Sins of Omission. Fern Michaels
and a smile always on her face. Bebe had liked Mickey, that much she remembered. A free spirit, Sol called his cousin. A wealthy free spirit. Often, when Sol was angry, he would compare Bebe with Mickey. Secretly, Bebe accepted it as a compliment.
Squirming down into the seat, Bebe imagined the wonderful time she’d have with Mickey. They’d go to bistros, have parties, and she would be introduced to wealthy and glamorous Frenchmen. She completely ignored the trunk filled with lesson books and the promise of a private tutor. It would be easy to get around Mickey.
Back in California there were people who had unflattering things to say about Bebe. She knew the names they called her behind her back—and it wasn’t just the newspaper reporters, but her friends as well. It was her own fault. She had never bothered to defend herself against the image the reporters presented. Deep inside she wasn’t anything like the person they portrayed. She was lonely and she was bored. Going to parties and flirting with her beaux was her only fun. Eli was always off doing something or other that would eventually lead to trouble. Sol was always at the studio, often later than midnight. The housekeeper didn’t care what she did or where she went. Quite simply, no one cared about Bebe Rosen.
“Poor little rich girl,” that’s how she thought of herself when she lay in bed at night.
Someday she would meet a young man who would sweep her off her feet and love her for all of her life. They would have children whom they would both adore. It wouldn’t matter what he did for a living; he could be a shoe salesman or sell insurance, anything, just so long as he loved her and loved her. It wouldn’t matter if they had an ordinary life, he would be her Prince Charming come to rescue her from this loneliness. Or perhaps they would live on the English moors; she would be Cathy to his Heathcliff. Romantic notions played in her head. One day she would be Cinderella and the next Cleopatra, but always there was some man, handsome and good, there to save her, to love her.
Eli called her a spoiled brat. She never bothered to explain to her brother that her selfish ways and temper tantrums were a defense against feeling lost and alone. It was an attitude that crept up on her, and she didn’t know how or when it began. She had no inclination to change. It was enough for her to know that inside she wasn’t any of those things people said about her. She was Bebe Rosen, and she ached. To reveal herself would be agony; to hide behind this facade was safety. She never knew what was expected of her, so she never seemed to fit in or belong. Confusion was a way of life for Bebe, never knowing or understanding who or what she was supposed to be.
Even now, jouncing along in the Daimler, she felt she had to decide who she was supposed to be before she met with Mickey. Was she going to be Bebe Rosen who cared only for herself? Or could she chance being herself, the little girl inside, the shy sixteen-year-old who desperately wanted a new beginning?
Party girl, she decided. It was safer. If the time came when she had to tone down her image, she could do it overnight. Her father said Mickey liked fun and excitement. If she allowed her vulnerabilities to show, Mickey might leave her out and attend parties and social functions without her, burdening her with school lessons and a stodgy old tutor. Mickey was expecting a handful, Bebe knew. Why disappoint her? Besides, who in his right mind could fault this beautiful Golden Girl with the laughing eyes and charming smile?
“Monsieur, do you know why I’m to go to Marseilles instead of Paris? I thought my aunt would be living in Paris,” Bebe said, leaning over the seat.
“Madame Fonsard felt safer at the small château. She is a loyal Frenchwoman and felt she could do more for the war effort from there. She seems to prefer the château these days to Paris. She leads a quiet life. The war is a reminder to us all to treasure those things and the way of life that means the most to us. You’ll enjoy the village, mademoiselle.”
“Doesn’t she ever go into Paris?” Bebe questioned, disappointed.
“For the moment, mademoiselle, her attentions are not there. As her avoué, I can handle most things for her.” His voice was creaky, like a hinge needing oil. If this man was Mickey’s attorney, Bebe felt sorry for her aunt. Her father would have put the old man out to pasture a long time ago. But she was in France now and would have to learn new ways and new approaches to doing things. And it really wasn’t any of her business what her aunt did. Unless, of course, it affected her own whims and desires in some way.
For the first time Bebe felt a chill of fear. What if her aunt didn’t like her? Most adults didn’t for some reason. Worse yet, what if she didn’t like her aunt? What if her aunt didn’t have the maternal qualities that she craved? Make the best of things and cut her visit as short as possible—if her father would allow the visit to be cut short.
A château in the country. That meant no bright lights and no parties. She’d read a book once about a young girl who was sent away to an old aunt in the country, and her only entertainment was taking long walks and gathering leaves to paste in a book. Bebe shuddered. She just knew she would die of boredom.
In California her life had been wildly exciting even during those times when the school principal suspended her for smoking in the girls’ bathroom, kissing boys in the hall, and generally acting like a hoyden. School, discipline, and authority were simply not enjoyable. She was bright and intelligent, more so than most of the youngsters in her class, and it was a simple matter to catch up in her studies after one of her numerous expulsions.
Bebe kicked off her red shoes and curled her legs under her. She wished she had something to hug to her chest, something warm and alive to squeeze her back. Tears pricked her eyes. It was always like this when she started to think too heavily. It was so much easier to laugh and carry on because your heart didn’t ache even if you were just pretending to be happy. Please, she prayed silently, let Mickey like me and let me like her in return.
“How much farther is it?” Bebe asked the lawyer.
“Not too much longer, Miss Rosen. We’ll be there before you know it.”
The old man irritated Bebe. She’d asked him a simple direct question and he’d responded the way her father had when she was six years old. He probably thought her dimwitted. Wearily, she shook her head. There was no point in trying to carry on a conversation with him, she decided; because of his age he couldn’t do two things at once even if one of the things was talking and the other was driving the stupid car. She slumped back onto her seat and thought about the racy friends she’d left behind in California.
Chapter Eight
Mickey hadn’t slept all night. Even now, with dawn just minutes away, she still couldn’t sleep.
It was all due, she knew, to Bebe’s imminent arrival that afternoon. The three of them would go to the depot to meet the girl. Beyond the initial meeting and a beautifully planned dinner, she’d made no plans.
Since sleep was out of the question, she knew she should get up and go to the kitchen to make an herb poultice for her eyes. With luck she could diminish the dark circles Reuben had noticed the night before. After arguing with herself for a good fifteen minutes, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, then debated a moment over which robe to wear, the ruffled filmy one or the warm flannel. Since it was early she opted for the warm one. As she padded down the carpeted stairs, she scolded herself. She was a mature woman, knowledgeable in the ways of the world. One slip of a girl shouldn’t be having this effect on her. Ah, but when it comes to matters of the heart, there are no rules, she told herself. Emotions, she had discovered, were the single thing upon which one should never rely.
Mickey rattled around in the kitchen, making more noise than she intended. When the old housekeeper appeared at her elbow, she jumped in surprise and almost squealed her fright. The old woman shooed her to a spot at the table and placed a cup in front of her. Coffee would be ready soon, she said, and she herself would make the poultice since Madame either used too much or too little of the dry herbs. Miracles could not undo days of damage to delicate eyes, the old woman grumbled under her breath.
At eight o’clock Mickey was at the breakfast table waiting for Daniel and Reuben. She’d bathed and donned one of her favorite dresses, designed just for her by Coco—a