Читать книгу Sins of the Flesh - Fern Michaels - Страница 9

It was a warm, golden day, the kind California was known for, the kind pictured on glossy travel brochures inviting you to accomplish something wondrous with the brilliant sun at your back. But Reuben Tarz admitted there was very little left in his life to accomplish. The pictorial reviews and trade papers and magazines continued to report that he had it all, still touting him as a wonder boy even though he was over forty. Wonder Boy…If any of them could have heard him chuckling cynically over the image, they would have been puzzled to say the least.

He looked around at his quiet, manicured garden and wondered, not for the first time, if his Japanese grounds-man had a drawn plan of the terrain. His prime Beverly Hills acre of color almost blinded him with its brilliance. Nests of sweet peas, beds of begonias and cyclamen, huge healthy clumps of daisies, and intensely fragrant bougainvillea and gardenias all bloomed in pampered profusion. When he died he hoped some kind soul would drape his casket with daisies; they were his favorite flowers. The morbid image brought him up short, and he quickly banished it from his thoughts. Death was years ahead of him; he wouldn’t even consider it. Why, he hadn’t even reached the halfway mark yet! His career came first; then, when he was ready to retire he would do something about the things he wanted to do and the places he wanted to see.

Reuben turned and started toward his horseshoe-shaped rose garden, shears and gloves in hand. He’d come out to the garden for a reason, not to stand and gawk. Almost completely surrounded by the five-foot rosebushes, he began to cut away dead stems and dried leaves. They were hardy, these roses, and he’d taken over their care despite Osawa’s protests. Of course, he wasn’t proficient by any means, but the need to tend something, to watch it grow and thrive through sheer persistence, was important to him.

Intent on his occupation, he examined each new bud and marveled over every full bloom still shining with early morning dewdrops. The deep emerald leaves looked as though they were sprinkled with diamonds, and the earthy fragrance of the new day filled his lungs.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the maid bringing out the Examiner and a pot of coffee and placing it on the terrace table a short distance from where he stood. Soon she’d return with a frosty pitcher of orange juice and a crystal glass. The benefits of wealth: a maid, breakfast on the terrace, and a newspaper just waiting for him to pick up. Reuben sighed.

There were days when he liked his solitary coffee and juice, but today wasn’t one of them. Today he felt his aloneness acutely, like a swift, unexpected pain. The children were busy with their lives, and his wife was off God knew where, while he was swallowed up in a huge mansion with four servants.

He’d spent the entire Fourth of July weekend alone, puttering about even though Jane Perkins had asked him weeks earlier to attend her annual barbecue and Max had called and suggested he stop by the club if he wasn’t doing anything. But he couldn’t face the warmth of Jane’s homey get-together, even though she was a trusted friend and he loved her dearly, and Max’s invitation had only made him burrow deeper into his solitude.

Thinking over the next few business days at the studio, he realized that with the exception of one meeting, things were so under control he didn’t even have to show up. If he wanted to, he could take off for days at a time at this point and not worry about what was going on. But he did worry. After all, someone might come out of the blue and snap at his heels the way he’d snapped at Sol Rosen’s heels some twenty-odd years ago. And he hadn’t stopped snapping, either; he’d taken a good-size bite and then gobbled up the whole shooting match. Well, almost the whole shooting match. Forty-nine percent of Fairmont stock was his free and clear—stock ol’ Sol had cannily gifted in trust to his grandsons in a clever twist on an agreement he and Reuben had made together. The same stock that Bebe had later turned over to him the night he’d been awarded an Oscar for his accomplishments in the film industry—to help put their troubled marriage back on an even keel, she’d said at the time. But that had not happened. If anything, he and Bebe were further apart now than they’d ever been. It wasn’t even a marriage of convenience anymore. It was just a mutual, miserable existence.

Reuben stared down at the garden flagstones, littered now with dead twigs bearing sharp, treacherous thorns. After meticulously piling them to the side, he moved on to the salmon-colored roses and continued to snip. If only he could cut an armful of the lush, fragrant blooms and present them to someone, someone special who would know that he and he alone was responsible for their beauty. But there was no one he cared to share his roses with, no one who meant enough to him. His heart felt heavy.

