Sins of Omission

by Fern Michaels

  Rosemary held his gaze steadily for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I understand, Reuben. You belong to your wife and that mansion. If I made you happy for a little while, I’m glad. I’m grateful that you will provide for us. It won’t do for either of us to talk this to death. I think we knew the relationship was waning. At least I did. You stopped coming as often, you developed excuses, and our lovemaking was almost routine. I’m very fond of you, you know. It’s better that we part now as friends than later on as…as bitter strangers. You never really belonged to me, anyway. You were another woman’s husband with a different kind of life-style. As you say, this was an interlude.” She smiled, got up from the chair, and held out her hand. “Friends, Reuben.”

  Reuben was so stunned, he was speechless. He nodded dumbly.

  “It was nice of you to stop by, to tell me about the plans you made for me,” she continued, still smiling in that oddly carefree manner. So much for undying love and total acceptance, Reuben thought dimly. He was out of her life, and she didn’t seem to give a damn.

  At the door she smiled again, then waved airily as he walked down the flagstone steps. Angry and hurt—had he been taken for a sap, a prize chump?—Reuben strode to his car, got in, and drove off without a backward glance.

  Chump? Sap? Neither. He’d taken all Rosemary had to offer and he’d given what he could. They were even.

  Givers and Takers.

  He could live with it.

  Rosemary slid the bolt on the front door. “I’m glad that’s out of the way. Come along, gentlemen, we’re going to have an afternoon snack. Milk for you, fruit for me. Later I’ll tell you all about the new addition we can expect soon. There will be four of us then, won’t that be wonderful! I might even buy some caviar for you.”

  As she peeled an orange Rosemary kept up a running dialogue with the cats. “I should start my housecleaning tomorrow and pack up Reuben’s things and give them to Goodwill. He won’t be coming back here. Then I’ll shop for the baby, fix up a nursery, and have my jewelry appraised. I don’t think I’ll miss Reuben too much. Strange as it may sound I found him to be incredibly boring.” She laughed, a delightful sound of pure mirth. “The reason Reuben won’t be back is he really thought I wanted marriage. Such a silly man.” She laughed again with gusto. The startled cats leaped for cover as Rosemary headed for her bedroom. She stripped the bed and turned the mattress. Such a boring, silly man.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  1938

  The Paris garden was a kaleidoscope of brilliant color, created by conscientious gardeners whose only aim was to please Madame Fonsard. Fragile roses the color of a maiden’s blush crept up over trellises beside delicate purple morning glories, their petals as soft as the richest velvet. Scarlet cockscomb, sky-colored bluebells, and brilliant yellow buttercups nestled alongside whitewashed rocks as bees buzzed and flirted with dancing butterflies as colorful as any rainbow after a spring shower.

  Mickey Fonsard’s eyes took in the garden at a glance, but it was on the dark-headed young boy that her eyes lingered. How handsome he was, how content to be here studying in the garden! He was tall for nineteen—but then, his father was tall. And still growing, she would chuckle fondly when she noticed his trousers creep above his ankles. Perhaps, she thought, he would be taller than Reuben. This boy she called her son reminded her of a delicate engraving. Everything about him was perfect, and he was so like his father in his mannerisms. There were days when he would do or say something that reminded her so much of Reuben, she wanted to cry.

  It was late afternoon, and for some reason she always thought of Reuben at this particular time of day, possibly because it was the end of the day and the long night loomed ahead, that time when she would close the door to her room and be alone to remember still more.

  The boy was her life. In the beginning, after Reuben left, she’d needed to be consumed with Philippe, but now that he was older he needed her less and less. These days he had his studies, his activities, and his friends. Girls by the dozen stopped at the house to chat and smile winsomely at the young man, who blushed and stammered, unwilling to invite them in. Later he would say that he had no time for giggling girls, he had his studies, because when he was ready to go to America he had to know all there was to know about the film industry. Mickey wondered what monstrous tome he was studying now and craned her head for a better look. He wasn’t studying at all, but reading the newspaper. For some reason she felt annoyed and then frightened. She didn’t know why.

  Philippe watched his mother out of the corner of his eye. He wished he’d covered up the newspaper, but he’d been so engrossed in the war news, he hadn’t seen her until it was too late.

  “What are you reading, Philippe?” Mickey asked anxiously.

  “The paper…The American president says he has no wish to intervene in Europe. They will, though,” he said knowledgeably. “At the Sorbonne, everywhere there is talk of the Germans and what they are doing. There will be a war, Maman, mark my words. They talk of nothing else at school.” To Mickey’s ears his voice was shrill and ominous-sounding.

  “I don’t want to hear you talking like this, Philippe. You are too young to be following war and reading and talking…” Her voice trailed away.

  “You told me my father went to war when he was eighteen. Why am I so different? Don’t you consider me a man. Maman?”

  They’d had this discussion several times in the past week, and each time Mickey felt more drained, more angry, and more unsure of what could happen. Her voice was sharp, sharper than it had ever been with Philippe. “I want to hear no more of this talk, not now, not later, and not tomorrow. Please, do not force me to forbid you to read the paper.”

