Sins of the Flesh (6 page)

Rocky's agile brain sifted and collated as he paused for just the right amount of time. “Daniel said you were smart and wouldn't buy our story,” he said sotto voce. “The Justice Department is…how can I say…Secrecy is the name of the game over there. It's the best I can do, Mr. Tarz. For now.”

“I'm coming to Washington,” Reuben said flatly.

The alarm Rocky felt at Reuben's words communicated itself in his voice. “I wouldn't do that if I were you. At least not right away. Look, let's make a pact right now. I'll call you the moment I hear something, day or night. If Jerry or I think you should be here, I'll have one of our planes pick you up personally.” Then he threw in the lug wrench, the one he knew would hit Tarz between the eyes. He hated to do it, but he had no other choice. “Daniel wants it this way, Mr. Tarz. That's why Jerry and I are here manning the office. It's what Daniel wants. If you're the friend Daniel says you are, then you'll respect his wishes.”

Reuben swallowed past the lump in his throat. He had to agree; he had no other choice. “All right, I'll stay here for now. But when the time comes, never mind sending the old family plane, I have one of my own. And I'll keep my end of the pact, but this is yours: You call me every three hours and I don't mean every three and a half hours. Every
three
hours.”

“Sealed, Mr. Tarz.”

Reuben slammed down the receiver so hard, he thought he heard it break. Rockefeller's words didn't sit well with him. He'd been too glib, too…He hadn't actually said Daniel was off on government work. What he'd done was pick up on Reuben's hunch and ride with it. The only thing that halfway reassured him was the fact that Rocky and Jerry had always proven themselves good friends to Daniel. And he'd seen enough of the good ol' boy Harvard-Princeton crap to know they stuck together like glue. That's why he had made sure Daniel became one of them twenty-odd years ago. They would obey Daniel's instructions to the letter, just as he himself would.

He would simply have to wait, something he didn't like to do and wasn't very good at. The realization riled Reuben so, he lashed out at the leather sofa in his study. Cursing with the pain that shot up his leg, he jerked his foot away and stomped out of the room. There was no point in going to the studio, he decided, he'd just vent his anger and frustration on anyone who came near him. The servants were already off hiding somewhere. No, he'd change his clothes and go back to the garden, finish working on his roses. Or he could go through the
Examiner
and torture himself wondering about Mickey's safety—He shrugged out of his suit jacket and ripped off his tie. The hell with changing his clothes. Who said you couldn't prune roses in suit pants and business shoes? These days he did whatever he damned well pleased, and it pleased him to work on his roses exactly as he was. So why did he feel that he had to defend his actions, even to himself?

Muttering a frustrated oath, he attacked the roses, all six feet three of him towering over the huge thorny stems and hacking away without a qualm. Once he'd made love to Mickey on a bed of rose petals. They'd gathered them in secret and arranged them with conspiratorial giggles. Then he'd undressed her ceremonially and placed her among them. The combination of the look in her eyes, her pliant body, and the heady scent of the petals had been so overwhelming, he'd thought his desire would drive him insane. Afterward the fragile petals had been bruised and crushed, but Mickey had gathered them up tenderly and placed them one by one in a jar. At the time he'd thought it the most wonderful thing in the world.

Suddenly a thorn penetrated his glove and pierced his finger, but he barely felt it. Absently he removed the glove and sucked at the blood trickling from the minute wound. Was that jar still on the bedroom mantel in the château, he wondered. And Mickey—where was she? Was she safe? Did she get out in time? Jesus, he'd give anything to know.

How many times he'd wanted to go back, actually booked passage, only to cancel at the last minute. She didn't want him, and he couldn't force himself on her. Maybe he should have gone. Maybe he should have listened to her tell him coldly, finally, that she didn't want him. Perhaps that would have freed him. Pride, the deadliest sin of all. And fear of rejection, the second deadly sin.

