Sins of Omission

by Fern Michaels

  It was the middle of the afternoon when she decided to take her walk. A long bubble bath and her glass of champagne would be better appreciated upon her return, when she was tired.

  Reuben sat on a smelly, empty wine barrel, his legs stretched out in front of him. Empty wine bottles stood at attention, and he saluted them cockily. He’d consumed a lot of wine, but he didn’t think he was drunk. He should be drunk. His thinking seemed clear, and he felt absolutely nothing. Not anger, not love, not concern, not anything. Maybe he was dead and didn’t know it. He pinched his thigh. Nope, still living.

  He struggled to remember why he was here. Something about the wines and Mickey’s trip. He rubbed at his eyes. Maybe it was the calendar. He’d been so impressed with himself when he’d learned it almost word for word—and then she hadn’t wanted to hear it. Women! She’d said the damn thing was a joke. She probably thought he was a joke, too. If Daniel were here, he would care. Daniel would want to know when the grapes turned black, and he’d want to know when it was time to pick them, too. Time? For the life of him he couldn’t remember when vintage was, the most important thing on the calendar.

  Reuben fumbled for the wine bottle and took a swig. “What you do is you pick the goddamn grapes when they’re ripe!” He laughed, rocking back and forth on the barrel. And she thought he needed a calendar!

  He flipped out his pocket watch with steady hands. God, he’d been down here for ages! For the first time since entering this dark hole he became aware of the smell. It would be in his clothes, his hair, all over. He needed fresh air, but more than fresh air he needed Mickey. Thoughts of Mickey were so devastating he slid off the barrel. He grabbed two wine bottles and staggered to his feet. He had to get out of this stink hole and breathe some fresh air.

  The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that shrouds death. He walked to the kitchen and fixed the housekeeper with a steely-eyed look. “Who died?” he demanded. The old woman muttered something and ran for the pantry. Reuben laughed. Well, at least she was alive.

  “Bebe!” he shouted. The wine bottles clanking against one another, he made his way around the first floor of the château, calling Bebe’s name.

  A warm spring breeze wafted through the open windows. It felt good, so good he decided to stay. Just before he fell asleep on one of the deep, overstuffed chairs, he ran over the day’s events in his mind. He blamed Bebe for Mickey’s leaving, and he blamed Bebe for his anger and his present condition.

  It was dusk when Bebe walked into the kitchen. She was tired. She’d eat and then take the bubble bath she’d been looking forward to. “Nanette, is Reuben here?” she asked.

  The old lady jerked her head in the direction of the library. “He’s crazy, that one.”

  Bebe merely shrugged and sat down at the table. She was starved; the long walk had really given her an appetite.

  She topped off her dinner with an enormous piece of cherry pie and then stood up. “Is there any champagne up here?” she asked the old cook.

  The woman pointed to the little room off the pantry that housed several wine racks stretched across one wall. Bebe made her selection from the cold box, not knowing if it was a wise one or not. It didn’t really matter, she was going to have only one glass, and she was playing a role. She was pickier in choosing just the right wineglass. Something long-stemmed and sparkling. Something to make her feel elegant and sophisticated.

  She tiptoed into the library and almost laughed at the way Reuben was sprawled across the divan. He was snoring. “Too bad your amour can’t see how handsome you look now,” she whispered. But she couldn’t help moving closer to gaze down at him and study the planes of his face, the way his hair curled, how his hands were constructed. Reluctantly, she left the room for her own.

  The rest of the evening stretched ahead of her. How long could she sit in a bathtub? And when she was finished, what could she do? Read another goddamn book, she supposed. Or, she could…she’d been dying to go through Mickey’s things, try on some of her elegant dresses and furs. Her jewelry, her perfume. It would lend credence to the role she was playing. Of course, Mickey was bigger than she was, but that was why they’d invented safety pins. No one would see her, so it didn’t really matter. Her mood brightened when she realized there was one person who would: Reuben. When he woke up he would find himself alone with a young and very beautiful woman. This was the first time she could remember ever being alone with him for an evening. She almost flew into the bathroom.

