Sins of Omission

by Fern Michaels

  “So, you wait. Bah! What a fool you are!”

  “No, I do not wait. I exist. There is a difference. If you wish to think of me as a fool, feel free.”

  “Someday you will be old,” Yvette said sourly.

  “Yes, I will be old. Everyone grows old, Yvette. Whatever God has in store for me I will accept. Come, let us have tea or wine. This jewel will sleep for at least another hour.”

  “I have something to tell you, Mickey,” Yvette said over tea.

  “Why do I have this feeling I’m not going to like what you have to tell me?” Mickey said tartly.

  Yvette smiled. “Bebe called me on the telephone last evening. She said she’s going to Paris, and wanted to know if she could come to the farm. She asked about you…and Reuben. I lied to her. I said Henri had been ill and I hadn’t seen you for a while. I think she plans on calling you because she wants to stay in your Paris house.”

  “Then she doesn’t know Reuben has gone back to America?”

  “I do not think so. It was not my place to tell her anything.”

  “Did she ask…” Mickey couldn’t bring herself to finish her question. Yvette shook her head.

  “How did she sound?”

  “She sounded…like Bebe. We didn’t speak that long. She did ask how you were. There was something in her voice I never heard before, a certain…maturity. No, perhaps that is the wrong word. I kept waiting…dreading…but she never asked. I thought she would, I really did. I can’t believe she doesn’t care. Mickey, how…?”

  Mickey chose her words carefully. “I don’t think any of us will ever be able to understand Bebe. She can be warm and gentle and caring one minute and then calculating and manipulative the next. The latter is what worries me.”

  Yvette threw her hands into the air. “Well, I just don’t understand how a woman can give up her own flesh and blood. I’ll never understand.”

  “She wasn’t a woman when she gave up the child. She was little more than a baby herself,” Mickey said gently.

  “You mark my words, someday she’s going to come looking for this child. If you think you felt heartsick when Reuben left, think how you’ll feel when she rips this child from you.”

  Mickey stared across at Yvette. Her old friend was only voicing aloud the fears she herself dealt with constantly. “We must make sure that never happens. If you feel strongly that she may come here, then I must make arrangements to leave with the child.”

  “Where will you go, chérie?” Yvette asked unhappily.

  “To the chalet in Chamonix. I can be happy there as long as my love is with me. You see, my friend, there is nothing else left to me. Stop looking at me with such pity! If you can’t stop, go back to the farm,” Mickey said sternly.

  “Mickey, please, we’ve been friends for so long and I care what happens to you and because we are friends I wish to speak my mind. It is a wonderful thing that you took this baby because you have much love to offer. You have money and can give this child every advantage the world offers. But can’t you see what you are doing to yourself? If you must, go to Chamonix, but hire a nurse for the child. Start to make a life for yourself. You cannot live through a child, even if he belongs to your lover. What if Reuben comes here searching for you? What if he writes or cables and gets no response, what then, chérie? His love for you was like none I’ve ever seen. If you definitely plan on leaving, then write and tell him so. Bah! You haven’t heard a word I’ve said. You deserve to wallow in your misery. I’m going home because I cannot bear to stare into your sad eyes a minute longer, and because it’s snowing harder.”

  “Will you and Henri come to visit me?”

  “But of course, chérie. After you have settled in and things are running smoothly. I need a vacation. Perhaps I will leave Henri home, eh?” She’d hoped for a small smile from Mickey, but none was forthcoming.

  The moment the door closed behind Yvette, Mickey was off her chair and up the stairs. First she checked the baby to see that he was still sleeping peacefully. Satisfied, she started to pack her trunks. Tomorrow morning, at first light, they would leave. She could stay in Chamonix for a long time—years, if necessary. There was, after all, nothing to keep her here any longer.

