Best Kept Secrets

by Rochelle Alers

  Samuel had offered him his gratitude, whereas it should’ve been Everett J. Kirkland thanking Samuel C. Cole.

  Individually they were unique, and together they’d become invincible.

  A buzzing sound from the desk caught the attention of both men. “Mr. Cole, there is a Mr. Salazar from Havana on the line. The gentleman speaks only Spanish, so I think Miss Maldonado should help you with this call.”

  Rising to his feet, Samuel walked to the desk and pressed a button on the intercom. “Please send her in, then put him through.” He glanced over his shoulder. “This is a personal call,” he said to Everett, who’d stood up and gathered the pages of the harvest report.

  “I’ll have Mrs. Harris make reservations for my trip.”

  Samuel nodded and sat down behind his desk. Vertical lines formed between his eyes as he pondered why his late father-in-law’s attorney wanted to talk to him. Why hadn’t Ibrahim called M.J.? The man had informed M.J. that Jose Luis hadn’t wanted the contents of his will disclosed until six months following his death. He glanced at the wall calendar: Monday, July 1, 1929. It had been six months.

  “Mrs. Harris said you wanted me to translate for you.”

  Samuel looked at the young woman who stood in the doorway cradling a pad to her chest. Nora Harris had hired Teresa Maldonado to assist her with typing and transcribing dictation, filing and answering the switchboard. The part-time clerk-typist was hired not only for her office skills, but also for her fluency in spoken and written English and Spanish.

  He stared at the petite young woman with shimmering silver-blond hair and mesmerizing pale green eyes. Her café au lait complexion made her eyes appear much lighter in color. There was something about Teresa that always reminded him of a cat.

  “Please sit down, Teresa. I have a call coming through from Havana, and I’m going to need you to take down everything my wife’s attorney says, then translate it for me.”

  Charcoal-gray lashes lowering, Teresa sat down on a soft leather chair beside the ornate oak-and-rosewood desk. The only time she’d ever entered Samuel Cole’s office was to leave a telephone message on his desk. Each time she lingered longer than necessary to examine the photographs on one wall, those of his family on a credenza and the many books lining a floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcase. She’d never met her boss’s wife, but had spoken to her once when she called to speak to her husband. She’d discerned a slight accent in the soft, husky voice that identified her as of Cuban ancestry, the same as her own.

  She gave Samuel a shy smile, pencil poised over her pad. “I’m ready, Mr. Cole.”

  Pressing a button on the intercom, Samuel said, “Please connect him, Mrs. Harris.”

  “Senor Cole. I am Ibrahim Salazar, and I represent the estate of Jose Luis Diaz de Santiago,” came a deep masculine voice in Spanish through the speaker box.

  Samuel nodded to Teresa. “Ask him why he didn’t contact my wife.”

  Teresa translated for Samuel, while at the same time jotting down the lawyer and her boss’s dialogue. “He said he was instructed by Jose Luis to deal directly with you.”

  “Why?” Samuel asked.

  When Teresa translated Samuel’s query, Ibrahim said, “Because that is the way he wanted it. Several months before he passed away, Jose Luis arranged for the sale and transfer of ownership of his tobacco fields, house and surrounding property, effective six months following his death, to Ricardo Puente.”

  Listening to his employee’s translation, Samuel sat stunned when she told him that Jose Luis had set up trust funds for his two grandchildren while leaving the remainder of his estate to his only child and sole heir.

  His shock was compounded when Ibrahim informed him a codicil had been added to the will, stating that Samuel would have complete control of the money bequeathed to Marguerite-Josefina Diaz Cole.

  “The transfer of funds will be initiated tomorrow morning.”

  Teresa’s hand shook noticeably when she wrote down the amount quoted by the attorney. If her boss hadn’t been a millionaire, he definitely was now. The conversation ended three minutes after it had begun, and she sat without moving, staring at the impassive expression on Samuel’s face. For a man who’d suddenly inherited more than two million dollars, he hadn’t given any indication that he was pleased with the news.

  She, the daughter of Cuban immigrants, who wanted a better life for herself, had no intention of spending her life working long hours in a factory, or as a housekeeper, nursemaid or cook for a rich norteamericana.

  She’d studied very hard in school, and it paid off when she was granted admission into a local college’s nursing program; working for ColeDiz International, Ltd., was an answer to her novenas because she earned enough from her part-time position to pay for her studies and help out at home.

  Samuel studied Teresa with his enigmatic gaze for an extra moment. “Please type up your notes and leave it on my desk.”

  She smiled. “Yes, Mr. Cole.”

  “Thank you, Teresa.”

  Pushing off the chair, she walked out of the office, past the area where Mrs. Harris sat, and into the reception area. Inserting a sheet of paper into a typewriter, she placed her fingers on the keys and closed her eyes.

  Although Samuel sat more than two hundred feet from her, she still could smell his intoxicating cologne, see the crispness of his starched shirt, his exquisitely shaped hands with long, delicate fingers, and hear his melodious, deep voice. He was her boss, a married man with children, and she was besotted with him.

  Teresa enjoyed what she did at ColeDiz because the work was interesting, and at times challenging. Whenever she came in on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, she found her wooden basket filled with memorandums for typing. She did not mind typing, but hated filing because of paper cuts and an occasional broken fingernail.

  She seldom saw Joseph Hill, the part-time bookkeeper. Also a college student, he worked on Tuesdays and Thursdays, the days she attended classes. Her interaction with Everett Kirkland was limited to typing his financial reports. He was the only employee with unconditional access to Samuel Cole. This angered Mrs. Harris, who was forced to bite her tongue whenever he walked past her and into her boss’s office without being announced.

  Teresa had mixed feelings about Nora Harris. A short, stout woman with flawless sable-brown skin, the forty-three-year-old widow with three adult children reminded Teresa of a vicious dog guarding her master’s property.

  She did not get to see as much of Samuel as she would’ve liked because he always used the back staircase, but all of that would change in three days. Samuel and his wife had invited the ColeDiz employees and their families to join them at their home for a Fourth of July celebration. They would be paid for the holiday and given Friday off with pay. Teresa had invited her parents to come with her, but they declined with the excuse that their limited English would make them feel uncomfortable. Her parents had been in the United States twenty years, yet had not learned more than a few rudimentary words of the language. And because she did not want to go alone, she’d asked her best friend, Liliana, to accompany her.

  Eddie Grady maneuvered along the circular driveway, stopping in front of Samuel Cole’s residence. He cut the engine, stepped out and came around and opened the rear door for Samuel.

  “What time should I call for you?” he asked, his solemn expression in place. It was what he considered his professional persona.

  He’d driven for a white bank president for years, until his untimely death. Eddie asked his cousin Nora Harris if Samuel Cole needed a driver, and was surprised when Nora told him Samuel could use his services on a short-term basis because her boss spent a lot of time out of the country. Short-term had become permanent once Mrs. Cole and her children returned to the States.

  Samuel placed one foot on the slate path, then the other. He got out of the car and stared up at the place he now called home, a place he expected to live out his life. Shifting his gaze, he smiled at the thin, dark-skinned man with
salt-and-pepper hair. Eddie Grady was an excellent driver, and had become an invaluable employee.

  “I’ll call you,” Samuel said, noncommittally, because he’d planned to take the rest of the week off. He’d told Everett that he was in charge of the office, and if there was something he could not handle, then he was to call him at home.

  Samuel felt as if he were in a runaway freight train without brakes. Since he’d come back from Cuba he hadn’t stopped long enough to enjoy what he’d worked so hard to acquire.

  He got up early to go into the office, and did not return home until nightfall. He had Mrs. Harris make travel arrangements for trips to Costa Rica, Mexico and Jamaica, where he’d purchased tracts of land between Mandeville and Ocho Rios to cultivate a green coffee bean known as Jamaican Blue Mountain.

  His coffee plantations were yielding higher than expected profits, but it would be a while before the Puerto Limon banana venture would prove to be either a success or a failure.

  “Make certain you bring your missus and children by on Thursday,” he said to the chauffeur.

