Sins of Omission (11 page)

“If you'd gone back, if you hadn't come after me…you'd have gotten the medic to help you quicker. You should have told me.”

“Daniel, listen to me. A life is more important than a set of eyes. I'd hate it if I was blind, but I'm not, and neither are you. If I had it to do over again, I'd do the same thing. You would have done the same for me.”

“I don't know about that. I probably would have been too scared. I'd have frozen on the spot.”

“That's what you say now. Back then you would have done what had to be done. So let's just drop it for now, okay? I think I'll try to read for another hour and then turn in. Mickey might quiz me tomorrow.” Reuben said with a crooked smile. “Have you ever read Zane Grey, Daniel?”

“Yes, but I can't say he's a favorite of mine. It's hard to believe Mickey likes that kind of writing. Sometimes I can't quite figure her out,” Daniel muttered, his eyes already on the book in his lap. But he was only pretending to read. Someday…

 

Mickey's surprise Thanksgiving feast stunned Reuben and Daniel.

“Is it a good surprise?” Mickey asked them. “Tell me the truth, is this like it is in America? I could do only what you described to me.”

“So that's why you asked all those questions.” Reuben grinned. “It's perfect. I've never seen so much food at one time. Who's going to carve this magnificent bird?”

“You are,
chéri.
I will show you how.” She felt so wonderful standing next to him as she instructed him how to carve into the bird and then slice down. They loved her surprise. Perhaps, though, it would make them sad thinking about America. But when she looked up at Reuben, there was no sadness in his eyes at all; they held only warmth, dark and gentle, the way they always did when he gazed at her with love. She released her breath with a soft
swooshing
sound.

Their plates filled, Mickey surveyed her guests. “A prayer for this bountiful table is in order. Daniel, will you do it?”

Daniel nodded. “Bless us, oh Lord, for this bountiful dinner.” It was a short blessing because he was starving. The Lord would understand.

An hour and a half later, the Three Musketeers retired to the library for their coffee and pie. Thirty minutes after that, they were sound asleep on their respective chairs.

When they woke, tired and sluggish, Mickey suggested a walk and elicited a promise that afterward, Reuben and Daniel would teach her how to play poker.

“For money?” Reuben queried playfully.

“But of course. It is no fun to play for matchsticks or raisins.”

Reuben grinned. “What do you say, Daniel, a little five-card stud?” Already the walk was forgotten.

“Sounds good to me. Shall I explain the rules?”

“I must warn you, I have never been lucky at cards,” Mickey said ruefully. Three hours later Daniel and Reuben were down twenty dollars. Mickey had won the last three pots, the first with an inside straight, then a flush, and finally a full house. She laughed gleefully as she recorded her winnings.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to get an inside straight?” Daniel grumbled. “And a full house. I've never had one of those.”

“Beginner's luck,” Mickey said charitably. “Tomorrow will you show me how to shoot the dice?”

“
Roll
the dice,” Reuben muttered. “I suppose you want to play that for money, too.” It wasn't exactly a question.

“If you want to play for raisins, it is all right with me. But money is so much more exciting,” Mickey teased, but then her eyes locked with Reuben's. “I'm tired. Winning money is an exhausting business. Good night,
chéris.
” She blew kisses in their general direction, then mounted the stairs to the second floor. Reuben grinned. No kiss on the cheek meant he was to join her when he was ready. There would be other, more meaningful kisses.

 

It was near midnight, the witching hour, when Reuben made his way down the hall to Mickey's room.

Mickey stood on the inside of the door, her ears attuned to her lover's footsteps. She sighed. At first she'd thought he wasn't going to come to her, but then she'd heard the water gurgling in the pipes and knew he was taking a bath. Earlier she'd done the same thing, just to be clean and fresh…for him. The door opened; she was in his arms and he was loving her.

The French silk robe fell open under his commanding fingers, and when he captured her breast, its pink nipple rose to greet him and bring him delight. Slowly he teased her ear with his tongue, following the pulse points to her neck and throat. He wanted her urgently, but he would take her slowly, deepening the pleasure. His hands traced the contours of her body, following its curves, caressing its hollows. He explored the depths of her mouth and the silkiness of her thighs. This was Mickey, his lover, as familiar to him now as the back of his hand and yet, somehow, always new territory to be charted.

