“What about his appointments? Check his calendar,” Reuben ordered. His voice was so authoritative, Irene began to rise from her seat even though the appointment book was right in front of her. But she knew it contained no further clues.
“Mr. Rockefeller and Mr. Vanderbilt are seeing to Mr. Bishop’s clients. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. I can have Mr. Rockefeller return your call when he gets in if you like….”
“I want him to call me as soon as you hear from him or he sets foot in that office. More important, I want to be in touch with Mr. Bishop. Do you understand me, Irene?” Reuben said coldly, and rang off.
He immediately dialed the house on Fire Island for the second time. This time Rajean answered the phone. “This is Reuben, Rajean. I’m trying to reach Daniel. Do you know where he is?”
“Oh, hello there, Reuben, how are you?” Rajean drawled.
Reuben fought to keep his calm, sensing Daniel’s ice-maiden wife was only trying to get a rise out of him. She knew he didn’t want to chat. “I’m fine, thanks. Do you know where Daniel is?”
“No, Reuben, I don’t, as a matter of fact. His secretary called yesterday afternoon and…” Rajean took a drag from a cigarette and blew it out leisurely.
She was toying with him. Reuben took a deep breath, waited a beat, and then said, “Yes?” drawing out the syllable as if coaxing a child.
“She said he was going out of town for, as she put it, ‘an indefinite period of time.’ She said that when Daniel got back to her with a number she’d call me.” Rajean sounded peeved as she offered this information, as if she didn’t appreciate being kept in the dark—even about matters that didn’t interest her in the least. “Why, Reuben, is there something wrong?”
Reuben deliberately kept his voice light. “Nothing earth-shattering. I just need to talk to him about something. It can wait.” It wouldn’t do to stir up a hornet’s nest—at least until he knew what was going on. He continued to speak in a friendly, less urgent manner. “How are you, Rajean, and when are you and Nellie coming to the land of sunshine?”
“Daniel said something about October, but it isn’t definite. How is everyone?” she responded politely. One never knew when the services of a Hollywood mogul might come in handy.
“Just fine. When Daniel phones, will you tell him to give me a call?”
“Of course. Take care of yourself, Reuben, and give my regards to…your wife and boys.”
“You bet.”
His forehead deeply furrowed, Reuben stared at the shiny black telephone for a long time. Now he had a new set of worries. Where the hell was Daniel?
The next call he made was to his own office. His secretary assured him Daniel had not called, and his third meeting with the union men had been canceled, but everything else was fine.
When he hung up, Reuben looked around and realized the day was rapidly picking up speed. The dew of morning was gone, the debris of his gardening labors had already been cleaned up, and his coffee was dead cold. In that moment he made up his mind to fly East.
It was more than a whim, he told himself as he stood beneath the stinging spray of his bathroom shower. Something was wrong, he could feel it, sense it in every pore of his body. Daniel was in trouble of some kind and hadn’t asked for his help. Instead he’d obviously turned to his two Harvard friends. Why? Was he in some kind of political legal trouble? When Daniel had called him, his voice had sounded strained, that much he remembered, and the call itself had triggered his own jittery feelings.
As he dressed, Reuben’s mind whirled. Some kind of political intrigue, something top secret. That was the only situation that would account for the fact that Daniel couldn’t be reached. “Ah, shit!” Reuben exploded. An indefinite period of time could mean anything from a few hours to a few years. He knew Daniel to be an honest man, but politics was a dirty business, and no one had to be a Harvard graduate to figure that out.
Reuben had one foot on the running board of his car when his maid called to him that a Mr. Rockefeller was on the phone long distance. He walked back to the house, his thoughts churning at this turn of events. An inner voice cautioned him to tread easy, but after he’d identified himself, he threw discretion to the winds. “I need to get in touch with Daniel, and I need to do it immediately. Where is he?” he demanded coldly.
There was a sigh on the other end of the line. “I wish I could help you, Mr. Tarz, but I don’t have a number for Daniel. He said he’d get back to me with one, but so far he hasn’t done that. Jerry and I are manning the office, taking turns until Daniel gets back…. I’ll be more than happy to give him your message as soon as he calls.”
Reuben instantly sensed in Rockefeller’s voice the same strain he’d heard in Daniel on his Fourth of July call. “Look, Mr. Rockefeller, in all the years Daniel and I have known each other, we have never, I repeat, never, neglected to leave at least a phone number. The simple fact is I’m not buying your story, or his secretary’s story. Now, what kind of trouble does Daniel think he’s in? Is it something to do with the government work he does?”
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 to
wering 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.
Chapter Three
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.
Sins of the Flesh Page 5
