Sins of Omission (36 page)

“Damn right, and a bone-crushing grip it was. We sealed the deal,” Reuben said proudly. “You have to think positively and you have to believe. Believe in me, Daniel! Think of the potential. Think about the money! Think, for God's sake!”

“I am thinking…about Sol Rosen, the legalities of something like this, and the fact that tomorrow will be your first day on the job,” Daniel grumbled. “I'm no aficionado of films, but it does sound damn interesting. I'd like to know how you're going to pull this off with Sol Rosen.”

“I'm not going to ‘pull it off,' as you say. I'm going to present the idea, project revenue, and then scare the hell out of Rosen and tell him Farrell has an offer for twice the amount I'm willing to give him. He'd be a fool to turn it down. If I was in his place, I sure as hell wouldn't. Ideas are what make this business. Something new, untried. I already figured out that a studio is only as good as the people who work there, and by that I mean the actors and actresses. Farrell doesn't like his director, John Carlyle. I met him today….” Reuben went on to tell Daniel about his conversation with Carlyle. “Farrell wants a different director for the Red Ruby flick. I asked him if he had one in mind, and he said there's a guy at Fox he'd like to work with. I said I'd put him on the payroll.”

“You
what?
” Daniel exploded.

Reuben roared with laughter at the expression on his friend's face. “Look at it this way: This new director, Mike Avery, is a necessary ingredient in this little stew I'm cooking up. Without him it won't work. Fairmont can buy out his contract and give him a bonus to switch over. The guy likes Farrell, so that's going to help. Look, pal, I'm not going to do this tomorrow first thing.”

Daniel sighed. “That's a relief.”

“I'll wait a couple of days,” Reuben said, laughing.

“You're moving pretty fast, pal,” Daniel cautioned.

Reuben turned serious. “I have to, or I'll start to think, and right now memories are the one thing I can't afford. I was hoping you'd go along with me on all of this.”

“That's what I'm here for. I think it's a swell idea, and I do believe you have a money-maker here. I'm studying these law books, but that doesn't make me a lawyer. Let me read up on everything and promise me you won't do anything till I research it.”

“It's a deal…. What's that?” Reuben asked curiously.

“A letter I wrote to Mickey. I didn't seal it yet in case you want to put in one of your own.”

Reuben thought about it for a moment. He had so much to tell Mickey, but he couldn't dash off a note in a few minutes. Writing to Mickey would take…well, he simply wasn't ready to pour out his heart. “Send her my love and tell her I'll write soon when I have something important to say. And be sure to enclose our payment. You're keeping a record, right?”

“Down to the penny. Is there anything you
don't
want me to mention in my letter? I told her to give Bebe our address if she's in touch with her. I miss Bebe,” Daniel said carefully.

“Don't look at me like that. It's all right for you to miss her.” Reuben stood up. “I guess I'll clean up since you cooked. Then it's a nice hot bath so I can soak my leg. You go ahead to bed. I'm going to go over some of the things I learned today. I'll make notes and then turn them over to you. By the way, we report at eight tomorrow. Congratulations, Daniel, we're employed.”

Daniel wondered why he didn't feel as enthusiastic as Reuben. He imagined he could smell the problems that were going to erupt with this new employment. Still, another part of him couldn't wait to put his feet under a desk filled with graphs and charts, pencils and pens: his need to do something for himself.

A light snow was falling, dusting the French château in feathery whiteness, creating a soft blanket of silence. Smoke from the chimney spiraled upward in lazy patterns as a southerly wind began to whip through the trees at the back of the château. Inside, it was just as quiet and hushed; the baby known as Philippe Bouchet slept. He had two birth certificates, this sleeping child. One said he was Philippe Bouchet, French citizen, the name Bouchet having been Mickey Fonsard's maiden name. The second read Philip Tarz, American citizen. The sleeping child held dual citizenship.