Her emotions were charged, more finely tuned than ever before, and when he closed her hand over the proof of his desire, she communicated her own demands.

She hurried him with her kisses, excited him with her soft mewlings and murmurs, undulated beneath his caresses. She wanted him now, desperately. She felt she would erupt with a wildness too long contained. There would be time later for luxuriating in his arms, to have his hands soothe this fever, to have his lips take possession of her inch by inch. Now she needed completion.

Her thighs opened, her back arched, and he became a part of her. In the white heat of her passion she entrapped him, feeling him stroke within her, locking her legs behind his, to take him deeply inside her, where the warmth was building.

Her body exploded into thousands of shimmering, shattering jewels as the waves of her passion swept her under, and she rose to the surface crying Reuben's name over and over.

Spent, they lay back in the mound of soft pillows. Their mouths touched, tasting of each other. They lay naked together without benefit of covers, and when they sought each other again it was with tenderness. Their mouths were gentle, and their fingers softly caressed. And when their passions quickened, Reuben calmed her with his touch and crooned soft words of love.

His mouth became a part of hers, and her heart beat in a wild, broken rhythm. They strained toward each other, caught up in the designs of yearning. Together they mounted the obstacles of the flesh and joined breath and blood, flesh and spirit.

The day after Thanksgiving the air was cold and crisp. The sun shone in that particular light of late fall that was more silver than gold. Mickey and Reuben labored to polish the Citroën touring car on the pebbled apron outside the barn as the postman arrived. Mickey was on one side of the car and Reuben on the other, their eyes meeting every few seconds, their light laughter a pleasant sound in the afternoon quiet. Reuben's eyes adored Mickey. She had changed since those early days at the hospital. Gone was the sophisticated lady. Her preferred dress was casual, soft clothing that barely skimmed her figure. Her slacks, a revolutionary style she had adopted, were nipped at the waist and fell in long straight lines to her ankles, her round bottom accentuated by the clever fit and tailoring. Even her hair, newly coiffed with a little fringe of bangs and a coronet of braids, gave her an air of simplicity and freshness.

Mickey read the happiness in Reuben's eyes and took full responsibility. He'd told her earlier, when she'd handed him the polishing cloths, that he was happier than he'd ever been in his life thanks to her. “I don't ever want this to change!” he exclaimed, his eyes darkening. “Do you hear me, Mickey? Whatever it takes, whatever you want, I'll do it.”

She'd wanted to caution him, to admonish him, to say all those sophisticated and wise things she had been saying all along, but she couldn't. In just a matter of weeks all her resolve had fallen away. Her own gaze was as intense and passionate as Reuben's, but still she had difficulty with the words.

“Smile, Mickey,” Reuben said quietly. “At me, not at the postman.” And she'd rewarded him with a dazzling smile that warmed his heart.

“Numbers,” she murmured as she sifted through the pile of letters.

“Only if you make it an issue,” Reuben said forcefully. “You know it doesn't make any difference to me. When are you going to get that through your head? It doesn't matter,” he said, enunciating each word carefully.

“For now, no, it doesn't matter. But later?” She shrugged. There was a desperation in her voice, a sadness in her eyes. She wanted to believe him and she did, for now. But later…what then?

As if reading her thoughts: “Later, you and I are going to have a talk, the conversation you always avoid because you are afraid to hear what I have to say. You, Michelene Fonsard, are a coward,” Reuben said heatedly when he saw her shaking her head. “Later, I want it settled between us.”

“Yes, yes. Later we will talk. It is a
promesse.
Continue with the Citroën while I take the post into the house. There is a letter from America which I must read. Would you like me to bring you an apple when I return?”

“Two,” Reuben said. “We'll sit in the hay and eat them together.”

Mickey chuckled. “You are a hopeless romantic, my love. But I will bring them.”

Reuben continued his labors on the car, his movements fast and furious as his arms reached for the center of the hood. He wanted his position settled, once and for all. If Mickey wouldn't or couldn't come to terms with him, then he and Daniel would have to leave. He wouldn't be jerked about like a puppet on a string.

His arms trembled with the exertion. The thought that kept creeping into his head surfaced again: He wanted to marry Mickey Fonsard. He didn't care about age, all he wanted was to be near her, to be able to love her. To awaken beside her, to find her across the table from him, to reach out and touch her when they sat before the fire. And then the niggling inner voice attacked him:
What happens to your dreams of making it on your own? Of becoming successful in your own right? You want power and wealth.
Your own
power and wealth. Someday you'll want children and Mickey can't give you that.

“There're orphans!” Reuben shouted, the sound of his voice echoing off the side of the barn.

Which do you want more?
the voice whispered.
Mickey or the freedom
to
find your own future?

“Shut up,” Reuben answered through clenched teeth. “It's not that simple. This is now. I have the rest of my life for all that other stuff.”

But what about Mickey? Every day she grows older…older…older.

Reuben shivered despite the heavy wool sweater he wore. His attention wandered from the polishing. Little puffs of vaporized breath escaped his lips into the cold air.

A parade of chickens trekked past him. He wondered inanely if it was a family or just a bunch of chickens taking a walk. He dropped the cloth he was holding and watched the chickens. Where were they going, and why were they in a group?

Numbers…Him and Daniel. Him and Mickey and Daniel. A unit, a family. Man didn't do it alone. Somewhere, someplace, there was always a woman. That didn't mean he couldn't do it on his own. It just meant it would be easier if there was someone to share with. The chickens scattered; wings flapped, and gravel spurted behind them. Disgust showed on Reuben's face. So much for chickens and families.

Mickey settled herself in the kitchen with a cup of tea. First she opened the letter from Sol Rosen. A vague feeling of foreboding washed over her as she unfolded the crackly paper. Bebe was due to arrive within the week.

Mickey straightened the pages on the table. The letter was in Sol's handwriting, tight and cramped.

Mickey read the letter a second and third time. It sounds, she mused, like Bebe needs a keeper. Sol must be in quite a state. To admit he had failed with his daughter and had made some bad business decisions made the matter doubly serious.

For a moment Mickey almost forgot the jealousy she'd felt at having a pretty young lady as her guest. From what Sol was saying, Bebe didn't sound like she'd be much of a companion for serious-minded Daniel. What in the name of God was she to do with her at the château? Paris and the town house would undoubtedly suit Bebe better, but there she'd need a chaperone. Mickey shuddered to think how that would shatter her present blossoming idyll.

Curious now, she turned the bank draft over in her hands. Money enough for two years!
Mon Dieu!
Sol must be desperate.

Her head was beginning to pound, the usual painful indication that she was upset. First Reuben with his need for a commitment, and now this. Perhaps she should settle things with Reuben first and go on from there. Reuben would be happy. She would be…happier?

With a sigh, Mickey rose from the table and stuffed the letter, envelope, and all behind a stack of heavy mixing bowls in the cupboard. Reuben would come looking for her soon, and she didn't want him to see her agitation. She was supposed to take something to him. What was it?…Ah, yes, apples. Ripe, juicy apples.

“It's about time!” Reuben called cheerfully as he watched her walking toward him, rubbing the apples on her sides to bring up their shine. “I was about to call out the gendarmes.”

“I had to go all the way to the root cellar for these,” she teased, holding up her gifts. “Here is your apple, darling.” She tossed one of the rosy treasures to Reuben, who caught it deftly. “You look frozen, Reuben. Look how red your hands are. Come, let's go into the barn, where it's warm and we can talk. Bring the lap robe from the backseat.”

Reuben's heart thudded. Mickey was finally going to talk to him about their situation. At once he felt giddy and fearful.

Minutes later they were settled comfortably in a mound of sweet-smelling hay, the lap robe over them. Overhead the sun shot through the ceiling-high window, lacing them with streaks of pure gold. Now that her mind was made up to talk to Reuben, Mickey felt relaxed. Her features were softer, her eyes warmer, her touch more gentle as she leaned against him.

Reuben was aware of all these changes and certain now that he was making the right decision. “I want to marry you,” he blurted out.

Mickey was silent for a few moments. Idly she let her fingers trail through Reuben's thick dark hair while she composed her answer. “Darling, there's nothing I would like more, but it cannot be. What we have is so precious, I cannot take the chance that we'd ruin this wonderful feeling. Marriage, I'm afraid, would make all the difference in the world. The difference in our ages matters.” She hushed him gently with her fingertips to his lips before she continued. “One very special reason is the most important one to face: I can't give you children, and one day, my darling, you will want children. Because I love you, I cannot take that away from you. Yes, you heard me right, I love you. I never thought I would say those words to any man, much less one half my age. I do love you, with all my heart.”

“I don't care about children. I can always adopt children. I want
you.
I want us to grow old together.” He hadn't meant to say that, hadn't even thought about it, and now, as he read Mickey's face, he wished he could take the words back. Old age for him was so far into the future it didn't even bear thinking about. Mickey's old age was…closer at hand.

“Ah, you see, it creeps in in soft, subtle ways. It will always be there, pushed far back into your mind until I do something to anger you or if I displease you and the devil will let you pull it out. In the beginning it won't matter too much, but later, when it happens more often, you will start to pay attention and wish you had done so much earlier. It's enough for me, Reuben, that I can admit to you openly, to say the words aloud, that I love you as I've loved no other man, and I'm sure I will never, ever, love this way again. Now that I've said the words, you don't appear to like them. You are scowling,
chéri.
”

He was scowling. He felt angry, but he didn't know exactly why. She was telling him what he had wanted to hear these past weeks. In her own way she was allowing him to see her vulnerability, the nakedness of her emotions, something she'd guarded so carefully.

“That pretty much makes me a gigolo, doesn't it,” he said in a flat, emotionless tone. “I'm living off you, and so is Daniel. The word
protégé
is far too generous. I really haven't done much now, have I? I've taken you to bed, made love to you, eaten your food, drunk your wine, polished your car, and lazed about. I really haven't contributed much. In fact, I haven't contributed anything.”

Mickey untangled herself from the lap robe and leaned up on one elbow. Her eyes were hot and smoky-looking in the sunbeam-laden shadows of the barn. “Never a gigolo, Reuben. My lover,
oui.
I understand why you think like this and how you must feel. I can't change circumstances. But I can refute what you say about not contributing. Who is with me when I see to the cellars, the account books, speak with my men in the fields? You. Who helps me in a thousand and one other ways in my other administrative chores? You! Anyway, I want to give to you, I must give to you. That's how I show my love.” Her eyes clouded momentarily. “I've taken your love, love that should have been saved for that special woman who will be at your side, bearing your children and walking beside you as you climb the ladder to success. I don't know if it was wrong of me or not. Selfish, of course. What are we to do, Reuben? Think logically and help me to understand what we should do.”

It was hard for Reuben to get the words past his lips, but he had to say them. “How long am I to stay here? Till you get tired of me? No lies, Mickey. I heard the stories about you before I came here. They said when you tire of your lovers, you send them off with a fistful of francs and a jewel. Is that what you'll do to me? I can't even get Daniel and myself back to America. I need to earn money. I can't just keep taking from you. For Daniel, yes; for myself, no.”

Tears burned Mickey's eyes. “I'm not buying you, Reuben. Yes, I did that with one or two others. However, I never told them I loved them, nor did I pretend. It was what it was. The francs and the jewels were so they would have a nest egg. Or perhaps I hoped they would keep the jewel to remember me. I could never send you away. When it is time to leave, it will be you who will make the decision. I love you too much, I am too selfish to send you off. As for your passage to America, if you decide to return, I will lend you the money at an agreed-upon interest rate. I trust you to pay me back. If you stay, your business is helping me with the management of the wineries. I will have my ‘right hand,' and you will have a ‘position.' I'll pay you a salary. If you can't see yourself doing that, I can send you to Paris to look after several shops I have there. You can stay in my town house. Tell me what you think.”