  Mickey sat propped up in her lonely bed staring across the room to the darkened windows. Moonlight washed the floor in a soft silvery light. The stars shimmered in the heavens like a cluster of twinkling diamonds on a length of black velvet. She wished then…for yesterday. Realist that she was, she knew it could never be. Perhaps Yvette was right; perhaps she should write to Reuben. If not Reuben, then Daniel. They might write, if only to pay off the loan she’d advanced them. That thought depressed her even more. Better not to be here to open flat envelopes with only money and an obligatory note. Better to drop an informal note to them both.

  Mickey crept from her bed like a thief in the night, quietly so as not to awaken the sleeping child. She tiptoed from the room on slippered feet and settled herself at the desk in the library downstairs. She started not one, but seven notes to Reuben; all of them found their way to the trash basket. She fared no better with Daniel’s note. In the end she gave up. She cried for her loss, for yesterday, and for what might have been.

  Mickey Fonsard, carrying her adopted son, opened the door of her chalet just as Bebe Rosen arrived at Yvette and Henri’s farm. The young girl tooted the horn of her shiny new Citroën and waved gaily, calling out to Yvette and Henri.

  “I had to come to see you,” she said, rushing out of the driver’s side to hug them both. “You look wonderful, both of you. Look, even the dogs and chickens are happy to see me! Please say I can stay for lunch.”

  “But, of course, you can stay for lunch, and dinner, too, if you wish. You did not tell me you were planning on a visit. I thought you wanted to stay in Mickey’s Paris house.” Yvette hoped she didn’t sound as nettled as she felt. There was going to be trouble, she could feel it. “You look wonderful, chérie. The latest fashion, I see.”

  “I wanted to look nice when I got here. I went to that designer Mickey uses in Paris, Coco, and she made this up for me. She’s outrageously expensive, but have you ever seen anything so elegant?”

  Yvette stared enviously at the scarlet walking suit with the fluted skirt. Mickey would have worn a white silk blouse with such an outfit, but this young lady preferred to expose her long slender neck. Her shoes, purse, and driving gloves were a deep magenta that somehow complemented the scarlet of the suit. A soft felt cloche, trimmed in matching feathers, rested on the front seat. There was no luggage that Yvette could see. She felt relieved. “What do you think of my new hairdo?” the girl continued to babble. “I had it cut and styled in England just before I left.”

  “Most becoming,” Henri said, beaming. “Men love fluffy hair on a woman so they can run their fingers through it. Isn’t that so, Yvette?” He held Bebe’s arm out and showed her off to his wife.

  Yvette shook her own long mop of hair in agreement. When was the last time you ran your fingers through my hair, my dear Henri? she thought to herself. She made a mental note to push Henri out of bed later for the way he was fawning over Bebe. She’d married a lecher. She said, turning to Bebe, “You look wonderful, chérie. So fashionable it makes me ache to be your age again.”

  “It’s just as I remember it,” Bebe said, looking around her. “I can’t tell you how often I’ve thought about this place and you and Henri. I was hoping the dogs would remember me.” She stood back to drink in the sight of the stone farmhouse with its gabled windows and heavy oak door. The wide sills on the windows were filled with thriving colorful greenery. She peeked excitedly into the open doorway. Inside, she knew, would be hot tea and small homemade cakes with Yvette’s thick frosting, their insides gingery and fragrant. “I think this is the nicest, the most welcoming home I’ve ever been in.” She wrapped her arm around Yvette’s shoulder as they walked over the threshold.

  Henri hopped from one foot to the other, hoping his wife would ask him t
o join them for tea. When she glared at him he turned and left the little courtyard. Tonight he would pay for his careless tongue. But ah, he knew how to sweet-talk Yvette and put her in a good mood. He shrugged. A man was a man.

  In the parlor, Yvette poured tea and set out the remembered cakes, then poked around in a basket full of odds and ends for a cigarette. Bebe joined her, fitting her cigarette into a long onyx holder. “I didn’t know you smoked, chérie,” Yvette said.

  “I just recently took it up. Everyone smokes these days. Not a lot. It helps me relax. I feel at home here,” she added, settling onto the familiar kitchen chair.

  “I’m glad you could stop to visit. Where are you going from here?”

