Best Kept Secrets

by Rochelle Alers

  A deep red flush suffused Thomas’s face as his hazel eyes glittered wildly. “I’ll say it whenever I feel like saying it. And what the hell do you think you’re going to do about it?”

  The air hummed with danger that made the hair stand up on the backs of the four participants. Belinda loathed seeing her sons fight, while Mark silently urged Samuel to beat the crap out of Thomas. He had gotten so many whippings from his father that he learned early on to stay out of his way and not talk back. Thomas had become his father’s favorite son, exempt from any and all physical and verbal abuse.

  Samuel relaxed his hands. A slight smile touched his mouth. “You don’t want to know.” The retort was soft, threatening.

  Belinda saw something in her youngest son’s eyes that made her shiver. The last time Thomas had disrespected her, Samuel went looking for him with a gun. Thomas spent a month in Pensacola, waiting for Samuel to be shipped overseas, before he came back to Tallahassee.

  Belinda touched Samuel’s arm. “Please wash up so we all can sit down to eat before Her Highness faints.”

  “That’s uncalled for, Mama,” Thomas countered. “Carrying a baby hasn’t been easy for Genie,” he said in defense of his wife. “Most times she can’t get out of bed.”

  “Please go, Samuel,” Belinda urged quietly.

  Samuel made his way to the bathroom while his brothers and mother retreated to the kitchen. He should’ve known better than to come back to Tallahassee on a Sunday. Although Mark and Thomas were married, they always went to their mother’s house for Sunday dinner.

  He left the bathroom and walked into a large, sun-filled kitchen. Belinda had moved into her new home the year before. Samuel had offered to pay for the house with his profits from the sale of the soybean crop, but Mark and Thomas, not wanting to be outdone, each contributed a third.

  Smiling, he kissed his sisters-in-law, lingering long enough to congratulate Eugenia on her impending motherhood. She was pretty and diminutive, reminding Samuel of a delicate doll. She’d taught school until she married Thomas, then settled into a life of complete domesticity.

  Samuel much preferred Mark’s wife, Annie-Mae. Eight years Mark’s senior, she had lost her first husband and two young children when a kerosene heater in their home exploded, killing them instantly. She’d escaped death by mere minutes because she’d gone to the chicken coop to gather eggs for breakfast. The tragedy of losing her entire family left her with emotional scars that still hadn’t faded.

  He sat down at the head of the table facing his mother. Platters and serving bowls were filled with crispy fried chicken, collard greens, corn bread, fried okra and potato salad. Belinda said grace, and then plates were passed around and filled with the sumptuous fare she’d gotten up earlier that morning to prepare.

  Samuel waited until everyone had eaten before he made his announcement. “I’m getting married in Cuba on December twenty-seventh.”

  Eyes bulged, jaws dropped, and an audible gasp escaped Belinda’s gaping mouth. Only Mark smiled.

  “You can’t!” Eugenia screamed.

  Samuel frowned at her agonized expression. “And why not?”

  “Because I told my best friend that I wanted her to meet you.”

  He wanted to tell Eugenia that even if he were desperate for a woman he’d never become involved with anyone associated with her.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m no longer available to meet any women.”

  “Why Cuba?” Thomas asked. It was apparent he’d gotten over his earlier confrontation with Samuel.

  “Because she lives there.”

  “Is she Cuban?” Annie-Mae asked. Samuel nodded. “Does she speak English?”

  Smiling, he nodded again. “She speaks English very well.” He hesitated. “You’re my family, and I’d like all of you to come to witness my very special day.”

  Annie-Mae stared at her brother-in-law. “I can’t, Samuel. I’m afraid of water.”

  Reaching over, he patted her hand. “It’s okay, Annie-Mae.”

  Thomas curved an arm around Eugenia’s thickening waist. “Genie and I won’t be able to make it either. Her doctor has cautioned her about traveling.”

  “Don’t worry, Samuel. I’ll be there for you,” Belinda said with cool authority. “I wouldn’t miss your wedding for all of the money in the world.”

  Samuel bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Mama.”

  He hadn’t expected his brothers to attend his wedding. Mark couldn’t leave Annie-Mae, and Thomas had always resented his closeness with their mother.

