Sins of Omission (12 page)

“I think you are trying to push me away…manage a Paris shop,” he said with contempt. “And when will I see you? At your convenience?”

“I will not dignify that remark with an answer.”

“I want you to marry me.”

“I think you want too much. One never, ever, gets the whole pie. Only pieces, and some only get slivers. You see, what we have now is best. If there are to be changes, you will be the one to make them. You needn't feel pressured. For myself, I could go on for the rest of my life like this.” Thinking about her last statement, Mickey knew it for the awful lie it was. How very difficult it was to be young.

Reuben felt as though he'd been kicked in the stomach.

Mickey could not bear to see the torment and defeat in his eyes. She pulled him to her and laid his head on her breast. “Life is never easy,
chéri.
I learned in my life that one must take happiness where one finds it. You don't look back nor do you look forward. Enjoy it now because it may…Never mind,
chéri.
I love you and you love me. That is all we have to concern ourselves with. Ah, and we must remember our friend, Daniel. He is so happy, and we, you and I, are the cause of it. You and I together are lighting up the world for that young man. If you give him more time here, he will be better prepared to continue his studies and realize his dream. Perhaps what we should both do for now is think of Daniel and what is best for him. That way, neither of us will lose. But we must both agree. And after we agree, we must finish polishing the car.” She tickled him under the chin, her eyes sparkling, until he laughed, a deep resonant sound she loved to hear.

The bad moments were over—but not forgotten. On the other side of the car, as Mickey put her final efforts into the motions of her hands on the polishing cloth, her heart fluttered wildly. Just a few more days.

Sixteen-year-old Bebe Rosen, all ninety-three pounds of her, arrived in Le Havre aboard the SS
Americus
days after her father's letter was delivered to Mickey Fonsard.

Bebe Rosen was thought to be a beautiful young lady, a consensus with which Bebe herself wholeheartedly agreed. She was just five feet tall, but gifted with those long, elegant bones that lend gracefulness and the appearance of height: of course, as might be expected in one so young and lively, she added to this illusion with outrageous high-heeled shoes. Most of her fellow passengers on the
Americus
thought her to be at least twenty years old, and because of the color of her hair, which could be compared to the palest sunbeam, they had dubbed her “Golden Girl,” a title she loved. Her eyes were electric, green as bottle glass, fringed with a lush double row of dark eyelashes and crowned with fine arched brows. Her high cheekbones, always lightly dusted with pink rouge, gave definition to her delicate nose. Her jaw was sharply carved and served to enhance the elegance of her incredibly long neck. Lips, full, ripe, and rouged, would part to reveal small, perfectly aligned white teeth.

Bebe wasn't just beautiful, she was elegant and sophisticated, an ethereal, pale vision that suggested vulnerability and fragility that only heightened her charms. She demanded compliments and adoration the way a baby demands its bottle and its mother's arms.

Her crossing had been first class, naturally, and she had let it be known from the instant she'd placed her foot aboard the luxury liner that her father was a famous American filmmaker. There was already a certain aura of glamour attached to the West Coast movie business, and this announcement provided Bebe with instant popularity and the best seat in the dining room. She also had a bevy of eligible young men flitting about like bees to a flower. In spite of her youth, Bebe already knew how to use this power to get what she wanted.

She lied about her age whenever it suited her, and on the voyage across the Atlantic it suited her perfectly. Cocktails would be served to a young woman of twenty, milk to a child of sixteen. She lied about other things, too. For example, she said her brother was a famous lawyer who ran the legal department at Fairmont Studios, the family enterprise. She lied and said she'd been in several movies herself, and these exaggerations made her listeners believe that Fairmont was a first-rate studio instead of the third-rate quickie grinder that it was. She lied about her friendships with famous actresses and actors and hinted that certain male stars had courted her with gifts too valuable to mention.

Even the stodgy captain of the
Americus
had fallen under Bebe's wily charms and asked her to talk her father into making a film aboard his ship; naturally, he'd gladly play the role of captain. She'd humored him. Later, dazzling listeners with a merry smile and mischievous eyes, she had called him a fat old man with bad breath, so ugly he'd break the camera lens.

Bebe Rosen had been the darling of the crossing. It had been a gay crowd to begin with because of the Armistice and the promise of a return to normalcy at last. And if she had left any young man's heart shattered, she could not have cared less. What she did care about were the darting, envious glances of all the other women aboard the liner.

She was already a little tipsy on champagne when she tripped down the gangplank in her high heels, waving a gay au revoir to one and all. Her eyes searched for Aunt Mickey's solicitor, who was to escort her to the railway station to book her passage to Marseilles. First class, of course, complete with sleeping berth, which she would not need during the three-hour trip, and a private sitting room.

It was a beautiful day for late November, crisp and cold with a bright sun warming the passengers still milling about the pier. Bebe smiled, wishing she were going along with the crowd to Paris. The pier was mostly quiet now, with all of the baggage having been sent on to different hotels or stored in automobiles waiting to take the last departing passengers to their destinations. A lone gull dove low, its wings spread, but as it neared land suddenly it swooped upward again. It appeared lonely, Bebe thought, almost as lonely as she felt. Damn, where was that attorney who was to meet her? She felt foolish as she tapped her foot, first in annoyance and then in anger.

As the minutes ticked by she grew more nervous and felt more abandoned. She wasn't afraid of the dark, not really. Back in California she thought nothing of going from one party to the next at midnight. But California was her territory, her place. This was a foreign country filled with people who hardly spoke her own language. What if she missed her train? Mickey would be worried. If Sol knew she'd been left standing on an abandoned pier, he'd have a fit, too. Perhaps she should throw a tantrum, her usual course of action when things didn't go her way. She glanced around again at the almost deserted harbor. A family of five, obviously waiting for someone to meet them, stood in a cluster off to the side. She'd seen the plump woman on the ship eyeing her coat and probably comparing it with her own mink. She'd been dressed to the nines with jewels and shimmering dresses that did nothing for her sallow complexion and horsey teeth. The woman's husband had flirted with Bebe every time his wife's back was turned. Bebe snorted in disgust. Men were all alike—tomcats.

Twenty minutes later an old man shuffled toward her. Effusively apologetic, he introduced himself, saying he had experienced car trouble. He was as old as God, Bebe thought. Just like Aunt Mickey to send some old creature to take all the fun out of her travels. Mickey was acting on Sol's orders, of course.

This trip was in fact a punishment for associating with the wrong type of people. Ha! If her father wanted to believe she was romantically involved with gangsters, let him. All she'd done was party and have fun. It was Eli, her brother, who was up to his neck in trouble. Perhaps it was a good thing she'd come over here now. If Eli was going to go to jail, she didn't want to be around when the mud began to fly.

Bebe smiled in the darkness of the Daimler. Not only had she wanted a trip to Europe, but she'd also gotten the Russian lynx coat she'd been eating her heart out for. If a dashing young Frenchman swept her off her feet, Sol would have no one to blame but himself.

Closing her eyes, she conjured up an image of Mickey. The last time Bebe had seen her aunt she'd been only seven or so, just a little girl. A wealth of dark hair and laughing eyes, gold earrings, and a smile always on her face. Bebe had liked Mickey, that much she remembered. A free spirit, Sol called his cousin. A wealthy free spirit. Often, when Sol was angry, he would compare Bebe with Mickey. Secretly, Bebe accepted it as a compliment.

Squirming down into the seat, Bebe imagined the wonderful time she'd have with Mickey. They'd go to bistros, have parties, and she would be introduced to wealthy and glamorous Frenchmen. She completely ignored the trunk filled with lesson books and the promise of a private tutor. It would be easy to get around Mickey.

Back in California there were people who had unflattering things to say about Bebe. She knew the names they called her behind her back—and it wasn't just the newspaper reporters, but her friends as well. It was her own fault. She had never bothered to defend herself against the image the reporters presented. Deep inside she wasn't anything like the person they portrayed. She was lonely and she was bored. Going to parties and flirting with her beaux was her only fun. Eli was always off doing something or other that would eventually lead to trouble. Sol was always at the studio, often later than midnight. The housekeeper didn't care what she did or where she went. Quite simply, no one cared about Bebe Rosen.

“Poor little rich girl,” that's how she thought of herself when she lay in bed at night.

