Sins of the Flesh

by Fern Michaels

  The words Bebe had spoken just moments before now pushed him out of her bed and into his clothes. As he walked down the corridor to the stairs, he realized that he hadn’t felt this devastated since the day he and Daniel had been gassed and blinded during the war. He’d thought then that his life was over. He knew now that his life, as it had been until now, was never going to be the same.

  The cool early dawn wrapped itself around him as he made his way to his car. Even in the dim early light, he was shocked at the sight of Bebe’s rusty, decrepit car. For some reason a lump settled in his throat as he walked around to view it from all angles. Without stopping to think, he pulled his billfold from his inside pocket and peeled off ten hundred-dollar bills, wedging them in the crease between the backrest and the seat. Bebe would see them when she opened the car door. A smile spread across his face when he pictured her tootling down the road into town in the horror sitting in front of her house. In his gut he knew that she would return all but three hundred dollars of the money.

  With a sigh, Reuben slipped his sleek Cadillac into gear. Right now he had to think of Philippe. If he hurried, he could make it home, shower, change, and get to the studio in time to explain and hopefully prevent the boy from going to Bebe’s house.

  Driving home, Reuben realized he couldn’t fault his wife for the stand she was taking with Philippe. If anything, he admired her guts, but the decision must be ripping her apart. If mother and son did come face-to-face, he was positive that Bebe would stand tall, stare down her son, and tell him his mother was Mickey Fonsard. She would not give in to his curiosity. Would he himself have the guts to do what she was proposing? He doubted it. If Daniel hadn’t initiated a meeting between himself and his son…

  Grinding the car to a halt in front of his house, Reuben sat for a moment with the key still in the ignition. He liked the Bebe he’d been with—in fact, he more than liked her.

  “Too much, too little, too late,” he mumbled, and wearily made his way into the quiet house.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Philippe chose his clothes with care, rejecting jacket after jacket. He wanted something that would say he was Philippe Bouchet and not a carbon copy of Reuben Tarz. Finally he selected a soft gray cashmere jacket that was lightweight and a pair of charcoal trousers. To complete the outfit he would wear an open-necked white dress shirt, but no tie. His visit today was not really formal.

  In front of the mirror he made faces at himself as he rehearsed what he was going to say. “I’m your son, the one you tossed in the trash. Hello, I’m Philippe, your son. I wanted to see what kind of woman would throw away her son. I’m Philippe and I’m here to tell you if I never see you again, it will be all right with me. Hello, I’m Philippe. Please, Mother dear, tell me what it feels like to give away your flesh and blood. Hello, I’m Philippe, and I came here to tell you to go to hell. I don’t need you. I don’t want you, either.” End. Finis.

  In a nervous gesture, the boy smacked his fist into his open palm. Finally, after all this time, he was going to meet his real mother. Reuben had scheduled the meeting for midmorning. If he hurried, he could arrive at the studio before his father. So far, he thought glumly, it had never worked—no matter what time he got up. Secretly he thought his father slept at the studio.

  Philippe was standing at the window of his office with a cup of coffee in his hand when his father entered the room. For some reason the knowledge that he’d beaten his father’s arrival by at least ten minutes brought him no satisfaction.

  “Philippe, I spoke to your—to Bebe last night,” Reuben began, clearing his throat nervously. “And…well, there’s no way for me to say this except straight out. She doesn’t want to see you. She feels…actually, what she said was that there’s no room in her life for you, and the reason she gave…you up was so that you would have a better life than she could give you. I tried…but she’s adamant about not wanting to meet you. I’m sorry, I can’t stop you from going to her home if you insist on it. But I would advise against it. I never realized until this…last night just how strong-willed your mother is. I know this must be a blow….”

  Philippe whirled around. “Blow? Hardly. I merely wanted to satisfy my…curiosity.”

  “That’s strange,” Reuben said, smiling. “Your mother said those exact same words. Look, I’m going to get some breakfast. Would you care to join me?” He wished he could see the boy’s eyes.

  “No. I’ve eaten,” Philippe said, his back to the room. “But thank you.”

