Sins of the Flesh (13 page)

Oh, she had answers all right, but he wasn't going to like them, Rajean thought nervously. It was true, she'd spent a fortune since her affair with Teddie, and she had robbed Nellie's account, and yes, she'd filched from the cleaning lady. God, now what was going to happen? With Nellie going to California, there would be just the two of them in the house. Like two spitting cats. How was she going to get to New York to see Teddie if Daniel cut off her funds? And he would make good on his promise, too. Daniel never made idle threats. A little humble pie with a side helping of crow might do the trick, she decided.

“Darling,” Rajean called through the bathroom door in a voice she hardly recognized as her own. “If Reuben is going to be in town, why don't we wine and dine him? It's been so long since I've seen him, we should make it memorable. What do you think?”

“You hate Reuben, or did you forget?” Daniel replied bitterly. “I'm not interested, Rajean. I told you before I'm seriously considering a divorce and I meant it about Nellie. You're a rotten mother and a worse wife. Let's just drop the subject.”

Once again she tried, a slightly desperate note in her voice. “I think you're overtired. Your face is full of tension. I'll give you one of my delicious massages with that sweet-smelling oil, and later we can…Daniel, are you listening to me?”

He wasn't answering her which meant her offer was not going to be accepted. A frisson of fear curled inside her stomach before working its way up to her chest and throat. My God, a divorce! No money! No charge accounts! A prisoner in her own house!

 

When Daniel saw the lighted dome on the taxi creeping down the cobbled street, he broke into a cold sweat. This was Reuben, he reminded himself, not an executioner coming to call. All he was going to do was deliver…a long-lost son. Adjusting his glasses over the bridge of his nose, he reached out and grasped Reuben's hand as his friend emerged from the cab.

“Where is she, Daniel?” Reuben asked without preamble. “Jesus, I could hardly wait to get here. I still can't believe it! She called you! At first I was mad, and then when I thought about it rationally, I realized why Mickey would call you. Does she still look the same? Did she tell you why she didn't stay in touch? Where is she, Daniel? Sleeping? For Christ's sake, say something!”

“Hello, Reuben,” Daniel said quietly. “We can sit out here where it's cool or we can go inside to the office. Mickey isn't here. I didn't bring her with me, although I begged her to come. I'm sorry.” Lord, was this flat-sounding voice his?

“Mickey's not here, but you went to France?” Reuben asked, puzzled. “Rocky said you were fetching someone back. Of course, I thought it would be Mickey. Nothing else made any sense. But I'm glad you made it over and back safely. Well, what was so important you had to drop everything and rush off to a war-torn country, and just who in the hell did you bring over to our shores?”

This was it, the moment he'd been dreading. Daniel looked up at Reuben in the yellowish glow of the streetlight. He cleared his throat and said, “Sit down, Reuben…. I brought your son back with me. The son Bebe delivered that none of us knew about. Mickey raised him all these years. That's why she wasn't in touch with us. She was afraid you'd go over and claim him. Bebe didn't want the baby. He…he was born right before we left France to come back here. I'm sorry to blurt it out like this, but there's no other way. The boy's in the garden with Nellie. He doesn't like you very much, and he doesn't like me, and, of course, it's all understandable. Until the moment we left, Mickey had not told him Bebe was his real mother. She did, however, tell him all about you. He's grown up knowing you were here in America. When he was twelve or so he decided you were a fairy tale and started to dislike you. He thought you knew about him. He's had a rough time these past weeks. He's a fine lad, Reuben. Mickey did a tremendous job in raising him. Spittin' image of you, too. Looks like you, walks like you, has your mannerisms, and he sounds like you with a French accent…. Say something, Reuben, I'm babbling here,” Daniel pleaded.

Stunned, Reuben sat in silence for a moment.

“A son! My God…. What's his name?”

“Philippe Bouchet,” Daniel said quietly.

“Well, that certainly explains everything, doesn't it?” Reuben said, his face white with shock. “I must be slipping. I never figured it; did you?”

“No.”

“All these years Bebe never said a word. How could she do that? How could she keep something like that from me?”

“I don't know. She didn't…she doesn't know that Mickey kept the boy; she thought they gave him out for adoption. Maybe she wanted to forget it, I don't know. I thought you would be upset. I've been agonizing over how to tell you.”

