Sins of Omission (24 page)

 

Bebe was sitting in the dining room having her second cup of coffee when Reuben entered the room, limping badly, his right hand swathed in a pillowcase. She did her best to look concerned.

“Let me get you some coffee…. Do you want anything to eat? You look mean enough to eat a bear. Oops, sorry. Would you care to tell me what happened, or is it a secret?”

“No, I wouldn't care to tell you anything!” he yelled. “And I'll get my own coffee.” A muscle at the left side of his face was twitching.

Bebe sat back down and cupped both hands around her coffee cup, watching out of the corner of her eye as he tried to pour coffee with his left hand. When the pot started to wobble, he set it down quickly and carried his cup to the table. He laced the coffee with sugar and thick cream, then stirred it and lifted the cup to his lips. When he burned his tongue on the hot liquid, he swore savagely.

Bebe laughed. “I could have told you it was scalding hot, but you wouldn't have believed me. You never listen to me,” she said in a wounded tone of voice. “I'm glad you burned your tongue. You deserved it. Too bad it wasn't worse.”

She had to be a goddamned mind reader. That's exactly how he felt. He wondered how many bones he'd broken in his hand and in his foot: he deserved every one of them.

“I'd offer to kiss your hand, but I think it's more serious than you think. I noticed you were limping. I heard you upstairs, so I know you were kicking and knocking about. If you like, I'll ride you to the village on the big bicycle. You really should see a doctor.”

“I didn't ask for your advice. I asked you a question and I'm sorry now that I did. I tripped. I wasn't knocking things about,” he lied.

Bebe shrugged. “Suit yourself. If it makes you feel better to lie, then lie, I don't care. What I do know is if your hand starts to swell, you have broken bones. I saw enough of my brother's to know. I think he broke every bone in his body at one time or another.”

“Thanks for sharing that with me,” Reuben muttered.

Bebe blinked. “You are an absolute, total bastard. What my aunt sees in you is beyond me. You're like something that crawled out from under a rock.”

“Didn't you crawl out from the rock next to mine?” Reuben drawled.

Bebe stared at him, unable to come up with a suitable response.

“What's the matter? Cat got your tongue, little girl? If you'll excuse me, I have things to do.”

Bebe felt herself rise from her seat as though someone were pulling her on strings. Brazenly she walked to the other side of the table and leaned against it, touching her thigh to his hand as it rested on the arm of his chair. He pulled it away as if he had been burned.

“Sure you do,” Bebe said casually, smiling. “I'm sure you have a list of things you think you should be doing so Aunt Mickey will feel she's getting her money's worth.” This time she was careful to avoid using the word gigolo, and she stood her ground when Reuben's eyes darkened. He rose and then sat back down in his chair. The look on his face was unfathomable. She crept out of the dining room and hid behind the door to see what he would do next.

In less than a minute Reuben pounded down the steps to the wine cellar. If nothing else, he could drink enough wine to dull the pain he was feeling and the rage and confusion of his reactions to Bebe.

 

By noon Bebe was so frustrated and bored she ventured as far down as the landing on the cellar steps to see what Reuben was up to. That was her limit, because a little farther down the cellar became a dark, dim hole filled with wine racks and the smells of sweat, mold, and sour wine. She sat down and wrinkled her nose as she tried to adjust her eyes to the semidarkness. She knew there were rats down there and other things that crawled and slithered.

It was quiet, too quiet. Was it possible Reuben had already come up the stairs? Scratchy noises, thin little sounds with barely audible squeaks, made her shiver. Vermin! She must be out of her mind to sit here like this. Then she heard the sound of a cork popping. Reuben—he must be drinking, she realized. What kind of drunk was he? She'd seen all kinds—happy drunks, mean ones, crazy drunks, and drunks that fell on their faces. For a moment she almost felt sorry for him, but the moment passed quickly. She turned and made her way back up the steps to her room. Reuben Tarz could drink himself into oblivion for all she cared. She hoped he fell asleep and the rats nibbled on his flesh.

