Sins of Omission

by Fern Michaels

  They walked lazily, their hands entwined and swinging between them. They were in no hurry to get to the end of the long, curving road. Later they would make a mad dash for the house and race up the stairs.

  Mickey leaned into him, her mouth open and avid under his. She could feel his shudders—or were they her own?

  “This night was made for us,” Reuben said against her cheek. “But,” he said, a chuckle in his voice, “I prefer the comfort of a bed with you next to me. Let’s see how fast our feet can get us back to the house.”

  They were breathless when they crept up the stairs to Mickey’s room. As they embraced just inside her bedroom door, Reuben thought his heart would burst with happiness. Mickey wanted him. She loved him. Nothing in his life up to now, nothing to come, could ever take away or replace this feeling. To be loved by this wonderful, passionate woman was the single most important thing in the world. Money, power, worldly goods, all were simple additions to fulfillment in life. For without Mickey, what did they all matter?

  Reuben kissed her, but he knew once would never be enough for him. He wanted to cover her body with his lips, to hear her cry out in pleasure, to hear her beg for more. She pressed against him now, urging his passion, but he pulled free and led her to the bed. They shed their clothing, their eyes never wavering from each other. When they slipped between the satin sheets, their sighs mingled, soft and expectant.

  In one graceful motion she turned and shifted closer so that his hands could circle the soft mounds of her breasts. His palms cupped them, fingers teasing until their crests became hard and thrusting.

  Desire rode him like a wild stallion as she moaned. Unbearable, sweet pain was all he could feel. She teased him then, her mouth against his, her tongue darting in and out, seeking the warm, moist recesses, lingering until it was she who cried out. She was on top of him now, warm and insistent as she covered his face with kisses, nuzzling his neck, nibbling his ears. Rumbling sounds of pleasure from deep in his chest drove her on.

  “Open your eyes,” Reuben said, pulling back from her. “Look at us.” She glanced down at their joining and saw him hard and glistening before he drew her close again. She smiled in the near darkness and knew there were tears on her cheeks, and on Reuben’s as well. This perfect moment, this perfect joining, waiting for release was so exquisite she thought she couldn’t bear it another second.

  Her body was feverish as she pressed against him, demanding that he release her from the exquisite, piercing torture. He was murmuring into the silky curve of her throat, words he’d said before and words he’d say again, their secret words, full of love and promise.

  Reuben reached to encircle her waist. Tightening his hold, he rolled her over to tower above her, his chiseled face staring down into her passion-blind eyes. She was writhing against him now; soft, sensual whimpers of pleasure escaped from her lips. Her breath came in tiny gasps at each slow downward thrust. Pearls of sweat dotted his brow, dropped to his lashes and then onto her face. She struggled to see him clearly, but in the end surrendered to the pleasure he was giving her.

  They cried out their ecstasy in unison, their hunger for each other appeased…for the moment.

  Reuben’s last conscious thought before falling into a deep sleep was that he could allow nothing to destroy this happiness.

  Reuben woke to the quiet sounds of the night. He lay silent, savoring the feel of Mickey’s warm thigh against his. He loved waking up like this, knowing if he wanted to, he could rouse her from sleep and do whatever pleased him. She was always a willing partner, more often than not initiating their lovemaking in the middle of the night or early morning, right before he left for his own bed.

  He didn’t want to go back to his own room. He wanted to lie there and do nothing but think about everything and nothing.

  If Mickey would just give him his way, he knew he could learn the wine business and make hers the best in all of France. Oh, she said she was giving him all the leeway he needed, but he wasn’t so sure. She was always there, looking over his shoulder, and in a way he couldn’t blame her. The only things he had going for him were his ambition to make a success of his efforts—and youth. He remembered how Mickey had frowned when he’d asked her to consider the wine catalog he wanted to draw up. “We have to show our wares,” he’d insisted. “No one buys a pig in a poke.” He’d almost had her convinced when he’d mentioned brandies and cognac. Then her frown had returned, deeper. For the time being, he’d let that alone, but he knew he would get back to it.

