Best Kept Secrets

by Rochelle Alers

  “But I want children.”

  “Then you should be content with your life. You’ve married the man you love, and you’re going to have his child.”

  You should be content with your life. Ivonne’s words stayed with her until she maneuvered into the driveway leading to her home. They came back later that night when she lay in bed—alone, crying herself to sleep.

  Chapter 17

  Why is it married folks always become so serious?

  —Mary Todd Lincoln

  Samuel lay in bed, resting his head on folded arms, and stared up at the slow-moving blades of the ceiling fan working futilely to dispel the buildup of heat. He and Everett had spent ten days in Limon, yet had not met with Nigel Cunningham or Trevor Richards.

  Both men were sequestered with other Mama Yunay officials. United Fruit Company, referred to as “Mommy United” by the locals because of their monopolistic grip on the export of tropical fruits and their covert involvement in Central American politics, had been hit with a general strike in Panama.

  He’d thought about returning to the States until the labor unrest was resolved but changed his mind, because he’d committed to leaving M.J. one more time before she delivered her baby. A light tapping on the door caught his attention. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he went to answer the knock.

  “Yes?”

  “Kirkland.”

  Samuel opened the door and made his way back to the bed as Everett walked in, flopped down on a cushioned rattan chair, stretching long legs in front of him. A pair of walking shorts, sandals and a guayabera had become his daily attire.

  “How are you holding up?” he asked Samuel.

  Shaking his head, Samuel blew out his breath. “Not good. I feel as if I’m losing my mind.” The inactivity played havoc with his concentration, and he alternated sleeping with pacing the floor of his hotel room like a caged cat.

  “I’ve already lost mine,” Everett admitted. “And I’ve never known it to be this hot.”

  Midafternoon temperatures topped out at the one-hundred-degree mark. The intense heat only abated with the unexpected thunderstorms, and returned when the rains stopped. Steam rose above the trees from the nearby rain forest teeming with exotic plants, flowers and jungle wildlife.

  Shifting his position on the bed, Samuel smiled at Everett. “I thought you were passing the time with Paullina.”

  “I told her that I’ll see her later at her brother’s place for a friend’s birthday celebration. Unless you have something more exciting than hanging out here, I suggest you come with me. Daisy will be there.”

  Samuel closed his eyes, recalling the woman with the talented mouth. He’d tried not thinking about her, but failed miserably. The moment he’d set foot on Costa Rican soil, memories of their time together came rushing back.

  He and M.J. had barely made love since the day her pregnancy was confirmed. Her passion wilted as her body bloomed with the life growing inside her. It’d become torture for him to see her fuller breasts and hips and not feast or gorge on them. She retired to bed before he arrived home, and did not wake up until after he left to go into the office.

  The doctor had explained what M.J. could possibly encounter during her confinement: fatigue, nausea and increase in weight and appetite were the most obvious changes, and occasionally some women experienced a decrease in sexual desire. His wife experienced all with the exception of nausea.

  “Sure. I’ll go with you.”

  Everett pushed off the chair. “I’ll meet you downstairs at ten.” He walked to the door, then stopped and peered over his shoulder. “I don’t know how true it is, but there are rumors that Nicaraguan rebels out to top Diaz’s regime have attacked several U.S. missions.”

  Samuel shook his head. There was no doubt President Coolidge would send U.S. troops to the region to protect American lives and property. It’d happened in Panama, Cuba, and now Nicaragua. A cynical smile twisted his mouth. Which Latin American country would be next?

  Samuel held two glasses above his head as he wound his way through the throng in Stephen Michael’s small house. The odors were distinct: the closely packed bodies; the flowery fragrances; and the mouthwatering smells of oxtail stew, curried goat, codfish, ceviche, patti—a spicy meat patty—and callaloo.

  The sounds of drums, guitars and steel pans playing a rhythmic Caribbean beat had most moving their feet while they stood around eating or talking to one another in small groups.

  He handed Daisy one of the glasses. “Rum for the very pretty lady.”