  First she had to find the bath salts Mickey used, the lavender-scented ones. She’d noticed several spare bottles in the cupboard outside the bathroom. If she touched the ones in the crystal decanter, it would give her away, and this was her little secret. Once she’d rummaged in the attic back home and played dress-up with her mother’s clothes. Her father had almost fainted when she’d pranced downstairs in her mother’s sequined pumps and satin gown.

  The door safely locked behind her, Bebe poured champagne and slid into the fragrant bath. From that point on she was Clovis Ames II. She batted her eyelashes, pouted prettily, raised and stretched one silky leg out of the bubbles, then quickly drew it back to safety. She primped and flirted for the mirror across the room. She made toasts to the Eiffel Tower, to the Statue of Liberty, to Jake. She made a double toast to Daniel. “To all my good friends, wherever you may be,” she said grandly, holding the glass aloft. She hoped she wasn’t getting tipsy on one glass of champagne. Once again she raised her glass. “To Reuben Tarz,” she intoned, and winked. “This could be your lucky night.”

  She debated about crashing the wineglass against the wall the way Clovis did. But then she’d have to clean it up, and Mickey would notice that one of her best crystal pieces was missing. Instead, she set it carefully on the towel stand, making a mental note to return it to the dining room later.

  At last she stepped from the tub, patches of bubbles clinging to her arms and legs. She walked to the mirror and surveyed her naked body. Her breasts were neither large nor small—just right, she decided. Tiny waist and flat stomach. She stretched first one leg and then the other. She’d been shaving them lately so they’d feel silky and smooth. Her underarms, too, but she hadn’t told anyone. Mickey, on the other hand, had a regular bush under each arm, and her legs were hairy. Bebe thought it disgusting. She turned and looked over her naked shoulder, striking a pose Clovis was famous for. But I’m stark naked, which means I’m more wicked, she vamped into the mirror, batting her eyelashes. Instantly she imagined a dramatic tableau of herself just as she was, with Reuben on his knees, worshiping her body. The vision made her shiver.

  Her dressing gown tied securely, Bebe walked softly to the door. She laid her ear against the oak paneling and listened for signs of Reuben on the top floor. When she was satisfied he was nowhere about, she scooted across the hall and pulled Mickey’s door shut behind her.

  Her heart thumped wildly as she went through Mickey’s bureau drawers one by one. She laid out the things she wanted, a black brassiere, slip, garter belt, stockings…. There were no bloomers, no sign of panties in any of the drawers. A pair of silky black stockings, their back seams embellished with tiny roses, made her draw in her breath in appreciation. Clovis would love these, she thought.

  From the closet she chose a gold lamé sheath with a low cut neck and a generous slit up the side. Matching shoes nestled in a soft flannel bag on the hanger next to the dress.

  Mickey’s jewelry box made her gasp in delight. Every stone known to man rested discreetly in layers of black velvet. She fastened diamond teardrops to her ears, a matching necklace around her neck. She chose not one, but two diamond bracelets, one for each wrist. She added a ring to every finger.

  A dress like the gold lamé required some kind of hat, she decided. At least Clovis would wear one. Finally she found it, in a box on the top shelf. It was a cloche, puckered and gathered on one side with a delicate array of matching feathers. As she modeled it, she had to peek from behind the feathers that all but covere
d one side of her face. A diamond brooch completed the ensemble.

  Bebe stepped back to view her reflection. She gasped aloud, then threw back her head and laughed. In her opinion, she looked more ravishing than Mickey or any of her father’s stars. But something was missing—rouge, lip salve, and perfume. Mickey’s perfume smelled positively sinful. Bebe withdrew the stopper and dabbed herself everywhere, behind her ears, at the pulse points in her neck and throat, between her breasts, in the bend of her elbows and knees. She sniffed appreciatively. It took only seconds to apply the lip salve and the bright red rouge.

  God! She wished Daniel were around. She put her hands on her hips and kicked at her hem. Here she was, all dressed up and no one here to voice approval. Secretly she thought she looked whorish, but she didn’t care. Clovis always played the vamp or whore.