  The only thing that mattered now was that in another three weeks he would exchange vows with the woman he loved, and his mother would be there to witness it.

  Belinda opened her eyes as she rocked back and forth in a slow, measured rhythm and smiled at Samuel lounging in a matching rocker.

  Dinner was over, the kitchen cleaned, and everyone had returned home—everyone but Samuel. He’d informed her that he would remain in Tallahassee for two days before traveling on to West Palm Beach.

  “When are you going back to Cuba?”

  “Next weekend.”

  “Tell me about your young lady.”

  Belinda heard an emotion in her son’s voice when he spoke of Marguerite-Josefina Diaz that she’d never heard before. It was soft, almost reverent.

  “Do you love her, Samuel?”

  He gave her a direct stare. “More than I thought I could ever love a woman.”

  “Does she love you?”

  “Yes, Mama. She’s admitted she loves me, too.”

  “Then you should have a wonderful life together.”

  Belinda closed her eyes again, and a small smile of serenity touched her lips. Samuel was worth spending her entire pregnancy in bed, and the long, painful delivery she’d gone through to bring him into the world.

  Chapter 9

  Maidenhood, maidenhood, whither has thou fled from me?

  —Sappho

  M.J. felt the muscles tense in the arm under the fabric of an off-white linen jacket. She glanced up at Samuel and held her breath. His countenance was immobile, his gaze fixed on a group of people coming from the area where they’d waited to be cleared to enter Cuba.

  She turned and stared at the figure of a tall, thin woman striding regally in their direction. As she came closer, M.J. noticed the exquisite tailoring of a blue-gray raw silk dress with long sleeves and a dropped waistline. A straw cloche in the same blue-gray shade dipped slightly over her left eye. Her nut-brown face was flawless, wrinkle-free.

  M.J. smiled when Samuel covered her hand resting on his arm. “That’s my mother,” he said softly.

  Leaning against his side, M.J. glanced up at him. His expression hadn’t changed, and at that moment she couldn’t tell what he was thinking or feeling.

  Samuel had returned to Cuba after a ten-day absence, informing her that only his mother would be able to attend their wedding because one of his sisters-in-law was in the early stages of a difficult pregnancy and the other’s fear of water prohibited her getting on a boat.

  Of the 112 invited to witness the exchange of vows between Marguerite-Josefina Isabel and Samuel Claridge Cole, only one would share blood with the groom. She’d argued nonstop with Samuel, asking why Mark couldn’t attend without his wife, until Samuel finally told her that Annie-Mae had had a mental breakdown and could not be left alone for an extended period of time. This disclosure left her wondering if she would ever be able to form a bond with the women who’d married Samuel’s brothers. And she did not expect to see them too often with more than three hundred miles between Tallahassee and West Palm Beach.

  She returned her attention to the woman whom she would relate to as Mother. “She’s a very handsome woman.”

  Samuel agreed with M.J. that Belinda looked extremely fashionable. He’d given her money to purchase a new wardrobe for her trip and the wedding. He’d also requested that she come to Cuba days before the ceremony to take in some of the sights on the beau
tiful Caribbean island. He waited until she’d shown her stamped paper to a uniformed guard at a gate before approaching her.

  Belinda didn’t see her son and the slender woman clinging to his arm until they were several feet away. She’d hardly recognized him in an off-white linen suit and Panama hat. He’d turned the brim down, shading his upper face from the intense winter sun.

  She extended her hands, smiling. “Thank you for meeting me.”

  Samuel hugged his mother with his free arm. “Welcome to Cuba.” He kissed her moist cheek and took her single piece of luggage from her loose grip. “I’d like to introduce you to Marguerite-Josefina. M.J., my mother, Belinda Cole.”

  M.J. eased her hand from Samuel’s arm and hugged Belinda. In heels they were the same height. “Bienvenido a Cuba,” she said shyly in Spanish, translating Samuel’s greeting. Her dimples winked at Belinda. “I said welcome to Cuba.”