  She touched her glass to his. “What are you drinking, Samuel?”

  “Rum.” It was rum, but liberally diluted with water. He took a deep swallow, looking around for Everett. His accountant had braced a hand on a wall over Paullina’s head. He leaned forward and said something close to her ear.

  Daisy swayed back and forth in time with the music as she sipped her drink. She tugged on Samuel’s free arm. “Are you ready to leave?”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Are you?”

  Her dark eyes in an equally dark face crinkled in a smile. “I am always ready for you.”

  Samuel caught her double meaning immediately. He placed his glass on a table and followed Daisy. Hand in hand they walked in silence along the stretch of beach before climbing a slight rise that led to the house she now shared with Paullina.

  Letting go of Samuel’s hand, Daisy unlocked the door. He stood motionless as she moved around in the darkened space. A bright glow followed the scrape of a match. Within seconds a flickering flame from a kerosene lantern provided enough illumination for them to make their way into one of the two bedrooms. She struck another match, lighting a short, fat candle.

  Daisy turned, walked over to Samuel, and pressed her breasts to his chest. “Do you like me?”

  Samuel tried making out her expression in the flickering light. “Yes, Daisy, I like you.” He liked her pretty face, compact body and lilting Caribbean accent.

  She rose on tiptoe, her mouth mere inches from his. “If you like me, then why do you not want me to make love to you?”

  He held her shoulders, stopping her from kissing him. “You do make love to me, Daisy.”

  “Not the real way.”

  His fingers tightened on her soft flesh under a sheer blouse. “Because that was the way I wanted it.”

  “It is because you are married?” The gold band on his left hand was a constant reminder that he belonged to another woman.

  “No. It’s not because I’m married.” The first time he slept with any woman he always had her perform fellatio.

  She smiled, flashing small, straight, white teeth. “Come to the bed. I remembered and changed the sheets just for you.”

  He had refused to get into the bed the first time he came to her house because she hadn’t had any clean sheets. He’d sat on a chair, lowered his trousers while she knelt and suckled him until he released his passion in a tremendous shudder that left him gasping.

  Samuel dropped his hands, smiling as Daisy unbuttoned his shirt. Within minutes she’d undressed him, then herself. Like someone in a trance, he permitted her to lead him to the bed. There wasn’t enough rum in his body to render him voluntarily insane; he knew where he was, who he was with, and what he wanted to do. He paused to slip on the condom, then lay on his back, extended his arms and welcomed Daisy into his embrace as he reversed their positions and entered her body.

  Everything about the woman writhing under him was different: her smell, the feel of her skin, the Jamaican pidgin she whispered as she urged him do it harder, faster. He overlooked the differences between her and his wife as he surrendered yet again to one of the deadly sins: lust.

  Putting aside the tiny white linen dress tatted with lace around the collar and sleeves she’d made for Mark and Eugenia’s infant daughter, M.J. stared at Ivonne as she read the letter that had been delivered moments before.

  “What’s the matter, Ivonne?”

  Ivonne folded her mother�
��s letter and returned it to the envelope. She combed her fingers through her hair, pushing the unruly red curls off her forehead. “Mama wants me to come home.”

  M.J. felt her pulse quicken, and she placed her hand over her belly in a protective gesture. “Why?”

  Ivonne saw fear in M.J.’s large dark eyes. “Everyone’s okay.”

  “Then why does she want you to go back to Cuba?”

  An attractive blush washed over the redhead’s freckled face. “She says Alfonso Rivera has asked permission to call on me.”

  M.J. leaned closer, smiling. “Tell me about him.”

  “He’s a lawyer. He works with his father and uncle.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Twenty-six or seven.”

  “Handsome?”

  Ivonne affected a mysterious smile. “Muy guapo.”

  M.J. clapped her hands. “I’m so happy for you. So, when are you going back?”

  Her cousin had been in the United States for two weeks, and she’d become the perfect companion during Samuel’s absence. They cooked together, went shopping and spent hours talking and laughing about anything and everything.