  Château Fonsard consisted of 62 hectares, or 155 acres, of vineyards. Château Michelene, the second vineyard, had been given to Mickey by her husband on their wedding day. She had explained that it was a long-standing tradition for the owner to join his name to the established title of the property. Although Fonsard was larger, both vineyards were prosperous.

  The routine at the vineyards, Reuben found, was always the same. The grapes were picked, destalked, and crushed. Then nature took over, but always under constant watch.

  He understood the time-honored technique; the wine was made in oak vats, cuvier, and allowed to ferment for ten days before it was run off the skins; then the skins were pressed. If the weather was too hot and the fermentation generated too much heat, it had to be cooled by watering down the cuves with cool water or, in an emergency, with blocks of ice.

  From the cuvier the wine was pumped into another vat made of cement, to sit for two weeks before it was débourbé—pumped of its heaviest sediment into another cask; then it spent the winter in this particular cask, going through its secondary, or malolactic, fermentation, which rid it of malic acid, making it taste less harsh. Usually a secondary fermentation did not start until March, when the sap rose in the vines. In February the wine was pumped into hogsheads in the first-year chai. It stayed in the first-year chai for a full twelve months, where it was constantly topped up and occasionally racked into a fresh vat, in some years fermenting slightly on through summer.

  The following year it was moved into the second-year chai, where it was bunged tight and left to mature for two years, after which it was ready for bottling.

  It all seemed simple enough. Reuben was certain he could master it if he put his mind to it. Maybe he was making a mistake in wanting to take over the operation of the two wineries. If he concentrated just on selling and shipping the finest of both vineyards, that might be enough to keep him busy night and day. Still, how could he do justice to selling and shipping if he didn’t understand the entire process? Mickey had shared the basics with him, but she admitted she still didn’t know everything, and often she had to rely on the opinions of those in her employ who were more experienced. “Chéri,” she’d said, “I have more than enough money to last me the rest of my life. I can, after all, sleep in only one bed, eat off one table, drive one motorcar, and buy just so many clothes. It is not really important for me to make the vineyards more productive than they already are. I enjoy my work, but I refuse to be a slave to a business. But if you are happy doing this, we will make some sort of monetary arrangement that is profitable to both of us.” He’d let it drop but hadn’t given up. He’d pored over books, watched the workers at Château Fonsard, and studied the vines until he got dizzy.

  Reuben could feel his shoulders start to tighten. This always happened when he got deeply engrossed in all he had to learn—so much, in fact, he worried that he might not be up to it. Other times he was so confident he thought he would explode with all he was absorbing.

  Mickey woke, instantly aware that Reuben was wide awake. What was he thinking, she wondered. And why hadn’t he nuzzled her neck the way he usually did when he woke in the middle of the night? She opened one eyelid to peer at the clock in the little table by her bed. It was five minutes past four.

  “Is something wrong, Reuben?” she asked quietly.

  “No. I don’t know why I woke up. I wasn’t dreaming. I was just lying here thinking about your vineyards and how much there is to learn. You looked
so peaceful, I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “I don’t mind.” She rose on one elbow, her index finger trailing along his cheek. “Would you like to talk about it, chéri? Although I think on this subject you have already picked my brain clean.”

  Reuben laughed, a rueful sound. “I realize I’m not going to be out there pruning the vines and picking the grapes, but I should know…I want to know all I can learn about wine.” He hunkered down, eager to share his thoughts with her. “For instance, if the grapes are picked too early, they give a more acid wine, right?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “Then they need more time to mature in the cask. There are some people who like the oak flavor and some who don’t. It’s like you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t. Why would someone pick the grapes too early?” Again he hurried on. “Mickey, your château manager told me that the grapes are picked when they get sticky. Surely there must be a better way to judge the ripeness than stickiness.”

  “That’s how Jacques did it. My managers are just doing what he did. If you can come up with a better way, I’m sure they’ll be amenable. The vines and the grapes are their life.

