Sins of the Flesh (37 page)

Three days after his marriage and two days before the beginning of the New Year, Philippe Bouchet, also known as Philip Tarz, climbed from his bed, dressed quietly so as not to disturb his sleeping wife, jammed his newly forged American credentials bearing the name Philip Reuben into the inside pocket of his jacket, and left the house. His movements stealthy, he placed a whispered call to the local taxi company. Then he closed the door quietly behind him and left the house without a backward glance.

His hands in his pockets, he marched to the end of the street, where he waited for his taxi. Ten minutes later he gave the driver the address of his first stop: 5633 Laurel Canyon Road.

Bebe heard the sounds of a car engine the same moment Willie barked furiously, his paws slipping and sliding on the polished floors as he raced downstairs to growl and bark at the front door. Curious, Bebe peered through the curtains at her bedroom window. Whoever was calling was keeping a taxi waiting.

Tying the belt of her robe with a jerk, she headed for the stairs. Holding on to Willie by his collar, she thrust open the huge heavy door and stared into the miserable eyes of her son. Startled, she backed up one step, then another. Willie strained at her tight grasp.

“I'm sorry to bother you,” he faltered, “but I find myself in need of a…friend. Do you…would you take the time to speak with me for a few moments?”

Bebe stared as though mesmerized into his pleading eyes, then nodded and closed the door. “I must let Willie out and, if you like, I can make some coffee.”

“I'd like that very much if it isn't too much trouble.”

Some minutes later Bebe set a steaming cup of coffee in front of her son. “Use both hands,” she said gently. “I used to do that when I was hung over from a party. And take your time, Philippe.”

He nodded and obediently cupped his hands around the mug. “What should I call you?” he asked. “I don't want to offend you…that was never my intention…I don't know what the rules are in…situations like ours.”

“Bebe will be fine. You said you needed a friend,” she prodded gently, wondering why he hadn't gone to Nellie or Daniel.

Philippe swallowed the scalding coffee, barely aware that he'd just burned his tongue. “I came here for several reasons. I…I made a terrible mistake on Christmas. I…what I did was…I got married. To Nellie. I swear to God I…I don't know what possessed me to do that. For a little while I thought I loved her, certainly I…I wanted her, but she said…she said she wasn't that kind of girl. It was her idea, but I went along with it. She loves me very much and I don't want to hurt her. We never…I was so…the marriage was never…consummated,” he blurted out. “My…my other mother would be so ashamed of me if she knew. It's all I've thought of these past days. We got married on Christmas Day and the day after I enlisted in the army,” he lied. “I'd been thinking about joining up for weeks. I'm leaving today. I…you're the only one who knows….”

Philippe leaned across the table to stare at his mother. “I don't belong here, my home is in France with my other mother. I don't even know if she's alive. She wouldn't allow me to stay and join the French Army or the Resistance. She was afraid for me. At the time I was afraid, too. I feel as though I betrayed my country and myself. I don't want to make films, I'm tired of spending money for meaningless things. None of that matters to me. If I thought I could make a valuable contribution to our film company, I might consider staying, but there's absolutely nothing for me to do. I play with paper clips, I sharpen pencils, I look at contracts, I voice an opinion that is solely my own, and it isn't even an intelligent opinion. This studio belongs to my father. I don't want it, I never wanted it. I realize that now.”

Bebe thought her heart would shatter at her son's words. Married! To Nellie! She chose her words carefully. “I think I understand how you feel. I thought for a long time that I wanted the studio myself. Now that Reuben has given me his half, I…it's not that I don't want it…it's this fear that I can never measure up. For months now I've tried to learn the operation, and I think I know it, but to put it to the practical test…I'm just not sure. I do understand your feelings. You're much too young to tie yourself down to something you don't like or want. And that goes for marriage as well. You could have the marriage annulled if you…as you say, you didn't consummate the marriage. Of course, the decision has to be yours. I don't think…no, I
know
that your mother would never, under any circumstances, be ashamed of you. Mickey loves you, she'd understand. It simply isn't in her to condemn or judge others, Philippe, even her own son. Your mother's only sin is that she loves too much.

