God Almighty, Reuben was going to hand him his head for allowing this to happen, Daniel thought, dazed. And Mickey, what in hell would she say when she found out? Why were the young so impulsive? When he saw that Philippe was waiting for him to say something, he forced himself to respond. “Congratulations…. But isn’t this a little…sudden? I mean—”
“Now, look, Daddy, you aren’t going to act like a silly father and say this marriage has to be annulled, are you?” Nellie broke in. “I love Philippe and he loves me. We’re going to run the studio together, isn’t that just too, too much?” She hugged him and planted a long, smacking kiss on his cheek. Then, seeing the concern in her father’s eyes, she whispered, “Be happy for me, Daddy. It’s what we both want.”
“I am, I am, it’s just that it’s such a shock. When you didn’t come home last evening…”
Nellie’s gay laughter chilled Daniel to the very marrow of his bones. It carried the same undercurrent of disdain he’d heard when Rajean laughed at one of his silly jokes. “And of course you thought the worst of me, didn’t you?” Nellie said lightly. “Admit it, Daddy. It’s okay, in your place I would have thought the same thing. I thought you knew me better than that. I would never do anything to hurt you. Now,” she said, clapping her hands together, “I am going to make a champagne breakfast for the two favorite men in my life. Come along.” She laughed, making shooing motions with her hands. “I never saw such sad sacks. Liven up, be happy! Today is Christmas, and Philippe and I are going to be married for the rest of our lives. I’m so happy! So very, very happy!”
Daniel watched Philippe out of the corner of his eye. It might be Christmas and he might be married, but Philippe Bouchet was not a happy young man. Hadn’t Nellie seen Philippe’s misery? Or was she ignoring it? He wondered then whose idea it was to get married. Philippe had said it was his, but for some reason Daniel didn’t believe him. He glanced at his daughter. How happy she was, and she deserved happiness. Rajean had never really provided a happy home life. Now Nellie was going to have a home of her own, one that wasn’t too shabby by most standards. In fact, his daughter was going to be a very wealthy woman. In his heart he wished her well.
It was noon when Nellie and Philippe saw him out and stood in the driveway waving good-bye.
“Now, Philippe, you and I are going to have a little talk,” Nellie said coolly after her father had left. “I am very weary at this moment, because you acted and are still acting as if we did something wrong. You didn’t smile once the whole time Daddy was here. If you’re having second thoughts, we can have this marriage annulled. You think I tricked you or something like that, don’t you? Well, Philippe Bouchet, you can just drive me home now and…and I’ll be out of your hair…. Well, why are you just standing there? Say something.”
Philippe swayed dizzily as his head started to pound. Everything she said was true; he did think those things. Right this second he didn’t give a damn if he never saw Nellie Bishop again. Nellie Bouchet. Suddenly the eggs he’d just eaten surged upward. With a strangled sound, he rushed to the first-floor powder room and emptied his stomach. Then he rinsed his mouth and swallowed four aspirins.
Nellie was waiting for him on the stairs, her elbows propped up on her knees and the long dress draped between her legs. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Philippe was reminded of a lovable homeless urchin. Contrite, he sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulder. “Someday we’re going to laugh about all this,” he said huskily.
“Do you think so?” Nellie whimpered, and wiped at her tears with the hem of her dress. “I want to love you, Philippe. I want to know you belong to me and I belong to you. It’s so important to me, to belong. I thought…I mean, in your situation with Uncle Reuben and Bebe and your other mother…it just seemed to me that we…My mother is gone, and Daddy—Daniel Bishop isn’t my real father…I don’t know what I’m trying to say…”
“It’s me, Nellie, it isn’t you,” Philippe said quietly. “I do love you and I wanted to marry you, perhaps not as quickly, but now that we are, it will be fine. I guess I’m just in shock. I was thinking about my mother and worrying about why no word has arrived. My father…he should have managed to send some kind of message. I thought for sure that Christmas…I was so certain there would be word. Christmas is a day of miracles. Last evening at Jane’s, my…Bebe…was so distant, so reserved. I will never get used to the idea that she—”
Nellie nodded. “Abandoned you, I know…but you must think of it as her loss, not yours. You have another mother who loves you. You know what they say about paybacks…. If the time ever comes when you want to get back at her, you have the power. Think about it—you could toss her out on her ear if you wanted to. Could you do that, Philippe?” She asked, leading her husband up the stairs.