  “My husband told me fifty years ago he saw men cry and kill themselves because of the phylloxera insect. It lives in the roots of the vine and kills it. Almost all the European vineyards were destroyed. The vintners had to pull each vine and replace it with a clean new cutting. It was a terrible time and one he said he’d never forget. We all talk about it and worry that it could happen again. We must be careful so the parent plant stays healthy. Tell me, did you like the winemaker’s calendar I made up for you?”

  Reuben laughed. “Yes, and I know why you did it.”

  “Oh, and why is that?” Mickey drawled lazily.

  “You wanted me to see how time-consuming the business is and how busy I’ll be.”

  “You are always one step ahead of me. Jacques made one up for me after we were first married. Again, you see. I was forever complaining that I was left alone. He made little drawings to show me how complex the work was. Even though I was young I understood. And what do you remember of the calendar?”

  Reuben buried his face in her hair and repeated the litany of the wine grower. “January, pruning starts on St. Vincent’s Day. Barrels of new wine must be kept full to the top and their bungs wiped every day with solution. If the weather is dry, the wine can be bottled.”

  Mickey’s tongue flicked out, leaving a trail of moistness down Reuben’s chest. Her fingers traced patterns around his chest. She smiled in the gray darkness when he groaned.

  “February,” he continued, to her surprise, “is for pruning and taking the cuttings for grafting. You make grafts onto wood stock and put them in sand indoors. If there is fine weather and a new moon and a north wind, you can start racking the new wine into clean barrels to clear it. You have to assemble the new wine in a vat to equalize the casks.”

  “I don’t care,” Mickey said throatily. “Please, Reuben, you are not going to go through the other ten months, are you? I believe you. The winemaker’s calendar was just my little joke. If you insist, I will stuff my fingers in my ears. I want to do other things.”

  Reuben laughed, a secretive little sound in the darkness. “Are you saying I’m boring you?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying!”

  “You are a brazen hussy, and I love you very much.”

  “Show me how much,” Mickey whispered in his ear. “And don’t ever mention the winemaker’s calendar in bed again. Swear to me!”

  He did. He wouldn’t. He swore.

  Reuben did not go back to his own bed that morning. He supposed it was an act of defiance on his part, and he didn’t care. He wanted to wake up next to Mickey, wanted to start the day beside her. He took in the newborn sun shooting across the room, bathing the bed in warm radiant lights. It felt fresh and clean. A new day. A bright new day.

  “Come here, kiss me good morning,” Mickey demanded. She looked around her. “You didn’t go to your own bed! Do you realize this is the first time we woke together to face the new day? Oh, Reuben, I’m so happy…. Reuben, I think it is time to go to Bordeaux. I must see that all is well there.”

  Reuben smiled. “I’m all for it…whatever you say,” he agreed. “When do you want to leave?”

  “Such impatience,” Mickey said languidly. “Will tomorrow morning be all right with you? Shall we all go in the car?”

  “Absolutely. We’ll have a jolly trip if Bebe behaves herself.” He rolled over until he was on top of Mickey, bracing himself with the palms of his hands. “When,” he whispered, “are you going to wear that black…what do you call that thing that holds up your stockings?”

  Mickey smiled wickedly. “You mean my garter belt?”

  “Yes. It drives me…crazy.”

  “Then I will wear it every day. You should have said something. What is your feeling about black stockings?” she purred in his ear.

  Reuben growled, then rolled off her when he heard Daniel walk by the room, whistling. Bebe’s laughter, as she joined him at the top of the stairs, wafted through the door. Reuben lost his erection immediately.

  As he dressed he began to mutter. “May is when the frost danger is at its height. Work the soil a second time and every ten days remove the suckers so the sap can rise. Watch for mildew…. Start the second racking off the lees into clean bar—”

  “Reuben! That is enough. I don’t want to hear anymore!” Mickey cried, exasperated.

  Reuben sighed and shook his head. “You give me a present, and when I try to show you how much I appreciate it, you tell me you don’t want to hear it. I want to prove that I take your gift seriously.”