“I guess I'm…numb. So he doesn't like me, eh?”

Daniel nodded. “He thinks you deserted him and his mother. His face when he found out…I could see it ripped his world apart. Mickey told him she was going to try to make her way to Spain with Yvette; Henri's dead, gunned down by Germans in Paris, but he knows she was going to join the Resistance. It broke my heart, Reuben, each of them trying to say the thing that would give the other the most comfort. She said I was to tell you she was entrusting him to your care now. She sent a letter to you; it's in the house.”

“How is she?” Reuben asked gruffly.

“Older, but the same. Worried about her son like any other mother would be. She cried when she saw me, but then, so did I. We talked for a long time. She's never stopped loving you, if that's what you need to hear.”

Wearily Daniel stood up and turned to his friend. “It's getting dark and the bugs are starting to come out. Let's go in the house and have a cold beer. When you're ready to meet Philippe, I'll introduce you. I imagine you'll want to read your letter first. I'll fetch the beer, so make yourself comfortable.”

It was warm in Daniel's office, or maybe it was him, Reuben thought. Nervously he loosened his shirt and jerked at his tie. He was certainly well turned out to meet his son. Jesus, a son! A son about whom he'd known nothing until minutes before. How was it possible he'd gone through the last twenty years without even suspecting?

Daniel returned and handed him Mickey's letter along with a frosty bottle of uncapped beer. Then he withdrew discreetly to the downstairs bathroom, where he sat on a stool waiting for Reuben to finish the letter.

Reuben was a basket case of nerves as he ripped at the envelope. After all these years, finally, he was going to read a letter from Mickey. He found himself gripping the arms of the chair, the letter lying in his lap. When he'd calmed down, he picked it up, took a deep breath, and started the letter.

Reuben's head dropped into his hands. After all these years…

The comforting hand on his shoulder brought his head up, and he stared into the worried eyes of his friend. “Bring him in, Daniel,” Reuben said hoarsely.

“Are you sure you're ready?”

“No, but it has to be now or I'll walk out of here.”

Five minutes later as Reuben was standing by the open window, the picture of nonchalance, Philippe Bouchet walked into the room. Reuben turned to stare at a replica of himself. There was no smile on the young man's face, no sign at all that he was glad at last to meet his father. “Welcome to America,” Reuben said coolly. The boy inclined his head slightly.

“I don't suppose this is easy for you; I know it isn't for me,” Reuben continued after a moment's hesitation. “I want you to know that if I had known about you, I would have done something about it.”

As Philippe began to speak, Reuben heard his own voice, laced with a delicate French accent. It was so chilling, he shuddered. “My mother waited for you all these years. I waited. I made up wonderful stories about you, and I had fistfights with some of my friends when they said you didn't exist. There is no excuse that I can accept from you, Mr. Tarz. If you loved my mother, as she said you did, you would have come for us. I don't need you, I don't want you or your wife. I will be going with you to California to take my place at the studio. My mother would expect me to say I'm pleased to meet you, but of course, we both realize I'm not pleased at all. As a matter of fact, I resent it. You are not at all what I expected.”

“Well, you're one up on me there, Philippe. I haven't had time to form an opinion about you. I suppose in your place I would feel exactly as you do. I can only repeat that if I had known about you, I would have done something. If you choose not to believe me, there's nothing I can do about it. You're dismissed.”

Philippe blinked. “Dismissed?”

“Yes, you're free to go. You don't want to be here, so leave. Go back to Nellie, go to bed, go outside, do whatever you want to do. You're dismissed.”

Philippe's eyes spewed sparks, and his voice was brittle with the hint of a sob. “I'm not a child, Mr. Tarz, for you to dismiss. I'm your equal even though I'm your son.”

Reuben removed one of his hands from his pocket and wagged a finger in the still air of the room. “No, you have to earn that right. And I think your mother is wrong. I don't think you're a fine young man at all. I think you are a close-minded, coldhearted young man without a compassionate bone in your body. Good night,
Mister
Tarz.”

A moment later Daniel whirled into the room. “Jesus Christ, Reuben, what did you say to him? He was taking the steps three at a time, cursing in French, saying words I never heard before.”

Reuben shrugged. “Not a whole hell of a lot; there wasn't time. If you don't mind, I think I'll go back to the hotel and try to absorb all of this. And, Daniel, it was a brave, wonderful thing you did going to France and bringing the boy here. Foolhardy, but brave. I know there is a story behind it all, and we'll talk about it when I'm not so…well, raw.”

“Are you going to be all right?” Daniel asked, concerned.

Reuben forced himself to grin. “I've survived worse than this, pal. Don't worry about me. Good night, Daniel.”

Outside in the cool evening air, Reuben decided to walk back to his hotel. A son…he had a son raised by Mickey, the woman he'd loved all these years. A son who hated his guts.

“Now what do I do?” he groaned.

The huge White House behind the monstrous iron gates at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue looked so majestic in the summer sunlight, Philippe drew in his breath. Watching him, Nellie smiled. Visitors were always overwhelmed at their first sight of the impressive estate. If only there were time for a tour…. She didn't know how it happened that her hand was in Philippe's, but it didn't matter. Somehow, she'd moved a little closer to him and he'd taken a step in her direction, and then their bodies had touched.

“My father often visits the White House,” Nellie said proudly. “The President's top advisers offered him a job on the White House staff, but he turned it down. He tries to avoid…politics. Philippe, what will you do when you get to California?”

The boy shrugged. “Meet my…biological mother, find a place to live, work at the studio, I guess. I know quite a bit about movies, my mother made sure of that. I've met and spoken with some of the most famous French filmmakers. They have wonderful, innovative ideas. Perhaps I'll put some of them into use. I've been thinking about making a film concerning the war. After all, I do have firsthand knowledge of what Paris was like when the Germans came. Do you think the American people would go to see a picture like that? Would it be too serious?” Philippe asked anxiously.

“Not if you had a love interest in it,” Nellie said emphatically. “There always has to be love. That's what makes the world go around. If you depicted it right, all those boys' parents would flock to see what was happening to their sons. What's in the papers, that isn't real to them or to me, and I read the paper from cover to cover. Daddy says the news is old the moment it's printed. War moves very fast, but then, I don't have to tell you that.”

“I brought my journals with me,” Philippe said quietly as he gazed down at Nellie. “I have many ideas and thoughts on…on the subject.”

Nellie listened to the young man's voice, the flawless English with just the faintest hint of a French accent. She thought it endearing and squeezed his hand slightly, beaming her pleasure when Philippe returned the pressure on her hand.

“I think it's a wonderful idea,” she said warmly. “The public will go crazy about it. Have you spoken to your father about it? Uncle Reuben knows everything there is to know about making movies. He's received so many honors, Daddy can't keep track of them anymore.” When Philippe's only response was to narrow his eyes and tighten his jaw, she squeezed his hand again to show her support. “You plan to do it yourself, is that it?”

“Don't you think I'm capable?” Philippe asked carefully.

“I really don't know,” she said just as carefully. “I only just met you. I know a lot goes into making a movie. I do think you or I can do whatever we set our minds to. One must think positively.”

Philippe straightened his shoulders. “I plan to write the script myself.”

Nellie didn't have the heart to tell him about the unions and their writers. His father would have to get him his card and settle things. It simply wasn't her place, now, to shatter what few hopes he had. “I know it will be wonderful! Will you allow me to read it? You know, a female point of view. I'll be out there. Will we see each other?”

Philippe threw back his head and laughed. The sound pleased Nellie; it told her he was interested. Yes, she would be his rock, his fortitude…and his love if she had anything to say about it. “Every day,” he replied, smiling down at her.

“I like you, Philippe,” Nellie said wistfully. “I like you a lot. I…I just want you to know that.”

Philippe wondered if he would ever get used to the American bluntness of the Bishop family. The girls in France would have winked or flirted outrageously but never uttered a word. A small jitter of fear rippled through him at Nellie's words, or was it a reaction to his own feelings? “I like you a lot, too, Nellie. Your father is going to be…at least I think he will be a little upset.”

Nellie laughed. “My father has this uncanny ability to know what I'm thinking and feeling before I say anything. I've always gone to him when I'm sad or happy, and he talks to me. I've always shared everything with him. He knows about this because I saw him looking at me strangely last evening.”

“I'm glad you have such a wonderful relationship with your father. I had a wonderful sharing relationship with my…my mother, too. I can't…even begin to imagine what it will be like when I meet my real mother.” Suddenly Philippe placed both of his hands on Nellie's shoulders. Unintentionally, he had allowed this young girl to see his vulnerability, and in that same instant he decided he had fallen in love, completely and totally, with Nellie Bishop.

It was Nellie who broke the moment by glancing at her watch. “We have to hurry before our fathers send out a search party for us. I didn't mean for us to be gone so long.” Inside she was smirking in triumph. All she had to do was crook her finger and he was as good as hers.

Hand in hand they crossed the street to return to the house in Georgetown.

Reuben and Daniel stood on the stoop of Daniel's narrow house bathed in dappled sunshine from the mighty elm. Both men watched the young couple advance down the street. Reuben strained to see his son better in the lacy sunshine. Beside him he could feel Daniel stiffen. “Are you opposed to this…whatever it is?” Reuben asked.

“No. I'm feeling my loss, I guess,” Daniel said ruefully. “It happened the minute Nellie met Philippe. He needs someone desperately right now. I'm glad it's Nellie. I hate to say this, old friend, but you're going to be taking a backseat to my daughter.”

Reuben struggled for a smile. “He doesn't like me at all, Daniel. He's not going to like Bebe, either. Jesus, I don't know what to say to him. I have this feeling he'll listen to me and then turn away and thumb his nose at me. His anger is so alive, I can feel it.”

“Completely understandable,” Daniel said quietly.

“Daniel…listen to me. All my thoughts…all I think about is Mickey and her safety. I'm trying to feel something for this boy, but it isn't there. He looks like me, he's built like me, and for God's sake, he even walks like me. If he didn't have the French accent, he would sound exactly like me, too. I want to feel something…. Daniel, what am I to do?” Reuben asked desperately. “I need to know about Mickey. Your friends…can they find out?”

“They're doing their best. They know how important it is. As soon as I hear anything I'll let you know. Try on a smile now, if not for your son then for my daughter. She adores you, you know.”

“I won't pretend with him, Daniel. To do so would be a lie, even more treacherous than the truth. There's only one person in this world I can love unconditionally.”

“You just need more time,” Daniel said soothingly.

Reuben laughed, a harsh, unpleasant sound. “Time!” he snorted. “I've had twenty years. I can't make up twenty years. No matter what I do or how I do it, I can never make that up to him. I can't even begin to think about Bebe at this point.”

Conversation ceased as the young couple approached the steps. “We're not late, Daddy, we're right on time.” Nellie smiled. “Hello, Uncle Reuben. You get handsomer each time I see you. You should be a leading man in your own films.” It was something she always said to Reuben, and it always brought a smile to his lips. But not today. Even when she pecked him on the cheek and tweaked his ear playfully, there was no answering smile. At last she turned her attention to her father. “Is Mother in the house, Daddy?”

“She went marketing. We'll be leaving now, so say good-bye to our guests. I'm going on to the office. If I decide to work late, I'll phone.”

Nellie planted a kiss on her father's cheek, hugged Reuben, and smiled shyly at Philippe. Reuben watched his son's eyes follow the slim girl into the house. When he turned away, Philippe met his father's gaze defiantly.

The battle lines were drawn and stayed that way all the way to California, with little being said between father and son. Reuben slept most of the way while Philippe pretended to sleep, his agile mind sifting through the past few days and planning the future. As soon as he was installed in an office, he was going to get a calendar so he could check off the days until Nellie's arrival.

The crisp California air was warm and dry, unlike Washington's semitropical humidity. Palm trees whispered and rustled as Reuben and Philippe made their way to Reuben's parked car, a large four-door silver-gray Cadillac. Before Reuben backed the car out of the parking space, he turned to his son. “What's your first impression of California, Philip?” he asked in a neutral voice. Damnit to hell, why wasn't he feeling something?

Philippe thought about the question for a moment before he answered. “It is not unlike the French Riviera. However, I much prefer the Riviera…. And I would appreciate it if you would call me Philippe rather than Philip.”