Mickey Fonsard stood over the baby's cradle, a beatific look on her face. How she loved this small, tenderly wrapped bundle. He slept in her room at the side of the bed where she had once made love with his father. The cradle the infant slept in had once belonged to her husband's family. Yvette had helped her clean and polish it until she proclaimed it fit for her angel. He was a good baby, staying awake only to eat and have his bath. Everything Mickey did for the child she did lovingly. She had much love to lavish on him, and she rocked him for hours, crooning and singing lullabies she made up as she went along, often calling him her “plump little pigeon.” Once in a while he smiled, either from gas or pure pleasure, when she made baby sounds or sang her made-up songs.

Each day the little one took on a new characteristic all his own. The likeness to both Bebe and Reuben could not be denied. He had Reuben's dark hair, Bebe's mouth. It was too soon to say whose eyes he had, but Mickey thought they would be Reuben's. Now they were tiny little slashes in his plump, rosy face and didn't stay open long enough for her to decide. His feet were large…but then, his father had large feet. “Whose disposition will you have,
chéri?
” Mickey whispered.

Yvette poked her head in the door. “And what is our bundle from heaven doing this afternoon?” She leaned over the cradle. “
Mon Dieu,
this child is beautiful! He will grow to be as handsome as his father, is that not so, Mickey?” she cooed in whispers over the crib.

“Yes, as handsome as his father,” Mickey echoed.

“You have heard nothing?”

“It is too soon. Perhaps I will never hear anything. I can accept that, for I have this priceless treasure,” Mickey said, a catch in her voice.

“So you have decided…you aren't going to…It isn't fair, Mickey.”

“Never!” Mickey said forcefully.

“Ah, old friend, never is a very long time. What are you afraid of? He has a right to know.”

“No, Yvette. It would confuse things, and I am confused enough as it is. I cannot handle more at this time. The circumstances of his birth are no longer important. The day I brought this child here I figured out what had really happened. Bebe instigated, led Reuben on, enticed him. He was angry with me, and he fell into her trap. And it was a trap. Nothing will ever convince me otherwise. When you love someone the way I loved Reuben, you know things like this. Perhaps she meant only to tease and flirt with him, and when things went beyond that, she grew frightened and fought him. A man, a man like Reuben…would do just what he did. Bebe must have reacted violently, hence the pitchfork. It took me a while to realize she would have said something, blamed Reuben 100 percent and played out her part if she'd truly been an innocent…victim. She chose to remain silent. And Reuben called it an accident to spare me, of course. I've come to terms with it,” Mickey said sadly.

“So, you wait. Bah! What a fool you are!”

“No, I do not wait. I exist. There is a difference. If you wish to think of me as a fool, feel free.”

“Someday you will be old,” Yvette said sourly.

“Yes, I will be old. Everyone grows old, Yvette. Whatever God has in store for me I will accept. Come, let us have tea or wine. This jewel will sleep for at least another hour.”

“I have something to tell you, Mickey,” Yvette said over tea.

“Why do I have this feeling I'm not going to like what you have to tell me?” Mickey said tartly.

Yvette smiled. “Bebe called me on the telephone last evening. She said she's going to Paris, and wanted to know if she could come to the farm. She asked about you…and Reuben. I lied to her. I said Henri had been ill and I hadn't seen you for a while. I think she plans on calling you because she wants to stay in your Paris house.”

“Then she doesn't know Reuben has gone back to America?”

“I do not think so. It was not my place to tell her anything.”

“Did she ask…” Mickey couldn't bring herself to finish her question. Yvette shook her head.

“How did she sound?”

“She sounded…like Bebe. We didn't speak that long. She did ask how you were. There was something in her voice I never heard before, a certain…maturity. No, perhaps that is the wrong word. I kept waiting…dreading…but she never asked. I thought she would, I really did. I can't believe she doesn't care. Mickey, how…?”