  “Then allow me,” Mickey drawled. “June is when the vines flower and we thin the roots and tie the best ones to wires. The casks have to be checked daily for evaporation because warm weather accelerates the evaporation. July—”

  “All right, all right.” Reuben turned to her questioningly. “Tell me, why isn’t Château Michelene as prosperous as Château Fonsard?”

  “In the beginning, as I said, it was a plaything. Now it yields quite a bit of wine, some better than Fonsard, as a matter of fact. Remember, it is not as large, there are not as many workers…a lot of reasons, Reuben.”

  “I think I can make it the best in all of France. Would you like that?”

  Mickey thought about it. “It isn’t important to me. If it stays the way it is, that would be fine. If it will make you happy to expand it, to promote Michelene wines, then I am, as you say, all for it!”

  Daniel waved good-bye to the travelers. At the last second, Bebe ran back to throw her arms around him. “I’m going to miss you. I’m glad you’re going to keep Jake here. Talk to him about me so he doesn’t forget me, okay?”

  “I promise. Bebe, please, don’t cause any trouble at the château. It’s only a month. Be as nice to Mickey and Reuben as you are to me, I want your promise.”

  Bebe stared at him for a long time. “I can’t promise, Daniel. You’re my friend, and that makes a difference.”

  Last farewells and hugs and kisses were given with tear-filled eyes. Everyone waved frantically as the car took off, their voices fading as the space between them and Daniel widened. For a long time he stood in the driveway, watching until the car was out of sight.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Reuben ground the Citroën to a halt in front of the château. “Home!” he exclaimed. “You timed this just right, Mickey. I’ve never seen such a kaleidoscope of color.” He breathed deeply of the crisp country air.

  “We have had the honor of witnessing two springs,” Mickey said happily. “Spring comes early to Paris and late to the country. We had the best of both. I’m glad you approve.”

  “I don’t much like flowers,” Bebe said as she began to pull bags from the car.

  Here we go again, Reuben thought to himself. We’re not even home a minute and she’s complaining already.

  “Oh, and why is that, c
hérie?” Mickey said, joining her. “I thought everyone loved flowers.”

  “There were so many at my…all kinds, all colors, the room was sickening.” She plucked at a hatbox, eyes averted. Mickey stared at her, waiting. “My mother’s funeral,” she blurted out.

  Mickey put her arm around the girl’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, chérie, I didn’t realize.” She looked over at Reuben and saw his jaw tighten.

  He was watching Bebe as she gathered her packages together. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw tears glistening in her eyes. Suddenly she caught him staring at her and stopped what she was doing, her vulnerability unmasked. As she stood there, open and helpless, Reuben thought at that instant she was one of the loveliest girls he had ever seen. His hand faltered, the bag slipping from his grasp. In that same instant he knew Bebe had read what was in his eyes, and he cursed loudly to cover his confusion. For once she didn’t laugh or grimace, but as she turned he saw a lone tear slide down her cheek. So, Bebe Rosen did have feelings after all, she could hurt like everyone else. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

  A butterfly flitted overhead, drawing his attention. For some unexplained reason, he found himself wishing he hadn’t seen the vulnerable side of Bebe Rosen, for it made her a person now like Daniel and Mickey. He shoved his newfound knowledge onto a shelf at the back of his mind. One day it might prove useful.

  Bebe spent the next few hours alone in her room. She had thought it would be nice back at the château, but now she wasn’t so sure. It was obvious that Mickey didn’t want her around. If only Daniel were here to talk to. If he were here, would she tell him how her heart had pounded as Reuben looked at her…as a man looked at a woman? She studied herself in the mirror to recapture what he might have seen—wondered how she had stood and what expression was on her face to make him almost drop his bag. Both Mickey and Reuben had fallen for her flower story. She had used it on several occasions, and it always worked. Reuben had responded very well to it…. She giggled. That’s why Mickey was pushing her out. Would Daniel believe her if she told him about Reuben’s look? That for a moment his eyes had beheld someone other than Mickey? She hadn’t been able to believe it herself. No, she wouldn’t have said anything to Daniel. This was something she could hug to herself, and it was better than any secret. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror.