Sins of Omission

by Fern Michaels

  “Poor little rich girl,” that’s how she thought of herself when she lay in bed at night.

  Someday she would meet a young man who would sweep her off her feet and love her for all of her life. They would have children whom they would both adore. It wouldn’t matter what he did for a living; he could be a shoe salesman or sell insurance, anything, just so long as he loved her and loved her. It wouldn’t matter if they had an ordinary life, he would be her Prince Charming come to rescue her from this loneliness. Or perhaps they would live on the English moors; she would be Cathy to his Heathcliff. Romantic notions played in her head. One day she would be Cinderella and the next Cleopatra, but always there was some man, handsome and good, there to save her, to love her.

  Eli called her a spoiled brat. She never bothered to explain to her brother that her selfish ways and temper tantrums were a defense against feeling lost and alone. It was an attitude that crept up on her, and she didn’t know how or when it began. She had no inclination to change. It was enough for her to know that inside she wasn’t any of those things people said about her. She was Bebe Rosen, and she ached. To reveal herself would be agony; to hide behind this facade was safety. She never knew what was expected of her, so she never seemed to fit in or belong. Confusion was a way of life for Bebe, never knowing or understanding who or what she was supposed to be.

  Even now, jouncing along in the Daimler, she felt she had to decide who she was supposed to be before she met with Mickey. Was she going to be Bebe Rosen who cared only for herself? Or could she chance being herself, the little girl inside, the shy sixteen-year-old who desperately wanted a new beginning?

  Party girl, she decided. It was safer. If the time came when she had to tone down her image, she could do it overnight. Her father said Mickey liked fun and excitement. If she allowed her vulnerabilities to show, Mickey might leave her out and attend parties and social functions without her, burdening her with school lessons and a stodgy old tutor. Mickey was expecting a handful, Bebe knew. Why disappoint her? Besides, who in his right mind could fault this beautiful Golden Girl with the laughing eyes and charming smile?

  “Monsieur, do you know why I’m to go to Marseilles instead of Paris? I thought my aunt would be living in Paris,” Bebe said, leaning over the seat.

  “Madame Fonsard felt safer at the small château. She is a loyal Frenchwoman and felt she could do more for the war effort from there. She seems to prefer the château these days to Paris. She leads a quiet life. The war is a reminder to us all to treasure those things and the way of life that means the most to us. You’ll enjoy the village, mademoiselle.”

  “Doesn’t she ever go into Paris?” Bebe questioned, disappointed.

  “For the moment, mademoiselle, her attentions are not there. As her avoué, I can handle most things for her.” His voice was creaky, like a hinge needing oil. If this man was Mickey’s attorney, Bebe felt sorry for her aunt. Her father would have put the old man out to pasture a long time ago. But she was in France now and would have to learn new ways and new approaches to doing things. And it really wasn’t any of her business what her aunt did. Unless, of course, it affected her own whims and desires in some way.

  For the first time Bebe felt a chill of fear. What if her aunt didn’t like her? Most adults didn’t for some reason. Worse yet, what if she didn’t like her aunt? What if her aunt didn’t have the maternal qualities that she craved? Make the best of things and cut her visit as short as possible—if her father would allow the visit to be cut short.

  A château in the country. That meant no bright lights and no parties. She’d read a book once about a young girl who was sent away to an old aunt in the country, and her only entertainment was taking long walks and gathering leaves to paste in a book. Bebe shuddered. She just knew she would die of boredom.

  In California her life had been wildly exciting even during those times when the school principal suspended her for smoking in the girls’ bathroom, kissing boys in the hall, and generally acting like a hoyden. School, discipline, and authority were simply not enjoyable. She was bright and intelligent, more so than most of the youngsters in her class, and it was a simple matter to catch up in her studies after one of her numerous expulsions.

  Bebe kicked off her red shoes and curled her legs under her. She wished she had something to hug to her chest, something warm and alive to squeeze her back. Tears pricked her eyes. It was always like this when she started to think too heavily. It was so much easier to laugh and carry on because your heart didn’t ache even if you were just pretending to be happy. Please, she prayed silently, let Mickey like me and let me like her in return.