How in the name of God had he become such an emotional cripple? Why couldn’t he feel love? Why had it been ruthlessly snatched from his grasp? Would he ever again feel that pulse-quickening, heart-thumping magical excitement that made him want to rip open his heart to bare his love? Jesus, where had it all gone?

His mind raced as he kept snipping away, his thoughts circling around another topic of concern. For the last few days he had been experiencing a second gut-churning emotion, one that tied his stomach in knots and made him want to look over his shoulder like an escaping criminal, as if hounds were at his heels. Fear. Fear that something was going to happen to upset his world. It had started the night of Daniel’s phone call, this intangible feeling that was setting his hands to tremble and his heart to pound.

Reuben pulled off the gardening gloves and tossed them and the clippers onto the mound of cuttings. Turning his back on the garden, he walked to the white glass-topped table on the patio. Marcy had poured his juice but not his coffee. He gulped the freshly squeezed juice, savoring the pulpy thickness, then poured himself a cup of the dark and spicy coffee—made just the way he liked it. It had barely hit bottom when he looked down at the paper nestled beside the cup. His gut began to churn faster. Maybe something was in the paper…. Either it was that or…Daniel.

There was nothing new in the paper, just a rehash of the previous day’s news. As he refolded the paper, a picture of Roosevelt standing at Hyde Park stared back at him. The article reported the president’s Fourth of July speech, a wealth of platitudes about the greatness of America, about dying for one’s country in order to preserve the human freedom established by the Founding Fathers 165 years ago today. Reuben pushed the paper from him. Daniel knew something, had heard something, was privy to some information…and his call was to…see if he had heard it, too!

“Marcy!” he roared. When the startled maid appeared at the French doors, he demanded a phone. He didn’t give a shit what time it was back East.

The phone rang twenty-five times at Daniel’s Georgetown house before Reuben hung up. The phone at the house on Fire Island was picked up on the seventh ring. In a sleepy voice Nellie told Reuben her father was back in Washington. Reuben hung up again and then tried Daniel’s answering service. This time a receptionist told him that Mr. Bishop was out of town but someone would be in the office by nine if it was an emergency. At that Reuben lost his patience.

“I’m Reuben Tarz, miss. Mr. Bishop always leaves word where I can reach him, and, yes, this is an emergency.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the operator answered contritely, “Mr. Bishop left no messages other than what I’ve just told you. All I can suggest is that you call the office at nine o’clock.”

“Out of town, my ass!” Reuben seethed at the sound of the dial tone. Hell, he’d talked to Daniel a little over twenty-four hours ago, and nothing had been said about going out of town. Not that he told Reuben each time he made a business trip, but he’d always left a number where he could be reached, or his secretary would track him down if Reuben needed him, and he’d be on the phone within the hour.

Reuben looked at his watch. Five minutes to six—five minutes to nine in Washington. Five minutes to wait.

Promptly at six Reuben placed a call to Daniel’s private office number. His nasal-voiced secretary answered on the second ring. “Daniel Bishop’s office, how may I help you?”

“Reuben Tarz here, Irene. I need to get in touch with Daniel.”

Irene’s voice became attentive and expectant. Besides knowing about him through her love of the movies, Irene was well aware that Reuben Tarz was Mr. Bishop’s best friend, and in all the years she’d worked for Mr. Bishop he had always left a number where Reuben Tarz could reach him. This was the first time that she would have to tell him Mr. Bishop simply couldn’t be reached. “I’m sorry, Mr. Tarz, but Mr. Bishop left the office early today, and as yet I have no number for him. If this is an emergency…” Her voice trailed off lamely.

“What about his appointments? Check his calendar,” Reuben ordered. His voice was so authoritative, Irene began to rise from her seat even though the appointment book was right in front of her. But she knew it contained no further clues.

“Mr. Rockefeller and Mr. Vanderbilt are seeing to Mr. Bishop’s clients. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. I can have Mr. Rockefeller return your call when he gets in if you like….”

