Best Kept Secrets

by Rochelle Alers

  “Why is it that I don’t believe you?”

  M.J.’s expressive eyebrows lifted. “Why should you not believe me?” She’d answered his question with one of her own.

  “Because, wife, something tells me that you will defy me again and again in spite of my protests.”

  “That is not true.”

  “Yes…” Samuel’s retort trailed off as the doorbell chimed. “I’ll get it,” he volunteered.

  M.J. nodded, biting back a smile as Samuel walked out of the kitchen. She’d gambled and won.

  M.J. felt the chill the instant she and Samuel were greeted by their hostess, while the gazes of men and women crowding the living room were trained on her as she clung to her husband’s arm. It was their first social outing as a couple, and she had taken particular care with her appearance.

  Earlier that morning she’d washed her hair, sectioned and twisted it around strips of fabric, then sat in the sun waiting for it to dry. The result was a cascade of curls that touched her waist.

  She wore a tabard of black lace and shimmering bugle beads over a satin slip dress. Sheer black silk stockings, two-inch silk-covered pumps and a small evening purse with bugle beads rounded out her winning look. Her only jewelry, aside from her rings, was a pair of dangling onyx-and-diamond earrings in her pierced lobes. Samuel looked incredibly handsome in a midnight-blue suit, stark-white shirt, and blue-and-white-striped tie. Tall and slender, they made a striking couple.

  “Good evening, Samuel. I’m so glad you could make it.”

  Samuel felt M.J.’s fingertips bite into his arm over the sleeve of his suit jacket. Winifred Mansfield had deliberately ignored his wife.

  His mouth was smiling, but his eyes were cold. “Marguerite and I are pleased you’ve invited us to your lovely home.”

  Winifred, a petite woman with velvety dark skin, rested a hand over her ample bosom, sighing heavily. “I’m so sorry, Samuel. I did not mean to slight your lovely wife.” She stepped aside. “Please come in and meet everyone.”

  Gaudy.

  It was the only adjective M.J. could think of to describe the Mansfield home. It was the same layout as her house, but a gigantic crystal chandelier covered more than half the living room ceiling area. An oversized brocade sofa and matching chaise and chairs took up nearly all of the floor space.

  Couples were either seated or stood around holding drinks, talking softly to one another while the sounds of a saxophone, drum and muted trumpet came through the speaker of a Victrola.

  M.J. leaned closer to Samuel. “Isn’t alcohol illegal in America?”

  Lowering his head, he pressed his mouth to her ear. “Yes. But a lot of folks manage to get around the law.”

  She glanced up at him. “How?”

  “Rumrunners and bootleggers bring it in from Canada and the Caribbean by boat,” he whispered. Her mouth formed a perfect O that elicited a soft chuckle from Samuel. His attention was diverted when he spied Basil Mansfield striding toward them.

  Basil, a large man with a perpetual flush suffusing his redbone complexion, was the complete opposite of his snobbish wife. “Samuel, my boy, how nice of you to come.”

  His gray-green eyes shifted to the slender, raven-haired woman clinging possessively to his neighbor’s arm. Winnie had nagged him constantly to host a dinner party so she could meet Samuel Cole’s young wife. Now that he’d given in to her whining he was glad he had.

  “Samuel, your wife is lovely.”

  Covering the hand on his arm, Samuel inclined his head. “Thank you, Basil. I’d like to introduce you to my wife, Marguerite-Josefina. M.J., this is Basil Mansfield, our host and closest neighbor.”

  M.J. removed her hand from her husband’s arm, offering it to Basil. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Mansfield.”

  Basil switched the glass filled with a golden liquid to the opposite hand, tilting it at a precarious angle. Grasping M.J.’s fingers, he squeezed them tightly. “My, my, my, Marguerite-Josefina. You are as beautiful as your name.” His admiring gaze swept over her face. “Are you Spanish?”

  M.J. forced a polite smile. “No, sir. I’m Cuban.”

  “Is there a difference, little lady?”

  “Yes, there is. Spanish is a language.”

