Sins of the Flesh

by Fern Michaels

  “I never said I was a Frenchman.” Reuben snapped back. “I’m an American, I’m three times your age, and I’m not apologizing.”

  “I didn’t ask for an apology. I asked you to move faster. All of us who have helped you have placed our lives in danger. The least you could do, monsieur, is move your goddamn feet faster. Do you want me to tell you what those filthy swine do to partisans? Of course you do,” Marcel said nastily. “If they catch someone like myself, they…they hack off his penis. The older ones like yourself, they carve off your testicles. For sure you will not walk, monsieur.”

  Reuben knew the boy was baiting him, doing his best to make him move as fast as he could. He heard the boy next to him chuckle.

  “I think I would kill myself if that happened to me,” Marcel said. “What would you do, monsieur?”

  “In America we call testicles balls, and the man hasn’t yet been born who will carve mine from my body. Just shut the hell up and leave me alone.”

  The boy grinned in the fast-approaching twilight. This American was crazy, but he was all right for a man his age. Mon Dieu, he was so tired himself that he wanted to drop in his tracks and sleep, but he’d promised Denise he would return to her.

  He was a handsome youth with his dark hair and eyes to match, Reuben thought. Thin but sinewy, and tall, almost his own height. And his hands were strong, that much was certain. All in all a young boy on the verge of manhood, the way Daniel was when Reuben had first met him. This one was dedicated and motivated to kill for his country. Reuben doubted there was a more loyal Frenchman anywhere.

  The wind was sharp as a butcher’s knife as they slogged ahead. Reuben was on all fours more than he was on his feet, and in the end he stayed that way, crawling after Marcel, making better time. Snow crusted the top of his wool gloves and stuck to the fine hairs on his wrists, but it didn’t matter, he couldn’t feel the ice. Nothing mattered anymore, he thought groggily.

  A violent gust of snow and wind slammed into him, driving him backward. He cursed in English and then in French. Marcel laughed, a boyish sound of delight, then stretched out his hand to Reuben, who grasped it gratefully. “We’re at the ravine, monsieur. Now you will be able to rest, but you must not sleep. Slide down on your…ass.” Reuben did as instructed. Almost immediately he felt warmer.

  “For a while we’ll be safe here,” Marcel continued. “A while, monsieur, can mean an hour or it can mean days. You must prepare yourself. You will sleep only when I tell you to, is that agreed?” Reuben nodded. “Good. It’s snowing harder now, and the darkness will protect us. These Germans, sometimes they have dogs that can smell a man a mile away, but I heard no barking. I have very good ears.” He grinned. “Here,” he said a moment later, “eat this cheese and you’ll feel your strength returning.” Reuben bit off a chunk of the rock-hard cheese and chewed obediently.

  “We can talk here, Monsieur American. I am sorry if I was, how do you say in America, too tough on you. It was for your own good. I hope you understand.” If not, the boy implied with a shrug of his shoulders, it mattered little. “Tell me about the person you came all this way to find,” he said. “The networks are all buzzing about this crazy American who seeks a woman from his past.”

  Reuben grunted and gave an indifferent shrug of his shoulders. But he talked then because he had to or he would have fallen asleep. He told the youth about his first meeting with Mickey and all about Bebe. When he got to the part about Philippe, his voice broke.

  Marcel held up a hand. “It is enough, monsieur, you need tell me no more.”

  “No, I want to,” Reuben insisted, and told him all about Simon and Dillon and his reaction to Philippe and the boy’s reaction to himself. A long while later, after he was finished, he asked, “Well, Marcel, what is your opinion?”

  “You are either very wise or very foolish, monsieur. You have come all this way, risked your life, to apologize for something that happened twenty years ago. I do not think I would have the courage to do what you are doing. Part of me thinks you are foolish and part of me applauds you. Tell me,” he said, “what will you do when you find your old lover? Have you given any thought to how you will feel? What will you do if this wonderful woman wants to pick up where you left off years ago?”

  “I don’t know,” Reuben replied honestly.

  “I have heard of this woman and the other one she travels with. When this is all over they will be remembered. We will tell our children of her. I hope you find her, monsieur.” He was silent for a few moments before he spoke again. “I am disappointed in your son. I think you are, too, eh, monsieur? A twenty-year-old Frenchman is a man. He should be with us, defending his country. He is not the man his father is. I mean no disrespect, for I believe you think the same thing. How will he ever be able to feel like a man when he knows he ran to safety? Yes, yes, I know his mother wanted it and that he is Jewish. All the more reason to stay and defend France. What must he be thinking, monsieur? His father comes here in the middle of the war, and he stays in your place and makes films. It is very sad.”

  “You would not do what my son did, is that what you’re saying? Even if your mother asked…insisted you be kept safe?”

  “No, monsieur. My mother would never ask that of me, nor my father. This is my home, my country, my people. Your old lover has turned your son into a coward. I am sorry if my words offend you; it is how I feel.”

  “Perhaps someday we’ll know how he feels. A mother’s love is very strong, very intense,” Reuben said quietly.

  “Understandable, but still wrong…. I think, monsieur, you can sleep for a little while. I will stay on watch. It is much warmer here, eh? The scrub brush and trees break the wind and carry the snow. Sleep and you will grow warm, the snow will be like a blanket.”

  It was already light out, an hour or so past dawn, Reuben judged, when he grappled his way out of sleep. He was warm and hungry and had to go to the bathroom. And he was alone, he realized, his eyes going immediately to where Marcel had lain. The boy was gone, perhaps to check the area outside the ravine or possibly to relieve himself. Reuben looked upward through the snow and saw a ring of faces staring down at him.

  All of them German.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Three days after his marriage and two days before the beginning of the New Year, Philippe Bouchet, also known as Philip Tarz, climbed from his bed, dressed quietly so as not to disturb his sleeping wife, jammed his newly forged American credentials bearing the name Philip Reuben into the inside pocket of his jacket, and left the house. His movements stealthy, he placed a whispered call to the local taxi company. Then he closed the door quietly behind him and left the house without a backward glance.

  His hands in his pockets, he marched to the end of the street, where he waited for his taxi. Ten minutes later he gave the driver the address of his first stop: 5633 Laurel Canyon Road.

  Bebe heard the sounds of a car engine the same moment Willie barked furiously, his paws slipping and sliding on the polished floors as he raced downstairs to growl and bark at the front door. Curious, Bebe peered through the curtains at her bedroom window. Whoever was calling was keeping a taxi waiting.

  Tying the belt of her robe with a jerk, she headed for the stairs. Holding on to Willie by his collar, she thrust open the huge heavy door and stared into the miserable eyes of her son. Startled, she backed up one step, then another. Willie strained at her tight grasp.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” he faltered, “but I find myself in need of a…friend. Do you…would you take the time to speak with me for a few moments?”

  Bebe stared as though mesmerized into his pleading eyes, then nodded and closed the door. “I must let Willie out and, if you like, I can make some coffee.”

  “I’d like that very much if it isn’t too much trouble.”

  Some minutes later Bebe set a steaming cup of coffee in front of her son. “Use both hands,” she said gently. “I used to do that when I was hung over from a party. And take your tim
e, Philippe.”

  He nodded and obediently cupped his hands around the mug. “What should I call you?” he asked. “I don’t want to offend you…that was never my intention…I don’t know what the rules are in…situations like ours.”

  “Bebe will be fine. You said you needed a friend,” she prodded gently, wondering why he hadn’t gone to Nellie or Daniel.

  Philippe swallowed the scalding coffee, barely aware that he’d just burned his tongue. “I came here for several reasons. I…I made a terrible mistake on Christmas. I…what I did was…I got married. To Nellie. I swear to God I…I don’t know what possessed me to do that. For a little while I thought I loved her, certainly I…I wanted her, but she said…she said she wasn’t that kind of girl. It was her idea, but I went along with it. She loves me very much and I don’t want to hurt her. We never…I was so…the marriage was never…consummated,” he blurted out. “My…my other mother would be so ashamed of me if she knew. It’s all I’ve thought of these past days. We got married on Christmas Day and the day after I enlisted in the army,” he lied. “I’d been thinking about joining up for weeks. I’m leaving today. I…you’re the only one who knows….”

  Philippe leaned across the table to stare at his mother. “I don’t belong here, my home is in France with my other mother. I don’t even know if she’s alive. She wouldn’t allow me to stay and join the French Army or the Resistance. She was afraid for me. At the time I was afraid, too. I feel as though I betrayed my country and myself. I don’t want to make films, I’m tired of spending money for meaningless things. None of that matters to me. If I thought I could make a valuable contribution to our film company, I might consider staying, but there’s absolutely nothing for me to do. I play with paper clips, I sharpen pencils, I look at contracts, I voice an opinion that is solely my own, and it isn’t even an intelligent opinion. This studio belongs to my father. I don’t want it, I never wanted it. I realize that now.”

  Bebe thought her heart would shatter at her son’s words. Married! To Nellie! She chose her words carefully. “I think I understand how you feel. I thought for a long time that I wanted the studio myself. Now that Reuben has given me his half, I…it’s not that I don’t want it…it’s this fear that I can never measure up. For months now I’ve tried to learn the operation, and I think I know it, but to put it to the practical test…I’m just not sure. I do understand your feelings. You’re much too young to tie yourself down to something you don’t like or want. And that goes for marriage as well. You could have the marriage annulled if you…as you say, you didn’t consummate the marriage. Of course, the decision has to be yours. I don’t think…no, I know that your mother would never, under any circumstances, be ashamed of you. Mickey loves you, she’d understand. It simply isn’t in her to condemn or judge others, Philippe, even her own son. Your mother’s only sin is that she loves too much.

  “As for Nellie,” she continued, “do you think it wise, or should I say gentlemanly, to leave her in the lurch like this? I don’t know your situation, but don’t you think she has a right to know? I found out a lifetime ago that you can’t run away from your problems, you must face them head on and resolve them to the best of your ability.”

  Philippe shook his head. “I wrote her a letter last night and left it in the dining room. She’ll find it when she wakes up. Perhaps it is the coward’s way out. But it is the best way for me as things are now.” He hesitated a moment, then went on. “Before I leave, I would like to know why you abandoned me. I came here prepared to hate both you and my father. I tried to live off that hatred, but it was such an effort. I wanted both of you to look at me, to get to know me, and of course, to regret what you’d done. It can’t matter now, so there is no reason to hide things from me. This might be your last chance to make things right between us. I couldn’t fight for the country I thought was mine, so I will fight for yours.”

  They talked then, mother and son. Bebe didn’t spare herself at all, nor did she spare Reuben. What she said in closing startled her son: “I think, Philippe—and this is only my opinion—that you married a Bebe Rosen. I don’t for a minute think Nellie is the person she pretends to be.” She told him then of her long talk with Jane Perkins on Christmas Eve and the time they spent together on Christmas Day.

  “I’ve been so stupid!” Philippe cried.

  Bebe smiled. “Everyone is stupid at some time in his life, Philippe. One learns from one’s mistakes. It takes some of us longer, that’s all. You said you came here because you needed a friend. Does that mean you want my advice?” Philippe nodded. “Then file for an annulment. I can speak to Daniel if you want. Do you want to give me your power of attorney?”

  “I left it on the dresser for Nellie. I gave it to her.”

  Bebe’s heart sank. “A later one will take precedence, I’m sure of it. I’ll call my attorney, and we can write it out in longhand. I’ll have Jane come over and witness your signature. Things like this are done all the time.” I think, she added to herself.

  It was a few minutes past noon when Philippe Bouchet signed his name to the document Bebe copied verbatim over the phone. Jane signed her name beneath Philippe’s, then added the date and the time.

  On the front steps of the house, Bebe watched her son leave, perhaps for the last time. Suddenly she panicked; she couldn’t lose him again, she just couldn’t! “John Paul!” she screamed. The boy turned and made his way back to her, his eyes as full as her own. “I’ve always loved you, every day of my life. But your other mother loves you more, and that’s why…”

  “You can let me go. I understand about partings. I’ll be back. I’d like us to get to know each other. I want you to know that I…I like it that you gave me a name and thought of me all those years as John Paul. I hope I can live up to two such distinguished names.” He wrapped her in his arms and hugged her warmly. “Good-bye, Mother,” he whispered.

  “Good-bye, John Paul. Now hurry, son, or you’ll miss the plane. And I don’t think my car would make it to Fort Dix.”

  Philippe laughed, sounding so much like Reuben that Bebe nearly burst into tears. In another two days it would be Philippe’s twenty-first birthday. Happy Birthday John Paul, she whispered. Moments later the taxi rattled down the driveway…and he was gone.

  The war at home was just starting; the first battle was scheduled for the second day of the New Year, when the studio reopened for business.

  Nellie devoured an enormous breakfast of pancakes, eggs, and ham, along with juice, melon, and three cups of coffee. She was sitting in the sun on the small terrace wondering where Philippe had gone at this time of the morning. Earlier she’d cracked open one eye and watched him dress in casual clothes and then stuff a packet of papers inside his jacket.

  The last several days had been hell for him, that much she knew. Not once had he met her steady gaze, and he’d barely spoken to her. Each night he’d retired early, and she’d joined him much later, careful to remain on her side of the bed. As far as she was concerned, the only thing that mattered was that the servants believed they shared the same bed.

  The housekeeper appeared in the doorway, an envelope in her hand. “I found this on the dining room table, ma’am,” she said quietly.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, fetch it here and clear the table,” Nellie ordered.

  The envelope yielded two pieces of paper, one of them a legal document—Philippe’s power of attorney. In the note, Philippe announced that he had left her to join the army. To make up for her loss, he’d given her his half of the studio for the time being, his car, his house, and his bank account. How sweet of him, how gallant, Nellie thought sardonically, laughing to herself. The French were so noble.

  First she would shower and dress, she decided, and then pay a special visit to the local bank that held a portion of Philippe’s assets. She had a plan, and if all went well…

  The battle lines were drawn now, by her missing husband: her father and herself on one end, Bebe and Jane on the other. For reg
ardless of Jane’s feelings for her father, she would align herself with Bebe.

  “You lose,” she crooned as she stepped into the shower. “My father will protect me and my rights with his last breath.” It was a conviction Nellie Bishop Tarz-Bouchet believed implicitly.

  Ninety minutes later Nellie parked Philippe’s Cadillac roadster, hers now, in the bank’s parking lot. The power of attorney safe in her handbag, she climbed daintily from the gleaming car.

  She had chosen to dress conservatively, much like Jane Perkins, in a tailored suit and crisp white blouse. Because of the tan she affected, cosmetics were largely unnecessary except for a little mascara to enhance her eyes. Her blond hair was done up in an elegant daytime chignon. All in all she looked like she was thirty years old instead of eighteen.

  The bank’s president received her cordially. He was a fussy, prissy man of sixty or so with a balding head that he kept touching and a mustache that was clipped and pruned like the border of a rose garden. His voice, when he spoke, was nasal, as though he had a cold, which he did. From time to time he apologized and blew his nose in a soft white handkerchief. Nellie handed him the power of attorney, which he accepted with an air of bemused attentiveness. The moment he finished reading it, Nellie had it back in her hands.

  “My husband’s attorney can furnish you with a copy,” she said briskly. “I’m not here to withdraw monies. Actually, Mr. Evans, I’d like to have all our assets transferred to your bank. The Morgan Guaranty is”—Nellie wrinkled her nose—“too…stuffy and stodgy. I prefer to deal with younger institutions and bankers who have foresight. When all the transactions are complete, I’d like a full accounting. Can you do that?”

  Ambrose Evans fingered his clipped mustache. He had a vague idea of Philippe Bouchet’s accumulated wealth, and it had made him dizzy the day he’d opened the young man’s account. The idea that someday his bank might handle the entire balance boggled his mind. Now he was going to be dealing with Bouchet’s wife. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.