  When the door closed behind his father, Philippe’s shoulders slumped and the coffee cup in his hand trembled. God, he wished he were back in France, wished he’d never heard the name Tarz, wished he still believed Mickey Fonsard was his real mother.

  He’d been so arrogant in his thoughts, so mocking in regard to his real mother and father, and now he’d just been put in his place by two…masters of the art. Words—he’d been mowed down by words.

  In a flash, Philippe was out of the office and bolting down the steps. Alone in the building, Reuben walked to the window, grinning wryly. If he were in Philippe’s position, he’d have done exactly the same thing. Like father like son…The thought pleased him.

  The early morning sounds of the birds soothed Philippe. For a moment he almost felt as if he were back at the château in the country. He looked around at the lush vegetation, overgrown and untended. From his position inside his car he could see thin blades of grass poking up through the cracks in the concrete driveway. One blade in particular held a drop of dew that sparkled like a diamond. It was so quiet, he thought. How lonely it must be living here. In particular he missed the sounds of animals: a dog’s bark, a cat’s meow.

  On arriving he’d parked his car across the driveway, completely blocking it. Then he’d walked up the long drive to see if there was any sign of activity. The stillness disappointed him; he’d been hoping for some sign of his mother. There was a rusty, dented car in front of the pillared mansion, which had to mean someone was in the house. Still, he had all the time in the world, so he could wait as long as need be.

  It was important for him to meet his mother, not because he wanted to exorcise old dreams and desires, but simply because he was curious. She meant nothing to him; he had a mother, a mother who…lied to him. That he could forgive, had forgiven. If there was one thing in this world he knew, it was that Mickey Fonsard loved him with all her heart and soul.

  Philippe slouched down in the driver’s seat of the car, expecting a long wait. While he waited he did something he’d promised himself he wouldn’t do: he honed his thoughts to Mickey and Yvette and the war. Deep in his gut he knew that his mother hadn’t gone to Spain as she’d said she would. Loyal Frenchwomen would be in the underground with the Resistance doing what they could for their country. When his heart began to pound, he forced himself to think about his boyhood, when things were pleasant and wonderful. A bright red wagon painted by Henri, the wonderful pony cart, old Jake, and Jake’s pup, Dolly…

  The redwood planters full of colorful flowers welcomed Bebe in the early morning dawn. It was so peaceful, so colorful, and so inviting, she found herself sighing with pleasure as she attacked her melon and toast. This delightful sanctuary was hers and hers alone and didn’t invite worry or distress. Here, at this sparkling iron-and-glass table, under the striped canopy, she was at peace with herself.

  Her farewell to Reuben had been painful, but she was still alive and eating her breakfast. Life went on; she had to go on, too. Reuben was her past, over and done with. Now all she had to do was deal with the news he’d showered on her last evening.

  Earlier she’d heard the car’s engine and looked out her bedroom window. Without investigating she’d known who was calling on her at this ungodly hour—her son. She’d known he would come simply because he was Reuben’s son. The word no probably wasn’t even in his vocabulary; he would think he could change things because of who he was, just as Reuben thought he could change things. This boy, this son of Reu
ben’s, would think he could change her mind. Probably right this second he was sitting somewhere at the end of her driveway, waiting for her so he could present himself, thinking his presence would make her feel guilty. If he was like Reuben, he would hope to chip away at her defenses until he triumphed over her—and destroyed her in the process. “No!” she said emphatically.

  Bebe finished her breakfast and carried her dishes into the kitchen. Today she had three meetings, one at the temple to organize a children’s outing, one at the Red Cross, where she volunteered to answer the phone for three hours, and the last at St. Joshua’s Hospital, where she was in training to counsel family members of accident patients. She was also having lunch with Muriel James, Fairmont’s biggest star.

  There was no time in her busy schedule today for Philippe Bouchet.

  Drawing upon a store of strength she’d never tapped deep inside her, Bebe walked out into the bright morning sunshine. Her eyes widened in dismay at the damage Reuben had done to her car. However, a few more dents, a shattered headlamp, wouldn’t prevent the engine from catching. When she saw the stack of hundred-dollar bills stuffed into the seat cushion, she frowned—then peeled off four of the bills and stuffed them in her purse. The other six were clutched in her hand as she started the old car. The engine kicked over immediately, and Bebe smiled. Old didn’t mean useless at all. Actually she was beginning to like the rickety old jalopy; she’d even given it a name, Bebe Two, but she’d never admit it to anyone but herself.

  As she started around the semicircular driveway, the sun glinted off the car’s hood ornament and reflected through her windshield. She sounded the froggy horn and slowed down. When she was three feet from the car, she leaned her head out the window.

  “This is private property and you’re trespassing. Please move your car!” she called. When there was no movement she sounded the horn a second time. I will not get out of this car and approach him. I will sit here all day if need be. When there was still no activity in the car, she actually leaned on the horn. She hated the noise and after five minutes withdrew her hand. “If you don’t move your car, I’ll go back to the house and call the police!”

  At last Philippe opened the car door and stepped out, walking around to the front of the car so his mother would have a full view of him. He waited, expecting her to step out of her car.

  Reuben, you didn’t tell me he looked just like you. Dear God, how is it possible that this young man could be so like his father? Looking into the sun as she was, Bebe was stunned to see that none of the boy’s features were her own. Reuben’s son. Mickey’s son. She felt tears burn her eyes as time raced backward. Oh, Reuben, how I loved you. Everything was for you, Reuben. I destroyed my life because of my love for you. Leave, leave, I don’t want to see you, her heart cried. Don’t come into my life now, it’s too late. Leave, please leave.

  “I’m Philippe Bouchet,” the young man said arrogantly.

  “Yes, I know,” Bebe replied coolly from inside the car. “I’d appreciate it if you’d move your car. I’m going to be late if you don’t. I really don’t want to take the time to return to the house and call the police.” Dear God, he even had the same arrogant-sounding voice as Reuben. She felt a wave of dizziness attack her.

  “I’d like to talk to you…Mother,” the boy said, advancing a step.

  “I don’t have time to talk, and your mother is Mickey Fonsard. Don’t show her disrespect by calling me Mother. I want you to leave!” Mother. Oh, God, yes, she was his mother but in name only. Don’t come any closer, please don’t come any closer. “I know your father told you not to come here, but you came anyway. You are your father’s son, that much is obvious. Now I’m not going to ask you to move your car again,” Bebe snapped. “If you don’t, I will simply ram this car into it. I hope we understand each other.”

  There was a catch in the boy’s voice when he asked, “Why did you…abandon me? Why didn’t you tell my father about me?”

  Why? Bebe thought her heart was going to rip out of her chest. She reached down deep, digging for the strength she needed. “I made sure you had a good life; you have no complaints. I owe you nothing, not even an explanation. Speak with your father.” She slipped the car into gear and eased up on the gas pedal, watching through her tears as the boy scurried back to his car. As he backed and swerved, grinding the gears unmercifully, Bebe bit down on her lower lip. The salty taste of her own blood made her cry out. The moment the boy’s shiny new car was on the shoulder of the driveway, she roared past him, looking neither to the right nor the left. Philippe Bouchet belonged to the past.

  Once Bebe Two had made its way down the curving canyon road, Bebe turned the car at the first cutoff and parked. Her shoulders shook with the sobs she’d held in check. Why didn’t he understand that this was best for him? Why had he insisted on coming to see her? Reuben must have told him not to come.

  You must be your own person, just as your father was. There’s no room in my life for you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I remember everything, every detail of your birth; I remember all the hateful, terrible things I said. I remember all the nightmares over the years; I remembered each birthday, each Christmas, the start of each school term. Only I know what I felt and only I know how you felt in my arms. To this day I can still remember the ache when I left you behind. I gave you a name, and in my heart you have always been John Paul. Now I have to say good-bye a second time. How much am I to endure? How much? I need to know so I can live in peace with myself…how much more?