  Samuel felt the stiffness in M.J.’s body and knew it was time to circulate. He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew three cigars. “Basil, these are for you. Compliments of M.J.’s father.” He smiled at her. “Darling, may I get you something to drink?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Samuel nodded to Basil. “We’ll talk again later.”

  “Thank you, darling,” M.J. whispered as Samuel led her to where a bartender stood behind a portable bar mixing drinks.

  “You’re very welcome, my love.”

  Samuel and M.J. shared a passionate look that made those close enough to witness the exchange smile.

  M.J. glanced up over her shoulder, smiling at Samuel as he seated her. She watched as he rounded the long, rectangular table and sat opposite her. Her gaze shifted to the place card next to her wineglass: S. Cole. Guest.

  A slight frown furrowed her smooth forehead. The word had gotten out in the private residential enclave that Samuel Cole had returned to West Palm Beach with a wife, yet Winifred Mansfield had referred to her as Samuel’s guest. Why not Mrs. S. Cole? She’d spent less than an hour under the Mansfield roof and knew unequivocally that she and Mrs. Mansfield would never become friends.

  “Winnie can be so gauche at times,” said a soft feminine voice on M.J.’s right.

  Turning, she stared at a woman with a liberal sprinkling of freckles dotting her light brown face, finding her very pretty. Her hair was styled in a fashionable bob. Large, round, dark eyes, a pert nose and a heart-shaped mouth made her appear doll-like.

  “I don’t understand.”

  The woman leaned closer. “I’m Margaret Carson, but everyone calls me Peggy.”

  M.J. flashed her dimpled smile for the first time since entering the Mansfield residence. “I’m Marguerite-Josefina Diaz Cole, but all of my friends call me M.J.”

  The skin around Peggy’s eyes crinkled as she smiled. “May I call you M.J.?”

  “Of course. But only if I can address you as Peggy.”

  “Sure.”

  M.J. angled her head. “What were you saying about Winnie?” she whispered.

  “She hates it when anyone calls her that, but I do it just to mess with her.”

  M.J.’s eyebrows lifted. “Mess?”

  “It means to annoy. Where are you from?”

  “Cuba.”

  Peggy nodded. “I thought I heard an accent. Your English is very good.”

  “My Spanish is much better,” M.J. admitted. “Samuel says words I don’t understand, and I have to ask him to translate them for me.”

  “That’s because here in the South we use different words for something that will mean the same thing elsewhere. An example is that we’ll say ‘tote’ instead of carry.”

  “It’s the same in my country.”

  “Did you and Samuel meet in Cuba?”

  “Yes.”

  “You should know that once the word got out that he was married, a lot of women had hissy fits. That means a tantrum.”

  M.J. waited until a waiter filled the water goblet at her place setting before asking, “Why?”

  Peggy stared at M.J. as if she’d lost her senses. “Do you have any idea of what a catch your husband is? He’s young, handsome, ambitious and a successful businessman. Everyone sitting at this table, with the exception of Daniel Williams, who has his own law practice, works for someone else. Most are teachers, one is a pharmacist, another a dentist, and the rest work for banks and insurance companies. Samuel Cole is the only entrepreneur. In other words, he’s his own boss, makes his own hours, and doesn’t have to share his profits.”

  M.J. digested what the chatty woman had just told her. It was apparent Peggy knew more about Samuel’s business than she did, and s
he attributed that to her upbringing. Upper-class Cuban women were afforded the security necessary to focus all their attention on their home, not on their husband’s business dealings.

  “Were there a lot of women flirting with my husband?”

  Peggy rolled her eyes. “Child, they were downright shameless. Winnie’s fast-ass daughter, who’s not here because she’s in college, took the rag off the bush. She was so loose that folks were beginning to refer to her as a hussy.”

  M.J. decided she liked Peggy even if she couldn’t understand half of what she’d said. “Sammy never spoke to me of his other women.”

  Peggy sucked her teeth. “That’s because there were no other women that I know of. He usually keeps to himself. But if someone invited him to a soiree he’d come, but always alone.”