“No. An eye for an eye isn’t right. That would make me the same as she is. My father gave her half of the studio; he wanted her to have it. She’ll do fine. Actually, I have to respect her in a way. She must have a lot of guts. In that respect she reminds me of my other mother. Besides, Nellie Bouchet, your father has the controlling two votes.”
“Exactly!” Nellie said triumphantly. “And how do you think he would vote them? Our side, darling. If Bebe were my mother, I’d squash her like a bug for what she did. You are so kind and wonderful; I guess that’s why I love you.”
The warning bell he’d heard earlier sounded a second time. This time Philippe paid attention, watching as his new bride retreated to the bathroom to shower. Out of courtesy he used the shower in the guest bathroom, standing under the stinging spray for a long time, wondering how he knew he’d just made the most serious mistake of his young life.
Ten minutes later he was under the coverlet, naked as the day he was born. Nellie would expect him to be naked. His heart thumped crazily in his chest. He felt no desire, only dread. When he heard the bathroom door open, he almost shot out of bed. How pretty she looked with the towel draped around her, her damp hair hanging in ringlets around her face. She was smiling. Sweet Nellie. His wife, Nellie. The moment she dropped the towel, Philippe squeezed his eyes shut. After a slight hesitation Nellie lay down on her side of the bed. With Philippe lying rigidly on his side, there was enough space to fit several people between them.
“I’m the first to admit my ignorance in matters…what I mean is, I think one of us is supposed to move closer.” Nellie giggled suddenly and bounced next to Philippe, who still had his eyes closed. “We are allowed to do this, Philippe. We’re married now. We can do whatever we want in this bed. Or don’t you want to do anything?” she asked, shifting slightly.
“Yes…no…I…can’t,” Philippe said miserably.
“What did you say?”
“I…I can’t,” Philippe repeated in the same tone of voice.
Nellie’s mind raced. It was perfectly all right with her if he couldn’t do anything. In fact, she was so relieved she felt like singing. She searched her mind for words and a tone that would convey just the right mood. “There are too many people in this bedroom, Philippe, and you brought them here. Your mother, your other mother, and your father and my father. They’re your guests, not mine. I’m not trying to be cruel, darling, it’s just that this has been…a traumatic day, and like you said, you’ve been worried about your mother and father. I understand, and I don’t want you worrying about your”—she hesitated a moment—“inability to…you know. I think I’ll sleep in the guest room, and later when you feel…we’ll work into our marriage in degrees. It happened too quickly. I’ll stay here with you till you’re asleep, and then I’ll go down the hall. All right, darling?”
Philippe almost cried with relief. Within seconds he pretended to have fallen asleep, snoring lightly. When Nellie slipped from the bed and left the room, he scrambled up and stared at the closed door. Should he get up and lock it? He wanted to get up and lock it. He needed to get up and lock it. But he didn’t. He was a married man, and his wife had a right to return to his bed if she wanted to.
Frustrated and feeling thoroughly wretched, Philippe Bouchet pounded his fists into his pillow. His last conscious thought before falling asleep was that he didn’t love Nellie Bishop.
The Christmas tree lights winked at Jane. She’d forgotten to turn them off, even though she’d slept nearby on the sofa to be sure she heard the phone in case Daniel called. But he wasn’t going to call now. It was ten-thirty A.M. on Christmas Day. If he was going to call, he would have done it before now. Depressed, she heaved herself up from the sofa, her eyes falling on the small gift-wrapped box Daniel had left on the table. A bracelet or necklace, possibly a lapel pin. How stupid she was, how incredibly stupid to think Daniel was going to give her an engagement ring. Well, she wasn’t going to think about that now. First she’d take a shower, then have some breakfast and open her presents. Thank God she’d cleaned up last night. At least she wouldn’t have to face the aftermath of the party this morning.