Mickey chose her words carefully. “I don't think any of us will ever be able to understand Bebe. She can be warm and gentle and caring one minute and then calculating and manipulative the next. The latter is what worries me.”

Yvette threw her hands into the air. “Well, I just don't understand how a woman can give up her own flesh and blood. I'll never understand.”

“She wasn't a woman when she gave up the child. She was little more than a baby herself,” Mickey said gently.

“You mark my words, someday she's going to come looking for this child. If you think you felt heartsick when Reuben left, think how you'll feel when she rips this child from you.”

Mickey stared across at Yvette. Her old friend was only voicing aloud the fears she herself dealt with constantly. “We must make sure that never happens. If you feel strongly that she may come here, then I must make arrangements to leave with the child.”

“Where will you go,
chérie?
” Yvette asked unhappily.

“To the chalet in Chamonix. I can be happy there as long as my love is with me. You see, my friend, there is nothing else left to me. Stop looking at me with such pity! If you can't stop, go back to the farm,” Mickey said sternly.

“Mickey, please, we've been friends for so long and I care what happens to you and because we are friends I wish to speak my mind. It is a wonderful thing that you took this baby because you have much love to offer. You have money and can give this child every advantage the world offers. But can't you see what you are doing to yourself? If you must, go to Chamonix, but hire a nurse for the child. Start to make a life for yourself. You cannot live through a child, even if he belongs to your lover. What if Reuben comes here searching for you? What if he writes or cables and gets no response, what then,
chérie?
His love for you was like none I've ever seen. If you definitely plan on leaving, then write and tell him so. Bah! You haven't heard a word I've said. You deserve to wallow in your misery. I'm going home because I cannot bear to stare into your sad eyes a minute longer, and because it's snowing harder.”

“Will you and Henri come to visit me?”

“But of course,
chérie.
After you have settled in and things are running smoothly. I need a vacation. Perhaps I will leave Henri home, eh?” She'd hoped for a small smile from Mickey, but none was forthcoming.

The moment the door closed behind Yvette, Mickey was off her chair and up the stairs. First she checked the baby to see that he was still sleeping peacefully. Satisfied, she started to pack her trunks. Tomorrow morning, at first light, they would leave. She could stay in Chamonix for a long time—years, if necessary. There was, after all, nothing to keep her here any longer.

Mickey sat propped up in her lonely bed staring across the room to the darkened windows. Moonlight washed the floor in a soft silvery light. The stars shimmered in the heavens like a cluster of twinkling diamonds on a length of black velvet. She wished then…for yesterday. Realist that she was, she knew it could never be. Perhaps Yvette was right; perhaps she should write to Reuben. If not Reuben, then Daniel. They might write, if only to pay off the loan she'd advanced them. That thought depressed her even more. Better not to be here to open flat envelopes with only money and an obligatory note. Better to drop an informal note to them both.

Mickey crept from her bed like a thief in the night, quietly so as not to awaken the sleeping child. She tiptoed from the room on slippered feet and settled herself at the desk in the library downstairs. She started not one, but seven notes to Reuben; all of them found their way to the trash basket. She fared no better with Daniel's note. In the end she gave up. She cried for her loss, for yesterday, and for what might have been.

 

Mickey Fonsard, carrying her adopted son, opened the door of her chalet just as Bebe Rosen arrived at Yvette and Henri's farm. The young girl tooted the horn of her shiny new Citroën and waved gaily, calling out to Yvette and Henri.

“I had to come to see you,” she said, rushing out of the driver's side to hug them both. “You look wonderful, both of you. Look, even the dogs and chickens are happy to see me! Please say I can stay for lunch.”

“But, of course, you can stay for lunch, and dinner, too, if you wish. You did not tell me you were planning on a visit. I thought you wanted to stay in Mickey's Paris house.” Yvette hoped she didn't sound as nettled as she felt. There was going to be trouble, she could feel it. “You look wonderful,
chérie.
The latest fashion, I see.”