  “I don’t understand,” Philippe grumbled, staring at his mother. “I am not a little boy any longer. I can read the papers at school if you don’t want me to read them here. Our country isn’t strong, Maman. Lebrun is…Very well, Maman, I will put the paper away. You cannot hide from this, isn’t that what you’ve always taught me? Face things, you said, meet them head on. There are no bogeymen. Now I must say the same thing to you.”

  “You don’t understand,” Mickey said, wringing her hands. “You simply do not understand.”

  Philippe threw his hands in the air. “Then tell me what it is I don’t understand.” he said, exasperated.

  “Not today, Philippe, I have a throbbing head.”

  Philippe was instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, Maman.” But all the same Mickey noticed that he secured the newspaper in his book bag.

  Indoors, the house seemed dim and gloomy after the sunshine in the garden. No, that wasn’t it; Philippe was her sunshine, and he’d galloped up the stairs to his room, taking the sunshine with him. Whatever would she do without him? The thought was so horrendous, Mickey felt faint.

  Tea. Tea always made her feel better. Tea laced with brandy would make her feel even better. She was pouring thick cream into the cup when she heard a commotion by the back door. Yvette and Henri. “Thank you, Lord,” she murmured, “you always send them to me when I’m at my lowest ebb.” She quickly set out two cups and fixed tea for her friends.

  Yvette swept into the kitchen, Henri in her wake. “I had this…feeling,” she said, thumping her ample bosom, “that something was wrong. So I made Henri drop everything. We left early this morning and we return tomorrow because of the animals. So…tell me what is wrong. You see, Henri, you need only to look at this face to know all is not right. Ah, the tea—bah, fill my glass with brandy, tea is for children. Sit, sit, Henri, you are with two beautiful women, enjoy our beauty while you drink and be quiet until I find out what is wrong with my dearest friend. So, Michelene, I am waiting. You see, Henri is waiting, too…patiently.”

  Mickey smiled. How Yvette managed to say everything in one breath was something she would never understand.

  “I think it is the newspapers, eh, chérie?” Yvette continued. “At the farm we get the paper and we can read. I want to see a smile on your fa
ce, Michelene. Now!”

  “Philippe devours the papers,” Mickey explained tremulously. “All he thinks of is war and fighting. At first when he spoke of…these things, I thought it had to do with his classes. Young people are so political, you know. But it’s more, Yvette. He’s thinking of his father. In his mind he thinks of this as romantic. He’s so passionate, so full of life, I think, my friends, I did too good a job when I spoke to him of his father. And when necessary, to make the story more interesting for his young ears, I took the liberty of…of embroidering…incertain are as.

  “Tell me the truth, Henri, what do you think? Are we headed for war like everyone says?”

  “I think so,” Henri said miserably.

  “I think we should all go to Switzerland,” Yvette broke in happily. “We will be one happy family. I will cook and you will sit around and dote on Philippe while Henri tends to things. Philippe will…Philippe will…hate it. He wouldn’t go with us, would he?”

  Mickey shook her head. “I don’t think he even wants to go to America anymore. He never mentions his father these days. I think now that he is a young man, he…what I mean is, he now has thoughts and opinions that are his own. Not too long ago, when he was angry about something, he said his father abandoned us and everything I told him was make-believe, like the films his father makes. He broke my heart, Yvette.”

  “Listen to me, Michelene, we spoke of this many times. You said you knew it would happen and you could handle it. I don’t like reminding you that you said the same thing when Reuben left. Emotions, chérie, cannot be counted on. The devil is working on you!”

  Henri finished his brandy and poured another glass, this one full to the brim. “Perhaps, Mickey, it is time for you to think about writing Reuben or…to think about sending Philippe to America. I know this is the last thing you want to hear right now, but you must think along these lines.”

  An angry retort rose to Mickey’s lips, but when she saw the sorrow in Henri’s eyes she bit down on her lower lip. “I know, but not yet, Henri, not yet. I’m not ready…for…I’m not ready.”

  Yvette reached across the table and took Mickey’s trembling hands in her own. “Mickey, you will never be ready. The longer you delay, the worse it will be. I remember the other war as you do, my friend. If, and I say if, there is another one and our country is involved, you…Philippe thinks of himself as French. He will want to fight for his country like all loyal Frenchmen. Today, Michelene, the paper said that Germany has aligned itself with Italy. The paper calls them the Axis. Nothing good can come of this—mark my word,” Yvette said grumpily. Henri nodded, in complete agreement with his wife.

  “Time. I need time. Do you think it’s easy to…to rip my heart out of my chest?” Mickey cried in a tormented voice. “Stick a knife in me, it would be simpler.”

  Yvette leaned across the table, her voice the only sound in the quiet kitchen. “You can pack your bags and take Philippe to America. You can go directly to Reuben, who will sweep you into his arms. At least the boy will be safe, and you will get to see Reuben again after all these years. It is also time for you to tell him…all that you know. Time, Michelene, this is the kind of time we should be discussing.”

  “Bebe,” Mickey said brokenly.

