Sins of the Flesh (14 page)

Jaw clenched, he set the tray down on the polished surface of a hall table and began to walk, turning on lights as he went along. Simon's room was as empty as Dillon's. The only thing he found that attested to the fact that his children had indeed lived in the house was a colorful toy soldier that had belonged to Dillon. He clenched it fiercely in his fist. Bebe's room was silent, too. Whatever life there might once have been was gone from the house.

In his room with the door closed, Reuben paced. Bebe had moved out, probably to her father's house—her house now in Benedict Canyon. And she was making good on her threat to file for divorce. The blinding tempest of a rage began to build inside him, not at his children or even at Bebe, but at himself. His steps grew heavier and louder, like the sounds of the Gestapo marching all over Europe. At last he stopped and lit a cigarette, drawing the smoke deeply into his lungs and expelling it with a loud
whoosh
.

His life was coming apart at the seams. All the things he should have done, could have done, over the years…If blame was to be placed, it would have to be on his shoulders.

Michelene Fonsard had said one day he would make her proud of him. Perhaps professionally, he conceded, but never personally. What good was wealth, power, and glory if there was no one to share it with, that one special person who cared if you lived or died?

Reuben didn't sleep at all that night, and when dawn broke he showered, shaved, and dressed. After two cups of coffee he tortured himself by reading the latest accounts of the war in Europe and by 7:20 he was on his way to the house in Benedict Canyon to see Bebe.

Sol's old housekeeper opened the door to Reuben after he rang the bell four times. Eyes bleary, she stared at him, her sparse hair standing on end around her ears. For the life of him he couldn't remember her name. “I'm here to see Mrs, Tarz,” he said in an authoritative voice. “Don't bother to announce me. I know the way.” He shouldered past her.

When he saw Bebe stretched out in her old bed in her old room, Reuben felt a small surge of guilt. In sleep she looked so defenseless. Curious, he took a step closer; he'd never really studied his wife as he was doing now. What was it he was hoping to see? The lavender shadows under her eyes? The once creamy skin, now speckled with red from a lifetime of drink and drugs? At least her hair was the same, soft and silky.

Reuben drew a small chair closer to the bed, careful not to make any sound. His gaze was intent, tortured, as he continued to watch his wife. Slowly he began a one-sided conversation in his mind.

I'm sorry I can't love you. I tried; perhaps I didn't try hard enough. Maybe it was my guilt, my impotence, for so many years. Maybe I'm capable of loving only once. Rosemary was…Rosemary was someone who filled a space in my life for a little while. She gave us a daughter. I tried to give you everything the way your father did. Everything but my love. I couldn't give you that because I'd already given it to Mickey. I'm sorry, Bebe, so very sorry. You allowed me to ruin your life. Why didn't you fight back instead of destroying yourself? Why? Surely you can't still love me. You should have divorced me years ago. I should have gone back to France and Mickey instead of being such a coward. The best years of our lives are gone now, yours as well as mine. Here we are at the end of the road. And today, when you wake, I'm going to break your heart all over again when I tell you about Philippe.

A vision of Bebe in a brilliant flowered dress in Paris years earlier swam before his eyes. She'd been so pretty, so innocent then. She'd also been calculating and manipulative, but that he hadn't realized until much later.

Reuben rubbed at his burning eyes. Christ, he really should have tried to sleep last evening. Now he would pay for it with smarting, burning eyes, a condition left over from being gassed during the Great War. Sighing, he leaned back in the barrel chair, his upper torso towering well above the caned back. The time had come to think about everything, to come to terms with his life and Bebe's. The fierce pounding in Reuben's chest told him his personal nightmare was over. His chest heaved, and he struggled for air.

Bebe stirred restlessly, one arm flailing at the pillow. Reuben tensed, willing her to wake on her own, and when she cracked open one eye he spoke quickly so she wouldn't drift back into sleep. “Bebe, wake up, I have to talk to you. Please, it's important.”

Bebe struggled to a sitting position, staring foggily at her husband. “What are you doing here, Reuben? What time is it?” Any other time she would have worried about her appearance. Now she didn't have to care what he thought of her.