  “How much farther is it?” Bebe asked the lawyer.

  “Not too much longer, Miss Rosen. We’ll be there before you know it.”

  The old man irritated Bebe. She’d asked him a simple direct question and he’d responded the way her father had when she was six years old. He probably thought her dimwitted. Wearily, she shook her head. There was no point in trying to carry on a conversation with him, she decided; because of his age he couldn’t do two things at once even if one of the things was talking and the other was driving the stupid car. She slumped back onto her seat and thought about the racy friends she’d left behind in California.

  Chapter Eight

  Mickey hadn’t slept all night. Even now, with dawn just minutes away, she still couldn’t sleep.

  It was all due, she knew, to Bebe’s imminent arrival that afternoon. The three of them would go to the depot to meet the girl. Beyond the initial meeting and a beautifully planned dinner, she’d made no plans.

  Since sleep was out of the question, she knew she should get up and go to the kitchen to make an herb poultice for her eyes. With luck she could diminish the dark circles Reuben had noticed the night before. After arguing with herself for a good fifteen minutes, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, then debated a moment over which robe to wear, the ruffled filmy one or the warm flannel. Since it was early she opted for the warm one. As she padded down the carpeted stairs, she scolded herself. She was a mature woman, knowledgeable in the ways of the world. One slip of a girl shouldn’t be having this effect on her. Ah, but when it comes to matters of the heart, there are no rules, she told herself. Emotions, she had discovered, were the single thing upon which one should never rely.

  Mickey rattled around in the kitchen, making more noise than she intended. When the old housekeeper appeared at her elbow, she jumped in surprise and almost squealed her fright. The old woman shooed her to a spot at the table and placed a cup in front of her. Coffee would be ready soon, she said, and she herself would make the poultice since Madame either used too much or too little of the dry herbs. Miracles could not undo days of damage to delicate eyes, the old woman grumbled under her breath.

  At eight o’clock Mickey was at the breakfast table waiting for Daniel and Reuben. She’d bathed and donned one of her favorite dresses, designed just for her by Coco—a deep burgundy wool jersey with huge pearl buttons down the bodice and on the sleeves. The hemline was shorter than fashion decreed, but Coco had said she had beautiful ankles and should show them off. Her hose matched the dress, as did her shoes. Jewelry, Coco had advised, would ruin her magnificent creation; sheer elegance did not require jewelry, she’d emphasized impatiently, her spritelike body and little hands in constant motion. Power was the ultimate aphrodisiac. Mickey had been in a hurry the day she’d picked up the dress, and while she’d promised not to wear jewelry, she hadn’t understood what Coco had meant about the aphrodisiac…until this moment.

  The depot was a cacophony of noise when the train from Le Havre pulled into the station. Steam hissed and whistled through the air, blocking visibility for the Three Musketeers. Departing passengers jostled one another, some good-naturedly, others angrily. There were mountains of luggage everywhere. Mickey found herself looking for the most expensive trunks, the most elegant chapeau boxes, and when she sighted them she didn’t need to see the name Barbara Ro
sen engraved on the handles to know to whom they belonged. There were seven trunks and nine hatboxes. A wry smile tugged at the corners of Mickey’s mouth. There were times when she herself had traveled with just as much for as little as ten days—a trunk of shoes, one for lingerie, another for daytime dresses, and one for evening wear; still another case for purses and evening bags, at least two for furs depending on the season, and the last one for casual wear, those outfits of which one was uncertain.

  Mickey sucked in her breath. If Bebe was anything like she was, she would wait for the crowd to disperse, then disembark from the train looking bored and put out, pouting at the inconvenience of travel. Instead of allowing her coterie of young admiring men to help, Bebe would expect Mickey and her guests to do her bidding. Daniel would be of little help because of his recently mended shoulder; it would be up to Reuben to carry the heavy trunks unless she could prevail upon a porter. And so far all of them appeared to be occupied—the price one paid for making a grand exit.