  Belinda smiled at the young woman with Samuel. Marguerite-Josefina was tall and claimed an ethereal beauty rarely seen in a woman. Her hair, under a sunny-yellow straw cloche, was a gleaming blue black, her features delicate and perfectly symmetrical. The double strand of pearls around her long neck, and a matching pair dangling from her pierced lobes, were magnificent. When Samuel told his mother that his future wife came from an upper-class Cuban family, it was evident by the poise of the woman who spoke English and Spanish with equal facility.

  “Thank you, Marguerite-Josefina.”

  “Please call me M.J. Marguerite-Josefina takes too long to say.”

  “You may call me Belinda.”

  A slight blush swept over M.J.’s lightly tanned face. “May I have your permission to call you Mother? My mother died when I was four, and I’d be honored if you would think of me as your daughter.”

  Belinda moved closer, hugging and kissing M.J.’s cool, scented cheek. “Of course, my child.” Pulling back, she looked into a pair of large, dark eyes filled with uncertainty. “From this very moment you can consider me your mother and you’ll be my daughter.”

  Samuel offered his arms to the two most important women in his life. “Come, let’s get out of the sun.”

  He led them to where he’d parked Gloria’s car. After assisting them into the vehicle, he stored Belinda’s bag in the space behind the rear seats. Since returning to Cuba he’d moved in with Gloria Diaz. Her home was situated in the Vedado section of Havana, a quiet old neighborhood where wrought-iron gates and night watchmen guarded classic mansions. Every night at Gloria’s was a fiesta with a steady stream of people who ate, drank, debated, sang and danced to the live music of several bands until the early morning hours. One morning he had to step over a man who’d passed out in the inner courtyard, his fingers still gripping a glass of fuego liquido. His single encounter with liquid fire was enough for him to swear off the potent drink forever.

  He and M.J. would marry in a nuptial Mass in a Havana cathedral, followed by a formal dinner, then dancing in Gloria’s grand ballroom and garden. Belinda had taken him and his brothers to church every Sunday, but it was only when he had to talk to a priest about his Baptist faith that he realized he had become a backslider. He could not remember the last time he had been inside a church. He admitted that he hadn’t lost his faith in God; it was just that he did not attend services. The newly ordained priest made him promise to baptize his children as Catholics, and then prayed he would find his way back to the house of God.

  Samuel maneuvered away from the waterfront, driving slowly over cobblestone streets. He drove along El Prado, reminiscent of a European boulevard, enormously wide and beautifully designed with an allée of trees, old streetlamps, benches and grand turn-of-the-century buildings and monuments standing in the brilliant sunlight. The air was bright, clear and smelled of the sea. Cuba was beautiful, a magical paradise where he’d found the woman whom he’d risk everything to love and hold on to forever.

  Havana was bustling with activity. There was a cacophony of sounds from automobile horns, trolley-car bells, the music of street bands and the voices of people sipping coffee at sidewalk cafés.

  “What do you think of Cuba, Mama?” he asked Belinda over his shoulder.

  She stared out the car window. “Everything looks so old, but it’s very pretty.”

  Samuel nodded. “That’s because they don’t tear down their old buildings to put up new ones. It’s the same in Europe. The old coexists with the new.”

  Belinda stared at the colorful awnings shading balconies and doorways, flowering trees, palms set in massive stone planters, and facades painted shrimp-pink, sky-blue or lemon-yellow.

  Her gaze lingered on buildings with shuttered windows and grillwork balconies. A street band made up of musicians with guitars, drums and horns played a catchy tune as people in cars, motorcycles with sidecars, and pedestrians slowed to listen. Most men wore Panama hats, while women wore fashionable cloches made of the finest straw.

  Havana was a city of color—from the many shades of its inhabitants, to the lushness of its tropical foliage, clear blue sky and waters. Belinda could see why her son had fallen in love with M.J. Diaz. She, like the country of her birth, was charming and breathtakingly beautiful.

  The last haunting note of “Ave Maria” sung by a soprano with an opera company at the Sociedad pro Arte faded away, and a hush fell over the cathedral as M.J., leaning against her father to keep her balance, placed one foot in front of the other and stared through a veil of Belgian lace as he led her down the flower-strewn carpet to the altar where Samuel stood with Cesar Ferrer. Her cousin had offered to stand in as Samuel’s best man, while his sister Ivonne had become her sole attendant. A nervous smile parted her lips as she glanced at Ivonne, who had teased her, saying she was going to make funny faces, hoping to make her smile.