  Bebe tossed her hands in the air, the cigarette holder clamped between her teeth. “I suppose I’ll drive down to the château and get the key to the Paris house from Mickey. I called and called, but there was no answer, so I decided to hop in my new car and drive here. It was an outrageous experience,” she trilled.

  Yvette rummaged in the basket a second time, to withdraw a key and a folded slip of paper. “Mickey left this for you. She’s gone…business or something about the wine…” Her voice sounded false even to her.

  Bebe’s innocent eyes widened and her brows shot upward. “You mean there’s no one at the château? What about the housekeeper?”

  “On holiday, or else she went with Mickey. I’m not sure. Mickey just…what she did was…she was in a hurry and said she would be in touch and to give you this should you happen by…. I told her you had called,” she added, catching Bebe’s puzzled expression.

  “How strange. I guess she didn’t want to see me. I wonder why. The château is empty, you say?”

  “For the moment,” Yvette said firmly.

  “Then that must mean Daniel and Reuben are with her.” Yvette thanked God it wasn’t a question; Bebe assumed…“I really miss…Daniel,” she continued. “I wonder if I’ll ever see them again.”

  Yvette pretended not to see the tears in Bebe’s eyes. “Nothing is impossible, chérie. If it is meant to be, it will be,” she said gently. “Now tell me about your glamourous life in England.” This should be safe ground, Yvette thought gloomily.

  “Glamourous…at times,” Bebe said loftily. “At other times it was quite boring. I missed the cabarets of Paris.” She shrugged, indicating it was of no importance. “The men…most of them were over grown boys with only one thing on their minds. Sex,” she said authoritatively, “is a participatory event. I had no wish to participate.”

  Mon Dieu, Yvette thought. I must remember to spring this on Henri tonight when I kick him out of bed. “I see,” she said quietly. Her eyes dropped from Bebe’s sad face to her slender polished fingernails which were drumming impatiently on the tabletop as she spoke.

  “More tea, chérie?”

  “I certainly had many propositions,” Bebe said, ignoring Yvette’s offer. “I didn’t make many friends among the women my age. For some reason they didn’t seem to want to be around me. Mickey’s friend said they were jealous. I suppose that’s possible.” Her tone indicated she didn’t believe it. “I’m an American,” she said flatly, as if that explained everything.

  “I think you’re just shy and tend to wait until the other person makes the first move…. Sometimes, chérie, the other person is just as shy as you. You learn these things as you get older,” Yvette advised in a motherly tone.

  “You should have had a dozen children, Yvette. You’d make a wonderful mother,” Bebe said sincerely.

  Here it comes. Yvette thought, and what do I tell this miserable young woman about her son? She gulped the rest of the tea in her cup, tea she didn’t want.

  “Well, I think I’ve taken up enough of your time,” Bebe said, rising. “Now I’d like to take a ride past the château. For old times’ sake. And then I’ll head back to Paris. Thank you for the tea and cake. It was wonderful. I…I want to…to thank you for welcoming me. I wasn’t sure if…if you would want me to come here. I decided on impulse, the way I do most things. Say good-bye to Henri for me. I—I’ll write if you’d like me to….”

  Yvette crossed the short distance to the young girl and wrapped her in her arms. “My darling girl, please do write. I would love to hear from you. I get no mail on this miserable farm, so I will look forward to it, but only if you wish to write. Bebe, have you given any thought to going back to California?”

  “I plan to return at the end of summer—late August, maybe the middle of September. I’m not sure. If Mickey should get in touch with you, please thank her for the use of the house. Tell her I’ll take care of it. And thank you, Yvette, for being a wonderful friend to me when I needed a friend.” Yvette nodded and watched Bebe’s eyes circle the kitchen, coming to rest on the slab of slate near the fireplace where the cradle had rested months before. From the fireplace they strayed to the little bedroom door off the kitchen. Now. Now, she’s going to ask. Instead, Bebe hugged her again, kissed her soundly, and bolted out the door. Yvette blessed herself over and over as she watched the powerful car surge down the road.