It was Reuben's turn to ponder his son's request. “Philippe is a French name. You aren't French, you're an American Jew. The sooner you get used to the idea, the better off we'll both be. This is your country now.” He hadn't meant to sound so irritated. Surreptitiously he glanced at his son before he shifted the car's gears.
Angry
was hardly the word to describe the way the boy looked.

“This will never be my country,” Philippe said coldly. “You can call me a Jew from now till the end of time, and I will renounce it till the end of time. I am a practicing Catholic. My country is France! Don't ever tell me that again!”

Was this the time to wade in and say what had to be said? Reuben couldn't decide. “You can't change the truth, Philip. If you want to wish your life away or delude yourself, then go ahead. I'm sorry to say this, but that's what your natural mother has done with her life. I think I would be greatly disturbed to find out that you're like her in that respect.”

Philippe's voice dripped ice. “Is that another way of saying you want me to be like you? God Almighty, I hope not!”

Reuben swallowed past the lump in his throat. “No, I don't want you to be anyone but yourself,” he responded curtly.

Philippe slouched back against the comfortable seat and closed his eyes. As far as he was concerned, he'd said all he was going to say.

An hour later Philippe was settled in his bedroom on the second floor of his father's house. The lavish mansion had been somewhat overpowering, but he thought he'd covered his reaction rather well. Obviously, he thought sourly, the motion picture business generated huge sums of money.

The room he'd been assigned was warm and comfortable and decorated in earth tones. A bounce on the bed satisfied him that it would provide a good night's sleep. How quiet and silent the house was. Did all the servants walk around on tiptoe? Or weren't there any! No one had come to the door to welcome them. And where was his mother? Not that he cared….

Laurel Canyon. He rolled the words around on his tongue and decided he liked the way they sounded. Home of rich Americans. Rich American Jews. He didn't like the sound of
that
at all. He sneered at himself in the mirror. In a pig's eye he was Jewish. He didn't give a damn what his birth certificate said.

What the hell was he supposed to do now? There was no unpacking to do. It was too late to make business phone calls, but first thing tomorrow he was going to phone the New York bankers and make some monetary arrangements, and after that he was going to find a place to live on his own. In between he had to shop for clothes, call Nellie, and visit the local Red Cross offices to see if he could get a message to his mother.

He was just kicking off his shoes when a soft knock sounded at his door. One shoe on and one off, he walked over to the door and opened it. His father stood in the doorway holding up a tray with two sandwiches and a glass of milk. “I thought you might be hungry. Don't worry about sleeping in tomorrow and missing breakfast. The cook will make it for you even if it's past noon. I'll leave the office early and take you shopping. You'll need an entire wardrobe, and I know an excellent tailor.” He watched his son's face for any reaction, but there was none. So, it's going to be like this, is it, he thought angrily.

“I haven't drunk milk since I was ten years old,” Philippe replied, turning away, “but then, I guess you wouldn't know about that. I prefer wine with my food. And as for shopping, well, I have other plans tomorrow. I'll get the wardrobe myself. Thank you for the offer, though,” he added hastily.

“You're welcome to stay here as long as you like,” Reuben said coolly. Why in the name of God had he thought the boy would
want
to stay here with him? Reuben shifted his weight, deliberately not stepping over the threshold. He was at arm's length, the way Philippe wanted it.

“Is there anything else?” Philippe asked, glancing at him. “I'm pretty tired and would like to turn in if you don't mind.”

For one long moment Reuben just stared at him. At last he gave a tired sigh and turned away. “No, there's nothing else. I'll just say good night.” He didn't expect a response, so he wasn't disappointed when Philippe closed the door. When he heard the lock snick in place, he turned back. Was the boy afraid of him? The thought disturbed him, but not enough to make him confront his son.

Reuben leaned against the polished railing on the second floor with the tray balanced in his upraised palm. Unsettled, he looked down into the entrance foyer, which was lighted from the monstrous chandelier with its teardrop crystals, hundreds of them winking in the light. In all the years he'd lived in this house he'd never taken the time to admire the chandelier or the imported black-and-white tile floor. For the first time he became aware of the silence in the house. True, it was late, but even so there were always sounds of subdued activity after dark, lights under doors, low scuffling sounds. Now he strained to hear something, anything that would prove him wrong.