  Philippe drove erratically, his mind everywhere but on the road. Twice he almost careened into a car only to swerve to safety at the last moment. He didn’t understand any of what had just transpired. He’d thought all women were like his mother in France. This…this person who was his real mother was a…cold, heartless bitch. Threatening to call the police, ordering him off her property because it was “private”…What she’d said about his having a good life was true, but it was her fault that his father had never come to see him, her fault for keeping his existence a secret. What a tidy little group they were, he thought miserably as he remembered Daniel Bishop’s words: “We were all abandoned at some point in our lives, and I think that’s what drew us together, by Mickey of course. I was an orphan and brought up in an orphanage, Reuben’s parents died and he was sent to live in a home where there was no room for him. Bebe’s mother died and left her as a child. And now you, abandoned by both your real mother and real father. In the end, as much as it will hurt you, you’ll realize that what Bebe did was for the best.”

  Now he was driving slower, his thoughts under control. He needed to talk to someone who could look at his situation objectively. Thank God Nellie would be here in a few days. She would understand and explain the way women thought and acted on their thoughts. Nellie’s life hadn’t been all that wonderful, but she’d managed to survive, and she liked him, really liked him. And he liked her, too. Nellie understood. Nellie would help him get through this transition from France to America. Together they would help each other.

  Philippe roared into the studio parking area and swerved into his assigned space with such force that he ran over the cement block separating his space from the one in front of him. The impact jolted him backward. He uttered his favorite American word that seemed to sum up most of his situations.

  “Shit!”

  Reuben winced as Philippe leapt out of the car, slamming the door behind him. He moved quickly then, timing his arrival in the hall to coincide with Philippe’s. “How’d it go with your mother?” he asked casually.

  “How did…She told me to get off her property or she would call the police,” Philippe said bitterly. “She wouldn’t get out of the car but sat there blowing the damn horn. She sat there in that goddamn beat-up car and told me she’d made sure I had a good life and had no complaints and to get out! Jesus Christ, what kind of woman is that!”

  Reuben sighed. “I told you not to go out there. I told you she said she didn’
t want to see you. You should have listened.”

  “Do you know what else she did?” Philippe blustered. “She threw these out of the window as she drove past me. Six hundred-dollar bills! I picked them up. She yelled something like ‘Give these to your father.’ You Americans, you’re all crazy!” Philippe yelled over his shoulder as he raced into his office.

  Reuben grinned at the sound of glass shattering on the upper part of the door. He’d done the same thing years ago, but now he couldn’t remember why. Time…When he glanced down at the money in his hand, he grinned again. He’d been off by a hundred dollars. “Bravo, Bebe,” he murmured. “Keep it up.”

  Reuben checked his watch. If he didn’t hurry, he’d be late for his appointment with the attorney Daniel had retained for him in regard to his divorce….

  Forty-five minutes later he found himself sitting in a comfortable burgundy chair across from Andrew Blake, Esq., a thin, bald-headed young man with penetrating hazel eyes and a penchant for custom tailoring and footwear. Each took the measure of the other, and as if by some unspoken agreement both concurred that they would do business together.

  “What I see here,” Blake said in a deep voice that surprised Reuben in one so young, “is either a messy case or a simple, cut-and-dried affair. I heard from Mrs. Tarz’s attorneys several days ago.” Paper crackled as it was shifted from one pile to another. Reuben leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. If nothing else, he was here to be amused by his wife’s demands. “Actually, what we have here are two proposals,” Blake continued. “First, Mrs. Tarz wants the 49 percent of the stock that was turned over to you some years ago. If you’re willing to give her that, she’ll agree to your continuing to run the studio at whatever salary you think is fair. She wants nothing else. The second proposal, of course, is predicated on the first. If you can’t see your way clear to the 49 percent, she wants everything else. And when I say everything, I mean everything, which means you leave the studio and get a job somewhere else. I think you should know the attorneys she’s hired are almost as good as I am.” This was said without conceit. “It could become a bloodbath. All your dirty linen will be aired. Now, have you given any thought to what it is you want to counteroffer?