Best Kept Secrets

by Rochelle Alers

  She did mind, but didn’t want him to think of her as immature. It was to become the first time she would stay alone for an extended time. She’d lived with her parents, but a year following her mother’s accident she was sent to the convent school. Then she lived with her aunt while attending classes at the universidad.

  “I have my books, piano, working in the garden and the radio to entertain me. And if I get really bored, then I’ll go shopping and spend your money. Remember, I still have another bedroom to decorate.”

  A hint of a smile played at the corners of Samuel’s mouth. “I thought you wanted to wait and turn it into a nursery.”

  A shadow of color appeared on her cheeks. “I’m just going to look for wallpaper patterns.”

  “Just don’t pick out anything that’s too frilly for my son.”

  “What makes you think I’m going to have a boy first?”

  He ran a finger down the length of her delicate nose. “Because there hasn’t been a girl baby in my family for thirty years.”

  “Maybe…” The words died on M.J.’s lips when the doorbell chimed for the second time that afternoon.

  Samuel’s gaze fused with his wife’s. “That must be Everett.”

  Everett Kirkland stared at the door, waiting for an answer to his ring. He’d spent hours in the back of a bus during the ride from Winter Haven to West Palm Beach, one time having given up his seat to a white passenger, only to arrive at an enclave where Negroes lived as grand as those who’d once enslaved their ancestors.

  Samuel Cole’s home was a one-story, Spanish-style Colonial with a red-tiled roof. A wry smile twisted Everett’s mouth. It was apparent the cotton-turned-soybean farmer was a visionary.

  Unfamiliar with soybeans, he’d researched everything he could find about them, and there was no doubt the legume would become a crop for the twentieth century.

  He hadn’t believed Samuel when he’d asked him if he wanted to become wealthy, because there was something about the younger man that reeked of arrogance and self-importance. It had only taken Everett seconds to recognize that Samuel Cole was totally lacking in humility. The door opened, and the object of his musings stood in front of him. Samuel looked the same as he had in Costa Rica. He wore a guayabera, sharply creased tan slacks and a pair of leather sandals.

  Samuel smiled, extending his right hand. “Come in, Everett.”

  Everett shook his hand and stepped into the spacious entryway. “Thank you. Good seeing you again, Samuel.”

  Samuel’s sharp penetrating gaze swept over the man he had come to think of as his accountant. Everett had put on weight. He appeared well groomed and had added a clipped mustache to his clean-shaven face.

  “You’re looking well.”

  “I’m feeling much better.”

  Samuel’s smile widened as he patted his back. “Once you’ve eaten my wife’s cooking you’re going to feel wonderful.”

  Everett froze, his expression mirroring his shock. “I…I thought, I…I didn’t know you were married.”

  He was angry with himself for stuttering. It had taken years of choosing his words carefully before taking deep breaths to control the stutters that had made him an object of constant ridicule as a child and young adult.

  “I wasn’t married when we met in Costa Rica.”

  “Look, Samuel, I can always come back another time. I don’t want to intrude on you and your new wife.”

  “That’s nonsense,” Samuel countered, reaching for Everett’s single piece of luggage. “You’re here because I need you. Come, let me show you to your room where you can unwind before we sit down to dinner.”

  Everett nodded as if in a trance, following Samuel through a living room, a formal dining room and down a carpeted hallway to the rear of the spacious house. Each table, lamp and rug had been selected to harmonize with the structure’s Spanish architecture.

  Samuel stopped at the first bedroom on the right. “This room is yours. The bathroom is across the hall.” He handed Everett his bag. “Take your time settling in.”

  Everett didn’t know why, but he felt a profound well of emotion sweep over him. It was the second time Samuel Cole had offered him a chance to redeem himself. Firstly, he had given him enough money to escape an existence wherein he was dying slowly—a minute at a time. Now he had invited him into his home because he claimed he needed him.

  Samuel didn’t need him. Everett Joshua Kirkland needed Samuel Claridge Cole.

