Sins of Omission (63 page)

“That isn't necessary. Oh, Lord, look at those two mischief-makers.”

Reuben chortled. Both cats had settled down and were fast asleep. “I don't think they'll get into any more mischief tonight…. Can I come back tomorrow evening?” he asked suddenly.

There was nothing coy in Rosemary's response, nor did she pretend to hesitate before answering. “If you like.”

He was a whirlwind then, rushing through the house pulling the paper from lamp shades, table legs, and doorknobs. “I didn't know there was so much paper in a roll. Isn't it amazing the things you take for granted and never realize? I plan to store this important information, don't you?”

Rosemary grinned. “Absolutely.” No doubt about it, it was good to see a man about the house. She held out her arms and Reuben stuffed them with the tissue.

“Good night, Rosemary, sleep well.”

“Good night, Reuben, pleasant dreams. Thank you for a lovely evening.”

Reuben just couldn't push himself out the door. He hung in the doorway, like a lost puppy, happy to have found a warm spot to rest. “My pleasure. I'll see you in the office, then?”

“I'll be there,” she reassured him, her voice trembling. “Good night.”

“Good night, then.” Sighing, he pushed himself from the doorway, then stopped to wave back at her halfway to his car. He waved again as he drove away.

Rosemary didn't move until she saw the car's headlights as a dim flicker in the night. Then she carried the wads of tissue paper to the kitchen, reluctant to dispose of them simply because Reuben had given them to her. The scent of his after-shave lingered wherever he'd held them against his body.

Humming softly to herself, she stuffed the tissue into the trash outside her kitchen door. It had been a delightful evening, and tomorrow was going to be just as delightful, she was sure of it. Her little house seemed to spring to life around her as she set about turning out the lights and locking up. The chintz-covered furniture seemed brighter, more vivid, the waxed floors richer, gleaming now in the lamplight, the snoozing cats more endearing somehow. Life, she decided, was wonderful.

There was a smile on Rosemary's face as she got ready for bed, taking more time than usual to turn down her bed and wondering if Reuben would ever lie in it. Her cheeks felt hot at the thought. Although she liked sex and had initiated it often with John, he'd been far from a satisfactory lover, content with his own gratification rather than hers. Reuben, she thought, would be a tender yet fierce lover, one who would teach and be open to learning at the same time. Someday…She was tingling from head to toe as she squeezed the toothpaste onto her brush; she was still tingling when she lathered cold cream on her face and then wiped at it with a towel because the toilet paper holder was empty. Suddenly she laughed, uproariously, and the tingly feeling left her. For the next ten minutes she went through her closet, trying to find just the right dress to wear to work the following day. At last she chose a peach-colored silk dress that she'd worn several times already. All it needed was a change of collar and perhaps that wide lace dickey she loved—the one trimmed with tiny seed pearls. It was rich and feminine-looking.

Rosemary dropped to her knees and said her nightly prayers as she had done ever since childhood. John had laughed at her, ridiculing her until the embarrassment had driven her into the bathroom each night, where she could say her prayers in private. She wondered if Reuben would understand. Did Jewish people pray on their knees? Maybe she could ask him that, too.

In bed with the light coverlet pulled up to her chin, Rosemary wondered how she compared with Bebe Tarz in Reuben's eyes. There was probably no comparison, she thought dismally. According to the newspapers, Bebe was beautiful, dressed always in famous designer clothes and jewels that cost a fortune. She was the darling of the press. But Reuben hadn't said anything about loving her. In fact, the things he had told her over dinner made her feel that he didn't—couldn't, even. If she was constantly off, sometimes for months, and without a word, what kind of a home life could they share? He hadn't said anything about loving his children, either. Yet she could tell by his voice that he loved his friends Max, Daniel, and Jane.

A feeling she couldn't define rushed over her suddenly. It took her several minutes to identify it as the desire to protect Reuben and minister to his wounds—the mother feelings all women had in them. If Reuben were with her right now, she would wrap her arms around him and croon to him, “I'll make it right, I'll not let anyone hurt you.” He'd take her hand in his and she would bring it to her lips and kiss it and place it on her cheek and whisper soft words.

