“Make an oatmeal poultice. It will help speed drying up the blisters.”
Samuel pulled his hand from his wife’s. “What about the girls?”
“There’s no doubt they’ve also been exposed, but they don’t necessarily have to come down with the disease. It’s better if they do before starting school.”
M.J. smiled at the elderly doctor. “May I go see my son?”
He lifted bushy white eyebrows. “Are you with child, Mrs. Cole?”
“Oh…no,” she stammered, giving Samuel a sidelong glance. She and Samuel hadn’t slept together in more than two years. “Why?”
“Chicken pox can be dangerous for a pregnant woman, especially in her last trimester. Have either of you had the disease?”
“I have,” Samuel confirmed.
“I haven’t,” M.J. said.
“Well, Mr. Cole, it looks as if you may have to play Florence Nightingale. I’ll check back in a couple of days.”
Samuel cupped the doctor’s elbow. “I’ll see you out, Dr. Rose.”
M.J. waited until Samuel escorted the doctor down the staircase; then she pushed open the door to her son’s room. She stood at his bedside watching him sleep. In a moment of panic, she thought she’d lost him. Running her fingers through her short hair, she mumbled a prayer of thanksgiving.
She still hadn’t moved when Samuel stood in the doorway holding Nancy and Josephine. Although slender, he possessed tremendous upper body strength.
“The girls wanted to see Martin.”
Nancy placed a finger over her lips. “Shhh-hh, Daddy. Don’t wake him up.”
Josephine repeated the gesture. “Yeah,” she whispered.
Samuel and M.J. shared a smile, one reserved for lovers.
M.J. closed the distance between them, holding out her arms for Josephine. “I think it’s time for you to take a nap.”
“Do I have to take a nap, Mother?” Nancy asked.
“Yes, you do. In fact, all of us are going to take a nap.”
Nancy smiled up at her father. “Even you, Daddy?”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Yes, cupcake.”
M.J. waited until later that night to seek out her husband. She found him in his library. He’d fallen asleep on a leather chaise. She sat on the edge, shaking him gently. He came awake immediately.
“Is Martin all right?”
“Yes, Samuel.”
Light from a floor lamp displayed what she’d ignored for too long. At thirty-four, Samuel Cole’s hair was more than salt-and-pepper; he would be completely gray by thirty-five. His face was as lean as it’d been eight years before. There were new lines around his eyes, lines she attributed to pain and hopefully remorse.
“Do you want something?” His voice was filled with neutral tones.
“Yes. I’d like you to consider sending Martin to a private school.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid of what happened to the Lindbergh baby possibly happening to our children.”
“What else do you want?”
“I want you to hire a full-time driver who can double as a bodyguard.”
He lifted a black eyebrow. “What else?”
An attractive blush suffused her cheeks and she glanced away, unable to meet his direct stare. “I’d like you to move back into the bedroom.”
“Why, M.J.?”
“Because I’ve missed you.”
“It took you two years to come to that conclusion?”
“Samuel, don’t make this harder on me than it actually is.”
“You, Marguerite-Josefina? Why is it always you?”
“It wasn’t me who sinned with another man, Samuel.”
“I suppose I should be grateful for that, because none of our children look like me.”
“Jodete y aprieta el culo!”
He stared at her, complete surprise on his face. “I hope you don’t use those words in front of the children.”
She leaned closer. “Never.”
Samuel stared at the too-perfect face, a face he’d found hypnotic when he first glimpsed it, and a face that a Cuban artist had immortalized for perpetuity.
He wanted to scoop her up in his arms, take her upstairs and take her without tenderness and foreplay, ram into her celibate flesh until she gasped for breath, then pull out, leaving her unfulfilled. As unfulfilled as he’d been for the past two years.
But he wasn’t going to fall into her arms and into her bed because she asked. He’d let one woman lead him by the gonads, and he vowed it would not happen again.
“I can’t fuck myself,” he whispered, translating her slur, “nor will I fuck you, M.J. Not now. Not when you deem it.” Samuel ignored her soft gasp. “If or when I move back into our bedroom it will be when both of us want it. You’ll know and I’ll know when the time is right.
“Now as to your request to enroll our children in private school and hire a bodyguard, I’ll let you know at the end of the month.” Rising on an elbow, he pressed his mouth to hers. “Good night.”
Stunned by his rejection, M.J. watched her husband turn over and present her with his back. “I hate you, Samuel!”
“No, you don’t,” he mumbled, smiling.
“I do hate you,” she sobbed.
Shifting, Samuel moved off the chaise, eased her down to the Persian rug and covered her body with his. Unshed tears turned her eyes into pools of gleaming onyx. They widened as a smile softened his features. She’d felt his growing erection.
Gasping, he closed his eyes. “I’m surprised it still works.”
M.J. buried her face against his throat. “What have I done to you?”
“Nothing, baby. It’s what I’ve done to you.”
They lay together on the floor, offering each other silent absolution. Samuel got up, pulling M.J. with him. They made their way through the quiet house, up the staircase, down the wide hallway and into their bedroom.