  As the time neared for the wedding she’d had an attack of nerves that left her cloistered in her bedroom. The reality that she would marry Samuel, and a week later leave all she’d known all of her life for a foreign country and a culture so unlike her own, made her short-tempered. Her anxiety only subsided when Samuel came to Pinar del Rio for Noche Buena.

  Family members who had come from every part of the island for the wedding assisted the household staff decorating trees with colorful lights, tending the pigs roasting on barbecue spits and setting long tables with festive linen, china and silver. After filling up on roast pork—lechon asado—black beans and rice, yucca with a garlic sauce, salad, and Samuel’s favorite, mojo criollo, a Creole garlic sauce, she managed to steal away in the garden to meet him for all of three minutes.

  They’d held each other, without exchanging a word, then returned to the courtyard to join the others enjoying the Christmas Eve festivities that were repeated throughout the island.

  “Are you all right, Chica?” Jose Luis whispered close to her ear.

  “Sí, Papa,” she whispered back.

  And she was all right. The man she loved was less than ten feet away, waiting to make her his wife. Her smile widened when she saw him staring at her, his dark eyes filled with awe. He looked dashing in a cutaway coat, black-striped trousers, white silk tie and pearl-gray vest. The lily of the valley pinned to his lapel matched those in her bouquet.

  Samuel lowered his chin and glanced away from the vision in white. At that moment he didn’t trust himself not to lose his composure. He’d tried imagining how M.J. would look as a bride and failed miserably. She wore a vintage couture dress bought in Paris by her maternal grandmother’s great-aunt in 1870 and a modern, dramatic, flowing, floor-length veil.

  He felt her presence, heat, inhaled the heady scent of her bouquet, and turned and stared at his bride. Her features were obscured under the lace. Pinned into her unbound hair, fashioned into tiny curls, was tiny, bell-like lily of the valley.

  The priest said something in Spanish and Jose Luis responded, placed M.J.’s glove-covered right hand in Samuel’s left one, then stepped back to sit down in the pew assigned him.

  Samuel couldn’t understa
nd a word of Latin as he found himself standing and kneeling at various times during the ceremony. Everything appeared mystical as the priest offered those who were Catholics a tiny white wafer disc that represented the body of the risen Christ. He switched from Latin to Spanish when it came time for them to exchange vows.

  Samuel repeated his vows in Spanish, getting all of the words right, but his pronunciation had a few people close enough to hear him corrupt the language snickering behind their hands or fans.

  His hand shook slightly as he slipped a delicate platinum band on M.J.’s finger. She repeated the gesture, and the wide gold band on his finger was a sign that he’d pledged his life and future to her for an eternity.

  Slowly, deliberately, he raised her veil, and smiled. The delicate oval face with the large dark eyes was that of an angel. He touched her lower lip with his thumb, then lowered his head and brushed his mouth over hers.

  “I’ll love you forever, Senora Cole,” he whispered against her moist, parted, reddened lips.

  M.J. inhaled the moistness of his breath. “Te amo, mi amour, mi corazon.”

  Smiling and holding hands, they turned to face the congregants as Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Cole. He raised her left hand to his lips, kissing her fingers. The gesture was imprinted in the minds of all who witnessed the intimate moment.

  M.J.’s smile dazzled everyone who watched her traverse the carpet with her new husband. Rumors were circulating that Marguerite-Josefina had married Samuel Cole because he was a distant cousin of an African prince who owned diamond mines, that he’d inherited millions from his ancestors who’d made their money buying and selling slaves, and that Jose Luis had paid him an enormous dowry to marry his daughter to save her from the licentious advances of Antonio Santamaria.

  Whatever the reason for Marguerite-Josefina marrying her American, they were looking forward to the wedding reception at Gloria Diaz’s Vedado mansion. Word had come from someone at the capitol that President Machado was expected to come and pay his respects to the newlyweds.