“I wanted to look nice when I got here. I went to that designer Mickey uses in Paris, Coco, and she made this up for me. She's outrageously expensive, but have you ever seen anything so elegant?”

Yvette stared enviously at the scarlet walking suit with the fluted skirt. Mickey would have worn a white silk blouse with such an outfit, but this young lady preferred to expose her long slender neck. Her shoes, purse, and driving gloves were a deep magenta that somehow complemented the scarlet of the suit. A soft felt cloche, trimmed in matching feathers, rested on the front seat. There was no luggage that Yvette could see. She felt relieved. “What do you think of my new hairdo?” the girl continued to babble. “I had it cut and styled in England just before I left.”

“Most becoming,” Henri said, beaming. “Men love fluffy hair on a woman so they can run their fingers through it. Isn't that so, Yvette?” He held Bebe's arm out and showed her off to his wife.

Yvette shook her own long mop of hair in agreement. When was the last time you ran your fingers through
my
hair, my dear Henri? she thought to herself. She made a mental note to push Henri out of bed later for the way he was fawning over Bebe. She'd married a lecher. She said, turning to Bebe, “You look wonderful,
chérie.
So fashionable it makes me ache to be your age again.”

“It's just as I remember it,” Bebe said, looking around her. “I can't tell you how often I've thought about this place and you and Henri. I was hoping the dogs would remember me.” She stood back to drink in the sight of the stone farmhouse with its gabled windows and heavy oak door. The wide sills on the windows were filled with thriving colorful greenery. She peeked excitedly into the open doorway. Inside, she knew, would be hot tea and small homemade cakes with Yvette's thick frosting, their insides gingery and fragrant. “I think this is the nicest, the most welcoming home I've ever been in.” She wrapped her arm around Yvette's shoulder as they walked over the threshold.

Henri hopped from one foot to the other, hoping his wife would ask him to join them for tea. When she glared at him he turned and left the little courtyard. Tonight he would pay for his careless tongue. But ah, he knew how to sweet-talk Yvette and put her in a good mood. He shrugged. A man was a man.

In the parlor, Yvette poured tea and set out the remembered cakes, then poked around in a basket full of odds and ends for a cigarette. Bebe joined her, fitting her cigarette into a long onyx holder. “I didn't know you smoked,
chérie,
” Yvette said.

“I just recently took it up. Everyone smokes these days. Not a lot. It helps me relax. I feel at home here,” she added, settling onto the familiar kitchen chair.

“I'm glad you could stop to visit. Where are you going from here?”

Bebe tossed her hands in the air, the cigarette holder clamped between her teeth. “I suppose I'll drive down to the château and get the key to the Paris house from Mickey. I called and called, but there was no answer, so I decided to hop in my new car and drive here. It was an outrageous experience,” she trilled.

Yvette rummaged in the basket a second time, to withdraw a key and a folded slip of paper. “Mickey left this for you. She's gone…business or something about the wine…” Her voice sounded false even to her.

Bebe's innocent eyes widened and her brows shot upward. “You mean there's no one at the château? What about the housekeeper?”

“On holiday, or else she went with Mickey. I'm not sure. Mickey just…what she did was…she was in a hurry and said she would be in touch and to give you this should you happen by…. I told her you had called,” she added, catching Bebe's puzzled expression.

“How strange. I guess she didn't want to see me. I wonder why. The château is empty, you say?”

“For the moment,” Yvette said firmly.

“Then that must mean Daniel and Reuben are with her.” Yvette thanked God it wasn't a question; Bebe assumed…“I really miss…Daniel,” she continued. “I wonder if I'll ever see them again.”

Yvette pretended not to see the tears in Bebe's eyes. “Nothing is impossible,
chérie.
If it is meant to be, it will be,” she said gently. “Now tell me about your glamourous life in England.” This should be safe ground, Yvette thought gloomily.