Someday she would meet a young man who would sweep her off her feet and love her for all of her life. They would have children whom they would both adore. It wouldn't matter what he did for a living; he could be a shoe salesman or sell insurance, anything, just so long as he loved her and loved her. It wouldn't matter if they had an ordinary life, he would be her Prince Charming come to rescue her from this loneliness. Or perhaps they would live on the English moors; she would be Cathy to his Heathcliff. Romantic notions played in her head. One day she would be Cinderella and the next Cleopatra, but always there was some man, handsome and good, there to save her, to love her.

Eli called her a spoiled brat. She never bothered to explain to her brother that her selfish ways and temper tantrums were a defense against feeling lost and alone. It was an attitude that crept up on her, and she didn't know how or when it began. She had no inclination to change. It was enough for her to know that inside she wasn't any of those things people said about her. She was Bebe Rosen, and she ached. To reveal herself would be agony; to hide behind this facade was safety. She never knew what was expected of her, so she never seemed to fit in or belong. Confusion was a way of life for Bebe, never knowing or understanding who or what she was supposed to be.

Even now, jouncing along in the Daimler, she felt she had to decide who she was supposed to be before she met with Mickey. Was she going to be Bebe Rosen who cared only for herself? Or could she chance being herself, the little girl inside, the shy sixteen-year-old who desperately wanted a new beginning?

Party girl, she decided. It was safer. If the time came when she had to tone down her image, she could do it overnight. Her father said Mickey liked fun and excitement. If she allowed her vulnerabilities to show, Mickey might leave her out and attend parties and social functions without her, burdening her with school lessons and a stodgy old tutor. Mickey was expecting a handful, Bebe knew. Why disappoint her? Besides, who in his right mind could fault this beautiful Golden Girl with the laughing eyes and charming smile?

“Monsieur, do you know why I'm to go to Marseilles instead of Paris? I thought my aunt would be living in Paris,” Bebe said, leaning over the seat.

“Madame Fonsard felt safer at the small château. She is a loyal Frenchwoman and felt she could do more for the war effort from there. She seems to prefer the château these days to Paris. She leads a quiet life. The war is a reminder to us all to treasure those things and the way of life that means the most to us. You'll enjoy the village, mademoiselle.”

“Doesn't she ever go into Paris?” Bebe questioned, disappointed.

“For the moment, mademoiselle, her attentions are not there. As her
avoué,
I can handle most things for her.” His voice was creaky, like a hinge needing oil. If this man was Mickey's attorney, Bebe felt sorry for her aunt. Her father would have put the old man out to pasture a long time ago. But she was in France now and would have to learn new ways and new approaches to doing things. And it really wasn't any of her business what her aunt did. Unless, of course, it affected her own whims and desires in some way.

For the first time Bebe felt a chill of fear. What if her aunt didn't like her? Most adults didn't for some reason. Worse yet, what if she didn't like her aunt? What if her aunt didn't have the maternal qualities that she craved? Make the best of things and cut her visit as short as possible—if her father would allow the visit to be cut short.

A château in the country. That meant no bright lights and no parties. She'd read a book once about a young girl who was sent away to an old aunt in the country, and her only entertainment was taking long walks and gathering leaves to paste in a book. Bebe shuddered. She just knew she would die of boredom.

In California her life had been wildly exciting even during those times when the school principal suspended her for smoking in the girls' bathroom, kissing boys in the hall, and generally acting like a hoyden. School, discipline, and authority were simply not enjoyable. She was bright and intelligent, more so than most of the youngsters in her class, and it was a simple matter to catch up in her studies after one of her numerous expulsions.

Bebe kicked off her red shoes and curled her legs under her. She wished she had something to hug to her chest, something warm and alive to squeeze her back. Tears pricked her eyes. It was always like this when she started to think too heavily. It was so much easier to laugh and carry on because your heart didn't ache even if you were just pretending to be happy. Please, she prayed silently, let Mickey like me and let me like her in return.

“How much farther is it?” Bebe asked the lawyer.

“Not too much longer, Miss Rosen. We'll be there before you know it.”

The old man irritated Bebe. She'd asked him a simple direct question and he'd responded the way her father had when she was six years old. He probably thought her dimwitted. Wearily, she shook her head. There was no point in trying to carry on a conversation with him, she decided; because of his age he couldn't do two things at once even if one of the things was talking and the other was driving the stupid car. She slumped back onto her seat and thought about the racy friends she'd left behind in California.