No words were spoken as they undressed and climbed into bed together. They did not make love; that would come later—once they learned to trust again.
Chapter 34
Most rich people are the poorest people I know.
—Elsa Maxwell
West Palm Beach, Florida—October 9, 1933
“Did you say something, baby?”
“Sammy! You haven’t heard a word I’ve been saying?”
Samuel pulled his stunned gaze away from the figures on the financial statements Everett had mailed him. He hadn’t been listening to what M.J. was saying about the aborted coup in Havana because he had to make a monumental decision as to whether to curtail coffee production in Costa Rica and Mexico. A worldwide depression had taken its toll on everyone—rich and poor alike.
The United States had elected a new president, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who in his inaugural address denounced the nation’s financial leaders, saying, “These money-changers should be driven from the temple and never again be allowed to misuse other people’s money.”
The day he made his speech, more than thirteen million Americans were jobless, and in the final years of the Hoover administration scores of banks had failed, factories had closed, and farmers were evicted from their lands. Entire families were living in tarpaper shacks and competing with stray animals for scraps of food.
Although he eschewed politics and politicians alike, Samuel was impressed with the New Deal, the president’s economic plan of recovery for the country. Roosevelt had closed the nation’s banks for a seven-day holiday to allow for passage of emergency legislation by Congress and new regulations by the Treasury Department. He took the United States off the gold standard, passed a farm-relief bill to aid struggling farmers, and signed into law the National Industrial Recovery Act, which gave the government control over industry in an effort to bring the nation out of the Depression.
And despite the promulgation of the NRA, CCC, National Labor Board regulations, Samuel knew it would take years before the United States would regain its economic stabilit
y.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “My mind is somewhere else.”
M.J. folded the newspaper she’d been reading. “I said it’s good we canceled our trip to Cuba. Government troops killed more than a hundred people in Havana who’d used the National Hotel to stage a coup. In Ivonne’s last letter she wrote that she hardly goes to Havana anymore, because of the violence. Ever since President Machado declared a state of war everything has been crazy.”
“But he’s no longer the president.”
She nodded. “True. But how long do you think de Cespedes will remain in power without the backing of the United States?”
“I don’t know, M.J. You know I don’t follow politics.”
Her delicate jaw hardened. “Well, I do. And trust me, Samuel, when I predict that Cubans are going to trade one dictator for another if they support army chief of staff Fulgencio Batista to lead the country.”
Samuel half listened to his wife rail about Cuban politics. A knot formed in his throat when he realized what he had to do. He was spending more money than he was bringing in, and if he continued at the current rate he would be penniless by the end of the decade.
“I have to go to Miami,” he said after M.J. paused.
M.J. stared across the space separating her from her husband. It had taken him six months to move his possessions back into their bedroom, and during this time there were nights when they shared a bed, and others when they didn’t. The night all of his clothes filled the closets was the first night he asked if he could make love to her.
Their coming together was tentative, as if they had to learn each other’s bodies all over again, and when it ended she felt free, freer than she’d ever been in her life. Samuel hadn’t used a condom, and she hadn’t asked that he do so, because she wanted another child, a child that would represent a new start and the beginning of the rest of their lives together.
Teresa Kirkland’s name was uttered once—when Samuel told her that his former secretary and her husband had relocated to Miami. She did not want to know when Teresa delivered, or the sex of the baby.
And M.J. was mature enough to know that her husband wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last man to father a child out of wedlock; the affair would’ve become more palatable if Teresa hadn’t taunted her. Under another set of circumstances she would’ve ripped every blond strand out of Teresa’s head. She’d fought and won too hard-earned a victory to marry Samuel Cole just to give him up without a fight—whether verbal or physical.
“Why?”
Samuel registered the tremor in the single word. “I’m closing the Miami office.”
“Why?” she repeated.
“I can’t afford to keep it open. I’m losing too much money.”
M.J. blinked once. “What’s going to happen to Everett?” She always liked the quiet, elegant accountant.
Sighing audibly, Samuel closed his eyes. And when he opened them his gaze was steady, resolute. “I’m going to have to let him go. I plan to give him a generous severance payout.”
M.J. left her chair and sat on Samuel’s lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “What is he going to do?”
Burying his face against his wife’s neck, Samuel shook his head. “I don’t know, darling. His house is paid for, so he doesn’t have to concern himself with losing it. Don’t forget that he’s an accountant. He’s a whiz when it comes to money and numbers. I’ll give him enough that will hopefully tide him over until we can pull out of this stinking depression.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Wednesday.”
Pulling back, M.J. stared at Samuel. There was something lurking behind the deep-set dark eyes that frightened her. He’d been thinking about going to Miami for some time, and she wondered whether he was going to fire Everett or see Teresa.
“What did she have?”
Samuel knew exactly whom M.J. was referring to. There would’ve been a time in his past when he would’ve feigned ignorance, but that was over. He was older, he’d changed, and now that he was thirty-five his focus was no longer amassing a fortune or building an empire. It was now his wife and children.
“A boy, M.J.,” he said in a quiet voice.
M.J. cursed herself for asking, but knew she could not spend the rest of her life wondering and imagining if every child she saw was her husband’s, the brother or sister of her own children.