“I want him to call me as soon as you hear from him or he sets foot in that office. More important, I want to be in touch with Mr. Bishop. Do you understand me, Irene?” Reuben said coldly, and rang off.

He immediately dialed the house on Fire Island for the second time. This time Rajean answered the phone. “This is Reuben, Rajean. I’m trying to reach Daniel. Do you know where he is?”

“Oh, hello there, Reuben, how are you?” Rajean drawled.

Reuben fought to keep his calm, sensing Daniel’s ice-maiden wife was only trying to get a rise out of him. She knew he didn’t want to chat. “I’m fine, thanks. Do you know where Daniel is?”

“No, Reuben, I don’t, as a matter of fact. His secretary called yesterday afternoon and…” Rajean took a drag from a cigarette and blew it out leisurely.

She was toying with him. Reuben took a deep breath, waited a beat, and then said, “Yes?” drawing out the syllable as if coaxing a child.

“She said he was going out of town for, as she put it, ‘an indefinite period of time.’ She said that when Daniel got back to her with a number she’d call me.” Rajean sounded peeved as she offered this information, as if she didn’t appreciate being kept in the dark—even about matters that didn’t interest her in the least. “Why, Reuben, is there something wrong?”

Reuben deliberately kept his voice light. “Nothing earth-shattering. I just need to talk to him about something. It can wait.” It wouldn’t do to stir up a hornet’s nest—at least until he knew what was going on. He continued to speak in a friendly, less urgent manner. “How are you, Rajean, and when are you and Nellie coming to the land of sunshine?”

“Daniel said something about October, but it isn’t definite. How is everyone?” she responded politely. One never knew when the services of a Hollywood mogul might come in handy.

“Just fine. When Daniel phones, will you tell him to give me a call?”

“Of course. Take care of yourself, Reuben, and give my regards to…your wife and boys.”

“You bet.”

His forehead deeply furrowed, Reuben stared at the shiny black telephone for a long time. Now he had a new set of worries. Where the hell was Daniel?

The next call he made was to his own office. His secretary assured him Daniel had not called, and his third meeting with the union men had been canceled, but everything else was fine.

When he hung up, Reuben looked around and realized the day was rapidly picking up speed. The dew of morning was gone, the debris of his gardening labors had already been cleaned up, and his coffee was dead cold. In that moment he made up his mind to fly East.

It was more than a whim, he told himself as he stood beneath the stinging spray of his bathroom shower. Something was wrong, he could feel it, sense it in every pore of his body. Daniel was in trouble of some kind and hadn’t asked for his help. Instead he’d obviously turned to his two Harvard friends. Why? Was he in some kind of political legal trouble? When Daniel had called him, his voice had sounded strained, that much he remembered, and the call itself had triggered his own jittery feelings.

As he dressed, Reuben’s mind whirled. Some kind of political intrigue, something top secret. That was the only situation that would account for the fact that Daniel couldn’t be reached. “Ah, shit!” Reuben exploded. An indefinite period of time could mean anything from a few hours to a few years. He knew Daniel to be an honest man, but politics was a dirty business, and no one had to be a Harvard graduate to figure that out.

Reuben had one foot on the running board of his car when his maid called to him that a Mr. Rockefeller was on the phone long distance. He walked back to the house, his thoughts churning at this turn of events. An inner voice cautioned him to tread easy, but after he’d identified himself, he threw discretion to the winds. “I need to get in touch with Daniel, and I need to do it immediately. Where is he?” he demanded coldly.

There was a sigh on the other end of the line. “I wish I could help you, Mr. Tarz, but I don’t have a number for Daniel. He said he’d get back to me with one, but so far he hasn’t done that. Jerry and I are manning the office, taking turns until Daniel gets back…. I’ll be more than happy to give him your message as soon as he calls.”

Reuben instantly sensed in Rockefeller’s voice the same strain he’d heard in Daniel on his Fourth of July call. “Look, Mr. Rockefeller, in all the years Daniel and I have known each other, we have never, I repeat, never, neglected to leave at least a phone number. The simple fact is I’m not buying your story, or his secretary’s story. Now, what kind of trouble does Daniel think he’s in? Is it something to do with the government work he does?”