  When at last Bebe stepped onto the platform, Mickey’s first thought was that the girl looked ridiculous in her oversize fur coat and teetering high heels. A child playing at sophistication. Her second thought was that the young girl was probably the most beautiful creature she’d ever seen. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. A swirling cloud of vapor enveloped all of them for a second, giving Mickey the time she needed to orient herself. When she could see clearly she called to Bebe. “Chérie, over here!”

  Hearing Mickey’s voice, Bebe drew in a deep breath, then loosened the heavy fur and shrugged it back the way she’d seen some of the actresses do in her father’s films. She felt a little silly as she advanced toward her aunt. Her eyes went immediately to Reuben and Daniel, then back to Reuben. Handymen? Servants of some sort? The tall one with the black hair was handsome as the devil himself. Sol would probably cut off his right arm to get him into a film. In the blink of an eye she sized up both men. The second time she blinked she decided she wanted the dark-haired one for herself. If her friends in California could see this man, they’d drop in a faint. He was just the type they all said they were going to marry someday. Hmmm, marriage? She concentrated on the tall man, willing him to meet her gaze. He didn’t seem the least bit interested in her. Well, she thought, shrugging, time would take care of that.

  The younger and shorter of the two was mesmerized by her, she could tell, but the taller one had eyes only for Mickey, and there was something in his gaze she had never seen before. Something strange squeezed at her heart, and in that fleeting moment she wondered if she was making a mistake in choosing the party-girl role. It wasn’t too late to play Barbara Rosen. Look at me and smile a greeting, Bebe pleaded silently. He turned then, a smile on his lips—but it wasn’t for her, it was over something her aunt had said to him. Their eyes met, his bored and indifferent, hers challenging and determined. Excitement raced through her when he looked away. Bebe prided herself on her knowledge of young men. This one would never, ever want someone like the real Barbara Rosen. At once she made up her mind to have him. Bebe Rosen, party girl, rushed to her aunt, but not before she favored Reuben with a wicked grin. “Think about that,” she muttered under her breath.

  “You’re all grown-up, chérie,” Mickey cooed against Bebe’s smooth, satiny cheek. Reuben heard the last whispered word “almost,” and smiled.

  “Tante Mickey, how wonderful it is to be here. You’re as beautiful as the last time I saw you…only older,” Bebe countered in response. She glanced at Reuben. “But we’re forgetting our manners, Tante. Introduce me to these fine-looking gentlemen.”

  “But of course. chérie. You Americans are so…impatient. Bebe, this Reuben Tarz, and the other smiling young man is Daniel Bishop. My houseguests. Ah, I finally see a porter. Wait here for me, chérie, I’ll return in minutes. Entertain this young lady while I’m gone,” she said to Reuben and Daniel.

  Reuben’s eyes narrowed. Had the others picked up the tremor in Mickey’s voice, he wondered. Bebe Rosen was responsible for that tremor, and he himself was feeling strange, almost out of his depth. He felt a vague sense of fear. Not the kind he’d felt during the war—this was different, and so unexpected he couldn’t define it. His gut told him that some way, somehow, this girl was going to damage his relationship with Mickey. A troublemaker, he was sure of it. Anger at his own inability to be tolerant of the girl and at the sappy expression on Daniel’s face made him clench his jaw, afraid he would say something that would in some way hurt Mickey. He made up his mind then: he did not like Bebe Rosen’s bright eyes and creamy skin, he didn’t like her youthful figure and calculating smile. He did not like Bebe Rosen, period. Commenting snidely to Mickey about aging…The girl reminded him of a baby shark, all glittery eyes and sharp teeth. And Mickey had heard her, of that he had no doubt. The little snit should be put in her place, and at once, but the chances of that were almost nil. Mickey would handle things in her own sweet way, which meant Bebe would get away with her obnoxious behavior. And she’d ruin everything, bit by bit…day by day. He did his best to stifle the rage building inside him.