  Yvette threw her hands in the air. “It is time for you to fight for what you want. Bebe walked away from her baby and never looked back. You owe that woman nothing. She has not changed; her kind never does. The last time I saw her I knew that she was just as selfish, just as nasty, and just as uncaring as she always was. In years she has not once asked about Philippe. That should tell you all you need to know.”

  Henri came around to Mickey’s side of the table and dropped to his haunches. “You have the power, Mickey, to rip the world out from under Reuben and Bebe. You own the controlling interest in the film studio. Exercise that interest. Fight! Fight for what you want. Weak kittens do not survive in this world. I am a simple man, as you know, and I do not know much about business, but this is my advice, from here,” he said, thumping his chest.

  “Pride will be your downfall,” Yvette said gently. “The past is past. It is rare, my friend, to get a second chance in this world. When it does happen, only a fool would turn away. Now!” she said, smacking her hands together. “I think you should feed us. We have come a long way and our stomachs are empty!”

  Mickey wiped at the tears in her eyes. “Yes, it is time for nourishment.” For my soul, she said silently.

  In his room above the kitchen, Philippe puzzled over the snatches of conversation that carried upward through the fireplace chimney. It was nothing new, these hushed conversations between his mother and her friends. He loved Yvette and Henri and called them uncle and aunt out of respect, but there was a secret they shared with his mother, he was sure of it. He’d asked them, dozens of times, but they said it was his imagination. The only thing he was sure of, whatever it was involved his mother and his father.

  Philippe’s eyes narrowed and he could feel his shoulders grow tense. He knew if he didn’t shake off the feeling, he would develop a blinding headache and be unable to finish the newspaper. He also knew when he took his bath and came back to his room the paper would be gone.

  His thoughts carried him to the man who was his father, the man he’d never seen. Until he was twelve he’d believed the wonderful stories his mother told him about Reuben Tarz. When he repeated the stories to his friends, they’d laughed and called him a fool for believing in fairy tales. “If this famous man is your father,” they’d said, “why doesn’t he write to you or visit or at least send presents?” He didn’t know the answer and when he questioned his mother she’d said his friends were jealous. She was his mother, she said, and mothers didn’t lie to their sons. After that he’d stopped asking questions, and if his mother brought up his father’s name, he closed his ears to her.

  After far too many conversations of that sort, he’d started to doubt that there even was a man named Reuben Tarz. After school he’d spent his time going from theater to theater and to every movie house in Paris to ask if they knew anything about a Hollywood film studio called Fairmont. He’d even gone to his mother’s Paris lawyers to ask details of his ownership of the studio. The managers of the movie houses told him yes, there was such a person as Reuben Tarz and he made million-dollar movies in Hollywood, California. The Paris bankers were appalled at his audacity and threatened to tell his mother he’d come to the bank with his questions. The sour-faced banker told him to forget such nonsense until he was old enough to take charge of his affairs. After the interview he’d slunk out of the bank like a whipped dog, anxious and fearful. To this day he didn’t know if the man had ever told his mother or not. It could all be a lie. Just because there was a man named Reuben Tarz who produced films in California didn’t have to mean he was his father. The picture of the Three Muskeeteers over the mantel at the château gave a lie to his thoughts. He realized then that he hated it—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually looked at it.

  Philippe could feel the tension in his shoulders start to work its way up to his neck. The headache was inevitable. His eyes fell to the newspaper again. His mother’s refusal to think or discuss the news wasn’t going to make it go away. If the papers in France were full of war rumblings, they must be the same in America. The American president kept issuing statements every day, as did the British prime minister. If his father cared about his mother or him, he would have gotten in touch, offered to take them to America or even take time out of his busy schedule to see them.

  The headache was upon him in a blinding flash. He held his throbbing head in his hands as he made his way to the bed to lie down. Later, he knew, his mother would give him three white tablets to ease the pounding, but for now he had to suffer. His dark eyes were full of sadness as he lowered himself to the soft downy pillows. “I hate you, Reuben Tarz, for abandoning me.” But there was no conviction in his muttered declaration.

  Philippe slept then, the whispere
d words from downstairs comforting to the lonely boy simply because there was nothing else for him to cling to.

  It was three-thirty in the morning when Philippe woke. He lay quietly, unsure if something had wakened him or if he’d simply slept enough to rest his body. His stomach growled ominously.

  How silent the house was. He wished Dolly were here, but she was at the farm with Yvette and Henri now because she was old and feeble. Lord, how he had loved his dogs, first Jake and then Dolly. How often he’d poured out his heart to them. And always he’d felt better afterward because they licked his face and his tears. He’d been devastated when Jake had died and had actually written a letter to his uncle Daniel—a letter he’d never mailed. It was probably still around somewhere since he never threw anything away. He knew he still had the thousand or so letters he’d written to his father. But, of course, he didn’t write them anymore, there was no point. Reuben Tarz didn’t care about him in the least.

  Philippe’s stomach rumbled again. He knew if he went downstairs, there would be a plate warming on the back of the stove.

  Thank God the damned headache was gone. He always tried to keep his anger under control and for the most part he succeeded, but when something really got to him, his head would start to pound without any warning.