  Shaved, showered and dressed in a white shirt and black slacks and shoes, Everett walked out of his bedroom, looking for his host and hostess. The mahogany sleigh bed in his bedroom had beckoned him to come and lie down; although exhausted he had resisted. He hadn’t gotten much sleep during the ride down, sandwiched between two oversize passengers, whose snores reverberated throughout the rear of the bus.

  He found the kitchen. Samuel stood at the stove with a woman, his arm around her waist as she sprinkled something into a large pot. There was a tightening in the nether region of his body as he stared mutely at the long black hair caught on the nape of a long slender neck with a white ribbon. She turned and smiled up at Samuel, her lips touching his in a brief kiss.

  Everett felt like a voyeur watching the couple; shame assailed him as if he were a thief; his body had betrayed him; he was lusting after another man’s wife, a woman under whose roof he would reside, a woman whose food he would eat, a woman whose husband had promised him an opportunity to fulfill his dreams.

  The changes going on in his body reminded him that he hadn’t slept with a woman since he’d contracted tuberculosis. He saw a young prostitute a few times while he waited for Eladia to return to Puerto Limon, but after he exhibited all of the signs of the disease even she refused to share a bed with him.

  He had recently celebrated his twenty-ninth birthday and gained ten of the thirty pounds he’d lost; the hardness in his groin signaled a return of his virility; he was alive and ready to embrace life.

  He backed out of the kitchen, waiting for his penis to return to a flaccid state. He waited and swore a solemn oath. There wasn’t anything he would not do for Samuel Cole. Humming softly to make his presence known, he reentered the kitchen.

  “Something smells wonderful.”

  Samuel and his wife turned, both smiling. Everett felt as if he’d been poleaxed when he saw the face of the woman with the black waist-length hair. She was young and breathtakingly beautiful.

  M.J. wiped her hands on a cloth, extending the right one. “Hello, Everett. I’m Marguerite-Josefina, but I’d prefer that you call me M.J.” She hadn’t waited for Samuel to make the introductions.

  Everett closed the distance between them and grasped her fingers. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance.”

  M.J. smiled up at the man who appeared as if a strong wind would blow him down. His face was made up of sharp angles that made it look as if it had been haphazardly put together. His light brown eyes, flecked with gold, were warm and friendly.

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Are you always so formal?”

  He looked awkward. “Yes, ma’am. My parents were both in their forties when I came along, and after they passed I lived with an elderly aunt.”

  Samuel saw M.J. grimace. Everett had referred to her as ma’am. “Do you think you can put aside your upbringing and relax this weekend?”

  “I’ll try,” Everett said, smiling broadly.

  “Good. I hope you brought your appetite, because M.J. has really outdone herself preparing tonight’s dinner.”

  “Sammy, darling, could you please take the roast into the dining room?”

  Samuel patted Everett’s back, winking. “If you want to eat you’ll have to work.” He handed him a soup tureen. “Follow me.”

  The two men made short work of carrying dishes from the kitchen into the dining room. M.J. had set the table with one of two patterns of china she had shipped from Cuba that had belonged to her mother and grandmother. She and Bessie had spent hours polishing silver, was
hing and drying china and crystal glassware.

  Samuel seated M.J. on his right, then sat down at the head of the table, leaving Everett to sit on his left. There was a moment of silence as the three bowed their heads to say grace.

  Picking up a pitcher of chilled lemonade, Samuel filled M.J.’s goblet. He stared at his guest. “If you want something stronger I could always ask one of my neighbors if they have a bottle they’re willing to part with.”

  “Please, no,” Everett insisted. “I haven’t had anything to drink since I’ve come back.” America’s ban on alcohol had helped him recover his health more quickly than he would have if he’d continued to drink. Whenever he drank he usually lost his appetite.

  “Where were you?” M.J. asked.

  “Costa Rica.” Everett took another spoonful of creamy pumpkin soup.

  Her gaze lingered on Everett. “Are you going to accompany my husband when he leaves for Costa Rica?”