  A wicked grin crossed her face. Maybe Daniel wasn’t the one to see her like this. If Reuben could see her now…She pictured being at a nightclub and Reuben asking her to dance, felt herself being whisked away, swirling and drunk with happiness in his arms….

  Bebe pranced around the room in the gold high heels, craning her neck for glimpses of herself in the long mirror. She reeked of perfume, but it was a wonderful smell, full of lust and sinful promise, at least that’s what the bottle said. She looked at the clock and grimaced. What a pity no one was going to see her after all the trouble she’d gone to. Maybe she should finish the champagne and then find out what Reuben was up to. Maybe he’d be awake by now.

  At the top of the kitchen staircase Bebe heard something. She stood frozen on the stair, her heart thumping. It was Reuben, prowling about. If he saw her in Mickey’s clothes, he’d be furious. Especially if he was still drunk. She turned to retrace her steps, deciding it would be wiser to hide until he fell asleep again.

  The next sound she heard was Reuben sniffing like a hound dog. Mickey’s perfume! Her generous hand with the bottle was going to give her away. Bebe slipped out of the high heels and thought her heart would stop when they toppled down the back stairwell. In the silence they sounded like bombs going off. Reuben was bellowing behind her now. Fear engulfed her. Where to run? To the front of the house? Outside? She didn’t stop to think, merely thrust open the kitchen door and ran as if the hounds of hell were on her heels. Twice she tripped and twice she lost time in her struggle to get to her feet. He was so close she thought she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. And he was calling names suitable only to a whore. Damn him! Damn him to hell!

  If she could just get to the barn and slam the door, she could slide the huge bolt across and keep him out. It took every ounce of strength she possessed to make her legs pump faster. The long, tight dress was gathered up around the garter belt, but she didn’t care. On and on she ran, until the barn was in sight. She was having trouble breathing now, panting, almost faint, but still she kept going, not daring to look over her shoulder. All her sins were going to catch up to her now. Reuben was the devil, and he would make her pay. She could feel tears of shame sliding down her cheeks. Oh, how she wanted to be Bebe Rosen, the real Bebe Rosen, who was playing at dress-up. If only…if only…

  Another few yards and she’d be safe. The barn door loomed in front of her and she ran through it into the darkness of the barn. Frantically she swung at the heavy door, her breathing ragged. She dropped the long dress and used both hands to push. Finally she had it closed and was ready to shoot the heavy bolt across when Reuben slammed his shoulder against it.

  “You’re not going to get away from me!” he bellowed. “I’m coming in there, and if you don’t get out of the way, you’re going to get hurt!”

  The door rocked beneath her hands, driving her backward. She ran to the back of the barn and almost made it to the hayloft, unaware that the moonlight shafting through the open door was bathing her in its silvery light. She started to cry then, great racking sobs that brought her tormentor to within an inch of her. She dropped to her knees, burying her head in the crook of both bent arms. Reuben jerked her to her feet and dragged her across the barn. It was dark and she was scared out of her wits, too frightened to utter a sound. She tried once to free herself, but her attempt was feeble at best. She knew what was going to happen and she was powerless to stop it.

  When the gown had been ripped down the front she screamed. “Reuben, Reuben, you don’t know what you’re doing! Reuben, let me alone! Reuben, don’t you hear me? I’m Bebe!” If he did hear, he gave no sign. He was holding her down and loosening his trousers with his other hand. Desperately she kicked upward with her knees, knocking him off balance. Then she was up and running for the open doorway, her legs straining with the effort.

  He caught her there, in the glistening silver light. “Don’t you ever walk out on me again,” he rasped. He ripped the few remaining shreds of the dress from her and took her violently. She tried to speak again, to repeat her name…to tell him he was wrong…the woman he was violating was not Mickey, that she was Bebe…Bebe Rosen, a girl playing dress-up in her aunt’s finery. But he was holding a cruel hard hand over her mouth, pressing the feathers of her borrowed hat against her face.

  If Reuben heard Bebe’s choking sobs, if he felt her fists pummeling him, he gave no sign as he drove into her. When he was spent, he rolled over on the barn floor.