Rocky’s agile brain sifted and collated as he paused for just the right amount of time. “Daniel said you were smart and wouldn’t buy our story,” he said sotto voce. “The Justice Department is…how can I say…Secrecy is the name of the game over there. It’s the best I can do, Mr. Tarz. For now.”

“I’m coming to Washington,” Reuben said flatly.

The alarm Rocky felt at Reuben’s words communicated itself in his voice. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. At least not right away. Look, let’s make a pact right now. I’ll call you the moment I hear something, day or night. If Jerry or I think you should be here, I’ll have one of our planes pick you up personally.” Then he threw in the lug wrench, the one he knew would hit Tarz between the eyes. He hated to do it, but he had no other choice. “Daniel wants it this way, Mr. Tarz. That’s why Jerry and I are here manning the office. It’s what Daniel wants. If you’re the friend Daniel says you are, then you’ll respect his wishes.”

Reuben swallowed past the lump in his throat. He had to agree; he had no other choice. “All right, I’ll stay here for now. But when the time comes, never mind sending the old family plane, I have one of my own. And I’ll keep my end of the pact, but this is yours: You call me every three hours and I don’t mean every three and a half hours. Every three hours.”

“Sealed, Mr. Tarz.”

Reuben slammed down the receiver so hard, he thought he heard it break. Rockefeller’s words didn’t sit well with him. He’d been too glib, too…He hadn’t actually said Daniel was off on government work. What he’d done was pick up on Reuben’s hunch and ride with it. The only thing that halfway reassured him was the fact that Rocky and Jerry had always proven themselves good friends to Daniel. And he’d seen enough of the good ol’ boy Harvard-Princeton crap to know they stuck together like glue. That’s why he had made sure Daniel became one of them twenty-odd years ago. They would obey Daniel’s instructions to the letter, just as he himself would.

He would simply have to wait, something he didn’t like to do and wasn’t very good at. The realization riled Reuben so, he lashed out at the leather sofa in his study. Cursing with the pain that shot up his leg, he jerked his foot away and stomped out of the room. There was no point in going to the studio, he decided, he’d just vent his anger and frustration on anyone who came near him. The servants were already off hiding somewhere. No, he’d change his clothes and go back to the garden, finish working on his roses. Or he could go through the Examiner and torture himself wondering about Mickey’s safety—He shrugged out of his suit jacket and ripped off his tie. The hell with changing his clothes. Who said you couldn’t prune roses in suit pants and business shoes? These days he did whatever he damned well pleased, and it pleased him to work on his roses exactly as he was. So why did he feel that he had to defend his actions, even to himself?

Muttering a frustrated oath, he attacked the roses, all six feet three of him towering over the huge thorny stems and hacking away without a qualm. Once he’d made love to Mickey on a bed of rose petals. They’d gathered them in secret and arranged them with conspiratorial giggles. Then he’d undressed her ceremonially and placed her among them. The combination of the look in her eyes, her pliant body, and the heady scent of the petals had been so overwhelming, he’d thought his desire would drive him insane. Afterward the fragile petals had been bruised and crushed, but Mickey had gathered them up tenderly and placed them one by one in a jar. At the time he’d thought it the most wonderful thing in the world.

Suddenly a thorn penetrated his glove and pierced his finger, but he barely felt it. Absently he removed the glove and sucked at the blood trickling from the minute wound. Was that jar still on the bedroom mantel in the château, he wondered. And Mickey—where was she? Was she safe? Did she get out in time? Jesus, he’d give anything to know.

How many times he’d wanted to go back, actually booked passage, only to cancel at the last minute. She didn’t want him, and he couldn’t force himself on her. Maybe he should have gone. Maybe he should have listened to her tell him coldly, finally, that she didn’t want him. Perhaps that would have freed him. Pride, the deadliest sin of all. And fear of rejection, the second deadly sin.