Reuben brushed the sweat from his brow. Guilty on both counts! Almost desperately he hacked at a bush full of delicate, almond-colored blooms, stepping on buds that would have bloomed in another day, crushing them to a messy pulp. It must be something in him that destroyed the things he loved and things he didn't care to love. Like Bebe, his wife. He should have divorced her years before, but something in him wouldn't allow that final action. On more than one occasion Daniel had told him Bebe was his link to Mickey in a sick kind of way. He hadn't listened, or he'd pretended not to. Now…now he had to make a decision, not this second, but in the coming weeks. His need to be free was strangling him. None of them needed him, and he doubted seriously that either his wife or his children loved him. Simon and Dillon were his, flesh of his flesh. He'd tried to love them, but in his heart he knew that if he never saw any of them again, he wouldn't care. Christ! What kind of a man was he? It was Mickey, her rejection of him, that had killed his capacity to love. It always came back to Mickey.

How in the hell had he gotten this far into his life without feeling love again, the kind of love he'd had for Mickey? Was it true that some people were capable of loving only once?

Reuben tossed the cutting shears onto the glass-topped patio table and frowned when he saw a crack spread out from where they landed. Who the hell cared? He certainly didn't. It would simply be replaced, like magic. He removed the gloves and placed them over the shears.

Right now, this second, he could walk out the door and never come back. He provided for his family—provided handsomely. Daniel handled the trusts and the accounts. His family would never want for a thing. Why not sell his 49 percent of Fairmont Studio stock to Philippe Bouchet? For a price…a price that would set him up somewhere far away from this place.

Hands in his pockets, Reuben tramped through his manicured grounds. He listened a moment to a chorus of sounds overhead. When was the last time he'd actually stopped to appreciate the music of the birds? He couldn't remember. Could he give it up, the studio and his family, and walk away? Why not? After all, what exactly was he giving up? If Bebe and the children no longer needed him, why was he still here?
Because you want to be here wallowing in self-pity. If you wanted out, you would have gotten out a long time ago,
an inner voice replied.

Reuben rubbed his temples wearily. It was true: the guilt…the pity…I had to make amends…. Oh, God, how was I to know the years would fly and I'd never feel anything again? How was I to know I couldn't make up for what had happened?

Walk away, you've given enough—and you've taken enough. It's all been evened out somewhere along the way. Leave it all behind…make the decision.

“And what will I do?” Reuben's own voice startled him.

Take a trip around the world,
suggested the inner voice.
Something will come to you once you make the decision.

Reuben sat down on a stone bench nestled in bougainvillea. When he looked up he could see his house shimmering in the golden California sunlight. “That's just it. I can't make up my mind. I don't even know where Bebe is. I can't divorce her if I don't know where she is.”

Private detectives and lawyers will find her; that's not your problem. Your problem is finding
you.
Get a divorce!

That means I failed.

Your marriage was a failure from the first day, and you knew it then just as you know it now. You're a coward, Reuben Tarz, a bloody coward.

Reuben stood up abruptly. He'd had enough of this arguing with himself. “As soon as the problem with Daniel is resolved, I'll act on my own life decisions. That's how I'll proceed.”

He felt exhausted. The sun was warm, and a nap in the shade on one of the terrace chaises was a welcome thought. As soon as he walked back to the terrace and realized he didn't have to think another thought, he closed his eyes and slept. But his sleep was plagued with vague and clouded glimpses of Daniel.

 

A week passed, an angry, belligerent week. Rockefeller and Vanderbilt were as good as their word—they called every three hours to inform Reuben that there had been no word from Daniel. On the morning of the eighth day, Reuben calmly arranged to fly to Washington, D.C. He'd had enough of Daniel's friends and knew without a doubt that they were both lying through their upper-crust teeth.

As he issued orders to the staff to prepare for his departure, his mind was on his upcoming confrontation with Daniel's friends. He'd see how good they were at lying to his face. Daniel was in trouble, and he was sorry now that he'd allowed these two sharks to bullshit him the way they had. He'd gone along with it for Daniel's sake, but now it was his turn. One way or the other he'd get answers.

Just one more day, he told himself as his car arrived at the site of the waiting plane. As he walked up the steps, the crew members welcomed him aboard. The steward closed the hatch, and the plane immediately began to taxi down the runway.