  Bebe struggled to her feet but felt her knees buckle beneath her. She crawled away then, across the few feet it took to be safe, away from him in the shadows. She looked over to the spread-eagled man and spoke in a hoarse, quavering whisper, even though she knew he was too drunk to hear her. “You didn’t have to do that, I would have given myself to you. You raped me, you bastard! You stole my virginity, and now I have nothing left to give. It was all I had. I was saving myself, maybe for you, maybe for someone else. How could you? How could you do this to me?”

  She curled into a ball on the barn floor and listened to her own harsh breathing. She didn’t know how long she’d been lying there when her thoughts began to turn black. Hate seethed within her, blasted from her as she looked around for some kind of weapon. It was her turn now. At the sight of a pitchfork leaning against the side wall, she rose shakily, straightened her shoulders with determination, and walked over to it. In an almost bemused fashion, she picked it up and hefted it a couple of times to get the feel of it. Then she willed her legs to obey and slowly walked back to the snoring man.

  Oblivious to her nakedness, she stood over him, the pronged fork balanced above his testicles, and kicked him with her foot. When he didn’t respond she moved the fork until it was an inch from his neck. “Reuben,” she shouted, kicking him again. His eyes fluttered open, and she moved the fork down to its original position. “You so much as move a muscle and your life will spurt over both of us. You took me like some wild animal! I hate you for that! I don’t care if you were drunk or not. I told you I wasn’t Mickey. I screamed my name, but you didn’t listen!”

  He began to speak, but she brought the pitchfork to within an inch of his skin. She watched his face as the words caught in his throat, and she grew calm again, tasting his fear. “Do you know what I’m going to do to you?” she asked slowly, taunting him. “I’m going to jab this fork right down between your legs. Right between your legs!”

  Reuben lay quietly, strangling in his own fear. How had this happened? If he’d wanted to, he couldn’t have moved. As the pitchfork hovered above him, he waited, trying to gauge the extent of her hysteria.

  She was talking too much. He marveled at her calm and tried not to look at her ravished nakedness through the horrible presence of the weapon she held over him. What would the pain be like? he wondered. Probably he couldn’t even count on surviving. When Mickey returned the car to the barn tomorrow, he’d be the first thing she’d see, dead and lying in his own blood. Of course, she’d know immediately what had happened. My God! She’d know. All his plans and dreams…Damn! Damn this…child! Why had he been cursed with her existence? What did she want from him? He wished he could turn the clock back
. This wasn’t happening…couldn’t be happening. He watched her eyes and then slowly drew his gaze down her body, caught by the sight of a single droplet of blood trickling down her leg.

  When at last he tried once again to move, Bebe quickly brought the fork down until all four prongs rested on the dark crop of hair. She inched it down slowly, grazing his skin until one prong rested on his now limp and flaccid shaft. He groaned.

  “Bebe, don’t do this,” he begged. “I’m sorry. Jesus, I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry, I know that won’t make it right. Tell me what to do to make it right and I’ll do it, I swear. Bebe, don’t!”

  Bebe laughed, a nasty, exultant sound that echoed through the barn. “You beg prettily, Reuben. Well, begging isn’t good enough! All my life I’ll remember what you did, but you won’t, will you? Unless, of course, you can remember in hell.”

  “Yes. Yes, I’ll remember it all my life. And you’ll remember what you did to me. Two wrongs won’t make it right!” he cried. Bebe laughed again, bitterly.

  She had to make up her mind what to do. Her arm was getting tired, and her stance made her legs ache. Her thoughts were jumbled as she envisioned herself playing the role of a ravished shepherdess…. No, I’m a vengeful warrior princess, she decided. She brought the fork down then, arrow-straight, one prong sinking into the groin, the other three piercing the fleshy part of Reuben’s thigh. “I wouldn’t pull it out if I were you,” she said over his agonized moaning. “It has manure on it. You’ll probably get some kind of infection and die. I’m going into the house to get dressed. I’ll take one of the bicycles and fetch the doctor. I suppose I could call him to come out here,” she mused as she reached the barn door. “What do you think, Reuben?”