She was on the fourth step when the phone shrilled behind her. Jane’s heart fluttered wildly in her chest as she made her way to the telephone table. Her hand snaked out to pick up the receiver and then drew back. She reached out a second time, her voice breathless with anticipation as she responded. Her eyes closed when she heard Bebe’s voice.
“Merry Christmas, Jane! I just wanted to thank you for a truly lovely evening.”
“It was my pleasure,” Jane said dully.
There was a slight pause. “Oh, Jane, I’m so sorry! You thought…you hoped I was Daniel, didn’t you? Look, I won’t tie up your phone—”
“No, no, don’t hang up. I’ve been sitting here all by myself staring at this damned tree and wishing Christmas would go away.”
“Listen, I’m making a Christmas dinner. It’s one of those things I have to do. I’d like it if you’d join me.” Bebe giggled. “I have to warn you, though, my cooking leaves a lot to be desired. If you want to…if you’d rather wait to see if Daniel calls, I understand.”
“Bebe, I think you just saved my life,” Jane said with a catch in her voice. “I was just about to take a shower. I’ll be there in an hour—and Bebe? Thanks.”
“Forget it. I’ve been where you are many times. I know how it feels. I’ll set an extra place. Listen, how do you feel about walking?”
“I love to walk, especially at night when it’s cool and the crickets are out. Why do you ask?”
“Bring your walking shoes and a nightie. I think it’s time the girls had a hen party. You game?”
Jane laughed. “I’m packing already.”
The last thing Jane did before leaving her house was to open the present from Nellie. It turned out to be a framed photograph of herself, probably her high school graduation picture. She looked young and wholesome in her dark sweater and Peter Pan collar. Jane’s first impulse was to pack it up and send it back. Instead, she shoved the picture back into the box and pushed it as far under the tree as she could.
Jane arrived at Bebe’s at noon, her overnight case in her hand and an expensive bottle of perfume she’d been saving to share with just the right person.
Daniel Bishop rang Jane’s doorbell, then let himself in with his key when she didn’t answer. The first thing he noticed was his unopened present. Uneasy, he walked through the neat, tidy house, calling Jane’s name over and over. Eventually he settled on her sofa and proceeded to drink himself into oblivion. At six o’clock he sank into a drunken stupor and didn’t wake until four in the morning, at which time he walked through Jane’s dark house calling her name again and again. Where in the goddamn hell was she at four in the morning?
Christmas was over, he thought bitterly as he drove home. The worst Christmas of his life.
Bebe raised her glass of club soda and made the first Christmas toast. “To Reuben, may he be successful in his mission.”
“You really mean that, don’t you?” Jane said in awe.
“Yes. I love Reuben and I want him to be happy.” She held her glass aloft a second time. “Merry Christmas to you, Jane.”
Jane smiled and held out her own glass. “Merry Christmas, Bebe. Here’s to our partnership and the success of our new film. Long live Hollywood!”
Willie barked under the table, and Bebe smiled. Life was almost perfect, she thought.
Almost.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The winter’s snows were high now, and not a day went by without more, always more. The incessant stinging sharp spray blew against Reuben now, making each step he took seem like two. Often he fell backward, and then anger at himself would drive him forward with a vengeance.
He was with a new guide, a youth named Marcel. The boy had the stamina of a mountain goat, his steps sure and deft even in the knee-high snow. Numberless times the boy had turned to reach out a hand and pull Reuben from his deep tracks. He’d promised snowshoes on their next stop, which wasn’t scheduled for hours yet.