“As for Nellie,” she continued, “do you think it wise, or should I say gentlemanly, to leave her in the lurch like this? I don't know your situation, but don't you think she has a right to know? I found out a lifetime ago that you can't run away from your problems, you must face them head on and resolve them to the best of your ability.”

Philippe shook his head. “I wrote her a letter last night and left it in the dining room. She'll find it when she wakes up. Perhaps it is the coward's way out. But it is the best way for me as things are now.” He hesitated a moment, then went on. “Before I leave, I would like to know why you abandoned me. I came here prepared to hate both you and my father. I tried to live off that hatred, but it was such an effort. I wanted both of you to look at me, to get to know me, and of course, to regret what you'd done. It can't matter now, so there is no reason to hide things from me. This might be your last chance to make things right between us. I couldn't fight for the country I thought was mine, so I will fight for yours.”

They talked then, mother and son. Bebe didn't spare herself at all, nor did she spare Reuben. What she said in closing startled her son: “I think, Philippe—and this is only my opinion—that you married a Bebe Rosen. I don't for a minute think Nellie is the person she pretends to be.” She told him then of her long talk with Jane Perkins on Christmas Eve and the time they spent together on Christmas Day.

“I've been so stupid!” Philippe cried.

Bebe smiled. “Everyone is stupid at some time in his life, Philippe. One learns from one's mistakes. It takes some of us longer, that's all. You said you came here because you needed a friend. Does that mean you want my advice?” Philippe nodded. “Then file for an annulment. I can speak to Daniel if you want. Do you want to give me your power of attorney?”

“I left it on the dresser for Nellie. I gave it to her.”

Bebe's heart sank. “A later one will take precedence, I'm sure of it. I'll call my attorney, and we can write it out in longhand. I'll have Jane come over and witness your signature. Things like this are done all the time.” I think, she added to herself.

It was a few minutes past noon when Philippe Bouchet signed his name to the document Bebe copied verbatim over the phone. Jane signed her name beneath Philippe's, then added the date and the time.

On the front steps of the house, Bebe watched her son leave, perhaps for the last time. Suddenly she panicked; she couldn't lose him again, she just couldn't! “John Paul!” she screamed. The boy turned and made his way back to her, his eyes as full as her own. “I've always loved you, every day of my life. But your other mother loves you more, and that's why…”

“You can let me go. I understand about partings. I'll be back. I'd like us to get to know each other. I want you to know that I…I like it that you gave me a name and thought of me all those years as John Paul. I hope I can live up to two such distinguished names.” He wrapped her in his arms and hugged her warmly. “Good-bye, Mother,” he whispered.

“Good-bye, John Paul. Now hurry, son, or you'll miss the plane. And I don't think my car would make it to Fort Dix.”

Philippe laughed, sounding so much like Reuben that Bebe nearly burst into tears. In another two days it would be Philippe's twenty-first birthday. Happy Birthday John Paul, she whispered. Moments later the taxi rattled down the driveway…and he was gone.

The war at home was just starting; the first battle was scheduled for the second day of the New Year, when the studio reopened for business.

 

Nellie devoured an enormous breakfast of pancakes, eggs, and ham, along with juice, melon, and three cups of coffee. She was sitting in the sun on the small terrace wondering where Philippe had gone at this time of the morning. Earlier she'd cracked open one eye and watched him dress in casual clothes and then stuff a packet of papers inside his jacket.

The last several days had been hell for him, that much she knew. Not once had he met her steady gaze, and he'd barely spoken to her. Each night he'd retired early, and she'd joined him much later, careful to remain on her side of the bed. As far as she was concerned, the only thing that mattered was that the servants believed they shared the same bed.

The housekeeper appeared in the doorway, an envelope in her hand. “I found this on the dining room table, ma'am,” she said quietly.

“Well, don't just stand there, fetch it here and clear the table,” Nellie ordered.

The envelope yielded two pieces of paper, one of them a legal document—Philippe's power of attorney. In the note, Philippe announced that he had left her to join the army. To make up for her loss, he'd given her his half of the studio for the time being, his car, his house, and his bank account. How sweet of him, how gallant, Nellie thought sardonically, laughing to herself. The French were so noble.

