He’d relocated to West Palm Beach, rented a small cottage on the property of a well-to-do funeral director, purchased a new wardrobe, and now drove a 1923 Stutz Bearcat.
Shaking his head, Everett placed a file folder on the edge of the desk. “He’s playing with you, Samuel.”
“No, he’s not. I just told Mrs. Harris that I’m no longer accepting his telephone calls.”
“Good.” Everett stroked his neatly barbered mustache with a forefinger. “How’s M.J.?” Samuel had informed him the night before that he had to take his wife to the doctor.
“Good. Real good.” The warmth of his smile echoed in his voice. “She’s pregnant.”
Everett patted Samuel’s shoulder. “Congratulations to you and M.J.”
Samuel smiled. “Thank you.”
“When is the big day?”
“Early next year.” He laced his fingers together. “We’re going to have to change our travel schedule.”
Everett stared at his boss, complete surprise on his face. They’d spent weeks, sending a dozen telegrams to finalize a schedule wherein they would meet with the representatives of United Fruit. Now Samuel had suggested they change it—yet again.
Shaking his head, Everett ran a hand over his face, blowing out his breath. “What do you want?”
“It’s not what I want as much as what I can’t do.”
Schooling his expression not to reveal his frustration, Everett said, “What?”
“I can’t leave M.J.”
“I thought you said she’s okay.”
“She is,” Samuel confirmed.
“Then what’s the problem, Samuel?”
“The problem is I don’t want to leave M.J. for extended periods of time. I want you to see if we can’t accelerate the meetings.”
“Tell me what you want,” Everett repeated. He was annoyed and didn’t care if Samuel knew it.
“I want you to sit in for me.”
“Nigel Cunningham will never agree to meet with me. And if you insist, then we’ll be courting trouble.” Everett was certain the man still harbored a grudge because two Negroes had bested him, one a former employee whom he’d fired. “I think you should reconsider your decision.”
Samuel shook his head. “I can’t.”
“You don’t have to leave M.J. You can take her with us.”
“No, Everett. I will not expose her to the possibility that she could come down with a tropical disease for all of the money in the world.”
Everett had worked with Samuel Cole long enough to know when to argue a point and when to retreat, and Marguerite-Josefina Cole was one subject that was never up for debate.
Turning on the leather chair, Samuel stared at the glass on the door bearing his name and title. “I’ll do July and October. But I’m not going to commit to December.”
“That’s when all of the big shots from Boston go to Puerto Limon with their families to escape the cold weather,” Everett argued in a quiet voice.
Samuel turned again to face Everett. “It’s too close to the time when she’s to have the baby.”
Everett felt as if he’d won a partial victory. He’d gotten Samuel to agree to accompany him on two of the three trips to Costa Rica. He had plans for Cole International, Ltd., that would make it comparable in scope to Standard Oil and American Telephone and Telegraph.
He and Samuel spent one day each week poring over the business section of every major U.S. newspaper to keep up with acquisitions and mergers. He also perused the stock listings, although he eschewed playing the market. Investors were hoping for a repeat of the November 1924 record-setting 2,226,220 shares in a total of 526 issues that topped five consecutive business days of bullish trading. The average price of fifty representative shares had topped the previous record set in 1919.
Crossing one leg over the opposite knee, he gave his boss a direct stare. “I’ve been giving your notion of opening a string of hotels some thought.”
Samuel smiled at Everett. “Talk to me, Kirkland.”
Everett ignored the quip. He’d also learned to gauge Samuel’s mercurial moods, and today he was in a good one. “The word is that Flagler plans to rebuild the burned-out Breakers Hotel, this time with concrete instead of wood.”
This news did not surprise Samuel. Henry Flagler, who in partnership with John D. Rockefeller had formed Standard Oil, had erected hotels and built railways that turned Florida’s swampland into a vacationer’s paradise.
