“Martin needs a haircut,” Samuel said softly as he ran a hand over his son’s curly hair. “I’ll take him with me when I go next week.”
M.J., having removed her hat, dress and shoes, stretched like a cat. “There’s something you need to know about the children,” she said cryptically.
“What is it?”
“They haven’t spoken English in months. In fact, I can’t get them to speak it.”
Samuel recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “What do you mean you can’t get them to speak English?”
M.J.’s serene expression did not change. “If I say something to them in English they reply in Spanish.”
“What the fuck have you done! How the hell am I supposed to communicate with them?”
M.J. came to a sitting position as if jerked upright by an invisible wire. “Don’t ever use that gutter language in the presence of my children as long as you live!”
Samuel waved a hand. “They’re asleep, M.J.”
She pushed her face so close to his he could feel her breath on his throat. “I don’t care if they are unconscious, Samuel Cole. Don’t do it again!”
“How do you expect me to react? You’ve kept them away from me for so long that Nancy doesn’t want me to touch her. She doesn’t see me as her father, but a stranger. And whenever I spoke to you to tell you that I was coming back to Cuba your response was, ‘Please, Sammy. I need more time.’ I can understand you wanting to mourn the loss of your father, but not at the risk of alienating me from my children. This will be the last time you will keep me from my children.”
“My children,” she mimicked nastily. “It’s always your children, Samuel. They are not trophies or priceless baubles you can put on display whenever you want to solidify your standing as West Palm Beach’s Negro Man of the Year.”
The resentment within Samuel that had been building for months surfaced, boiling and spilling over when he said, “If I can’t have my wife, then I’ll settle for my children.”
Her eyes widened until he could see their chocolate-brown centers. “What are you implying?”
“I can’t say it in Spanish, so you’ll have to settle for the English equivalent.”
Without giving M.J. a chance to come back at him, Samuel slipped off the bed, walked out of the cabin, closing the door behind him. He’d waited months to be with his wife and children, but what should’ve been a warm reunion was marred with accusations and blame.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d denied M.J. anything, but this time he wasn’t going to compromise. She would never take their children away from him again.
Samuel and M.J. were like two strangers as they sat in the backseat of the chauffeur-driven Model J Duesenberg, flanking Martin and Nancy, who chattered incessantly to each other in Spanish.
The chauffeur was one of six on the payroll of ColeDiz International, Ltd. Aside from his private secretary, Nora Harris, he had hired a bookkeeper to assist Everett, a typist/file clerk fluent in English and Spanish, the chauffeur-mechanic, and a maintenance man.
Everett had suggested they move the office to one of the high-rise office buildings going up in the middle of downtown West Palm Beach, but Samuel was hesitant to relocate. He and his accountant had continued their routine of reading the business sections of major newspapers, while closely monitoring the trading on the New York Stock Exchange. Another record was broken on November of the prior year when the governing committee of the exchange ordered a suspension after the trading volume reached 6,954,020 shares. Those wishing a seat on the Stock Exchange now had to pay $550,000 for the privilege.
Two weeks later the market went into a sharp decline with Radio Corporation of America, International Harvester and Montgomery Ward as heavy losers.
Samuel closed his eyes and rested the back of his head on the leather seat. He’d prefer risking the future of his empire on the turn of a card or a roll of the dice to gambling with Wall Street. Since going into business for himself he’d learned to keep his business expenses separate from his personal, paid his taxes and kept a large amount of cash in a vault built beneath the floor of a room in his home.
“Samuel. Wake up, Samuel. We’re home.”
The sound of M.J.’s voice woke him. He hadn’t realized he had fallen asleep. He looked out the side window. The bright orange rays of the setting sun reflecting off the lake threw a strange fiery glow on coral columns and every light-colored surface of the large house designed in Spanish and Italian revival styles. Barrel-tiled red roofs, a stucco facade, balconies shrouded in lush bougainvillea and sweeping French doors that opened onto broad expanses of terraces made for an imposing showplace. The magnificent structure was surrounded by tropical foliage, exotic gardens and the reflection of light off sparkling lake waters.