Rosemary sighed and shook her head. One dinner and she was already taking charge of his life! She snapped out the light and slid down between the cool sheets. “Go to sleep,” she ordered herself.

 

As Rosemary struggled for sleep, Reuben was wandering around his house in Laurel Canyon, seeing it through her eyes. She might be awed by it, might even say it was beautiful, but she wouldn't want to live here. He tried to imagine her precocious cats romping through the luxurious, sterile rooms. Everything looked so new and unused. Surely Dillon and Simon had trampled through some of these rooms—or had Bebe redecorated using the same basic color scheme? For the life of him he couldn't remember. The hell with it, he thought disgustedly. It was a damn house, a place for him to sleep, a fancy address befitting his position at the studio.

Melancholy now, he walked back through each of the still rooms, feeling his aloneness more than ever before. When he was halfway up the wide, elegant staircase, he turned and looked around. A monument to his success. A sound caught in his throat, half laughter, half sob. Little did anyone know he was a casualty of that success.

In his room he stripped down, brushed his teeth, threw water on his face. His bed had been turned down earlier by one of the maids, and on the night table was a flask of warm cocoa. Although he rarely drank it, it was something he'd gotten used to in France and had insisted on having here in his own home. It was a tangible tie with his past, a comforting remembrance of happier days. This night he poured the creamy liquid into a china cup but still didn't drink it. He just wanted to look at it—to know it was there.

“I won't think about Mickey tonight,” he muttered as he scrunched his head into the soft down pillow. Instead, he dreamed of her, a sweet, almost unbearable dream full of sorrow and love.

 

Every night after work for the next few weeks Reuben drove home, bathed and changed his clothes, and headed immediately for Rosemary's house in the valley. Within seconds of walking through her door, stepping over the cats, and smiling at her, he would feel at home and at peace with himself, even after having spent the business day with her in a professional and businesslike way. Being with this delightful, serene, contented woman was better than a walk through a daisy-filled meadow, better than a hand-in-hand stroll in a warm spring rain. Not only did he tell himself she was what he wanted, he believed it.

The hours from six to midnight were theirs and theirs alone. Sometimes they sat together on Rosemary's soft cushiony sofa, each with a book, but always aware of each other. Often they didn't speak for hours, content with eye contact and warm smiles. Rosemary cooked, plain meals mostly, but always with a rich dessert for Reuben's sweet tooth. They picnicked in the park on weekends, and once they took a basket lunch and shared a late supper under the stars because Reuben had been caught up in a late afternoon meeting that had run longer than he'd anticipated. His weekends were devoted solely to Rosemary and hers to him.

During one particular week in late November, it rained steadily for five days and into the weekend. When Reuben arrived at eight in the morning, Rosemary had a fire blazing in her grate and a huge breakfast waiting. Reuben thought his chest would burst with happiness. The cats watched greedily and Reuben sneaked them bits of bacon and buttered toast while Rosemary pretended not to notice. Regardless of what he did, she could forgive him even to the detriment of her beloved cats.

This lovely woman was his life now. He'd tried to explain how he felt to Daniel, to Jane, and even to Max; when she cautioned him to drive safely, when she asked how he was feeling, it stirred him deeply. Mickey had never cautioned him during those heady days in France, and Bebe wouldn't even think of it. It was a new feeling for him, this caring, this solicitude, blanketing him with a satisfied contentment. He looked forward to arriving at her house and teasing her with, “See, I made it safe and sound.”

He thought he was in love, and he knew in his heart that Rosemary felt something more for him than just friendship. When he was with her he had sexual feelings, even definite arousals, which came upon him without warning and passed just as quickly. Although he was alarmed when his erections left him almost as suddenly as they arrived, he was thrilled that, as he would refer to it in his innermost thoughts, he was “not dead yet.” It had been so long since he'd been able to physically manifest his sexuality that he was enormously relieved—but he wouldn't allow the thought of acting on his arousal to enter his mind.