Her room was tidy, everything in its place prior to her departure. It was a nice room, comfortable, but not nearly as pretty and filled with frills as the one she'd had in Paris. She should return the books she'd borrowed from the library. She should put away her writing materials; all her letters to friends in California were finished and waiting to be posted. Her bed was made, something Mickey insisted each of them do. The only thing she had to look forward to in the long day was lunch, dinner, and maybe a solitary walk. Lord, how she missed Daniel and Jake! She was truly alone with nothing to do. “I can't read another book!” she cried aloud. “I don't want to read another book!”

A bath! Full of bubbles. Long and luxurious. Perhaps a glass of wine in the tub like they did in films. Clovis Ames always did that. A beautiful crystal glass full of sparkling champagne. It was Clovis's trademark. The “Champagne Girl,” they called her. She wondered if people really believed Clovis was naked in those tubs. Clovis was her father's biggest star, and it had been his idea to name her the Champagne Girl and put her in a bathtub full of bubbles in every film she made. Everyone, said the tabloids, wanted to catch a glimpse of Clovis's huge breasts. The set would always be cleared before she made her exit to keep up the curiosity. Once, enjoying the special privileges of the owner's daughter, she'd been allowed on the set during the filming of a bathtub scene. When Clovis stepped from the tub, bubbles clinging to her flesh-colored body suit, Bebe had gasped. She'd really thought the actress was naked under the bubbles.

Clovis Ames was decadent and wicked, or so everyone thought. Bebe thought her the most glamorous, most beautiful woman in the world. Clovis had shown her how to make the most of her eyes with outrageous blue shadow and how to paint her cheeks so there appeared to be a hollow underneath. Shiny lip salve, she said, was a must. “Dress like you want every man to attack you, and they'll stay away in droves but hunger for you…at a distance,” Clovis had advised. “For some reason men always want what they can't have. It's better to have men hunger and lust after you from a distance while you watch. This way you can take your time picking and choosing. It's also better than being pawed and grappled with.” Bebe followed her advice right down to the letter. That's why she was still a virgin while most of her friends were sleeping around or having unwanted babies.

It was the middle of the afternoon when she decided to take her walk. A long bubble bath and her glass of champagne would be better appreciated upon her return, when she was tired.

 

Reuben sat on a smelly, empty wine barrel, his legs stretched out in front of him. Empty wine bottles stood at attention, and he saluted them cockily. He'd consumed a lot of wine, but he didn't think he was drunk. He should be drunk. His thinking seemed clear, and he felt absolutely nothing. Not anger, not love, not concern, not anything. Maybe he was dead and didn't know it. He pinched his thigh. Nope, still living.

He struggled to remember why he was here. Something about the wines and Mickey's trip. He rubbed at his eyes. Maybe it was the calendar. He'd been so impressed with himself when he'd learned it almost word for word—and then she hadn't wanted to hear it. Women! She'd said the damn thing was a joke. She probably thought he was a joke, too. If Daniel were here, he would care. Daniel would want to know when the grapes turned black, and he'd want to know when it was time to pick them, too. Time? For the life of him he couldn't remember when vintage was, the most important thing on the calendar.

Reuben fumbled for the wine bottle and took a swig. “What you do is you pick the goddamn grapes when they're ripe!” He laughed, rocking back and forth on the barrel. And she thought he needed a calendar!

He flipped out his pocket watch with steady hands. God, he'd been down here for ages! For the first time since entering this dark hole he became aware of the smell. It would be in his clothes, his hair, all over. He needed fresh air, but more than fresh air he needed Mickey. Thoughts of Mickey were so devastating he slid off the barrel. He grabbed two wine bottles and staggered to his feet. He had to get out of this stink hole and breathe some fresh air.

The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that shrouds death. He walked to the kitchen and fixed the housekeeper with a steely-eyed look. “Who died?” he demanded. The old woman muttered something and ran for the pantry. Reuben laughed. Well, at least she was alive.

“Bebe!” he shouted. The wine bottles clanking against one another, he made his way around the first floor of the château, calling Bebe's name.

A warm spring breeze wafted through the open windows. It felt good, so good he decided to stay. Just before he fell asleep on one of the deep, overstuffed chairs, he ran over the day's events in his mind. He blamed Bebe for Mickey's leaving, and he blamed Bebe for his anger and his present condition.