First she would shower and dress, she decided, and then pay a special visit to the local bank that held a portion of Philippe's assets. She had a plan, and if all went well…

The battle lines were drawn now, by her missing husband: her father and herself on one end, Bebe and Jane on the other. For regardless of Jane's feelings for her father, she would align herself with Bebe.

“You lose,” she crooned as she stepped into the shower. “My father will protect me and my rights with his last breath.” It was a conviction Nellie Bishop Tarz-Bouchet believed implicitly.

 

Ninety minutes later Nellie parked Philippe's Cadillac roadster, hers now, in the bank's parking lot. The power of attorney safe in her handbag, she climbed daintily from the gleaming car.

She had chosen to dress conservatively, much like Jane Perkins, in a tailored suit and crisp white blouse. Because of the tan she affected, cosmetics were largely unnecessary except for a little mascara to enhance her eyes. Her blond hair was done up in an elegant daytime chignon. All in all she looked like she was thirty years old instead of eighteen.

The bank's president received her cordially. He was a fussy, prissy man of sixty or so with a balding head that he kept touching and a mustache that was clipped and pruned like the border of a rose garden. His voice, when he spoke, was nasal, as though he had a cold, which he did. From time to time he apologized and blew his nose in a soft white handkerchief. Nellie handed him the power of attorney, which he accepted with an air of bemused attentiveness. The moment he finished reading it, Nellie had it back in her hands.

“My husband's attorney can furnish you with a copy,” she said briskly. “I'm not here to withdraw monies. Actually, Mr. Evans, I'd like to have all our assets transferred to your bank. The Morgan Guaranty is”—Nellie wrinkled her nose—“too…stuffy and stodgy. I prefer to deal with younger institutions and bankers who have foresight. When all the transactions are complete, I'd like a full accounting. Can you do that?”

Ambrose Evans fingered his clipped mustache. He had a vague idea of Philippe Bouchet's accumulated wealth, and it had made him dizzy the day he'd opened the young man's account. The idea that someday his bank might handle the entire balance boggled his mind. Now he was going to be dealing with Bouchet's wife. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“I wonder if your accounting department can give me some idea of our present bank balance. I'd also like an estimate of our accounts at Morgan. Now,” Nellie said coolly, her heart thumping in her chest. Anticipation was so wonderful.

Evans cleared his throat. “Certainly I can do that, but don't you have your bank statements? What you're asking will take a little time. The statements would afford you a balance to the very penny.” Something was wrong here, he could feel it. Yet the power of attorney was in order. He knew the law firm that had drawn it up and the lawyer in particular; he played bridge with the man every Saturday night.

“I'll wait,” Nellie said sweetly. “I have all the time in the world now that my husband has gone off to fight for his country.” With consummate delicacy, she allowed her eyes to moisten and dabbed at them with a lace-edged handkerchief.

“Yes, well, hrumph, I'll see what I can do,” Evans said, and shifted uncomfortably on his chair. “In the meantime I'll have my secretary fetch you a soft drink and a magazine while I…get in touch with Mr. Bouchet's bankers in New York.”

“That's so very kind of you, Mr. Evans. Philippe, in his haste to report in, forgot to give me the safe deposit key where he keeps all his papers and records. I'm sure he'll get in touch with me as soon as he can. He was so eager to be off to defend our wonderful country that I guess it simply slipped his mind. The very last thing he begged me to do was come here today and straighten things out. It was his wish that our accounts be transferred here to make things easier for me.”

Evans tidied up his desk and nodded limply. Good, she was throwing him for a loop, Nellie decided. His bald head was beaded with perspiration. She sighed wearily and dabbed at her eyes again.

By the time Evans resumed his seat behind his tidy desk, she was halfway through the tattered copy of the
Saturday Evening Post.
Without a word he handed Nellie a slip of paper. The smoke spiraling upward from her cigarette covered the shock in her eyes. If Philippe didn't come back, it would be
all
hers. “That's more or less what I thought it was,” she said blandly.