Best Kept Secrets Read Free Page B

heat.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Did he tell you who supplies him with paints, film and his expensive cameras? Who gives him money for his rent and his mojitos? ”
    Marguerite-Josefina’s right eyebrow froze a fraction. “It’s none of my business who supports him.”
    “Sit down, querida ,” Jose Luis ordered quietly. She complied and he took a matching chair several feet away. “Cristina Perez is Antonio Santamaria’s benefactor.”
    The natural color drained from her tawny brown face, leaving it a sickly sallow shade. “She can’t be,” she said quickly.
    “Why not, Chica?”
    It had been years since Jose Luis had called her “little girl.” What he had to remind himself was that Marguerite-Josefina wasn’t a little girl, but a woman.
    “Because…because…” Her voice trailed off. She could not continue; the words were lodged in her throat.
    “Because of the rumors that she is also the mistress of Liberal presidente candidate General Gerardo Machado’s closest confidant?”
    Marguerite-Josefina’s eyelids fluttered as she nodded. She’d heard the rumors, but refused to believe them. Antonio told Marguerite-Josefina that she was his muse, his inspiration forhis artistic success, and the day she was ordered back home he’d confessed to being in love with her.
    “I’m sorry, Chica .”
    “How do you know this, Papa?” Pain radiated from the depths of her dark, velvety eyes.
    “Someone close to Machado contacted me after he saw you with Santamaria.”
    “You had someone spy on me?”
    Jose Luis’s patrician features were deceptively composed. At sixty-four he was reprimanding his nineteen-year-old daughter for conduct unbecoming a woman of her station when he should’ve been spoiling and bouncing grandchildren on his knees.
    “No, my child. However, I did entrust you to the protection of my sister, who should’ve chaperoned you more closely.”
    “I’ve never done anything that would bring disgrace to you or Tia Gloria.”
    Running his hand over a mane of silver-white hair brushed off a high forehead, Jose Luis averted his gaze. “This Santamaria fellow did not…he did not touch you?”
    Vertical lines marred Marguerite-Josefina’s smooth forehead as her eyes narrowed. “I did not share his bed, Papa.” She heard the exhalation of breath across the space separating them. “Even though you claim I’ve dishonored the family’s name because I permitted myself to be photographed for all of Cuba to see, I would never defile my body by lying with a man who is not my husband.”
    Jose Luis slumped against his chair’s cushioned softness, smiling. What he feared most was his daughter bearing a child without benefit of marriage. Bringing his hands to his mouth in a prayerful gesture, he studied the feminine face that was an exact replica of his long-deceased wife. To say Marguerite-Josefina was beautiful was an understatement. She was tall for a woman, five-seven, and had a dimpled smile that could melt the coldest heart. She wore her coal-black hair either in a singlebraid or in a chignon when many women were now affecting shorter hairstyles and hemlines.
    “I suggest you take your siesta early because we’ve been invited to a farewell fiesta for Arturo and Hilda Moreno tonight.”
    Marguerite-Josefina felt a measure of triumph. Usually her father’s tongue-lashing tirades went on for at least half an hour. This one was less than ten minutes. She peered closely at him, wondering whether he was feeling poorly. But nothing in his appearance and manner indicated he was anything but healthy.
    “Are they really leaving Cuba to live in Switzerland?”
    Jose Luis inclined his head. “Yes. They’re scheduled to leave in three weeks.”
    She’d attempted to befriend the youngest Moreno daughter, but had found her as stimulating as a grain of uncooked rice. She’d even tried coaxing her to attend the universidad with her, but Elba was too timid to ask her father for his approval.
    Rising to