His personal life was on hold. Daniel came first.

Huddled in the corner, Bebe sat on the roomy seat of the cab as it lumbered along. It was late and she couldn't wait to get into a hot shower and wash the grime of travel from her weary body before climbing into bed. For time out of mind she'd been away visiting a round of rich and racy friends on the East Coast, rubbing elbows with that part of society that had no need to catch the 8:05 to work. From Newport, Rhode Island, old-money homesteads, to Palm Beach estates and cozy ten-stateroom yachts, to elegant Park Avenue penthouses she was known as Bebe, never-miss-a-trick Rosen. When she left to go home for a while, they felt it was just to rest and rev up for the next go-round. It had been that way for the past ten years, ever since she'd realized once and for all that her marriage was not going to get any better. She felt nauseated, the same self-revulsion she felt every time she remembered how unequivocally stupid she had been to give up her children's stock in Fairmont to Reuben, hoping to sweeten their reconciliation. How could she have been the one to give the great Reuben Tarz the means to be even more autonomous and selfish? Bebe shuddered and shook her head to banish the thoughts from her mind. Her hand automatically searched for the personally engraved silver flask that was never far from her grasp. With a trembling hand she took a good long desperate swallow, then stared idly out her window.

The journey down Sepulveda was a familiar route from the Los Angeles County Airport. How many hundreds of times had she made it, she wondered dully. And always at the end of it, the house of her empty marriage. Only once, she realized, had she considered it home, and that was on her wedding day. On that day she had felt new and triumphant and full all at once. The disastrous past she and Reuben had shared together in France—when she had been forced to watch this man of her dreams in love with another woman—was behind her. On that new day there was no need to dwell on the nightmare rape that had resulted from her misfired attempt at seducing him, no need to brood upon the abandoned child of that crazed union. France and everything connected with it had faded in her memory as she'd walked down the aisle with her father and seen Reuben standing there, waiting to claim her as his own. But only a few hours later—from the time they arrived at 5633 Laurel Canyon—she was forced to recognize that all her hopes and dreams were hideously false—a realization borne out by the utterly pathetic eyes of her inebriated and impotent new husband. From that day on, their home had become Reuben Tarz's house.

Bebe's eyes focused on the flask in her hand. She drained it dry and cursed under her breath.

The estate at 5633 Laurel Canyon was choice and prestigious. It was filled with priceless objets d'art, paintings, and fine furnishings—so beautifully embellished that it had been photographed and written up numerous times in posh decorating magazines. The kitchen was a marvel of modern convenience, and the gardens were lush; their game room and private screening room were elaborate and unique. Reuben and Bebe Tarz had entertained and lived there and two children had grown up in it, at least part of the time, but it had never been a home.

“Did you say 5633, lady?” The driver's voice startled her.

“Yes, 5633 Laurel,” she managed to say. Impatiently she checked her watch. Two-fifteen
A.M
. Bebe looked up and saw that the driver was half slumped onto the front seat. “Could you please use the gas pedal with some authority?” she whined. “I'd really like to get home as soon as possible.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said, and sullenly pressed his foot down on the gas. His passenger's furtive swigs from the silver flask had not passed unnoticed. Snippy, boozin', society dame, he said to himself.

Less than five minutes later the cab driver turned onto the long driveway and brought the car to a grinding halt in front of the large, stately mansion. “Fifty-six thirty-three Laurel, lady. It doesn't look like anyone is awake,” he said matter-of-factly, and shifted on his seat to stare at her. “That'll be fifteen dollars.”

Bebe handed him a twenty-dollar bill. “Keep the change,” she said magnanimously.

The driver glanced at the twenty, then at her, and sniffed his displeasure. “If you want your bags carried inside, that's an extra five dollars,” he said boldly.

“All right,” Bebe said wearily as she fished around in her purse for another bill. All she found was a wad of twenties crunched in a ball. When she handed him one and was rewarded with a smile, she decided not to ask for her change.

It was no surprise to her that the house was still the same even though she'd been gone for three months. It was always the same. Only
she
changed; each time she returned she was different in one little way or another. It took some effort, but she straightened her back as she climbed the steps.

“Just leave the bags by the door,” she said to the driver.

“My pleasure, lady,” he said tartly, setting down the six suitcases in relief. Tipping his hat politely, he clambered into his cab and slowly drove down the long driveway. When he looked into his rearview mirror at the still, dark house, the woman was gone.

 

The door closed behind Bebe with a loud click. It would be nice to have a dog or a cat to welcome her home, she thought, at least something warm and alive. The servants would be asleep, of course, and the children were elsewhere; and certainly her husband didn't care when and if she ever came home.

Some of the other arrivals she had made to this house flashed through her mind. The day she'd arrived with her infant son Simon, for example, under Reuben's armed guard—bodyguards he had hired to dog her every step after he was informed that she was drinking and smoking dope in her last weeks of pregnancy. It didn't matter to Reuben that she'd begun to abuse her body because of him—because she'd realized that he really didn't care about her health, only the baby's.

Or the morning she had come back to plead with him to help her after she had witnessed her lover accidentally kill his wife. Reuben had tried to make her feel guilty for her infidelity—had even asked her if it had all been worth it. At the time, anything was worth not feeling as dead inside as she felt with him.

God! What's the use of thinking about all this, she asked herself wearily. It's all water under the bridge.

Drunk and weepy, Bebe crept into the house like a thief in the night. It wouldn't do to wake the master and have him see her like this again and so soon. Not in the house he'd magnanimously allowed her to live in after they had both realized that their marriage was a total and unsalvageable disaster.

Bebe looked down at her travel bags, beautiful calf leather, battered and scuffed now, mute testimony to her wanderlust. Reuben had told her once that the household was happiest when she was away. And she believed him. Lately she always believed Reuben. It was easier that way. Picking up her makeup case, she made her way up the stairs to the bedroom she'd taken for herself. It was a pretty room, decorated in periwinkle blue and white. The double bed welcomed her. The blue-and-white satin spread was the same, the shams artfully arranged against the white headboard. The crisp organdy curtains looked as though they'd been freshly laundered, and the flowers, bright red roses, Reuben's roses, were fresh, too.

Had Reuben placed them on her night table, she wondered. Instantly she realized that the thought was too silly for words. Reuben didn't care if she lived or died, so he certainly wouldn't place his precious roses on her nightstand.

Bebe was dressed in the latest fashion; everything about her shrieked of elegance and wealth, thanks to her husband's generosity. She'd been beautiful once, with clear green eyes and a lovely heartwarming smile. But the clear eyes were dull now and coated with garish makeup; the heartwarming smile was forced and oddly cold. Her hair was bleached these days, the ends dry and frizzled, the roots a dirty blond streaked with gray. Somehow, though, she'd managed to maintain her figure, which was soft and womanly. She dieted constantly, nibbling on things like toast, celery, and tiny bits of chicken, preferring to drink her calories in the form of liquor. Of course, she smoked too much, both tobacco and marijuana, and her fingers were stained yellow with nicotine. The physical abuse she'd subjected her body to over the years had finally taken its toll. The fine lines around her eyes were deeper now, the slight droop at her mouth more noticeable with her thinness. She'd even noticed wrinkles on her earlobes.

Bebe Rosen was no longer the beautiful woman she'd once been.

Tired as she was, Bebe knew she wouldn't be able to sleep, so she began to search the old hiding places for a bottle. It took her four tries before she found what she was looking for. Holding her prize aloft in mock victory, she walked out onto the tiny wrought-iron balcony. The half moon was still brilliant, and the sprinkling of stars overhead winked down upon her. Welcoming me home, Bebe thought inanely.

She kicked off her shoes and peeled down to her slip and stockings, throwing her blouse and skirt over her shoulder into the room. The cool breeze offered comfort to her body—but not to her mind.

There'd been times in the past when she'd felt alone and lonely, but never like this. The end of the road. So why did she stay? Why did she go off on what Reuben referred to as her toots? Surely she didn't still love him. The children were seldom home and never needed her anyway, so she couldn't use them as an excuse. Reuben didn't want her, and she didn't think she wanted him any longer.

For so long now she'd been trying to come up with a name or a term to describe her relationship with Reuben. Now she knew what it was. It had come to her as she was paying the cab driver downstairs.
Parasitic
—Reuben fed off her, and she fed off him in many ugly ways. Her whole life was ugly. She was forty years old, and all she had to show for it was a guest bedroom in a house owned by a husband who didn't love her, two children who didn't need her, and a host of rich and worthless acquaintances. Not a true friend in the bunch. Bebe drank from the bottle in her hand.

So many unanswered questions…Why did she drink so much? Why did she take drugs? Why wasn't she a better mother? Why couldn't she find peace and love? Why?

She wanted to sleep—she needed sleep. But the only way she could do that when she got like this was to smoke marijuana. She lurched into the bedroom, her hands groping hungrily through her makeup case. She pulled from it all the items needed to roll a fat one, then did so with trembling fingers. The first drag was always the best. As she felt it spread through her body and rush to her brain, she sat on the floor of the room and pulled a pillow from the bed to hold against her chest, her eyes heavy, a smile playing about her lips. She imagined the face of her mother and then began to cry when she realized it was not her mother's face at all, but the face of her aunt Mickey.

“I hate you, Michelene Fonsard!” she spat out, crying now in earnest. “I hate you with a passion that knows no equal!”

There it was, out in the open for her to examine. The war news…that's what had started this whole thing. Reuben would be remembering France, the war, and the time they'd spent at Mickey's château. Reuben and Daniel would reminisce about the good times and the life they had shared with Mickey…until she'd come along and changed everything…for all of them. She was the catalyst that had destroyed their little idyll…and Reuben had never let her forget it. He'd made her pay and pay. Even on the night they had decided to patch things up, when Reuben had garnered the Academy Award, he had insulted her by referring to Mickey—calling her the most important person in his life. In front of the whole world.

“I hope those dirty Germans destroyed your precious château and confiscated all your money,” Bebe muttered, reaching again for the bottle. “I hope they kill you! Then Reuben will be free of you once and for all. Damn you, Mickey!”

This time she'd come home for one reason: to watch her husband pore avidly over the newspapers, hoping for any news of the war in France. Masochist that she was, she'd come home to torture herself by watching her husband torture himself over his lost love. Almost immediately she had begun to pack after she had read in
The New York Times
that France had been occupied by the Germans.

And when she'd had enough of that, she'd ask Reuben for a divorce—get herself a good lawyer and take him to the cleaners. Bitter resentment rose like bile in her throat;
revenge is sweet,
kept running through her head. What a perfect way to exit. What a perfect note to exit on. Finally she would see him turned inside out, and then she'd step on him.

Maybe if
she
were free, she could start a new life someplace other than perennially sunny California. All the other times she'd been coerced by Reuben to dry out. This time she'd try it on her own. If she failed, she would have no one to blame but herself.

Bebe looked at the rolled cigarette in her hand. She tried puffing on it, but it had gone out. She lit it again and resumed smoking.

Canada! She'd go to Canada. That was far enough away. If she wanted to, she could even change her name. A clean start, a clean identity. No one would know about her tarnished past. Such good intentions, but she never followed through because it meant she couldn't drink, and besides, making plans was too much trouble.

John Paul, that was the name she'd given her firstborn. The baby in the cradle who'd clutched her finger with such wondrous strength. The tawdriest part of her past. The single thing that unerringly made her cringe at herself. Was he a loyal Frenchman now fighting for his country? A country that he thought of as his own? He would be old enough. She thought about John Paul every day of her life. Whom had Yvette given him to? Was he as handsome as his father? Maybe John Paul was behind all her misery. The thought of her son lying dead on some battlefield, never knowing he had an American mother and father, shattered Bebe's heart. She said a prayer then for her faceless son, asking that his life be spared if he was among the French soldiers fighting the Germans.