“It never should’ve been constructed of wood in the first place. But Flagler let his ego get in the way when it was touted as the world’s largest wooden structure.”
“You’re right,” Everett concurred. He opened the folder and removed a sheet of paper covered with penciled numbers. “I’ve come up with some construction costs if you decide to build in Cuba.”
Samuel shook his head. “Not Cuba.”
“Why not, Samuel? It would be perfect. You have a connection with the island because of M.J.”
“I said, not Cuba.” His voice was soft and lethal. “Building in Cuba would be akin to a dog going back to wallow in its own vomit.” Arturo Moreno’s refusal to sell him his sugarcane fields still smarted.
Though puzzled by the cryptic statement, Everett decided it was better not to know why Samuel refused to invest in his wife’s homeland. “Where do you want to build?”
“Costa Rica, Mexico, or even Puerto Rico.”
“What about the States?”
Samuel’s eyes filled with contempt. “Never here. Not as long as we’re viewed as second-class citizens. Not in a country that we built with the blood of our ancestors so that others who didn’t have a boot to piss in or a window to throw it out of could come here and spit on us.”
The gold-flecked eyes met a pair so dark and burning with resentment that it sent a shiver up his spine. He agreed with Samuel about racial prejudice in America, but didn’t take the same view about his refusal to invest in the country of his birth.
Everett supported Marcus Garvey’s and W. E. B. Du Bois’s belief that an aggressive strategy toward black integration into the political and economic systems was key to the Negro achieving equality in the United States.
He dropped his gaze, his mouth thinning in frustration. If he knew with a certainty that he could get another position earning close to what Samuel paid him, he would’ve gotten up and walked out. However, he swallowed his resentment and forced a smile he didn’t feel. He couldn’t leave—not until he’d become a rich man.
“I’ll work on the figures for the construction and labor costs in these countries.” Not waiting for a reply from Samuel, Everett rose to his feet and walked out of the office, closing the door softly behind him.
Samuel stared at the door. He knew he’d angered the number man because of his reluctance to invest in a U.S.-based enterprise. He’d had Merril Wright investigated, and knew the man was meeting with a group of white businessmen who also wanted the property. They’d either offered him more than the land’s actual worth, or intimidated him enough to sell it to them rather than a Negro. The investigator’s report indicated that two of the six men in the group were Klansmen.
Shaking his head, Samuel grunted under his breath. It was a different country, but the events were the same. A group of bigoted men had gotten to Merrill Wright as those had with Arturo Moreno.
He had refused to invest in Cuba, and now it was the Untied States. And he had no intention of changing his mind until the social injustices facing his people were eradicated.
He pressed a button on the intercom. “Mrs. Harris, please ring my mother’s exchange.”
“Certainly, Mr. Cole,” came, the firm efficient voice.
He sat, waiting for his secretary to place the call, certain that Belinda Cole would welcome the news that she was going to have another grandchild.
Three minutes later Nora’s voice came through the intercom’s speaker. “I’m sorry, but there is no answer. Do you want me to try later?”
Samuel pressed the button again. “No, thank you. I’m going to be out of the office for the rest of the afternoon. If you need me for anything, then call me at home.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Cole.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Harris.”
He placed the contract in a folder where the secretary would file it away, then stood up and retrieved his jacket and hat from the coatrack.
He left the office the way he’d come, taking the back staircase.
Twenty minutes later Samuel maneuvered into a parking space off Worth Avenue to make a purchase for the woman who’d become his whole world.
M.J. turned over and gasped. Her heart pounded painfully in her chest. “What are you doing here?”
Samuel draped an arm over her waist, pulling her closer. “I live here.”
Her lids fluttered wildly as she stared at her husband smiling at her. “I know you live here, but—” Her words were stopped from the pressure of his mouth capturing her breath.
He sat up, bracing his back against a mound of pillows, and shifted her to straddle his bare thighs. “I thought I’d surprise you and come home early.”