  “M.J.” Samuel’s voice, though soft, held a thread of warning. “You know we do not discuss business at the table.”

  “It’s not business, Samuel,” she retorted, her dark eyes flashing fire. “I was merely asking Everett a question.”

  “It is a question I can’t answer, Mrs. Cole, because your husband and I have not discussed it,” Everett said, hoping to defuse an uncomfortable situation.

  M.J. offered Everett a supercilious smile. “Thank you, Everett, for being so direct.”

  A shadow of anger swept over Samuel’s face as he kept his gaze glued to his plate. Not only had his wife defied him, but she had done so in front of a stranger. He’d established the rules the first day of their honeymoon: they would never talk about his business when dining. He wanted to sit down and enjoy his food and his wife’s company.

  Everett broke the uncomfortable silence that ensued when he asked M.J., “Where in Cuba are you from?”

  She flashed a dimpled smile. “How did you know I was from Cuba?”

  “The black beans and rice.”

  “I see you recognize our moros y cristianos. Do you speak Spanish, Everett?”

  He nodded. “A little.”

  “I’ve been tutoring my husband.”

  “How are the lessons coming, Samuel?” Everett asked.

  “Very slowly,” he admitted, unable to meet M.J.’s gaze.

  What he couldn’t tell Everett was that their lessons were always at night whenever they were in bed together. The assignment wasn’t learning a new word or phrase, but a passion in which the result would be the beginning of a new life. Samuel wanted children, but more for M.J. than himself. Caring for a baby would fill up the hours when he had to travel or attend business meetings. He’d spent the past week mulling over options for Cole International, Ltd., and had reached a decision to move his business out of his home and into an office building.

  M.J. listened intently as Samuel and Everett discussed sports and the absence of Negroes in professional baseball before the topic segued to national and world politics. Dinner ended and even after she’d cleared the table they still hadn’t moved.

  Usually Samuel helped her clean the kitchen, but tonight was the exception. He had a friend, someone whose interests were similar to his, someone with whom he could discuss business at the table.

  She washed dishes, pots, silver, glassware, then put everything away. She left the kitchen and made her way down the hallway to her bedroom.

  A sense of strength came to M.J. as she prepared for bed. She’d defied her father to marry Samuel, live in a foreign country and become an independent woman.

  And that meant she couldn’t throw a tantrum whenever Samuel informed her he had to leave her. Peggy had extended an invitation for her to join the other wives in their enclave for their regularly scheduled Wednesday bid whist luncheon, but she had declined. Everett Kirkland’s presence had changed everything; she would accept their invitation to join them for their next get-together.

  Climbing into bed, she lay on Samuel’s pillow, the lingering smell of his aftershave wafting in her nostrils. She would join the ladies, but would invite them to meet at her house. It was time they were introduced to some Afro-Cuban cuisine and hospitality.

  Everett sat on the patio, enjoying the fading warmth of the sun on his face. He’d slept soundly, not waking until late afternoon. Samuel and M.J. were the perfect hosts. His room was spacious and sun-filled while M.J.’s cooking skills were without equal. He’d shamelessly requested two and three helpings of everything she prepared.

  Samuel stepped out onto the patio with tiny cups of strong black coffee, placing one in front of Everett. “How long can you stay?” he asked, sitting opposite him.

  “As long as you want. I have nothing waiting for me back in Winter Park.”

  Once he returned to the States he hadn’t known where he wanted to settle, but decided on Winter Park because he’d spent a week there with a college buddy. He got a room in a boardinghouse usually frequented by migrant workers. The room was clean, the rent reasonable and the food hearty and filling. There were several occasions when he considered looking for a job, but wanted to wait until he heard what Samuel was offering.

  Samuel sat down and took a sip of the thick brew. “I want you to come back to Costa Rica with me.”

  Everett sat up straighter. “Why didn’t you say something last night?”

  The softness in Samuel’s face changed, as his expression became a mask of stone. “I’d hoped you understood me when I said I don’t discuss business at my table.”

  “But we’d eaten,” Everett said in a quiet voice.

