joy.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What aren’t you telling me, Papa?”

  “Your novio is young and very ambitious. Which means you must be patient and support him in all his endeavors.”

  “What endeavors?”

  “That you must ask him, Chica.”

  “What if he won’t tell me? Samuel doesn’t talk much. The only conversation we’ve had is about tobacco.”

  Jose Luis patted her cheek. “That’s because I’ve monopolized your young man. Now that you are engaged, that will change. Beginning tonight, he belongs to you.”

  “Gracias, Papa.”

  “De nada, mi amor.”

  Jose Luis escorted her back to the sala and placed her hand in Samuel’s. They exchanged a look that spoke volumes.

  Even before Marguerite-Josefina had taken her vows, her father had relinquished his responsibility to protect her to Samuel Cole.

  Chapter 8

  If ever two were one, then surely we.

  —Anne Bradstreet

  M.J. glanced up from her needlework and froze. Samuel stood under the arched doorway, staring at her. How long, she mused, had he been there? How was it she hadn’t heard his approach? His shirt and trousers were dotted with moisture, and it was apparent he’d been caught in the sudden downpour that had slackened to a soft, soothing and hypnotic tapping against the windows.

  “Hola,” she said shyly.

  He nodded, smiling. “Hello.”

  It had been three days since the announcement of their betrothal had appeared in the major newspapers. The news was followed by invitations from Cuba’s officious social elite who sought a glimpse of Jose Luis’s daughter with her purported well-to-do americano de color. Gloria had appointed herself M.J.’s surrogate mother, accepting those she felt advantageous to her niece and future husband.

  Samuel extended the hand he’d concealed behind his back. “I brought you a little something.”

  M.J. laid aside the shuttle, placing it along with the square of linen on the table next to her chair. She’d been working feverishly to tat lace around the edges of a set of six embroidered napkins that matched the tablecloth she’d completed that spring.

  Her favorite cousin, whom she’d selected as her only bridal attendant, had helped her go through Carlotta Diaz’s heirloom linens, china, stemware and silver, selecting what she wanted packed and shipped to Samuel’s West Palm Beach, Florida, home.

  Rising gracefully, M.J. shook her head. “You’ve given me enough, Samuel.”

  “That’s your opinion,” he countered in the soft, drawling tone that never failed to send shivers over her body.

  “What do you have?” She watched his approach; his right foot toed in a little and made for a slight swagger in his gait.

  He handed her a package wrapped in paper imprinted with colorful butterflies. “Open it and see.”

  M.J. sank down to her chair and peeled back the paper. A gasp of surprise escaped her. Samuel had given her a bottle of Maja perfume and an exquisite black lace fan. Who’d told him the fragrance was her favorite?

  Smiling up at him, she asked, “How did you know?”

  “I didn’t know until I asked the shopkeeper if I could smell it.” He went to his knees in front of her. “It smells delicious on you.” The balanced blend of citrus, lavender, spice, and woods was perfect for her body’s natural scent.

  Reaching out, M.J. ran her fingertips over his damp hair. She loved the feel of the thick, tightly curling strands, finding them soft and springy to the touch. She much preferred when he didn’t apply the pomade that made his hair stiff and sticky.

  “I like your hair without that stuff you put in it,” she crooned, staring deeply into his eyes.

  “If I don’t put that stuff, as you call it, on my hair, I can’t get it to lie flat.”

  “Promise me once we’re married that unless you’re going out you won’t put anything on your hair.” Leaning closer she pressed a kiss over one eye, then the other.

  Samuel caught her braided hair, wrapping its length around and around his fist. “I promise, but only if you promise not to cut your hair.”

  M.J. giggled like a little girl. “That’s an easy promise to keep.”

  He released her hair. His expression changed, his face becoming a mask of stone. “Will you promise to love me until death parts us?”

  Her eyes widened as she pulled back. “Why would you want me to promise that?”

  His stoic expression did not change. “I need to know how much you love me.”

  “But…but I do love you, Samuel.”

  He lifted a questioning eyebrow. “Why is it you haven’t told me?”

  “But I have.”

  Samuel shook his head slowly. “No, you haven’t. You asked me if I loved you, and I told you I did. You’ve agreed to become my wife, but you have yet to tell me that you love me. Until now.”

  M.J. picked up the fan and placed it near her heart. She snapped it open and covered her eyes. Lowering it, she closed it slowly, then put the handle to her lips.

  “I’ve just told you in fan speak that you have won my love, I love you, I promise to marry you, and that I want you to kiss me.”

  Samuel pushed off the floor, walked over to the door and closed it. Retracing his steps, he extended his hand and eased M.J. up from the chair. Slowly, deliberately, he brushed his thumb over her mouth until her lips parted, then lowered his head and slanted his mouth over hers; he caught her full lower lip between his teeth, pulling and sucking gently on the tender flesh until she writhed and moaned under the sensual assault.

