Sins of Omission (22 page)

Anger sparked and then flared in Daniel's eyes. Firmly he reached for Bebe's arm and made her face him. “Don't ever say something like that and then turn away. Reuben is my friend, and he will always be my friend. I want you for a friend, too, but I'm sick of the way…what the hell is it you want that you're not getting? What is it you expect from everyone?”

“Just shut up, Daniel. Just shut up. I'm going home,” she cried, wrenching her arm from his grip. Confused, Jake sat between them, his big brown eyes curious.

“Run away, that's your answer to everything,” Daniel said. “As soon as something doesn't go your way, you run and hide. You can't have Reuben. You can't always get what you want. Life isn't always generous. Remember that, Bebe.”

Daniel's words had held her, an unwilling captive, just a few steps from where he stood. “I didn't ask for your advice,” she replied belligerently, “and none of what you said is true.”

With an arrogant toss of her head, she flounced ahead of him, Jake nipping at her heels. Daniel followed behind. He'd had enough of Bebe Rosen for one night. Twice she turned to see if he was following her. Once she stuck her tongue out at him, and the other time she rolled her eyes heavenward.

True to her word, the following morning Bebe sent a cable to her father. The remainder of the day she was perky and full of smiles. “You'll see, Daniel, my father will put Mickey in her place once and for all and allow me to go home, or else he'll forbid me to go to London.”

When the response to her cable arrived three days later, Bebe locked herself in her room and wouldn't come out. Predictably, she refused dinner and wouldn't open the door even to Daniel. Reuben's threats of breaking the door down met with silence. Mickey calmed him and suggested they give her some time to herself.

Bebe Rosen was making a statement.

“This is ridiculous,” Mickey said two days later. “The child is starving herself. How am I to explain this to her father? What in the world is wrong with her? I never behaved like this when I was her age. She must be sick!” Her voice was anxious, her face full of concern.

“Bebe won't starve; she's just being a stubborn, obnoxious child. Leave her alone. Obviously she wants to be by herself, and this is her way of telling you she doesn't want to go to England. You can either give in to her or else let her sweat in her room. If you want, I'll take the hinges off the door. It's up to you,” Reuben said, his cold voice belying his true feelings.

“Two days! What must be going through that head of hers.
Mon Dieu!
”

 

The following afternoon, after returning from his classes at the Sorbonne, Daniel climbed the steps to the second floor and rapped softly on Bebe's door. “Bebe, it's Daniel. Please, may I come in?”

To his utter surprise, the door opened and Bebe stood there, frowning at him. “Well, don't stand there. Come in. You wanted in, didn't you?”

It was such a pretty, soothing room. He could see how she'd be able to stay here indefinitely. The window was open, allowing for the slight spring breeze to lift the sheer curtains in a gentle dance. Then he detected the stale cigarette smoke, two empty wine bottles standing on the end of the dresser, and plates of half-eaten food sitting at the edge of her dressing table. She must have foraged late at night.

“Why are you hiding in here? What happened?”

Bebe wrinkled her nose, then rummaged in a drawer. Only when she handed him the pink cable from her father did he notice the trembling in her hands, the tears forming on her thick lashes.

Daniel unfolded the pink paper. The message was so short he found himself blinking in surprise as he read it again out loud.

“You thought he would intervene or allow you to sail home.” It was a statement rather than a question.

Bebe nodded miserably. “No one cares about me. Even my own father. It's…a conspiracy,” she cried, wiping at her tears.

“Maybe it's parental caring,” Daniel said in a conciliatory tone.

Bebe's eyes blazed. “He doesn't want me home. Someday, Daniel, you are going to agree with me on something, and that will be the day you shock the bloomers right off my behind. Don't blush, only girls and virgins blush,” she retorted irritably.

The ring of heat around Daniel's neck subsided. God, he hated it when she tried to shock him. If he was more worldly, he'd be able to give back as good as he got. Instead, he stood shuffling his feet like some ten-year-old caught doing something wrong.

At last, hesitantly, he sat down on the edge of the bed. “You are in such a hurry to get to tomorrow, you're missing today and yesterday.”

“Sometimes,” Bebe said sadly, “you just get tired of trying.”

“But if you give up…what's left?”