M.J. smiled, looping her arms around Samuel’s neck. “I like the surprise.”
“Do you really like it?” he whispered, nuzzling her neck.
Throwing back her head, she bared her throat. “Yes. Do you want me to show you how much I like it?”
He kissed the column of her neck. “Yes.”
Reaching down, M.J. caught the hem of her nightgown and pulled it over her head; the pale pink silk garment fell off the bed and pooled on the floor. A wave of heat washed over her as she caught her husband staring at her breasts. They were fuller, the nipples so sensitive that she couldn’t bear to touch them. When he cupped them in his hands, she closed her eyes and gritted her teeth.
Samuel saw the slight flaring of her delicate nostrils as he gently squeezed the mounds of flesh filling his hands. “Do they hurt, baby?” She nodded. “A lot?”
M.J. pulled her lower lip between her teeth. “They are very sensitive.”
“Where?”
She smiled. “The nipples.”
The word was barely out of her mouth when Samuel’s mouth replaced his hands. Throwing her arms around his head, M.J. held on to her husband as his tongue and teeth worshipped her breasts. The pain was followed by a pleasure so intense that it elicited a spontaneous throbbing between her thighs.
She forgot that it was the middle of the afternoon, that she sat on her husband’s lap writhing against his hardness sliding in and out of her body, that it was the most exquisite passion she’d ever experienced, and that each breath she took she thought was going to be her last.
Samuel dug his fingers into the soft flesh covering M.J.’s buttocks, holding back the whimpers that had reduced him to a hapless mass wherein he had surrendered everything he was and hoped to be to the woman in his arms.
Burying his face in the fragrant hair flowing down her back, he let out a low growl of erotic pleasure, giving in to the ecstasy, leaving him with an amazing sense of completeness as M.J. breathed out the last of her passion against the side of his neck.
M.J. rested her head on his shoulder, savoring the intimacy of the act that made them one. A soft sigh escaped her parted lips as a deep feeling of peace entered her being. “I think I could get used to you surprising me in the middle of the day.”
Samuel chuckled. “It doesn’t take much to spoil you, does it?”
“No. All I need is love.”
“That you have. And this.” Reaching under his pillow, Samuel grasped a flat box and handed it to M.J.
Her fingers shook slightly as she raised the top. The sparkle of flawless diamonds and bright green emeralds winked at her. Testing the weight of the bracelet, she knew the stones were set in platinum.
“Why, Samuel?”
He took the bracelet, fastening it around her left wrist. “I don’t ever want to forget the day I found out that I was going to be a father.”
Looping her arms under his shoulders, M.J. rested her cheek on his chest and listened to the strong, steady beating of his heart. They sat silently, holding each other, offering love, and being loved.
M.J. alternated sitting on a hard wooden bench and pacing the concrete floor of the stiflingly hot structure. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d checked the watch pinned to her bodice. Her cousin’s Miami–West Palm Beach bus connection was more than an hour late, and she loathed having to use the less than adequate bathroom facilities again in the depot’s Colored waiting room.
Snapping open her fan, she wielded it savagely. She’d alternated pacing and sitting with fanning and dabbing her moist face with what once had been a crisp linen handkerchief; it was now wrinkled and damp.
Once her pregnancy was confirmed she’d called her father and aunt to give them the news, then written to Ivonne Ferrer to let her know she was to become a mother early the following year, and extended an invitation for her to come to West Palm Beach.
Her pacing and fanning came to an abrupt halt when the sounds of an approaching bus brought those in the waiting room to their feet. Opening a parasol, she headed outside into the suffocating heat and humidity.
Ivonne was the third passenger off the bus. Her dark blue eyes searched the crowd until she saw her cousin. Smiling, she grasped the handles of a large tapestry-covered bag and made her way toward her.
