Best Kept Secrets (5 page)

“My aunt made me promise her that after she passed away I’d take time off and travel. I kept her promise, took a leave from the insurance company, went to New Orleans and boarded a tanker that was scheduled to go through the Panama Canal. I got off in Colombia and met a photographer. The National
Geographic Society had sponsored an expedition for her to take pictures of the Amazon River and Brazil’s rain forest.

“I became her assistant as she took hundreds of pictures of trees, vines, flowers, snakes, monkeys, birds and fish. She came down with malaria, so instead of returning to Washington, D.C., she came back here.”

“And you came back with her,” Samuel said, smiling.

Everett nodded and closed his eyes. “I was twenty-four and in love with a woman ten years my senior.” He opened his eyes and met Samuel’s amused stare. “I gave up everything for Eladia. My job, my country, and in the end a part of myself.”

“What happened to her?”

“I don’t know,” he said quietly, with no expression on his face. Everett focused on a small lizard that had attached itself to the wall behind where Samuel sat.

“She recovered from her bout of malaria, developed the photographs of the expedition, and then took off again. She wouldn’t tell me where she was going, only saying I should stay at her place until she got back. I was running short of money so I got a job with the United Fruit Company and waited. After the first year I stopped waiting, and halfway through the second year I all but forgot what she’d looked like.”

“What about her family? Hadn’t they known where she’d gone?”

“She wasn’t Costa Rican.”

“What was she?”

“Panamanian.”

“What about the National Geographic Society? Did you contact them as to her whereabouts?”

Resting an elbow on the table, Everett cradled his chin on his hand. “I cabled them, but no one would give me any information because I wasn’t a relative.”

Samuel leaned forward. “Why didn’t you go back home?”

Shrugging a thin shoulder, Everett affected a sad smile. “I was
in love, and a part of me wouldn’t permit me to believe that she wasn’t coming back. The woman who owned the house where she lived told me that Eladia would stay away for years, but whenever she came back she would pay her all of her back rent.”

“I can see why you’ve waited,” Samuel said softly.

“I’m through waiting.” A muscle twitched in Everett’s lean jaw. “Getting sick and not knowing if the next day was going to be my last has made me look at life very differently now.”

“How’s that?”

A pregnant pause ensued. Samuel thought perhaps he’d asked a question that was too personal in nature. After all, he did not know anything about Everett Kirkland aside from what he’d just revealed. He stared at him, seeing things he hadn’t noticed before. The slanting gold-flecked eyes reminded him of some of the Chinese-Cubans he’d seen during his recent trip there. The bridge of his nose was narrow, which made his flaring nostrils more pronounced, and his sun-darkened skin was layered with shades of gold to alizarin. He was only an inch or two shorter than his own six-foot, two-inch height, but Everett’s weight loss made him appear taller.

“I will never love someone more than I love myself.”

“What do you want, Everett?”

“What do you mean?”

Samuel decided to be straightforward. It was the only way he knew how to be. He abhorred evasiveness and detested innuendoes. That was why he’d respected Arturo Moreno’s decision not to sell him his sugarcane plantation, because he’d not softened his declination with an apology and sugary words layered with a falsity that would leave him angry, bitter and filled with resentment—emotions that would prove detrimental in future endeavors.

“What do you want for yourself? Where do you see yourself in the next five to ten years?”

“How truthful do you want me to be, Samuel?”

“I’d like complete honesty.”

“I don’t want to be in the position where I’d have to wait for someone to offer to feed me, or sell myself like a whore for boat fare, and I don’t ever want someone to order me about before they will sit down and talk to me.”

Samuel recoiled as if he’d been struck across the face. “Don’t blame me for your predicament.”

“I’m not blaming you,” Everett countered, his voice lowering to just above a whisper. “I accept full responsibility for my own fucked-up predicament.”

Leaning back in his chair, Samuel crossed his arms over his chest. Flat broke, hungry and having faced death from a fatal disease, Everett Kirkland had come at him like a rabid coon.

“How old are you, Everett?”

“Why?”

“Just answer my question.”

“You like giving orders, don’t you, boss man?”