A wry smile parted her lips. “Now you have two sons and two daughters.”
Samuel’s impassive expression did not change. “He’s not my son, M.J.”
Her arching eyebrows lifted. “If he’s not yours, then whose is he?”
“Everett’s. He’s a Kirkland, not a Cole.”
“I don’t want our children to know about him, Samuel. Promise me you’ll never tell them about him.”
Pulling her closer, Samuel kissed her hair. “I promise.”
Samuel walked into the small Miami-based office of ColeDiz International, Ltd. There was no one sitting in the reception area, so he headed for the back office.
He removed his hat before loosening the top button on his shirt. The heat inside the office was stifling. Where, he thought, were the fans?
The door to Everett’s office was partially opened and he could hear moans coming from the other side. Grasping the knob, he opened the door, and what he saw rendered him motionless and mute. Everett sat on the edge of his desk, trousers around his ankles while a woman knelt in front of him with his penis in her mouth. Both were so involved in the act that neither had noticed he was there. Backpedaling, Samuel closed the door and returned to the reception area to wait.
The telephone in the reception rang three times before the young woman came to answer it. Her eyes were as round as saucers once she recognized who sat in the waiting area.
“Excuse me,” she said, reaching for the telephone. She mumbled a greeting into the receiver, her hand shaking noticeably.
Not waiting to be announced, Samuel got up and retraced his steps. Everett stood with his back to the door as he belted his trousers.
“I hope it was good, Everett.”
The accountant froze, then turned slowly to see his boss standing in the doorway. As accustomed, he was impeccably attired. Samuel wore a tailored navy-blue pin-striped single-breasted blazer, gray flannels, white shirt and navy-and-white-striped tie.
Recovering quickly, Everett came around the desk, smiling. “Come in, Samuel, and close the door. I wasn’t expecting you.”
Rage glinted in Samuel’s eyes. He did not move. “From what I just witnessed I doubt whether you were expecting anyone. I’m the last one to lecture another man about fidelity, but I can say I never shit where I had to eat.”
Everett recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “Just why are you here, if not to spy on me?”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Everett. I’m here to close this office, and give you a severance package I feel is commensurate with your loyalty and years of service to ColeDiz.”
“You can’t!”
Taking half a dozen steps, Samuel walked into the office. It was his turn to gasp. Everett looked like he had when he’d first encountered him in Puerto Limon. He was emaciated, and the smell of alcohol was redolent in the small, sweltering space.
“What the hell have you done to yourself?”
Swaying to keep his balance, Everett groped for his chair and sat down heavily. “What I’ve done,” he slurred with a lopsided grin pulling down one side of his mouth. “It’s what you’ve done, King Cole. I save your precious reputation when I offer to marry your mistress and make her respectable, and the bitch pays me back by denying me my conjugal rights. So don’t stand there and act so fuckin’ pompous because I found someone willing to take care of my needs. The only time I can get some at home is when I beat the bitch into submission.”
Samuel launched himself at Everett, his hands going around the throat of the man he’d come to love like a brother. His eyes literally bulged from their sockets.
“You beat her!” he bellowed, tightening his grip. Everett’s head flopped as if he were a rag doll. “Where the hell is she?”
Gurgling sounds came from the accountant’s throat as he clawed at the fingers choking off precious life-sustaining air. As quickly as the attack had begun it was over. His eyes filled, tears rolling down his face as he struggled to breathe.
“Where is she?” Samuel repeated.
Holding his bruised throat, Everett mumbled a silent prayer that his life had been spared. “She left me five months ago. She’s staying with her parents.”
Samuel hadn’t realized he was sprawled over the desk until a stack of folders fell to the floor. He stood up, his chest rising and falling heavily. His body was soaked with sweat. He wasn’t sure whether it was from the suffocating temperature or rage.
“And the boy?”
Everett’s red-rimmed eyes closed briefly. “She took him with her.”
“I’ll be right back.” Samuel walked out of the office to the front. The receptionist stared straight ahead. There was something about her that reminded him of Daisy. “Dial this number for me,” he ordered without preamble. The woman followed his instructions, then handed him the telephone.
“This is Samuel Cole. I need you to bring a couple of men over to the ColeDiz office. I want you to pack up everything and ship it to my office in West Palm Beach. Yes, today. I’ll wait here for you.”
He handed the receptionist the telephone, then reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, withdrawing two envelopes. “This is for you, Miss Nelson. Your services will no longer be needed. Good luck in finding employment elsewhere.” She hesitated, then took the envelope. Samuel glared at her from under lowered eyebrows. “You may go—now.”
She retrieved her handbag from a file drawer and walked out, Samuel closing and locking the door behind her. His temper had cooled considerably when he reentered Everett’s office.
He extended the remaining envelope. “This is for you.” Everett stared at it, his arms crossed over his chest. “There’s a West African proverb that says, ‘God gives nothing to those who keep their arms crossed.’ Take it, Everett. There’s enough in this envelope for you to take care of your family until things change.”
Best Kept Secrets Page 38