  “It’s not about food, Everett.”

  And it wasn’t about sitting down to eat. It was about Charles Cole, who used the dinner table as his soapbox to rant about his cotton crop. Night after night he had complained incessantly about the cycle of hiring workers who quit because they were too lazy to work hard, the brutal heat waves, weevil infestation, erratic weather conditions, and that he wouldn’t have to spend money hiring more workers during harvest time if his sons weren’t so fuckin’ lazy.

  Everett stroked his mustache with a forefinger. “What it is about then?”

  Leaning back on his chair, Samuel gave his guest a long, penetrating look. “It’s about you respecting my wishes as my employee.”

  Everett stared at Samuel, his pulse racing and heart pounding. “I didn’t know I was an employee.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Because you asked me to come.”

  Samuel’s open hand came down on the table, rattling the cups and a vase filled with fresh flowers. “Cut the bullshit, Kirkland! You called me because you want something.”

  Pushing back his chair, Everett stood up and leaned over the table. “And you asked me to call you because you need me.”

  A half smile tilted the corners of Samuel’s mouth. “Sit down, Kirkland, stop the theatrics, and let me know whether you’re going to Costa Rica with me. Sit down,” he ordered again between clenched teeth when the accountant hesitated.

  Everett sat down, gold eyes narrowing. There was a pregnant silence filled with a tension so thick it was palpable. “Yes, Samuel. I will accompany you to Costa Rica.”

  “As the accountant for Cole International, Limited?”

  He nodded. “Yes. As the accountant for Cole International, Limited,” he repeated.

  Samuel picked up his demitasse cup, touching it to Everett’s. “I’ll drink to that.”

  The tense moment over, Everett picked up his cup, repeating the gesture. “When do I start?”

  “Today.”

  “How much?”

  “Sixty dollars a week, with a year-end bonus based on a percentage of profits. Your responsibility is to maximize profits, save taxes without evading them, and provide me with everything I’ll need for possible expansion.”

  “What about investments?”

  “What about them, Kirkland?”

  “Do you intend to invest in the stock market?”

  Sam
uel shook his head. “No. I’m not a gambler, and to me playing the market is nothing more than gambling.”

  A smile parted Everett’s firm lips. “I agree. How about banks, boss?”

  “What about them?”

  “Do you like them?”

  Angling his head, Samuel pulled his lower lip between his teeth. “No, but they serve a purpose for keeping one’s money safe.”

  “What do you know about the Panic of 1893?”

  “Not much,” he admitted honestly.

  “There was economic disaster. Businesses failed, and a lot of folks lost everything.”

  Samuel remembered his grandfather boasting that he was glad he hadn’t put his money in a bank like most of the other farmers. They were wiped out completely, whereas he was left with his small but hard-earned savings.

  “What are you suggesting?”

  Everett leaned forward, as if he were telling a secret. “Put your money where it’s safe. But leave enough to cover expenses for a year.”

  “Is this advice or a warning?”

  “It’s more of a hunch,” Everett admitted. “We’re currently in a postwar boom that’s like a balloon getting bigger and bigger, but the day is coming when it’s going to pop and we’re going to experience an economic crash that will make the eighty-seven and ninety-three panics look like a three-year-old’s birthday party.”

  Samuel studied the face of the man who’d just predicted economic disaster for the United States. He wanted to tell Everett that he was being pessimistic, but decided to reserve comment on the subject.

  “Haven’t we always had little recessions?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’ll just have to wait and see if your hunch is right, won’t we?”

  Everett, sure of himself and his rightful place in the universe now that he’d secured a position earning three times the salary of most working-class Americans, inclined his head and pressed his hands together in a prayerful gesture.

  “We will not speak of this again until the time is right for you to withdraw your money.”

  Samuel drained his cup, then dabbed at the grounds on the tip of his tongue with a napkin. He recognized a quiet assurance in Everett Kirkland that hadn’t been there before. Did his number man know more than he was disclosing? Was he a con man whose intent was to get him to take his money out of the bank so he could rob him?