  Bebe drove carelessly, narrowly missing a rabbit on the road. She felt she drove well considering she’d had only three lessons. Any idiot could steer a car. Idiots could do a lot of things other people thought them incapable of.

  Forty minutes later she ground the car to a halt at the bend in the road. From here she had a perfect view of the château. How lonely and sad it looked, so deserted with no smoke rising from the chimneys. The windows were covered from the inside with something heavy. The barn was closed and probably locked.

  Not caring if she ruined the magenta shoes, Bebe slowly walked the quarter mile to the château. At one point the barn loomed directly ahead. Part of her past was there, she mused…but she refused to move toward it. She couldn’t bear it. The front door, the back door, and the side door were all locked. A thought popped into her mind: Mickey must plan to be away for a very long time. Where did she go? Why did she go? The urge to kick the door, to break the lock, was so strong, Bebe had to grind her heels into the soft, loamy earth next to the back steps. A window, I could break a window, crawl through, and stay here for a while. To what end? queried a small voice. Just to feel again, to smell the scent of him, to touch the things he touched.

  Tears spilled from her eyes, caught for a moment on her thick lashes, then streamed down her cheeks. Everything is gone…you can’t get it back. Why aren’t you here to help me? I need you, Daniel, you’re the only friend I have.

  She sobbed all the way back to the car. Five minutes later, the engine running, she sat swiping pitifully at her eyes. She wailed then, a high keening sound of pure misery. Ten minutes later she was dry-eyed and smiling, driving the car away from the château. Bebe Rosen from California was going to gay Paree.

  Chapter Twenty

  At the end of ten days Reuben felt he had more than a working knowledge of Fairmont Studios. With Daniel’s invaluable help, he was in the process of drawing up a temporary operational work plan. Presenting it to Sol would be an entirely different matter, however. The studio head had followed him with his eyes for the first few days. It hadn’t been a comfortable situation.

  He’d spent his evenings watching movies, trying to decide what could be classified as good, bad, and indifferent. His conclusion when he watched the last film was that all of them were indifferent. There was a plethora of beauty and handsomeness, but no talent. In the beginning, audiences had hungered for pie in the face, chases, and pratfalls. It was time for a change. Lester Kramer needed better scripts, better direction. And then there was Damian Farrell. Reuben had sat through Tillie’s Punctured Romance four times, a 1914 movie directed by Mack Sennett. Jane Perkins came to mind immediately, and he made a notation to himself. With women as the main moviegoers, romance films should be at the top of the list. Fairmont had none. Jane would be perfect.

  To date, the only thing he could give Sol Rosen credit for was the fact that he had copies of every film produ
ced at other studios. For comparison, probably. But why didn’t he upgrade his own productions?

  It was two o’clock in the morning when Daniel tossed his papers aside. “That’s it, Reuben! That’s what the problem is. In the beginning distribution was a simple affair. Producers sold copies of films outright to whoever was showing them. They were sold at so much a foot, or by the reel. Maybe ten cents a foot or seventy to a hundred dollars a reel. Quality wasn’t important. Rosen doesn’t own any theaters like the other studios. No shekels coming in from that kind of operation. Distribution, Reuben, that’s where it all is.”

  Reuben tapped his pencil against his front teeth. “Sol Rosen doesn’t look stupid. But is he? Who’s actually in control of all the money?”

  “From what I can tell, his brother handles all the paperwork. Reuben, it’s a mess. See this stack of papers? It’s a work sheet for every short, every film, every serial made by Fairmont. I’m sure you’ve seen all of them in the projection room. Twenty-five thousand to produce. The take should be around one-hundred-fifty-thousand. Doesn’t matter if the film stinks. That’s the take.”

  “Jesus,” Reuben breathed.

  “There’s something else. At some point along the way, audiences got tired of seeing the same old thing over and over. Somebody set up an exchange where an exhibitor could trade in his prints and, for a small fee for the service, receive different prints from other exhibitors. Don’t ask me who got the money. At some point competition increased, at least I think it did. The rental instead of the sale became the big thing. Producers then received a share of the actual box office drawing power. There’s no record showing Sol got any.