  An expression of satisfaction shimmered in M.J.’s eyes as her confidence spiraled appreciably. There was no doubt Samuel would remain a faithful husband, because she did not want to spend her time agonizing that he was having affairs with other women whenever he embarked on a business trip.

  One night he’d disclosed that he planned to go to Costa Rica to confer with a representative of the United Fruit Company. When she’d asked when he was leaving, he’d admitted he was awaiting a telegram before he could confirm a departure date.

  Most conversations halted as platters of baked ham, fried chicken, potato salad, collard, mustard, and turnip greens, candied sweet potatoes, rice and giblet gravy were passed around the table. It was M.J.’s first introduction to a Southern-cooked meal.

  “Everything taste so good,” she said to Peggy.

  “You’ve never eaten Southern food?”

  M.J. shook her head. “No.”

  “What do you cook?”

  “Cuban dishes.”

  Peggy placed a hand over M.J.’s. “If you want, I can teach you to cook our dishes.”

  A ripple of excitement swept through M.J. “I’d love that. But don’t say anything to Samuel. I want to surprise him once I make cold-lard greens.”

  Peggy laughed when M.J. said “cold-lard” for collards. “Don’t worry. It will be our secret. Why don’t you join the rest of us on Wednesday afternoons for our bid whist parties?”

  “I don’t know how to play card games.” Although her aunt held weekly card parties at her Havana residence, M.J. never participated. She’d found the gatherings too smoky and boisterous.

  “That’s okay. I’ll teach you.”

  “Thank you, Peggy.”

  Peggy smiled. “You’re welcome, M.J.”

  “You smell so good that you should be on the table, beautiful lady.”

  M.J. ignored the comment from the man on her left; he’d tried unsuccessfully from the moment he’d sat down next to her to engage her in conversation. He’d had too much to drink and most of his comments were not only inappropriate, but also disrespectful. It did not matter that his daughter overheard him or that M.J.’s husband sat less than three feet away.

  Samuel’s expression was one of strained tolerance. He’d sat for more than an hour watching his wife recoil each time the intoxicated dentist leaned close enough for their shoulders to touch. He didn’t want to make a scene, and there was a possibility M.J. would become socially involved with the other women, but enough was enough.

  Once dinner concluded, he pushed back his chair, circled the table and came up behind Dr. Cyrus Rhodes. He tapped him on his shoulder, then leaned down until his mouth was inches from the older man’s ear.

  “May I have a word with you?”

  Cyrus glanced up, training bloodshot eyes on Samuel. Although he’d whispered to him, his voice sounded abnormally loud in his ear. “Can’t it wait?”

  “No, it can’t,” Samuel countered, his voice rising slightly. He smiled at M.J. “I’ll just be a few minutes. I need to speak to Cyrus about something.”

  Cursing under his breath, Cyrus rose to his feet and walked out of the dining room, Samuel following. He stopped in the living room and turned to face Samuel, who’d caught his upper arm in a punishing grip.

  “We’ll talk outside.”

  “Now, just wait a damn minute, Cole, I—”

  “Outside, Rhodes,” Samuel warned quietly. “I don’t think you’d want your daughter to witness me kicking your ass in someone else’s house. It’s your choice.”

  It took the forty-two-year-old dentist a full minute before he was able to process Samuel’s threat. His life had been on a downward spiral since losing his only son in an automobile accident three years before. His occasional drinking escalated until he started and ended his day with a drink; he’d lost his private practice, and Mrs. Rhodes had taken to her bed, never to venture outdoors again.

  Cyrus opened the door, stepping out into the cold, early-February night. “What do you want?”

  Samuel glared at the man whose good looks were ravaged by alcoholism. “I want you to leave my wife alone,” Samuel said with a lethal softness that sent shivers up Cyrus’s spine.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t touch her, and don’t say anything to her.”

  Cyrus weaved back and forth, spittle forming at the corners of his slack mouth. “You’re full of shit, Cole,” he slurred.