They'd kissed, gentle touches that held just a trace of mutual passion. Each of them seemed to be proceeding cautiously, unsure whether this fragile thing between them would fade or grow. Rosemary considered it a nurturing time, and Reuben seemed to bask in that nurturing.

Having done admirable justice to the breakfast Rosemary had prepared for him, Reuben pushed his plate away. “You're trying to fatten me up,” he teased. “It's been years since I had pancakes and eggs at the same time. And you always make the bacon just the way I like it.” He patted his stomach in satisfaction. “I really enjoyed it, Ro.”

Rosemary smiled. “Well, you know I love to cook. And it's especially nice when someone is here to enjoy the results. I thought we'd make cookies today. Big fat sugar cookies, crisp on the outside and cake like on the inside with a trace of orange. You can grate the orange. My mother used to make them for me when I was little. I always had a sugar cookie when I got home from school.”

“I get the feeling I'm joining you in the kitchen today,” he said in a mock rueful voice. “Will the house smell good?”

“Wait and see,” she answered, her eyes dancing. “Are you sure you can handle being in the kitchen?”

“What do you mean? I can wear an apron with the best of them. I've never grated an orange, but there's a first time for everything. Lead the way, my dear,” he said, rising. “And while the cookies are baking, I thought we might look at some pictures. I brought along those photo albums you've been asking to see—one of the boys and one of me and Daniel in earlier days. They're in the car, I hope it wasn't presumptuous of me?”

Rosemary felt light-headed. He was going to share his past with her. “Reuben, that's so nice. I'm so happy you've brought them. I want to hear all about your boys, especially the little stories that go with each child.”

Little stories, Christ, he'd have to manufacture them, he thought. Well, he was certainly in the right business to do that.

It was a wonderful day full of delicious fragrances filling the little house, snuggly comfort, and a sharing of lives. The insistent sound of the rain, drumming rhythmically against the windows, accompanied their every action. Reuben felt more at peace with himself than he had in a long time. It made him think about what he'd been missing all these years. He turned to gaze at Rosemary sitting beside him, and a fierce feeling of protectiveness consumed him. Nothing was going to destroy this. At that moment he knew he was capable of killing to keep what he had. It was time now, though, for the ultimate test. Was he capable of making love to her? He felt the desire, wanted to consummate his feelings with her, but he was afraid. What if…what if…Rather than subject himself to humiliation, he'd backed off each time his feelings turned passionate, to the point of…What would she think? Certainly she would never ridicule him, that wasn't the Rosemary he knew. No, she would be gentle and kind, and tell him it didn't matter and that things would get better, but he knew her words would be a lie to save his feelings. It would matter to both of them. His feelings for her were so overwhelming he often felt lost, adrift, and unsure of himself. How could she think of him as a man, a complete man? Jesus, she might even be thinking there was something wrong with her, that she didn't excite him enough to want to make love.

Pit…pit…pat…plop…pit…pit…pit….

“What's that sound?” Rosemary asked, looking around.

Pit…pat…plop…

Reuben stirred himself from his position on the couch. Rosemary squirmed around until she was on her knees, straining to hear where the strange sound was coming from. “I think you have a leak somewhere, honey,” he said. “It's splattering on your table.” He pointed, grimacing. “I'd better move the lamp and check the attic. Get a pot or something.”

Rosemary ran into the kitchen. “It's leaking out here, too. My roof is leaking!”

“Show me the way to the attic, Rosemary, and then set out pots and buckets.”

The attic was as neat and tidy as the rest of her house. Dark, spooky corners linked by cobwebs made him smile. Boxes tied with string and labeled were stacked in the middle of the floor. But as Reuben looked at the boxes he saw that they were soaking wet; the rain was nearly pouring through the timbers. There seemed to be no way to stop it.

“How bad is it, Reuben?” Rosemary called up anxiously.

He walked back down the stairs. “Bad. The entire attic is soaked, and so are all the boxes. I don't know too much about roofs, but I think you need a new one.”

“Oh, no! I can't afford a new roof. I barely make ends meet on my salary, and I have only a few dollars in my savings account.” When she realized what she'd said, Rosemary covered her mouth in embarrassment. “Do you think it can be patched?” she said hurriedly.