“It's early…. Look, get dressed, Bebe, and meet me downstairs. You're going to need some coffee with what I have to tell you.”

Bebe bristled. Surely her attorney hadn't served Reuben his papers so quickly. “I'm tired of doing what you think I should do, Reuben. According to you, I have never done a single thing right in my life. Well, that's all over. I've filed for divorce, and now there's nothing for you to say and nothing for me to say. From here on in, our lawyers will do the talking. I'd appreciate it if you would get your ass the hell out of my house. Now!”

Reuben sighed. “Bebe, listen to me. I understand about the divorce. I'm willing to take the blame for everything. Whatever you want, you can have. I won't fight you. I would like to see the children, though. But that's not why I'm here.”

Tears gathered in Bebe's eyes. Even now, after all was said and done, she realized she still loved this cold man she called a husband. He was like a cancer in her body that wouldn't heal or kill. Oh, God, maybe he was finally going to tell her he was sorry and that he loved her. The thought made her feel light-headed. All right, she decided, she'd stick her neck out one more time, just once more. “Why are you here, then?” she asked, her voice a whispery croak.

Reuben shook his head. “I'd really like us to talk downstairs. Outside in the sunshine. It's very important. Please, just slip into a robe and meet me on the terrace. I'm sure the housekeeper has coffee on by now. Trust me when I tell you you're going to need it. Please, Bebe.”

“How prettily you beg, Reuben.” She laughed then, a harsh sound in the quiet bedroom. Reuben flinched. “All right, get out of here while I dress, and this better be important.”

When the door closed behind Reuben, Bebe leaned into her pillows, feeling weak all over. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. In her heart she knew that Reuben hadn't come out of love for her, so there was nothing to laugh about. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she made no move to wipe them away. So much of her life was over now that her father was dead. “Damn you, Reuben!” she cried. He should have been with her at the funeral. She should have had his arm to lean on. After all, her father was responsible for his success. “Oh, damn you, Reuben, damn you to hell!”

Angry now, she stalked to the closet for her robe. With feverish hands she pulled it from the hanger and tied the belt so tightly that she gasped. Then she marched out of the room in her bare feet, down the long hallway, and on down the sixty-four steps that led to the foyer. From there she stomped her way through the kitchen and out to the terrace with its wrought-iron furniture. The sun almost blinded her with its brilliance, so she turned on her heel and walked back into the house for her sunglasses. A few more days of rising early and she'd be almost used to the bright light of day. The glasses secure on the bridge of her nose, she stalked her way back to the terrace.

“All right, Reuben, I'm here,” Bebe snarled, “and this had better be good. Say what you have to say and get out of here.”

Reuben licked at his dry lips. How to say it, how to get the words past his thick tongue? “I'm here about Philippe, Philippe Bouchet.”

Bebe stared at him. “You came all the way over here to talk to me about someone who owns part of the studio? You must be crazier than I am. What does that have to do with me? Are you planning on selling out? If so, I hope you get a good price because I want it all.”

Reuben cleared his throat. “Bebe, Philippe Bouchet is our son—the son you left with Yvette and Mickey. Mickey kept him, raised him as her own. She called Daniel over the Fourth of July weekend and asked him to come to France and bring him here so he would be safe. Daniel's friends arranged the trip, and Daniel brought him back to Washington. That's where I was when you called about your father. I was waiting for Daniel to get back. Philippe…Philippe is at my house. He was sleeping when I left.”

Reuben watched his wife's face turn white, saw her eyes roll back in her head, and knew she was going to faint. In a second he was off his chair and gripping her arms. “It's all right, we'll handle it. Get hold of yourself, Bebe,” he said, shaking her. “You at least knew about Philippe. Daniel slapped me in the face with it. I think the boy hates me, and he seems to have no love for you, either. Yvette insisted on telling him the truth because he refused to come to America. He…he knows you didn't want him. Bebe, how could you have done something like that? He was our flesh and blood. You just…you just tossed him away. And all these years you never told me. My God, Bebe, how could you do that to me?” Reuben said brokenly.