It was dusk when Bebe walked into the kitchen. She was tired. She'd eat and then take the bubble bath she'd been looking forward to. “Nanette, is Reuben here?” she asked.

The old lady jerked her head in the direction of the library. “He's crazy, that one.”

Bebe merely shrugged and sat down at the table. She was starved; the long walk had really given her an appetite.

She topped off her dinner with an enormous piece of cherry pie and then stood up. “Is there any champagne up here?” she asked the old cook.

The woman pointed to the little room off the pantry that housed several wine racks stretched across one wall. Bebe made her selection from the cold box, not knowing if it was a wise one or not. It didn't really matter, she was going to have only one glass, and she was playing a role. She was pickier in choosing just the right wineglass. Something long-stemmed and sparkling. Something to make her feel elegant and sophisticated.

She tiptoed into the library and almost laughed at the way Reuben was sprawled across the divan. He was snoring. “Too bad your amour can't see how handsome you look now,” she whispered. But she couldn't help moving closer to gaze down at him and study the planes of his face, the way his hair curled, how his hands were constructed. Reluctantly, she left the room for her own.

The rest of the evening stretched ahead of her. How long could she sit in a bathtub? And when she was finished, what could she do? Read another goddamn book, she supposed. Or, she could…she'd been dying to go through Mickey's things, try on some of her elegant dresses and furs. Her jewelry, her perfume. It would lend credence to the role she was playing. Of course, Mickey was bigger than she was, but that was why they'd invented safety pins. No one would see her, so it didn't really matter. Her mood brightened when she realized there was one person who would: Reuben. When he woke up he would find himself alone with a young and very beautiful woman. This was the first time she could remember ever being alone with him for an evening. She almost flew into the bathroom.

First she had to find the bath salts Mickey used, the lavender-scented ones. She'd noticed several spare bottles in the cupboard outside the bathroom. If she touched the ones in the crystal decanter, it would give her away, and this was her little secret. Once she'd rummaged in the attic back home and played dress-up with her mother's clothes. Her father had almost fainted when she'd pranced downstairs in her mother's sequined pumps and satin gown.

The door safely locked behind her, Bebe poured champagne and slid into the fragrant bath. From that point on she was Clovis Ames II. She batted her eyelashes, pouted prettily, raised and stretched one silky leg out of the bubbles, then quickly drew it back to safety. She primped and flirted for the mirror across the room. She made toasts to the Eiffel Tower, to the Statue of Liberty, to Jake. She made a double toast to Daniel. “To all my good friends, wherever you may be,” she said grandly, holding the glass aloft. She hoped she wasn't getting tipsy on one glass of champagne. Once again she raised her glass. “To Reuben Tarz,” she intoned, and winked. “This could be your lucky night.”

She debated about crashing the wineglass against the wall the way Clovis did. But then she'd have to clean it up, and Mickey would notice that one of her best crystal pieces was missing. Instead, she set it carefully on the towel stand, making a mental note to return it to the dining room later.

At last she stepped from the tub, patches of bubbles clinging to her arms and legs. She walked to the mirror and surveyed her naked body. Her breasts were neither large nor small—just right, she decided. Tiny waist and flat stomach. She stretched first one leg and then the other. She'd been shaving them lately so they'd feel silky and smooth. Her underarms, too, but she hadn't told anyone. Mickey, on the other hand, had a regular bush under each arm, and her legs were hairy. Bebe thought it disgusting. She turned and looked over her naked shoulder, striking a pose Clovis was famous for. But I'm stark naked, which means I'm more wicked, she vamped into the mirror, batting her eyelashes. Instantly she imagined a dramatic tableau of herself just as she was, with Reuben on his knees, worshiping her body. The vision made her shiver.

Her dressing gown tied securely, Bebe walked softly to the door. She laid her ear against the oak paneling and listened for signs of Reuben on the top floor. When she was satisfied he was nowhere about, she scooted across the hall and pulled Mickey's door shut behind her.

Her heart thumped wildly as she went through Mickey's bureau drawers one by one. She laid out the things she wanted, a black brassiere, slip, garter belt, stockings…. There were no bloomers, no sign of panties in any of the drawers. A pair of silky black stockings, their back seams embellished with tiny roses, made her draw in her breath in appreciation. Clovis would love these, she thought.