  The younger woman’s smile faded. “I don’t know.”

  “What is there not to know?”

  “I don’t know if I like him.”

  “You will never know if you don’t permit him to call on you.”

  Ivonne waved a hand. “I’m not ready to—”

  “Miz Cole, you have a telegram.” Bessie’s appearance stopped Ivonne’s words. “The messenger said he was to wait for you reply.” She handed M.J. an envelope.

  M.J. opened it, unaware that her hands were shaking; she expelled a sigh of relief once she saw who’d sent her the cable. She thought it had come from Cuba. Since leaving the island she’d begun the practice of writing to her father and aunt every week.

  TO: MARGUERITE-JOSEFINA COLE

  FROM: SAMUEL COLE

  DELAYED IN LIMON BECAUSE OF LABOR UNREST. WOULD LIKE TO STAY. DO YOU NEED ME?

  She nodded to Ivonne. “I’ll be right back.” M.J. left the patio and walked into the house to the study. Sitting at the desk, she reached for a pen and blank sheet of paper. The point of the pen was poised over the engraved stationery before she wrote:

  TO: SAMUEL COLE

  FROM: MARGUERITE-JOSEFINA COLE

  STAY AND FINISH YOUR BUSINESS. I DO NOT NEED YOU NOW.

  She reread what she’d written, then blotted the ink, folded the missive and slipped it into an envelope. Rising from the chair, she gathered several coins from a crystal dish. Samuel had a habit of emptying his pockets of loose coins at the end of each day. Retracing her steps, she handed the envelope and money to a young boy who sat waiting on a bicycle outside the front door.

  Samuel’s extended stay in Costa Rica had solved M.J.’s dilemma of attending a social gathering unescorted. Edna Burgess’s housekeeper had delivered an invitation to the Coles requesting their presence for a celebration of their son’s acceptance into the United States Military Academy at West Point. George Burgess was one of two young men who would become the prestigious military college’s only colored cadets this upcoming school year.

  She reentered the study and penned a declination to the Burgesses. She and Samuel would not attend, but she planned to purchase something suitable for the young man to take with him before he left Florida for New York.

  M.J. found Bessie in the dining room running a cloth over the top of the buffet server. “I’d like for you to take this over to Mrs. Burgess.” She handed her the envelope.

  Bessie took the envelope, put down the cloth and stared at her employer’s wife under lowered lids. “Do you want me to do it now, or can I take it when I’m done here?”

  “Now, please.”

  Rolling her eyes and sucking her teeth, Bessie stomped out of the dining room as if her shoes were weighted with cement. M.J. had noticed a change in the housekeeper’s attitude within days of Ivonne’s arrival. It was apparent the two did not get along—Ivonne admitting she did not understand anything Bessie said, and vice versa. She’d begun the practice of speaking only English to her cousin, who in turn replied in Spanish. It was apparent Ivonne was hesitant to speak English.

  M.J. felt as if her life were tilting precariously like a boat in a storm. Her husband was away and she didn’t know when he would return, and her body was changing rapidly. She’d lost her waistline, her breasts were so tender she couldn’t bear to touch them, and her cousin and employee were wary and resentful of each other.

  It was apparent the bid whist ladies had forgiven her; otherwise she wouldn’t have received an invitation from Edna. They’d extended the olive branch, unaware she’d sworn a vow never to step foot into any of their homes again.

  A steady tapping against the windows caught her attention. It had begun raining. The rains came every day, seemingly at the same time, quenching the thirsty earth and allowing only a temporary respite from the heat. Once the rain stopped and the sun reappeared, so did the heat.

  M.J. would wait for the rain to stop, and then she would take Ivonne with her into Palm Beach to select an appropriate gift for Army Cadet George Burgess Jr.

  Samuel sat in the rear of a truck with Everett, watching the changing topography. They’d left the Caribbean side of the country for a region south of San Jose, the country’s capital, and the intense jungle heat. It was early August and the rainy or “green” season.