Pushing back his chair, Samuel rose quickly. “I don’t have to take your shit.”

Half rising, Everett reached out and grasped his wrist. “Sit down. Please,” he added when he saw Samuel glaring at the fingers gripping his arm.

Samuel shook off the hand and sat down. “Let’s get something straight, right here, right now. I didn’t come all this way to waste my time arguing with someone who has messed up his life, and then feels the need to lash out at someone who had nothing to do with it.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cole,” Everett mumbled.

“You’ve already called me Samuel, so why act remorseful now?”

“I wasn’t raised to be disrespectful.”

“Neither was I,” Samuel countered. “Now, I’m going to ask you again. How old are you, Everett?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“When will you be twenty-nine?”

“Next February. Why?”

“I’ll tell you after you tell me about the United Fruit Company.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

Everett Kirkland told him things about Costa Rica and the United Fruit Company that he didn’t have time to read in a book. He learned that Costa Rica was the first Central American country to export coffee and in 1892 Minor Keith, a New Yorker turned Texas pig farmer, had obtained concessions to build a railroad employing thousands of Jamaicans, Chinese, Europeans and indigenous Ticos. He displaced local banana growers before securing a monopoly on the production of the fruit. After merging with the Boston Fruit Company in 1899 he expanded his empire and subjected immigrant workers to restrictive systems, such as payment with scrip.

“How much influence does the United States have here?”

“They have their noses everywhere in the Caribbean, Central and South America,” Everett said, frowning. “They’ve intervened in Colombia, Honduras, the Dominican Republic, Cuba, Panama, Puerto Rico, Nicaragua and Guatemala.”

“Who are United Fruit’s competitors?”

Everett shook his head. “They don’t have any. If your intention is to buy a banana plantation, then I suggest you save your breath and what money you have.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Approach them with a plan to ship their bananas throughout the States and the Caribbean.”

“Why not offer to buy shares in the company?”

“You don’t want to get caught up in the ongoing politics of labor unrest coupled with the unstable governments in this region. A prolonged strike can lead to a loss of profits and
eventual bankruptcy.” Everett hesitated, frowning. “What experience do you have with crop production?”

Samuel told him about the soybean company he’d established with his brothers. A knowing smile softened the sharp angles in Everett’s face. “You’re really an ambitious son of a bitch.”

Samuel’s smile matched his. “No more ambitious than the arrogant son of a bitch talking to me.”

Everett touched his glass to the one next to Samuel’s right hand. “Touché. Tell me about your soybeans.”

Samuel picked up his glass for the first time and drained it, the combination of fruit juices and rum pleasantly intoxicating on his palate. He explained the properties of the soybean to Everett, comparing it to the peanut. “It’s a crop of the future on this side of the globe even though it’s been a food staple cultivated in Asia for over five thousand years. Richer in protein than most meats, it also contains calcium, vitamins and many other nutritional minerals. Its oil is extracted for the manufacture of paint, soap and other nonfood products. A major advantage of planting soybeans is that they don’t deplete the soil like tobacco.”

“Why don’t you concentrate on growing soybeans?”

“I did for four years until I sold my share to my brothers.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to control my own company.”

Everett squinted, as he appeared deep in thought. “Have you considered becoming an importer
and
exporter?”

“No. How would I do that?”

“Buy your brothers’ soybean harvest, sell it abroad, then export produce that’s not grown in the States.”

Excitement shimmered in Samuel’s eyes as he contemplated the accountant’s proposal. Everett was young, only two years older than he was, and worldly. “How would you like to become a wealthy man, Everett?”

A hint of a smile touched Everett’s mouth. “I’d like that very much.”

“I believe it can become a reality if you come work for me.” He had the resources to start up another company, but needed Everett’s education and business savvy.

He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out an envelope and pushed it across the table. “There’s enough in there for a ticket to the States, my telephone number, and a little extra to take care of whatever it is you need to get back on your feet. Once you’re settled, give me a call.”

Samuel stood up and walked away, leaving Everett staring at the envelope. It was a full five minutes before he opened it and counted the contents.

Samuel Cole had just saved his life.