  “From the looks of your luggage you must be planning to stay for some time,” he said coolly.

  “As long as it takes,” Bebe said just as coolly.

  “Takes for what?”

  “Why, to get to know all of you. How long have you been…guests of my aunt? And for God’s sake let’s all talk English. My French is so rusty, everything I say comes out as ‘Pick up the pencil.’” Daniel threw back his head and laughed uproariously. Reuben grimaced.

  “Well?” Bebe demanded.

  “Well what?” Reuben said gruffly. It was almost impossible for him to believe that this painted doll standing before him—this mannequin in ridiculous shoes—had just turned sixteen. With some small measure of consolation he remembered Bebe wasn’t really Mickey’s niece, but a cousin. It made a difference. In France, Mickey told him, cousins, especially young ones, used the term “aunt” out of respect.

  Returning to the platform with a porter, Mickey caught the flinty look in Reuben’s eyes and felt her heart soar. So, he didn’t much care for Bebe Rosen. It was difficult for Reuben to hide his emotions; it was suddenly apparent that he also had a temper, something she’d decided they needed to improve upon but not just yet. Daniel was more open, and he seemed to be enjoying a sprightly conversation with Bebe as her bags were loaded into the car.

  “Bebe, you and Daniel will sit in the back and Reuben and I will be in the front. Reuben will drive.”

  “Does he double as chauffeur?” Bebe asked sarcastically.

  “Heck, no,” Daniel interjected. “Reuben just learned to drive, and he’s doing it for the experience. You know, the more you do something, the better you get at it.”

  “Imagine that,” Bebe said quietly.

  Sitting directly behind Reuben, cramped between Daniel and hatboxes. Bebe noticed Reuben’s stiff shoulders and how his head didn’t move an inch as he guided the big car down the roads. She listened to Mickey and Daniel prattle on about the château and their Christmas plans and all the things they were going to do. Every now and then she nodded or interjected a word; the rest of the time she tried to figure out who Reuben and Daniel were and how they fit into the picture. Guests could mean many things—working guests, guests on a temporary basis, and guests that did…other things.

  Bebe knew she could have Daniel and maybe even her aunt eating out of her hand in a day’s time, but Reuben would probably bite that hand off and toss it back to her. She wondered why. No one had ever taken such an instant dislike to her before, Reuben made her feel that she was infringing. But on what and on whom?

  The tall American was her aunt’s lover, she was sure now. Just the thought of the good-looking man in her aunt’s bed made her angry. She was so…so old, almost as old as her father, who was at least fifty. Sixteen-year-old logic questioned her aunt’s right to take a young lover.

  For the first time since getting into the Citroën
, Bebe looked out the window. All she saw was trees and fall desolation. Her stomach churned as the car bounced over ruts in the road. Where in the name of God did her aunt live? In America she would have called this place the boondocks,

  “How much farther is it, Aunt Mickey?”

  “Kilometrage? Perhaps…dix,” Mickey said.

  “Please, Aunt Mickey, talk to me in English. I know only a few words of French—and before you offer to teach me, let me tell you that I really don’t want to learn. I don’t ever see myself using your language in the future.” She hadn’t meant to sound so surly, but there was no way to retract the words now.

  Reuben bit down on his tongue to stop a sharp retort. The girl was after all Mickey’s guest, and it wasn’t his place to chastise her. Maybe he should simply ignore her comments and say something positive…but what? He unclamped his jaw. “You could take a nap if you don’t care for the view. You must be tired after your long trip.” He could sense Mickey smiling next to him. She was pleased with his response. He felt better immediately.

  Bebe blinked and flushed a bright pink. She waited a moment to see if Mickey would endorse Reuben’s words. She wished she hadn’t noticed the sly smile on her aunt’s face. He must be smiling, too. She turned to Daniel and spotted a cigarette case peeking from his pocket. “Give me one of those cigarettes,” she said in a choked voice.