  Slouched in his seat, a straw hat covering his face, Everett moaned audibly each time the truck hit a rut in the unpaved road. “When are you going to tell me where we’re going?” he asked under the hat.

  Samuel smiled when he spied two large colorful parrots perched on the branch of a tree copulating. “When you stop pouting because I interrupted you and Paullina this morning.”

  “I’m not pouting,” Everett retorted quickly as he sat up and removed the hat.

  Samuel lifted a questioning eyebrow. “Would sulking be a better word for your bad mood?”

  Everett’s gold eyes glittered dangerously. “You’d be in a bad mood if I pounded on your door while you were fucking Daisy.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because she is a whore, Everett.”

  “You say that because you’re married.”

  “Even if I wasn’t married, it still would not change the fact that she is a whore,” Samuel said softly, with no expression on his face. “I pay her a lot more than she’s worth to do whatever it is I want her to do, which means I can take her and I can leave her with no guilt.”

  He hadn’t lied to Everett. After the second time he’d slept with Daisy he hadn’t permitted himself to wallow in the guilt from their first encounter. She was someone to pass the time with, fill up the empty hours while he waited for a face-to-face meeting with the representatives of Mama Yunay.

  As the head of Cole International and ColeDiz International, Ltd., he was at an impasse. He wanted to leave and return to Florida, but he also did not want to miss an opportunity to increase his cigar exports.

  “Paullina is not a whore, Samuel.”

  “I didn’t call her one.”

  “But you implied—”

  “I implied nothing of the sort,” Samuel said sharply, interrupting Everett. He leaned forward and stared intently at the accountant. “Don’t ever tell me what I’m thinking or implying, or you’ll find yourself looking for another job.”

  He hadn’t raised his voice, but the effect was the same as Everett’s eyes narrowed. The two men glared at each other for a full minute, hostility as thick as the haze that hung over the jungle after a thunderstorm.

  The interchange signaled a change in Samuel and his association with Everett Kirkland. He’d broken the most important of Charles Cole’s rules: never mix business with pleasure; in other words, do not fraternize with an employee.

  One harvest Samuel had befriended a young boy whose family brought him along to pi
ck cotton, and Charles had punished him severely.

  He’d socialized with Everett and slept with Daisy. He hadn’t given it much thought as to why, because it still would not change the fact that he, as a married man, had shared a bed with a woman who was not his wife. There were the pat excuses for being an unfaithful husband—loneliness, frustration or revenge. He’d experienced none, so his sins were his own to claim.

  Everett was the first to look away. His boss’s stare was chilling and intimidating. It was the first time he and Samuel had disagreed, and what bothered him was that it was because of a woman—a woman whose body and company he really enjoyed. Unlike Samuel, he did not have a wife to go home to each night—a wife he could discuss his day’s events with, a wife whose body he could have whenever he wanted it, and a wife whom he did not have to pay for her sexual favors.

  He’d defended Paullina, arguing that she wasn’t a whore when she was. Although he shared her bed, so did many others. Paullina’s rule of “first come, first served” had him waiting patiently for her summons. She had finally made time for him when Samuel pounded on his hotel room door ordering him to be ready within the hour because they were going south. Turning, he stared out the mud-spattered window. And if he argued with Samuel Cole again it would not be because of a woman.

  The truck driver maneuvered down a rutted road to a valley where thousands of small plants dotted the lush hillside. Realization dawned as Everett sat up straighter and stared at the sight unfolding before his startled gaze.

  “What do you think?” Samuel asked. His voice was as soft as sterile cotton.

  Everett didn’t trust himself to blink, because he thought what he’d seen would disappear. “Well, I’ll be damned. Coffee.”

  Placing a hand on Everett’s shoulder, Samuel nodded. “Yes. Coffee.”

  Smiling for the first time since their confrontation, Everett looked at Samuel, seeing an expression of supreme confidence radiating from his near-black eyes.