Twice he’d almost been caught, and his last guide, Didier, had saved his skin—once on the train to Carcassonne and again when they’d leapt off the same train minutes before it was due to arrive in Carcassonne. The Germans on the train had been lax, but there had been one sharp-eyed soldier who kept staring at Reuben’s American boots. Didier had played the part of a drunk, melancholy because his lover had rejected him on the holiday. Staggering in his tracks, he’d spewed words about women wanting presents, laces, and fine stockings and cigarettes. And, he’d demanded of the Germans, where was a poor peasant like himself to get such fine things? The soldiers had laughed, poking him on the shoulder to show they understood his feelings. All except the soldier with the sharp eyes. He hadn’t laughed. Reuben’s heart pounded in his chest. There were four Germans in their car and probably four more at the other end. There would be more in Carcassonne.
“This is my uncle,” Didier had said, pointing to Reuben. “I took his advice and now I am without a woman. He has had three wives and still I listened to him. I am a fool!” With an admirable show of despair, he’d thumped his chest in disbelief at what had happened. Reuben’s heart continued to pound as he tried for a lopsided grin that didn’t quite come off.
The sharp-eyed soldier moved to the back of the car, the other three moving forward to the middle car. Didier’s hand snaked out to grip Reuben’s thigh. A signal, but what did it mean? He nearly jumped out of his skin when Didier turned to the soldier behind him. “D’urgence, sans delai, uriner.” For Christ’s sake, thought Reuben, why did he want to take a piss now? The soldier shook his head, but Didier was already standing, motioning the soldier to follow him. Reuben rose, too, his hands on the fly front of his trousers. Now he understood.
At the back of the car Didier pushed at the heavy door and actually urinated. Then he stepped back for Reuben to take his place. It was now or never, thought Reuben. His bladder was completely empty. As he sidled up to the open doorway, he felt a violent push and hurtled through swirling snow, striking the ground with a hard thud. Although he hadn’t actually seen Didier’s next move, he knew the Frenchman had swiveled and caught the German soldier behind the knees, sending him flying after Reuben. Minutes later Reuben heard a sharp crack as Didier snapped the soldier’s neck.
“We have ten minutes, possibly fifteen, before the others realize he’s gone. We must be quick,” Didier muttered, slinging the rifle over his shoulder. “All of them won’t leave the train. Maybe three will come after us, but when the train pulls into the station the whole fucking army will be after us. This snow isn’t heavy enough to cover our tracks. Move, monsieur!”
Reuben scrambled up the embankment on his hands and knees, Didier behind him. They ran then, as quickly as they could in the deep snow, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the Germans. Traveling as they were over flat land, and exposed to the elements, they were prey to any German vehicle that came along—and there would be vehicles as soon as the Germans on the train alerted the checkpoint at Carcassonne.
Now they were no more than eight kilometers from Carcassonne
, still on flat land that Marcel said would change within the hour. Reuben prayed that the youth knew what he was talking about.
“Monsieur, I have seen an old man move faster,” the boy snarled impatiently. “I have a sweetheart I wish to see again. Slide your feet through the snow instead of lifting them up. Monsieur, you must hurry. If you look behind you, you will see a German truck. Once they see our path they will have no trouble following us as we are packing down the snow. Now do you understand me?”
“Yes,” Reuben replied through clenched teeth. His lungs felt seared with the cold, and his entire body was numb with pain, so numb he couldn’t feel his feet or his hands. But he kept on, moving as fast as he could, after Marcel.
“There is a ravine we must reach that will afford us some protection. The snow is worsening, and it will be dark in another hour. Faster, monsieur.”
Yes, faster. Marcel had young legs, so it was easy for him to issue orders. Reuben’s chest was on fire, his eyes burned by the cold. He could barely see where he was going, yet he had to keep moving. Desperately he tried to conjure up hatred, a hatred intense enough to drive him onward. But it wasn’t working; his knees buckled, and he collapsed into the snow face first. Marcel’s hand lashed out, grasping his shoulder. For a young boy, his grip was frightening. In another moment Reuben was on his feet and moving at the boy’s sharp words.
“A puppy dog goes faster,” he growled.
“You son of a bitch! A dog has four legs,” Reuben snarled.
“It is easy to see you are no Frenchman,” Marcel snapped over his shoulder.
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