  M.J. curled into the curve of Samuel’s body, trying to get closer, close enough where they would become one. She moaned again when his hands moved down her back to cradle her hips. There was no mistaking his hardened flesh throbbing against her middle. Desire rushed headlong down the length of her body, setting her flesh afire.

  Instinctively, she arched toward him; a rush of moisture followed by pulsing in the secret place between her thighs began, growing stronger and stronger with each passing second. Her fingernails bit into his shoulders, her breasts grew heavy, and her nipples swelled to pebbly hardness as the foreign sensations made her feel as if she’d lo
st herself and floated away into nothingness.

  Samuel gathered the hem of her dress, baring her legs and thighs. He longed to tell M.J. how much he wanted her; that every morning he woke up in a full state of arousal, something that hadn’t happened to him since boarding a warship for Europe.

  As a teenage boy he’d been as randy as a goat. He had become not only a regular customer at Miss Lola’s sportin’ house but also a favorite of her best girl, who always tried to talk him into not wearing a rubber sheath because she said it didn’t feel natural. Her pleas had fallen on deaf ears because he’d seen firsthand what the ravages of syphilis had done to men who’d frequented prostitutes.

  After the war he never visited Miss Lola’s again. War had changed him, inside and out, for the better.

  He closed his eyes, listening to M.J.’s halting breathing and soft moans. His fingers caressed her inner thigh, searching and finding her moist core. Cupping her femininity, he bit back his own groan when her heated flesh convulsed against his palm. She stiffened, gasping, then shuddered, collapsing against his chest as a warm liquid bathed his fingers.

  Eyes wide with shame, M.J. stared up at Samuel. She turned her head so he couldn’t see the tears welling up in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”

  He released her, settling her dress around her legs, and smiled. “There’s no need to apologize, darling. You were wonderful. We are so good together.”

  If M.J. hadn’t looked so distressed Samuel would’ve laughed in her face. His outspoken, flirtatious novia was so innocent. He was going to enjoy teaching her about her body.

  “But we haven’t had sex, Samuel.”

  He smiled, nodding. “We have, darling. Sex is not just…”

  “Copulating,” M.J. said when Samuel’s explanation faltered.

  His eyebrows lifted. “You know about copulation, but what about orgasms or ejaculation?”

  M.J. thrust her chin at him. “I know about orgasms and ejaculation.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve read about them.”

  “Reading about them is not the same as experiencing them.”

  “And you have?”

  Samuel gave her a long, penetrating stare. He wasn’t about to tell M.J. that he’d slept with a number of women, and had enjoyed each and every one of them; his past would remain his past.

  “Things are different for men and women.”

  “That is something you don’t have to remind me of. A married man can take a mistress and still be looked upon as respectable, while a woman is scorned and denigrated for taking lovers. It’s not fair, Samuel.”

  “Don’t look so worried, baby. I promise to always be faithful to you.”

  She placed her hand alongside his cheek. “Don’t make promises, mi amor, just do it.”

  Resting his chin on the top of her head, Samuel stared at the door. “I have to return to Florida for a few days.”

  M.J.’s body stiffened in shock. “I thought you weren’t going back to Florida until after we marry.”

  “I have to straighten out a few things that can’t wait.”

  “What things?”

  “Business, M.J.”

  “Can’t you take care of it with the telephone?”

  “No.” He dropped his arms. “I’ll be leaving in the morning.”

  M.J. felt his loss immediately. He hadn’t left Cuba, and already she felt as if he’d abandoned her.

  She nodded. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

  Samuel smiled sweetly, as if he were dealing with a temperamental child. He lowered his head and brushed a kiss over her cheek. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

  A look of implacable withdrawal came over M.J.’s face as she watched him cross the room, open the door and then close it quietly behind his departing figure.

  He had invaded her sanctuary, eliciting a passion that left her reeling from its intensity, only to walk away leaving her wanting more. Had her response to his lovemaking frightened him so much that he feared losing control and would take her without the benefit of marriage?

  She pressed a fist to her mouth. Perhaps it was best that Samuel leave for Florida, because she did not trust herself not to seduce him. He’d awakened something within her that screamed to be assuaged.

  December 27 could not come soon enough. On that day she would celebrate her twentieth birthday, become Mrs. Samuel Cole, and experience what it meant to be a woman in the biblical sense.

  Three weeks.

  It seemed like a long time because only now had she begun to recognize her own needs. However, she did not have time to pine over her novio’s absence.

  Not when she had to finish planning her wedding.