“I don't know. Endless days, parties, sweet…little lies. I'm not a fortune-teller, how do I know?” she said defensively. “You're the smart one, you figure it out.”

“Bebe, you can be whatever you want to be. You don't have to live that fast life. You have a good start here. Change, make something of yourself. You'll be going home soon enough, and I'll bet you no sooner get home than you'll wish you were back here.”

“Sure. Daniel.” There was no enthusiasm in the girl's voice.

 

The following morning Mickey and Bebe left the house early to shop for a new wardrobe. “Whatever you want, within reason,” Mickey told the girl with an indulgent smile. In reality, she was so relieved that everything was all right, she would have promised the moon.

When they returned, loaded down with boxes of every size and shape, Bebe's face glowed. Reuben had to admit that spending money, regardless of the amount, made her radiant, so spontaneous and happy it was hard not to fall prey to her charm.

Bebe Rosen operated on the give-to-Bebe-and-Bebe-gets system: give her what she wanted, and she would give you what you thought you wanted. Bebe always seemed to win, one way or another.

It was a black, silky night, the heavens shot with millions of tiny diamonds. It was late, and the walk Reuben and Mickey were taking was something she had suggested just as they were about to go upstairs. Reuben didn't mind, he thought it rather romantic. A perfect prelude, really, to their lovemaking. For hours he'd thought of nothing but Mickey, and now that he was walking alongside her, holding her hand, he felt closer to her than if they were in bed next to each other. Less is sometimes more, Mickey was fond of saying, and he believed it. Tonight was a perfect example.

“I think Bebe is settled, at least for now. We had a wonderful day today, Reuben. There were times when she even turned down something I wanted to buy for her. She'd say she didn't need it or could make do with what she had. For a little while, when she was being particularly loving, I felt like I had a daughter. It was a very nice feeling…. I can feel you frowning, darling. What is it? Still the animosity with Bebe, eh? Well, I can't say I blame you. I know how difficult it's been for you, poor darling. When Bebe sees you sweat, that's when she moves in. I think sometimes it's a question of power.”

“We spend too much damn time worrying about Bebe. If we aren't worrying about her, we're talking about her. She's with us physically or mentally twenty-four hours a day,” Reuben groused. “I can't wait till she leaves.”

Mickey squeezed his hand. “She's a child,
chéri.
We've gone over this so many times already.”

“Even Daniel is fed up with her. So can we please talk about something else?”

“What would you like to talk about?” Mickey asked huskily.

“My favorite topic of conversation is you…us…but I need to know more about the wine industry if I'm to make your world mine.”

Mickey was aghast. “You want to talk about wine on a beautiful night like this! You can't have everything yesterday, Reuben. When my husband died, he still didn't know all there was to know of the grape. Every day it is something new. My people will have to teach you, I will make sure of that.” And then when you learn all there is to learn, you will decide to go back to America, she said to herself. “It could take years,
chéri.
Years!” she heard herself say.

Reuben stopped and drew her to him, staring down into her eyes. “I have all the time in the world, my whole life. I want to spend it here with you.” His voice was so intense, so passionate. Mickey drew back in surprise.

“But your country…you are an American. In time you will come to miss all you left behind.”

“I can always go back to visit. There's nothing there for me. Why do you keep throwing obstacles at me? Do you want me to get angry and leave?”

Mickey's heart fluttered. “No.
chéri,
that is not what I want at all. When a seed of fear creeps into my mind I must mention it, talk about it. I am a woman,” she said simply, as if that explained everything.

Reuben shrugged. This was the way it always ended. If he pursued it, the rest of the evening would be ruined. He knew when to let go.

They walked lazily, their hands entwined and swinging between them. They were in no hurry to get to the end of the long, curving road. Later they would make a mad dash for the house and race up the stairs.

Mickey leaned into him, her mouth open and avid under his. She could feel his shudders—or were they her own?

“This night was made for us,” Reuben said against her cheek. “But,” he said, a chuckle in his voice, “I prefer the comfort of a bed with you next to me. Let's see how fast our feet can get us back to the house.”

They were breathless when they crept up the stairs to Mickey's room. As they embraced just inside her bedroom door, Reuben thought his heart would burst with happiness. Mickey wanted him. She loved him. Nothing in his life up to now, nothing to come, could ever take away or replace this feeling. To be loved by this wonderful, passionate woman was the single most important thing in the world. Money, power, worldly goods, all were simple additions to fulfillment in life. For without Mickey, what did they all matter?

Reuben kissed her, but he knew once would never be enough for him. He wanted to cover her body with his lips, to hear her cry out in pleasure, to hear her beg for more. She pressed against him now, urging his passion, but he pulled free and led her to the bed. They shed their clothing, their eyes never wavering from each other. When they slipped between the satin sheets, their sighs mingled, soft and expectant.

In one graceful motion she turned and shifted closer so that his hands could circle the soft mounds of her breasts. His palms cupped them, fingers teasing until their crests became hard and thrusting.

Desire rode him like a wild stallion as she moaned. Unbearable, sweet pain was all he could feel. She teased him then, her mouth against his, her tongue darting in and out, seeking the warm, moist recesses, lingering until it was she who cried out. She was on top of him now, warm and insistent as she covered his face with kisses, nuzzling his neck, nibbling his ears. Rumbling sounds of pleasure from deep in his chest drove her on.

“Open your eyes,” Reuben said, pulling back from her. “Look at us.” She glanced down at their joining and saw him hard and glistening before he drew her close again. She smiled in the near darkness and knew there were tears on her cheeks, and on Reuben's as well. This perfect moment, this perfect joining, waiting for release was so exquisite she thought she couldn't bear it another second.

Her body was feverish as she pressed against him, demanding that he release her from the exquisite, piercing torture. He was murmuring into the silky curve of her throat, words he'd said before and words he'd say again, their secret words, full of love and promise.

Reuben reached to encircle her waist. Tightening his hold, he rolled her over to tower above her, his chiseled face staring down into her passion-blind eyes. She was writhing against him now; soft, sensual whimpers of pleasure escaped from her lips. Her breath came in tiny gasps at each slow downward thrust. Pearls of sweat dotted his brow, dropped to his lashes and then onto her face. She struggled to see him clearly, but in the end surrendered to the pleasure he was giving her.

They cried out their ecstasy in unison, their hunger for each other appeased…for the moment.

Reuben's last conscious thought before falling into a deep sleep was that he could allow nothing to destroy this happiness.

 

Reuben woke to the quiet sounds of the night. He lay silent, savoring the feel of Mickey's warm thigh against his. He loved waking up like this, knowing if he wanted to, he could rouse her from sleep and do whatever pleased him. She was always a willing partner, more often than not initiating their lovemaking in the middle of the night or early morning, right before he left for his own bed.

He didn't want to go back to his own room. He wanted to lie there and do nothing but think about everything and nothing.

If Mickey would just give him his way, he knew he could learn the wine business and make hers the best in all of France. Oh, she said she was giving him all the leeway he needed, but he wasn't so sure. She was always there, looking over his shoulder, and in a way he couldn't blame her. The only things he had going for him were his ambition to make a success of his efforts—and youth. He remembered how Mickey had frowned when he'd asked her to consider the wine catalog he wanted to draw up. “We have to show our wares,” he'd insisted. “No one buys a pig in a poke.” He'd almost had her convinced when he'd mentioned brandies and cognac. Then her frown had returned, deeper. For the time being, he'd let that alone, but he knew he would get back to it.

Château Fonsard consisted of 62 hectares, or 155 acres, of vineyards. Château Michelene, the second vineyard, had been given to Mickey by her husband on their wedding day. She had explained that it was a long-standing tradition for the owner to join his name to the established title of the property. Although Fonsard was larger, both vineyards were prosperous.

The routine at the vineyards, Reuben found, was always the same. The grapes were picked, destalked, and crushed. Then nature took over, but always under constant watch.

He understood the time-honored technique; the wine was made in oak vats,
cuvier,
and allowed to ferment for ten days before it was run off the skins; then the skins were pressed. If the weather was too hot and the fermentation generated too much heat, it had to be cooled by watering down the
cuves
with cool water or, in an emergency, with blocks of ice.

From the
cuvier
the wine was pumped into another vat made of cement, to sit for two weeks before it was
débourbé
—pumped of its heaviest sediment into another cask; then it spent the winter in this particular cask, going through its secondary, or malolactic, fermentation, which rid it of malic acid, making it taste less harsh. Usually a secondary fermentation did not start until March, when the sap rose in the vines. In February the wine was pumped into hogsheads in the first-year
chai.
It stayed in the first-year
chai
for a full twelve months, where it was constantly topped up and occasionally racked into a fresh vat, in some years fermenting slightly on through summer.

The following year it was moved into the second-year
chai,
where it was bunged tight and left to mature for two years, after which it was ready for bottling.

It all seemed simple enough. Reuben was certain he could master it if he put his mind to it. Maybe he was making a mistake in wanting to take over the operation of the two wineries. If he concentrated just on selling and shipping the finest of both vineyards, that might be enough to keep him busy night and day. Still, how could he do justice to selling and shipping if he didn't understand the entire process? Mickey had shared the basics with him, but she admitted she still didn't know everything, and often she had to rely on the opinions of those in her employ who were more experienced.
“Chéri,”
she'd said, “I have more than enough money to last me the rest of my life. I can, after all, sleep in only one bed, eat off one table, drive one motorcar, and buy just so many clothes. It is not really important for me to make the vineyards more productive than they already are. I enjoy my work, but I refuse to be a slave to a business. But if you are happy doing this, we will make some sort of monetary arrangement that is profitable to both of us.” He'd let it drop but hadn't given up. He'd pored over books, watched the workers at Château Fonsard, and studied the vines until he got dizzy.

Reuben could feel his shoulders start to tighten. This always happened when he got deeply engrossed in all he had to learn—so much, in fact, he worried that he might not be up to it. Other times he was so confident he thought he would explode with all he was absorbing.

Mickey woke, instantly aware that Reuben was wide awake. What was he thinking, she wondered. And why hadn't he nuzzled her neck the way he usually did when he woke in the middle of the night? She opened one eyelid to peer at the clock in the little table by her bed. It was five minutes past four.

“Is something wrong, Reuben?” she asked quietly.

“No. I don't know why I woke up. I wasn't dreaming. I was just lying here thinking about your vineyards and how much there is to learn. You looked so peaceful, I didn't want to disturb you.”

“I don't mind.” She rose on one elbow, her index finger trailing along his cheek. “Would you like to talk about it,
chéri?
Although I think on this subject you have already picked my brain clean.”

Reuben laughed, a rueful sound. “I realize I'm not going to be out there pruning the vines and picking the grapes, but I should know…I want to know all I can learn about wine.” He hunkered down, eager to share his thoughts with her. “For instance, if the grapes are picked too early, they give a more acid wine, right?” He didn't wait for her answer. “Then they need more time to mature in the cask. There are some people who like the oak flavor and some who don't. It's like you're damned if you do and damned if you don't. Why would someone pick the grapes too early?” Again he hurried on. “Mickey, your château manager told me that the grapes are picked when they get sticky. Surely there must be a better way to judge the ripeness than stickiness.”

“That's how Jacques did it. My managers are just doing what he did. If you can come up with a better way, I'm sure they'll be amenable. The vines and the grapes are their life.

“My husband told me fifty years ago he saw men cry and kill themselves because of the phylloxera insect. It lives in the roots of the vine and kills it. Almost all the European vineyards were destroyed. The vintners had to pull each vine and replace it with a clean new cutting. It was a terrible time and one he said he'd never forget. We all talk about it and worry that it could happen again. We must be careful so the parent plant stays healthy. Tell me, did you like the winemaker's calendar I made up for you?”

Reuben laughed. “Yes, and I know why you did it.”

“Oh, and why is that?” Mickey drawled lazily.

“You wanted me to see how time-consuming the business is and how busy I'll be.”

“You are always one step ahead of me. Jacques made one up for me after we were first married. Again, you see. I was forever complaining that I was left alone. He made little drawings to show me how complex the work was. Even though I was young I understood. And what do you remember of the calendar?”

Reuben buried his face in her hair and repeated the litany of the wine grower. “January, pruning starts on St. Vincent's Day. Barrels of new wine must be kept full to the top and their bungs wiped every day with solution. If the weather is dry, the wine can be bottled.”

Mickey's tongue flicked out, leaving a trail of moistness down Reuben's chest. Her fingers traced patterns around his chest. She smiled in the gray darkness when he groaned.