  Eddie flashed a rare smile. “Will do, Mr. Cole.”

  Samuel unlocked the door, stepping into the entryway with an African slate floor. An ebony-and-gilt table dating to the eighteenth century cradled a crystal vase with a profusion of snow-white roses. M.J. had decorated their home with the skill of a professional decorator.

  Cradling a leather case under his arm, Samuel took one of the twin staircases leading to the second floor. His footsteps were muffled in an oriental runner lining the hallways leading to his suite of rooms. He stopped to peer into the bedroom where Nancy slept. It had taken several weeks for her to adjust to her own bed. She’d cried herself to sleep for several nights, and when her mother did not come for her she stuck her thumb in her mouth and went off to sleep. Leaning over her crib, he touched a fat, black curl falling over an ear. Playing outdoors had darkened her skin until she was as brown as a berry.

  “What are you doing in here?” asked a familiar voice in a hushed whisper.

  Turning, he smiled at M.J. She was dressed for bed. “I just came to look in on the kids.”

  M.J. folded her arms under her breasts. She wanted to scream at Samuel that if he didn’t spend all day and half the night at his office, then he’d be able to see his children before they were bedded down for the night. But she held her tongue because arguing with Samuel would not change who he was or what he’d become.

  He didn’t interfere with her decision as to how to run their household and rear their children, so she’d decided to compromise: she would not question the drive it took for him to maintain his status as a successful businessman.

  “I put them to bed early because they didn’t take a nap today.”

  Samuel walked toward M.J., caught her chin and brushed a kiss over her parted lips. “Are they giving you a hard time?”

  Shaking her head, she smiled. “No. They’re good children.”

  He led her out of the nursery, past Martin’s bedroom and into their suite of rooms. “They’re good because you give in to their every whim. You’re spoiling them, darling.”

  “And you don’t?” M.J. countered.

  He lifted his eyebrows. “No.”

  M.J. sucked her teeth. “That’s horse stuff, Sammy.”

  “Don’t you mean horseshit?”

  “No. I don’t want our children growing up using bad language.”

  “Either they hear it at home or they’ll pick it up once they go out into the world. Take your pick.”

  “I’d rather they not use it at all.” Rising on tiptoe, M.J. kissed him. “Come to bed.”

  Samuel looped an arm around her waist, smiling and pulling her closer. “As soon as I shower, I’ll join you.”

  M.J. nuzzled his throat, her breath warm and sweet. “I’ll be waiting, mi armor.”

  His smile became a full grin. It had been more than a week since they’d made love to each other. That always foretold of a coming together that was certain to be passionate, unrestrained, wherein they bared their souls and held nothing back.

  “Sammy, get up or you’re going to be late for work.”

  Samuel burrowed deeper into the pillow. “I’m not going.”

  M.J. placed a cool hand on his bare shoulder. “Are you not feeling well?”

  Groaning, he wanted her to go away and let him sleep. “I’m okay. I’m taking a few days off.”

  “Why?” she asked close to his ear.

  Rolling over on his back, Samuel glared up at his wife. “Damn it, woman! I didn’t know I had to get your permission to stay home.”

  Shrieking, M.J. jumped on him, her arms going around his neck. “Why didn’t you tell me last night?”

  A smile replaced Samuel’s frown. “I tried, but you told me not to talk.”

  M.J. had been insatiable, her desire matching and surpassing his when they made love using every inch of the large bed. She’d screamed, cried, moaned and begged him not to stop. And he didn’t, not until both were sated. They fell asleep, limbs entwined, until they woke before dawn and made love again.

  “I have something to show you.”

  Leaning over to the table on his side of the bed, he opened the leather case and took out the pages Teresa had translated and typed. She’d surprised him when she’d transcribed his conversation with Ibrahim Salazar in English and in Spanish. He handed the Spanish copy to M.J.

  Samuel watched for a reaction from his wife, but there was none as she read the typed ages. She finished, then smiled. “I didn’t know Papa had so much money.”

  “I had no idea he wanted me to handle your money.”