  “Stop in front of the third house on your right,” Samuel said as the taxi driver slowed his decrepit vehicle, its engine wheezing and rattling, before coming to a complete stop. “Don’t bother to get out.”

  He reached for his bag, pushed open the rear door and stepped out onto the sand-littered path leading to his mother’s house. A familiar late-model car was parked alongside the one-story structure. Samuel recognized the vehicle belonging to his eldest brother, Mark.

  The weather in Tallahassee was at least thirty degrees cooler than Cuba’s sultry temperatures; a slight wind blowing in off the Gulf of Mexico was a refreshing change from the intense tropical heat. He walked to the front door and knocked. He heard voices and movements inside the house before the door opened.

  Mark Cole stared at his brother as if he were an apparition. Of the three Cole brothers, Samuel and Mark looked enough alike to be taken as twins. The only difference was that Mark favored a mustache, and at thirty-one was graying prematurely.

  Grinning, his teeth showing whitely under a trimmed black mustache, Mark pounded Samuel’s back. “Get in here, little brother. Let me warn you that Mama’s fit to be tied because you missed Thanksgiving Day.”

  Samuel dropped his bag by the door. “I couldn’t make it.”

  “Why?”

  “I was in Cuba.”

  Mark looped an arm over Samuel’s shoulders. “What’s in Cuba?”

  “It’s not a what, but who.”

  “Who then?”

  “My fiancée.”

  Mark’s grin faded quickly. “You’re getting married?”

  Samuel nodded. “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Two days after Christmas.”

  “Aw, shit, brother. That’s three weeks away.”

  “What’s in three weeks? And you know I don’t abide no cussin’ on the Sabbath, Mark Japheth Cole.”

  Samuel turned, smiling at the tall, rawboned woman with a coronet of silver braids atop her head that made her look as if she were wearing a crown.

  Even at fifty-four Belinda Cole was still a very handsome woman. Men had come courting a year after Charles died, but Belinda wouldn’t have anything to do with any of them, no matter how good-looking or smooth-talking they were.

  She rested her hands on her hips. “So, you do know where your mama lives.”

  Samuel started toward his mother. “Hello, Mama.” He hugged and kissed her. “I’m sorry I missed Thanksgiving.”

  Belinda curved her arms under her youngest son’s shoulders. She’d never told anyone, but he was her favorite. Charles had favored Mark and Thomas, while Samuel was hers.

  She smiled up at him. “I’ll forgive you, that is, if you don’t miss Christmas.”

  Samuel examined his mother’s taupe-brown face, finding it clear and still wrinkle-free. Without the gray hair she could’ve easily been taken for a woman in her early forties. “I came to tell you that I won’t be in Florida for Christmas.”

  “So, the prodigal son returns,” mocked a deep voice behind Samuel. “I guess now we can all sit down and eat.”

  Belinda peered around Samuel’s shoulders, frowning. “Thomas, mind your mouth, son.”

  Thirty-year-old Thomas had inherited his late father’s good looks and irascible personality. He glared at Samuel. “Mam
a, you know that Genie has to eat every four hours or she’ll be sick.”

  “You should’ve fed her before she left home,” Belinda mumbled under her breath.

  Thomas’s glare shifted to Belinda. “What did you say, Mama?”

  She glared back. “Don’t take that tone with me, Thomas Isaac Cole. Not today, and not in my house.”

  “It wouldn’t be your house if I hadn’t helped pay for it,” Thomas said, his voice lowering until it resembled a growl.

  “That’s enough, Thomas!” Samuel shouted. He fisted his hands, struggling to control his temper. It was as if Charles had come back from the dead as Thomas.

  Samuel had grown up listening to his father’s tantrums, blaming everyone but himself for his failures. If his crop failed, it was because his wife and children hadn’t helped out enough. If Belinda put too much seasoning in his food, he’d throw his plate against the wall, blaming it on his sensitive stomach. And whenever he stood up to Charles in defense of his mother, he’d end up in the woodshed, holding his ankles while Charles whipped his bare behind with a switch Samuel had to cut for the event. After a while, he’d gathered a supply, leaving them in the shed, and wanting to get the ordeal over with as soon as possible.

  The whippings ended before Charles’s constant ridicule did. At sixteen Samuel was well over six feet and had begun to put on muscle from backbreaking work in the cotton fields. He’d followed Charles into the shed, but when the older man had raised his arm to strike him, he’d caught his wrist. The impasse lasted a full minute before Charles dropped the switch and walked away. Two years later Charles was stricken with influenza; he recovered but only to contract tuberculosis, which laid siege to his weakened body. After a violent coughing episode, he’d taken to his bed and never left it again. He was buried two weeks after Samuel was sworn into the army as a private.

  “I don’t ever want to hear you say that to Mama again,” Samuel warned in a soft, lethal tone.