  Forcing himself not to grab the drunken man by the throat, Samuel pushed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “If you touch my wife again, or even breathe on her, I will beat the shit out of you.”

  That said, he turned and walked back into the Mansfield house to tell M.J. it was time they returned to their home. If he remained, then there was the possibility that he would physically assault a man unable to defend himself.

  He found M.J. in the living room, where coffee, tea, liquors and trays of cake, pie, and sweet pastries awaited the dinner guests.

  “Let’s go home.”

  M.J. caught his meaning immediately. She’d had enough of the Mansfields and their supercilious guests. The only one she could relate to was Peggy Carson; they’d set a date when they would get together again.

  She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “I am feeling rather tired.”

  Samuel dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Go wait for me outside while I make our apologies to Basil and Winifred.”

  “Don’t make me wait too long, Sammy.”

  Running a finger down the length of her nose, he winked at her. “I won’t.”

  M.J. made her way through the crowd to the front door. She didn’t have to wait long when Samuel joined her. “That was quick.”

  They walked hand in hand in silence, both lost in their private musings. M.J. knew she would never become a part of her husband’s social milieu. The women did not like her, the men liked her too much, and for the first time since she’d left Cuba she felt like crying because she missed her homeland.

  She’d sought out Samuel, fallen in love, and married him because she wanted to live as a liberated woman, but was forced to face the harsh realities of life. The price she had to pay to determine her own destiny was now too painful to bear.

  Swallowing to relieve the tightness in her throat, she stopped and stared up at Samuel. She couldn’t see his expression in the shadows of the streetlamps. “I need you to promise me something.”

  Releasing her hand, Samuel cradled her face. “What’s that?”

  “Please don’t stop loving me.”

  His expression stilled and grew serious. “Where is all of this coming from, darling?”

  “I don’t know why, but right now I feel so alone.”

  “You’re not alone, baby. You have me. You will always have me.”

  Curving her arms around Samuel’s waist, M.J. rested her cheek on his chest. “You’re right, Sammy. I have you.”

  But for how long? a silent voice whispered inside her head.

  Chapter 12

  When you depart from me, sorrow abides, and happiness takes his leave.

  —William Shakespeare

  The doorbell chime
d and M.J.’s head came up as she stared at Samuel.

  “He’s here.” Her voice was a whisper. Everett Kirkland had arrived.

  Samuel, resting a hand on the small of her back, leaned over and kissed the side of her neck. “Everything looks beautiful. You are beautiful. And try to relax, baby,” he crooned, walking out of the kitchen to answer the door.

  She wasn’t concerned with how the house looked. Instead of asking Peggy for a recommendation for a cleaning woman, she’d confronted Bessie about her frequent absences, who admitted she’d begun taking Lydia Pinkham, a special tonic for female ailments, and that she was feeling much better.

  Bessie had cleaned the house thoroughly and a hundred hours of instruction at the convent school should have prepared M.J. for this moment, but the sound of the doorbell had momentarily shattered her confidence. Playing hostess for her father had not counted because she was merely a substitute for Carlotta, dress rehearsals for when she would become mistress of her own household.

  Within minutes Samuel returned to the kitchen—alone. “It wasn’t Everett.”

  Unconsciously M.J.’s brow furrowed. “Who was it?”

  “Someone from Western Union.”

  She met her husband’s steady gaze, her heart pounding a runaway rhythm. “Is it the telegram you were expecting?”

  “Yes.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  Samuel glanced away. “I’m not sure.”

  “That’s not an answer, Samuel.”

  “It’s the only answer I have right now. I have to wait and see if I can book passage on a ship sailing to Costa Rica.”

  Feeling his loss even before his actual departure, M.J. nodded. “How long will you be away?”

  “At least a week, maybe more. I’m going to ask Bessie to stay here with you until I come back.”

  “No, Sammy,” M.J. said, shaking her head. “I’m not a child who needs to be looked after. I’ll be all right staying here alone. Besides, Bessie should be home with her children at night.”

  He lifted questioning eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

  “Very sure,” she lied smoothly.