“I called him John Paul,” Bebe murmured, eyes glazed and her voice expressionless, almost as though she'd been hypnotized. “I don't know why I picked those names. Yes, I did say I didn't want him, but I didn't mean it. I held him once, in the middle of the night. He felt so warm and he smelled so nice. All pink and white. But I couldn't keep him, Reuben. I was only seventeen, a child myself. They told me a family in the village would take him and raise him. I sent money, lots of money. Once I sent a birthday present. To Yvette. She never wrote or said…He wasn't a child created out of love.”

She paused, then looked down at Reuben as though he were a stranger. “I thought he was…was lost to me. You don't know how many times I wanted to seek him out. I never forgot him. I don't care what you think of me as a wife or mother. I did care, but there was nothing I could do. I drank more, used more drugs, hated you more, and gradually it got easier.”

She was shivering now, shaking under the chenille robe. Reuben pried her hands loose from the arms of the chair and pulled her close. He held her as though he cared about her, stroking her matted hair and crooning words she couldn't hear. Her body shook with hard, racking sobs, and Reuben held her tighter, thinking her grief had something to do with her father's death along with the shock of hearing about Philippe. It never occurred to him that his wife might still be in love with him. A violent surge of protectiveness rushed through him, and he tightened his arms around her until her sobs quieted.

“When would you like to meet Philippe?” he asked gruffly.

Bebe shook her head. “Don't arrange a meeting, Reuben. He will have to forgive me first.” She pulled away from her husband. “This isn't going to change my plans about the divorce. I can't let you upset my life anymore. I'm past that stage. We'll break clean; you'll give me what I want, and you'll be free to do whatever you want. This has been a shock, but then, you've always been able to shock me and then walk away.”

Bebe gathered herself together and squared her shoulders. She cinched the belt of her robe tighter and felt better with something in her hands to stop the trembling. Her voice was soft and gentle, almost reverent, when she spoke again. “As much as I've loved you over the years, Reuben, that's how much I hate you now. I have to hate you to get through this divorce. You can see yourself out.”

Reuben stood by helplessly as Bebe walked away from him, her head high and her shoulders straight. He was so light-headed, his vision blurred. This was a new Bebe, a Bebe he'd never known. Christ, he'd just shocked the living hell out of her, and she'd bounced back and given him what-for. He felt the crazy urge to cheer her on. Instead he sat down and finished the pot of coffee.

It wasn't until Bebe was inside her bathroom with the door locked that she gave way to her emotions. Her son, her firstborn, here, just miles away! That tiny bundle she'd held in her arms and christened John Paul in the middle of the night was here, and she could see him, talk to him if she wanted to. Her tears flowed and her shoulders shook with grief. It was all too much—her divorce, her father's death, and now the boy. How was she ever going to deal with her personal problems while all this was going on? Guts. She needed guts and determination. Her willpower had long ago deserted her because it was easier to give in to her cravings for drugs and alcohol, but not this time.

Sol's death had shaken her to the very core. One minute he was alive and the next minute he was gone. Now, for the first time, she was aware of her own mortality, and the realization scared her out of her wits. Death loomed over her like some dark, forbidding shadow. Her only salvation lay in changing her life—in growing strong, getting clean, and staying that way
for herself
. Oh, she'd kicked it all before, but always at Reuben's insistence and for her husband, not for herself. And that's what was going to make a difference. This time it would be for her and her alone. God, she didn't want to die, not yet.

Maybe Eli would help her; after all, he was the one who'd gotten her hooked in the first place. Pep talks, that's all she'd ask of him. He'd gone through his own personal hell in the past few years and managed to come out on top. Now he was a serious painter and had private showings on both coasts. These days he painted by commission, and he had a list of clients that would take him into next year. Everyone wanted a seascape by Eli Rosen. Once, he'd been a two-bit, gun-packing hoodlum who'd run illegal whiskey all over the county. He, too, had used drugs and alcohol, but he'd kicked it all and straightened out his life. Well, she could, too. And by God, she would—even if it killed her!