I
can’t believe I’ve become a prisoner in my own home.
M.J. sat with her bare feet resting on a padded footstool, staring at the open book on her lap. She hadn’t turned a page in fifteen minutes.

She’d become a prisoner because she refused to bend to her father’s will. He had forbidden her to leave the property or accept visitors—except those he approved of. The man whom Jose Luis wanted her to marry was repulsive. He was too old and there was something about him that reminded her of a reptile.

The photographs Antonio had taken of her were duplicated and were now on display from Havana to Santiago de Cuba.
She’d sat mute while her father ranted and railed for almost an hour about how could he show his face in polite society now that she’d ruined the Diaz name where no self-respecting man in Cuba would have anything to do with her?

She didn’t want a Cuban man—not one who would treat her as chattel, like his lands, servants and other material possessions. She wanted to be M.J. and not some man’s
mi esposa
. She wanted to complete her education and tour Rome, Paris, Barcelona and London, and do so much more than most Cuban women in her station did; but family honor had to be preserved at any cost. And that meant not marrying out of her class. Pressing her head to the back of the cushioned chair, she closed her eyes, knowing she had to formulate a plan to regain a modicum of independence.

M.J. hadn’t realized she’d dozed off until she heard someone calling her name. One of the live-in maids stood in the doorway. “Yes, Hilda?”

“Senorita, you have a telephone call.”

The words were barely out of the woman’s mouth when M.J. sprang to her feet and raced down the staircase to the first floor. Her heart pounded a runaway rhythm as she neared the small, round table cradling the telephone.

Picking up the receiver, she cleared her voice.
“Hola.”

“M.J.?”

Her dimples deepened as she grinned from ear to ear. “Hello, Samuel.”

“How are you?”

“I’m well. In fact, I’m wonderful.” She was wonderful. His soft, drawling voice sent shivers up her spine.

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Are you, Samuel?”

“Am I what?”

“Glad you’re talking to me?”

“Of course I am, M.J. Why do you think I’m calling you?”

“Is it because you’re planning to come to Cuba?”

“I’m already in Havana.”

M.J. couldn’t stop her knees from shaking. Groping for a nearby straight-back chair, she sat down. “When did you arrive?”

“A couple of days ago.”

“And you’re just calling me?”

A deep laugh came through the earpiece. “Your father warned me that you were outspoken.”

M.J.’s face was flushed with humiliation and anger at herself. Her quick tongue had gotten her in trouble again. She wanted to get to know Samuel Cole better, not chase him away.

“Please forgive my impertinence, Samuel.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. I’d like to know if your offer to act as my guide is still available.”

Her embarrassment was short-lived. “Yes, it is. When would you like to meet?”

“How’s tomorrow?”

“It’s good, but…”

“But what?” Samuel asked when her words trailed off into silence.

“I have to get in touch with my aunt.” She actually did not want her aunt to chaperone her and Samuel but knew doing so would alleviate some of her father’s anxiety about her being alone with a man. “What are you thinking, Samuel?”

“I could always arrange to see you another time.”

“No!” she shouted before clamping her free hand over her mouth. “As soon as I hang up I’ll call
Tia
Gloria and ask her to come.”

“What if she has other plans?”

“She’ll change them for me.” M.J. smiled when Samuel laughed again. “What’s so humorous?”

“You,” he replied, chuckling. “Do you expect everyone to stop what they’re doing because you deem it?”

“No. Is there a telephone where you’re staying?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I’ll have
Tia
Gloria call for you and both of you can come together. Where are you staying?” He gave her the name of a hotel in Habana Vieja. “I’ll give her the number and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“Samuel?”

“Yes, M.J.?”

“Thank you for coming back.”

“I’m glad to be back.”

“Hasta mañana.”

“What does that mean?”

“Until tomorrow.”

“
Hasta mañana,
Senorita Diaz.”

M.J. laughed at his bungled attempt to speak Spanish. The words, which should’ve sounded musical, came out flat and nasal. “You need a Spanish tutor, Senor Cole.”

“Are you available to take on a student?”

“Very available.”

“Good. Can we begin
mañana?
”

“
Sí
, Senor Cole.
Adios
. That means goodbye.”

“Adios,”
he repeated.

M.J. hung up, covered her mouth and swallowed her giggles. It had taken Samuel Cole a month, but he had kept his promise to return to Cuba. Now all she had to do was tell her father that he was coming to see her, then wait for his reaction.

M.J. found her father in the library, reading glasses perched on the end of his aquiline nose. Rays of late-morning sunlight glinted off a full head of silver-gray hair. The crisp crackle of turning newspaper pages competed with the soft twitter of a pair of colorful birds flying around a large wicker cage.

“Papa?”

Jose Luis turned and peered over the top of his rimless eyewear, a slight frown vanishing when he saw who’d interrupted him. Just once he wanted to be able to finish reading the paper in one day.

“Que tu haces?”

“
Tia
is coming tomorrow.”

“Good,” he said quickly before turning back to the article about Cuba’s newly elected president.

“She’s coming with Samuel Cole.”

“What!” The word exploded from Jose Luis. Rising slowly to his feet, he stared at his daughter as if she were a stranger. “What on earth have you done?” he whispered harshly.

M.J. knew it was too late to retreat or withdraw her invitation to Samuel. “He’s going to be our houseguest. I knew this would probably upset you, so I asked
Tia
if she would act as a chaperone.”

“Chaperone! I asked her to chaperone you in Havana, and what did you do? You posed naked for a
cabrón
to take pictures of you for all of Cuba to see,” he said, answering his own question.

“Samuel Cole is not a
cabron
, Papa. He is decent, respectful. He told me that he felt uncomfortable being alone with me in the garden that night at the Morenos’.”

“You know nothing about this man. You don’t even know if he’s married or has children.”

“He has neither.”

“How do you know?”

“I asked him, Papa. You’re afraid I’m going to shame you when it is the last thing I want to do. I want to be able to fall in love and select my own husband, not someone you feel is suitable for me. You married for love. Why shouldn’t I?”

Jose Luis gave her a direct stare. “Are you saying you’re in love with this American?”

“He has a name, Papa. It’s Samuel.”

Jose Luis threw up a hand. “Oh, now it’s Samuel?”

“Yes, Papa. Samuel Cole.”

“You love this Samuel?”

“No, Papa. But I do like him. A lot. But if I’m not permitted to spend time with him, then I’ll never know if I can fall in love with him.”

“You would actually consider marrying a foreigner when you can choose from any
Cubano?
”

M.J.’s spine straightened as she lifted her chin. The gesture of defiance was not lost on Jose Luis. “If I love him, yes.”

“How do you know he likes you?” Jose Luis asked, deciding on another approach. “You are throwing yourself at him when he may be toying with you. Men are known to do that until they get what they want.”

Twin dimples kissed her cheeks like thumbprints. “He must like me because he did return to Cuba.” Her smile faded, a frown taking its place. “He will not use me, Papa, because I won’t let him.”

“You let Antonio Santamaria use you.”

“He did not use me. I trusted him and he deceived me.”

“And you believe you can trust this American?”

Her delicate jaw tightened as she clenched her teeth. A faraway expression in the dark eyes made M.J. appear older, wise beyond her years.

“Right now I don’t trust any man. Including you, Papa. You plot behind my back to arrange for me to marry strangers—men whom you believe would be perfect husbands for me.” Her angry gaze swung back to her father. “If you force me to marry someone I have not chosen for myself I swear on my mother’s grave that I will bring shame on you and this house by taking lovers—as many and as often as I can.”

A shocking and paralyzing fear would not permit Jose Luis to utter a sound. Sharp pains knifed his chest as objects became fuzzy. He clutched his chest, praying for the pain to stop as the image of his own father holding his chest at the dinner table
before he collapsed, facedown, into the food on his plate came back in vivid clarity. His father died as he and Gloria witnessed the last seconds of his life. Miraculously the tightness eased, his vision cleared, and he drew in a lungful of air.

“You cannot, Marguerite-Josefina,” he whispered hoarsely.

“I will, Papa, if you force me to marry someone I do not love.”

He knew he had lost the battle. Marguerite-Josefina was too much like her aunt. “What do you want from me,
Chica?
”

M.J. walked over to her father and hugged him. “I want you to trust me, Papa. I want you to see me happy. I do not like the men you want for me. They are boring, weak, and they repulse me.”

Jose Luis tightened his hold on her slender body. “Pedro Acevedo comes from one of the best families in Cuba.”

“He looks like a frog! And he’s old and ugly.” Pulling back, she stared up at Jose Luis. “I cannot change who I am or what I want.”

Jose Luis buried his face in her fragrant black hair. “I don’t want you to change,
Chica.
You’ve always brought joy to my old heart.”

“You’re not old, Papa.”

“Are you now a
mentirosa?
”

“I’m not lying, Papa. You’re only sixty-four.”

“Sixty-four is old. I should be a grandfather already.”

“That can happen if you stop trying to control my life.”

His eyebrows lifted. “You want children?” She nodded, smiling. “But I thought you wanted to be a libertine like your aunt.”

“I want to marry and have children, but I also want to control my destiny. I want a husband who thinks of me as his partner and not as his possession. I don’t want my children hampered by archaic laws or customs that will limit their success.”

Jose Luis kissed her forehead. “You are so young and so very idealistic,
Chica
.” He kissed her again. “We’ll talk again later—after you’ve made preparations for your American houseguest.”

“Thank you, Papa. Thank you, thank you, thank you,” M.J.
crooned as she raced out of the library, then slowed considerably when she spied one of the gardeners. She inclined her head when he stepped aside to let her pass him as she sought out the housekeeper. Unconsciously, she’d slipped smoothly back into her role as mistress of the house.

M.J. stood in the doorway, mixed emotions of anticipation and jealousy gripping her as she watched Samuel Cole with her aunt, who’d rested a hand on his shoulder while smiling adoringly up at him.

She’d spent the past four weeks trying to recall everything about him and failed—miserably. Samuel had changed. He appeared taller, slimmer, his face several shades darker. He reminded her of a well-to-do
Cubano
with his Panama hat, tan lightweight suit, stark-white shirt, brown necktie and coordinating tan-and-white shoes.

She held her breath, watching as he came closer and closer until he stood less than three feet away. His warmth, his smell, and the way he’d angled his head while staring at her, made her feel things she did not want to feel—at that moment. Her heart fluttered in her chest like the delicate wings of the caged birds in her father’s library.

She offered him her right hand. “
Bienvenido
, Senor Cole.”

Samuel removed his hat and cradled her hand, kissing the back of it. “
Gracias
, Senorita Diaz.”

M.J. gave him her winning smile. “Did you enjoy Costa Rica?”

“Si.”

Her smile widened with his attempt to speak Spanish. “I hope your visit met with success.”

“It was
bueno
,” he said, releasing her hand, “and before you ask me anything else, let me tell you that my entire Spanish vocabulary consists of all of ten words.”

“Which means you’ll still need a tutor.”

Samuel found it impossible to look away from the woman
who unknowingly had cast a spell over him. Staring at her in the daylight was like a punch to his midsection. He couldn’t breathe or swallow without experiencing pain—pleasurable pain. Intelligent, sensual and ardently feminine, Marguerite-Josefina Diaz possessed all he admired in a woman.

“
Sí
, Senorita Diaz.”

Gloria frowned at Samuel. “Do you plan to spend the rest of your life calling my niece Senorita Diaz?”

“Tia!”

Fifty-eight-year-old Gloria glared at M.J. “I did not leave Havana to watch you react to him like a convent novice,” she chastised in rapid Spanish. Like quicksilver, her mood changed and she smiled sweetly at Samuel. “It’s time for siesta,” she said, switching fluidly to English. “M.J. will show you to your room. Don’t worry about your luggage. Someone will bring it up to you.”

M.J. threaded her fingers through Samuel’s. “How long can you stay?”

He went completely still, his gaze fusing with hers. “How long do you want me to stay, M.J.?”

“Long enough for us to become friends.”

Samuel’s solemn expression did not change. “That shouldn’t take too long. Three days should do it.”