Reuben brushed the sweat from his brow. Guilty on both counts! Almost desperately he hacked at a bush full of delicate, almond-colored blooms, stepping on buds that would have bloomed in another day, crushing them to a messy pulp. It must be something in him that destroyed the things he loved and things he didn’t care to love. Like Bebe, his wife. He should have divorced her years before, but something in him wouldn’t allow that final action. On more than one occasion Daniel had told him Bebe was his link to Mickey in a sick kind of way. He hadn’t listened, or he’d pretended not to. Now…now he had to make a decision, not this second, but in the coming weeks. His need to be free was strangling him. None of them needed him, and he doubted seriously that either his wife or his children loved him. Simon and Dillon were his, flesh of his flesh. He’d tried to love them, but in his heart he knew that if he never saw any of them again, he wouldn’t care. Christ! What kind of a man was he? It was Mickey, her rejection of him, that had killed his capacity to love. It always came back to Mickey.

How in the hell had he gotten this far into his life without feeling love again, the kind of love he’d had for Mickey? Was it true that some people were capable of loving only once?

Reuben tossed the cutting shears onto the glass-topped patio table and frowned when he saw a crack spread out from where they landed. Who the hell cared? He certainly didn’t. It would simply be replaced, like magic. He removed the gloves and placed them over the shears.

Right now, this second, he could walk out the door and never come back. He provided for his family—provided handsomely. Daniel handled the trusts and the accounts. His family would never want for a thing. Why not sell his 49 percent of Fairmont Studio stock to Philippe Bouchet? For a price…a price that would set him up somewhere far away from this place.

Hands in his pockets, Reuben tramped through his manicured grounds. He listened a moment to a chorus of sounds overhead. When was the last time he’d actually stopped to appreciate the music of the birds? He couldn’t remember. Could he give it up, the studio and his family, and walk away? Why not? After all, what exactly was he giving up? If Bebe and the children no longer needed him, why was he still here? Because you want to be here wallowing in self-pity. If you wanted out, you would have gotten out a long time ago, an inner voice replied.

Reuben rubbed his temples wearily. It was true: the guilt…the pity…I had to make amends…. Oh, God, how was I to know the years would fly and I’d never feel anything again? How was I to know I couldn’t make up for what had happened?

Walk away, you’ve given enough—and you’ve taken enough. It’s all been evened out somewhere along the way. Leave it all behind…make the decision.

“And what will I do?” Reuben’s own voice startled him.

Take a trip around the world, suggested the inner voice. Something will come to you once you make the decision.

Reuben sat down on a stone bench nestled in bougainvillea. When he looked up he could see his house shimmering in the golden California sunlight. “That’s just it. I can’t make up my mind. I don’t even know where Bebe is. I can’t divorce her if I don’t know where she is.”

Private detectives and lawyers will find her; that’s not your problem. Your problem is finding you. Get a divorce!

That means I failed.

Your marriage was a failure from the first day, and you knew it then just as you know it now. You’re a coward, Reuben Tarz, a bloody coward.

Reuben stood up abruptly. He’d had enough of this arguing with himself. “As soon as the problem with Daniel is resolved, I’ll act on my own life decisions. That’s how I’ll proceed.”

He felt exhausted. The sun was warm, and a nap in the shade on one of the terrace chaises was a welcome thought. As soon as he walked back to the terrace and realized he didn’t have to think another thought, he closed his eyes and slept. But his sleep was plagued with vague and clouded glimpses of Daniel.

A week passed, an angry, belligerent week. Rockefeller and Vanderbilt were as good as their word—they called every three hours to inform Reuben that there had been no word from Daniel. On the morning of the eighth day, Reuben calmly arranged to fly to Washington, D.C. He’d had enough of Daniel’s friends and knew without a doubt that they were both lying through their upper-crust teeth.

As he issued orders to the staff to prepare for his departure, his mind was on his upcoming confrontation with Daniel’s friends. He’d see how good they were at lying to his face. Daniel was in trouble, and he was sorry now that he’d allowed these two sharks to bullshit him the way they had. He’d gone along with it for Daniel’s sake, but now it was his turn. One way or the other he’d get answers.

Just one more day, he told himself as his car arrived at the site of the waiting plane. As he walked up the steps, the crew members welcomed him aboard. The steward closed the hatch, and the plane immediately began to taxi down the runway.

His personal life was on hold. Daniel came first.