The day M.J. had informed him that she was pregnant again, he’d contacted an architect to draw up plans for a house to be erected on a twenty-acre lot he’d purchased after Martin’s birth. It took six months to finish building the three-story, twenty-four-room, four-bedroom suite house. Nancy had celebrated her first birthday when M.J. completed decorating the interior. Putting in the gardens—tropical, exotic Japanese and boxwood—had become an ongoing project. M.J. would’ve expanded her gardens if he hadn’t sold off eight acres to a man who built a golf course for Negro golfers.
He’d given his wife the children she wanted, a house with enough room for family and other guests to come and stay for an extended period of time, and a staff to ensure a well-run household.
All Samuel wanted from M.J. was her love and understanding. He’d curtailed his traveling and hadn’t slept with another woman since the birth of his son.
She professed that she wanted more children, but that was not possible if they lived apart. He wanted more children—as many as M.J. would be able to give him—but before that became a reality they would have to resolve a few issues.
Eddie Grady had opened the passenger-side door for him. Samuel stepped out and scooped Martin off the seat. He stared at the curious dark eyes staring up at him. “You’re home, son.”
Martin gave him a tentative smile, the dimples he’d inherited from his mother deepening with the gesture. Both children looked like M.J. His only contribution to their gene pool was his coloring and hair.
A chill raced over him when Martin took his hand. Even if his daughter hadn’t remembered him, his son did. Mothers had their daughters, while fathers had their sons. At that moment life couldn’t have been better for Samuel Claridge Cole.
Samuel used a guest room to shower and ready himself for bed. Tying the belt to his robe around his waist, he made his way down a wide hallway to the suite he shared with M.J.
The sight that greeted him stopped him in his tracks. “What’s going on here?” M.J. lay in bed with Martin and Nancy asleep beside her.
“Hush, Sammy, or you’ll wake them up.”
He failed to be aroused by the soft swell of breasts rising and falling under the revealing décolletage of an ivory-white nightgown, or the loosely braided raven-black hair falling over her shoulder.
“Why aren’t they sleeping in their own bedrooms?”
“They’re used to sleeping with me. It’s going to take time before they go back to sleeping by themselves.”
Samuel glared at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. “Let me know when you want me in your bed again.” Turning on his heel, he left the bedroom and made his way to one at the opposite end of the hallway.
M.J. stared at the space where her husband had been. Hot tears pricked the backs of her eyelids. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand how bereft she was. The death of her father, and her aunt Gloria’s decision to leave Cuba and marry her longtime lawyer-lover, twenty-two years her junior, and live with him in Spain, signaled a complete break with her island homeland.
She still had relatives on the island, but it was different without Papa and Tia Gloria. Ivonne had married, become a mother of two young boys, and was expecting
her third before the end of the year. Everyone had made plans for their futures whereas she gathered her children close to her bosom, holding on to them as if she feared they would disappear.
She smothered them with hugs and kisses until they screamed in protest. The love she should’ve shared with her husband she lavished on Martin and Nancy. She thought it would’ve ended once Samuel issued an ultimatum that if she did not return to Florida he would come to Cuba and get her.
She loved Samuel with all of her heart, but somehow along the way she had come to love her children so much more.
A single tear trickled down her cheek and into the valley between her breasts. M.J. knew she had to do something quickly, or she would lose her husband. Making certain her son and daughter were still asleep, she slipped out of bed and padded on bare feet down the carpeted hallway, looking into each bedroom.
She found Samuel in bed with a mound of pillows supporting his head and shoulders. An open book lay on his lap. His head hung at an awkward angle, indicating he’d fallen asleep.
A smile found its way around her expression of uncertainty as she walked to the bed. Lifting the sheet, she slipped in beside him. He moaned softly, shifted, but did not wake up. M.J. reached over and turned off the lamp on the bedside table, then settled down to sleep with her husband.
Samuel came awake before dawn, all of his senses on full alert. At first he thought he’d imagined her—her smell, the velvety smoothness of the slender leg thrown over his. His fingers touched the silky curtain of hair spread out on his pillow.
She’d come to him.
Lowering his head, he trailed a series of kisses over a bared shoulder, down the length of her arm. Turning her hand over, he licked her palm. Her fingers quivered. He licked it again, eliciting a gasp from her.
Samuel glanced up to find M.J. smiling at him. “Don’t stop there,” she whispered.
His smile matched hers as he moved over her. “What are you doing here?”
Her beautifully arching eyebrows lifted. “I live here.”
“Why is it I don’t recognize you?”
Trailing her fingertips down his chest, M.J. closed her eyes. “Perhaps I can do something to help you remember who I am.”
This was the M.J. Samuel loved, soft and teasing. “What?”
“Let me up and I’ll show you?”
He could not imagine what his wife had in mind until she divested herself of her nightgown and lay flush over his body. Heart to heart, flesh to flesh, breaths mingling, they’d become one.
M.J. kissed him, tentatively at first, until her kisses grew bolder. Moving down the length of his body, she alternated kissing and licking his furred chest, flat belly; she breathed her hot breath on the triangle of tightly curling hair at the apex of his thighs, eliciting a deep moan and shudder from him.
Samuel couldn’t move, breathe. He wanted to stop M.J. but it’d been months—too long since they’d slept together. He bellowed as if someone had branded him with a heated iron when her mouth closed around his rigid sex.
No!
She can’t!
She’s my wife.
She’s not a whore!
His silent entreaty went unspoken as he gave himself up to the exquisite sensations wrought by her moist, hot mouth and rapacious tongue. Somewhere between sanity and insanity he found the strength to stop her before he ejaculated.
Reaching down, Samuel fastened his hands in her hair and tugged gently until she released him. His sensitized penis bobbing between his thighs, he pushed her onto her back and entered her in one sure thrust of his hips. He rode her like a man possessed, her feet anchored on his shoulders.
It was M.J.’s turn to moan and sob. Samuel’s hands, mouth and hardness reminded her of what he was to her, what she’d missed. Love me, Sammy. Please love me, she chanted to herself as flutters of desire pulsed through her core, growing stronger and longer with each pounding thrust of Samuel’s hardness that made her aware of why she’d been born female. She gasped, her body arching as ecstasy, strong and turbulent, ripped her asunder.
M.J. did not remember crying or babbling how much she loved Samuel when she woke up in a bedroom she did not recognize as her own. When she finally found the strength to get out of bed, she discovered walking was difficult. It had been a long time since the muscles along her inner thighs ached with every step she took.
Some time later, after she’d showered and completed her toilette, she went down to the kitchen to find Samuel, Martin and Nancy sitting at the table in a breakfast nook, eating the pancakes Bessie flipped deftly at the stove.
Bessie smiled at M.J. “Good morning, Miz Cole. It’s nice to have you back. Your babies are growing like weeds.”
Closing the distance between them, M.J. hugged her housekeeper. “It’s good to be back.” She glanced around the large kitchen. “Why are you cooking?” She’d hired a cook while Bessie had stayed on to supervise the other women who were responsible for keeping the house clean and running smoothly.
“She cut her hand yesterday, and she called to say she had to go to the doctor this morning.”
Walking over to Samuel, M.J. kissed his mouth. “Good morning, mi amor.”
“His name is Daddy, not My Love,” Martin chimed up, waving a fork with a piece of pancake hanging from the tines.
Reaching over, Samuel ruffled his son’s hair. “So, you do know how to speak English.”
Martin’s black eyes were brimming with laughter. “Of course I know how to speak English, Daddy.”
He sounded so mature that Samuel had to laugh. M.J.’s laughter joined his, and soon Nancy and Martin were laughing.
Bessie turned back to the stove. She flipped another pancake. It had been a long time since she’d heard the sound of laughter in the enormous house.
Now that Miz Cole had returned with her children, the house could once again become a home.
Chapter 22
You can do anything in this world if you are prepared to take the consequences.
—W. Somerset Maugham
Samuel sat at a small round table in the corner of his office with Everett going over the report of the Costa Rican coffee harvest.
He massaged his forehead with his fingertips. “Something is not right. We plant four hundred acres of arabica seeds and the harvest yields two.”
Bracing his elbow on the table, Everett rested his chin on his fist. He did not have an answer for Samuel. He only dealt with real numbers, whereas his boss knew unequivocally the amount of any crop an acre would yield.
“Maybe they had an infestation problem.”
Samuel shook his head. “No, Everett, they didn’t. I told them to try a technique that has been used in Kenya where they intersperse trees with the coffee bushes. The poro tree is perfect because its roots grow deep, preventing soil erosion, and it attracts insects from and provides shade for the coffee bushes.”
“Did he plant them?”
“He said he did.”
Everett gave Samuel a sidelong look. In less than ten years Samuel Claridge Cole had become a hands-on gentleman farmer. He hadn’t earned a college degree, yet he was one of the smartest men Everett had come to know.
Fastidious to the point where it could be interpreted as obsessive, Samuel had all of his clothes made-to-order. He now had a barber and manicurist come to his home each week, and paid a chemist for specially blended cologne.
Samuel was always open to Everett’s suggestions, a patient listener and a voracious reader. When he’d purchased his first coffee plantation he hadn’t known anything about the crop. But within three months he knew enough to question those who’d been cultivating the crop their whole life. A modern-day visionary, he knew instinctually what people needed to make their lives more pleasurable. Their latest project was to erect vacation villas for the wealthy throughout the Caribbean.
However, there was another side of Samuel he rarely exhibited, except if crossed. Trust and loyalty forgotten, he’d become a dangerous and deadly fo
e.
“Do you think he’s skimming?” Everett asked.
A frown marred Samuel’s smooth forehead. “I know he is. Not only is Aquilar greedy, but he’s also a stupid son of a bitch. I offered him ten percent of the harvest and he goes behind my back and takes fifty. Did he actually think I wouldn’t know?”
“He counted on your not knowing.”
Leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over the front of a crisp white shirt, Samuel stared at a gelatin silver print of an Emancipation Day parade photographed in St. Augustine by Richard Aloysius Twine.
Straightening, he shifted his gaze to his accountant. “I can’t leave M.J. and the kids now.” It’d been only two weeks since they’d returned from Cuba, and he looked forward to going home each night and sharing the evening meal with his family.
“I’ll go,” Everett volunteered in a quiet voice.
Lacing his fingers together, Samuel nodded, smiling. “You know what to do.” The question had come out as a statement.
A hint of a smile curled the accountant’s upper lip. “I’ll stay until I can secure a replacement for Aquilar. After that I’ll take a look at that property you’re interested in at Dominical.”
Sighing, Samuel inclined his head. When he saw Dominical for the first time, he felt as if he’d ventured into an idyllic paradise. White sand, clear blue water and tropical foliage provided the perfect setting for a string of pastel-colored villas.
“Thank you, Everett.”
A strange light lit up Everett’s gold eyes. “Remember, we’re in this together.”
He was as close as one could get to becoming a partner in ColeDiz International, Ltd. Samuel had kept his promise to give him ten percent of the company’s year-end profit, but had shocked him when he handed him the deed, free and clear, to the house he’d lived in with M.J. before they moved into the mansion overlooking a lake.
Everett saved the handwritten note attached to the deed. I couldn’t have done it without you—SCC.
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