  M.J. shifted, sitting on Samuel’s lap as his arms circled her waist. “It’s not my money, darling. It’s ours. Yours, mine and our children’s.” Samuel closed his eyes, enjoying the pressure of the soft body curving into his. He’d made it, had accomplished all the objectives on his wish list, but it was of little consequence because Charles Cole wasn’t alive to witness his youngest son’s success.

  “Ay, Dios mio,” Teresa whispered under her breath. “I didn’t know he lived in a mansion.”

  Liliana Martinez leaned forward on the rear seat of the taxi, handing the taxi driver his fare. Her warm brown eyes sparkled with excitement. “Let’s go, muchacha, I want to see up close how the rich live.”

  When Teresa had asked Liliana to come to an Independence Day celebration at her boss’s house, she’d jumped at the opportunity to spend time away from her own home. Since her grandmother and three cousins had come from Cuba to live with her family, she’d felt smothered. Twelve people living together in a small three-bedroom house made her resent the lack of privacy.

  The two women stepped out of the taxi and walked to the entrance. A solid brass door knocker, shaped in the head of a lion, rested against a gleaming black door. Teresa knocked twice. The door opened and a Negro woman wearing a pale pink uniform smiled at them.

  “Please, come in.”

  Teresa gave Liliana a sidelong glance as they followed the woman through an entryway with a ceiling rising thirty feet to a clerestory window through which pinpoints of light shimmered off a black slate floor like diamonds. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until she felt the constriction in her chest. She could not have imagined living in a house like the one Samuel Cole occupied with his wife and children. The small house where she lived with her parents and two brothers could fit into the Cole mansion four times. The house wasn’t a home—it was a showplace.

  Teresa and Liliana walked through a door at the rear of the house and were met with a plethora of sounds and smells. Dozens of people sat at long tables under three large white tents. Teresa searched the crowd for Samuel and found him holding a small child as he shared a laugh with Everett Kirkland.

  She affixed a smile she’d practiced over and over, and made her way over to him. It wasn’t until she was less than five feet away that Samuel noticed her. His laughter faded as his eyes widened.
Teresa was hard-pressed not to laugh aloud. She’d achieved the reaction she sought from her boss. The white slip-dress in delicate georgette banded in satin with a handkerchief hem skimmed her petite curvy body. She hadn’t pinned up her hair and it floated around her shoulders like a pale mane.

  Samuel shifted Nancy from one arm to the other, extending his right hand to Teresa. “Welcome. I’m glad you could come.”

  She shook his hand and leaned forward. The gesture elicited the response she sought when Samuel’s gaze lingered briefly on the soft swell of her breasts rising above the revealing décolletage. The shopkeeper who’d sold her the garment said it was perfect for an afternoon garden party. What the woman didn’t know was that it was the perfect dress for seduction.

  “Thank you, Mr. Cole, for inviting me.”

  Samuel released her hand. “None of that Mr. Cole today. We’re not at the office.” He glanced over her head. “Did you bring someone with you?”

  Throwing back her head, silver-blond hair sweeping over her bared shoulders, Teresa smiled up at her boss through a fringe of long lashes. “I brought my best friend.” She beckoned to Liliana. “Liliana, this is my boss, Samuel Cole. Samuel, Liliana Martinez.”

  Liliana smiled at the man whom Teresa could not stop talking about. Dressed in a white guayabera, linen walking shorts, sandals and a Panama hat, he looked nothing like the wealthy man Teresa bragged about who wore custom-made suits, shirts and imported footwear. His dark eyes were friendly, his smile warm and genuine. She found that he wasn’t as good-looking as he was attractive. What she did not understand was how her friend could fantasize about a man who wore a wedding ring.

  Samuel nodded to the young woman who’d come with his clerk. Her round, brown face was framed with a profusion of short black curls that gave her a doll-like look. “Welcome, Liliana.”

  Teresa rested an arm over Liliana’s shoulder. “This is Everett Kirkland. We also work together. Everett, my friend Liliana.”

  Liliana offered Everett her hand, smiling up at him. This man was someone she could like. His gold eyes with their dark brown centers were mesmerizing, and, unlike Samuel Cole, he did not wear a wedding band.