As she neared Marguerite-Josefina her smile widened. Her older cousin, who’d been a pretty girl, was now a beautiful, elegant woman. The fabric of a delicate oyster-white dress banded in satin matched the parasol she held over her head to shield herself from the blistering summer sun.
Dropping her bag, she gently hugged M.J., mindful of her condition. “You look wonderful, mamacita.”
M.J. closed the parasol and kissed Ivonne’s cheek. “Thank you, Ivonne. And thank you for coming.”
Ivonne pulled back and stared up at her cousin; there were tears in M.J.’s eyes. Unconsciously, her brow furrowed. “What’s the matter, m’ija?”
M.J. sniffled. “I’m hot and very tired. I just need to lie down.” She was ten weeks into her confinement and had experienced a fatigue so intense that she spent most of her days in bed.
“Where’s Samuel?”
“He’s not here.”
“What do you mean he’s not here?”
“I will tell you in the car.”
“You’re driving now?” Ivonne asked as she bent down and picked up her luggage.
M.J. smiled. “Yes. When Samuel bought a new car I got his old one. How long can you stay?” she asked as they neared her car.
“As long as you want me to stay.”
Slowing her pace, M.J. stared at Ivonne. “You are making a joke?”
The younger woman’s dark blue eyes sparkled like sapphires. “No, m’ija. No es la broma.”
M.J. wagged a finger at her. “If you’re going to stay with me, then you should practice speaking English.”
“There’s no need for me to learn English, because I don’t plan to marry an American.”
Reaching out, M.J. touched Ivonne’s arm. “Do you think I did wrong marrying an American?”
“No, m’ija. You married a man you love who just happens to be an American.”
The two women were silent as they climbed into the car. M.J. had parked under the sweeping fronds of a palm tree. The tree, abundant all over Cuba, was being planted throughout Florida in record numbers. She started up the car, shifted into gear and drove away from the depot.
“He’s made you very happy.”
M.J. took her gaze off the road for several seconds. “Why would you say that?”
“It shows.”
Concentrating on her driving as she shifted gears, M.J. nodded. Samuel Cole had made her very, very happy, but the happiness was marred with his frequent absences.
“You’re right, prima. Samuel has made me happy, but.
“But what?” Ivonne asked
when she didn’t finish her statement.
“I’m left alone so much that I’ve begun talking to myself just to hear another voice.”
Ivonne touched M.J.’s shoulder. “What do you mean he leaves you alone?”
“I suppose some of it is my fault.”
“Has he taken a mistress?”
M.J. shook her head. “Samuel would never take a mistress. And it should be that simple. We share a house and a bed, but we hardly see each other. When Samuel comes home I’m asleep, and when I wake up he’s gone. The last time we spent more than two hours together was when we picked out furniture for his office.
“It’s his business, Ivonne. It’s like he’s obsessed with making money. When I spoke to him about it he said he has to make it now because the economy is going to change. I told him that economies have gone up and down since the beginning of time.”
A swollen silence filled the vehicle. “What did he say to that?” Ivonne asked.
“He said as his wife I should not concern myself with things I’m not involved in.”
There was another moment of silence before Ivonne spoke again. “He’s right, M.J. If you’d married a Cubano he would’ve said the same thing.”
An angry flush darkened M.J.’s face. “He’s not Cuban, and this is not Cuba.”
“Did you think because you married a norteamericano and moved here that things would be different for you? No, m’ija,” she said, answering her own question. “Men are the same all over.”
“What do you know about men, Ivonne?”
“Enough to know they live their lives by their leave and then tell us how we should live ours.”
“Samuel doesn’t tell me what to do!”
Ignoring her sharp tone, Ivonne said, “He doesn’t have to, m’ija. When he told you not to concern yourself with his business he meant that your responsibility is to take care of his home and his children. It is that way with my mother, it was that way with your mother, and will be the same with you. If you’d wanted to be like Titi Gloria, then you never should’ve taken a husband.”
Best Kept Secrets Page 20
