Sins of the Flesh

“Mickey, what is it?” Daniel shouted. “I can hardly hear you. Take who? Are you all right?” Jesus Christ, of
course
she wasn't all right! Germany had invaded France.

The telephone stabilized, and he heard Mickey's remembered voice clearly. “You must get Philippe safely to his father.”

Daniel's eyes grew wild when he realized the line had gone dead. Desperately he jiggled the hook and tried dialing the operator. But it was no use. He stomped around the room trying to make sense of the phone call. Mickey, after all these years. Memories flooded his brain. She needed him; she wanted him in France. Him and not Reuben. Why? And who the hell was Philippe? “Take Philippe to his father,” she'd said. Great. But who was Philippe's father?

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Epilogue

Paris, France, 1941

Marchioness Michelene Fonsard slipped her dusty old spectacles over the bridge of her nose. She rarely wore the wire-rimmed glasses because she felt they made her look like an owl. Now she wished that she'd kept them clean and polished, for if ever there was a time for good eyesight, this was it. But at least they would serve her immediate purpose of hiding her fear from her son, Philippe, and her best friend, Yvette.

Philippe watched as his mother swiped at her glasses as she peered through the lacy curtains of the Paris town house. He knew what lay beyond the window: the German Gestapo marching up and down the street, tacking occupancy notices on all the doors. His eyes slid to the thick packet of papers and the worn knapsacks in the center of the foyer table. He hated the sounds of the stomping boots, but what he hated even more was the sight of his mother's political friends licking those same stomping boots. Thank God she'd had the good sense to secure their travel warrants before the Germans showed their true colors.

The lace curtain slipped back into place. “Now,” she whispered, “wait for me by the back door. I must try one more time to reach…stay with him, Yvette.” Mickey sprinted up the long flight of stairs and snatched the phone from its cradle. Winded, she cleared her throat and dialed the number, preparing herself to speak calmly. The sounds that emerged a moment later from her quivering lips were harsh, guttural—the German words she'd been practicing all day:
Herr Kommandant.
These were magic words, she realized within seconds. She wished she'd thought of using the title on her last six unsuccessful tries at reaching Daniel Bishop in America.

Wait, wait, wait…. That's all they'd been doing for weeks now, hoping against hope that some miracle would remove the hateful Germans from their beloved Paris. She knew it was too late, had known it weeks before, but Philippe wanted to stay, and against her better judgment she'd agreed. If only she'd listened to her own instincts instead of giving in to her son, Henri would still be alive. Now she swayed dizzily as she heard the French operator speak to the American operator. A familiar voice—a voice from her past—came on the line, and Mickey thought she would die when she heard it. She spoke rapidly in English, knowing the line would be cut as soon as the French operator realized that she'd been tricked into putting the call through. Seconds later Mickey stared at the buzzing receiver in her hands. It looked obscene, deadly. She slammed it down and raced from the room, arriving in the kitchen breathless.

“I got through this time,” she whispered to Yvette. “We were cut off. Thirty minutes and there will be more Gestapo here when they realize this is where the call came from. Go, go!” She turned to her son and waved him out of the room. “We have only minutes. Hurry, Philippe.”

Silently, like thieves in the night, the trio traveled the back alleys of Paris until just before dawn, at which point they scuttled like rats into drainage ditches to sleep for a few hours.

Their destination was the Fonsard château in Marseilles, where they would wait for the American, Daniel Bishop.

Before she reached out to sleep, Mickey crossed herself and offered up a small prayer. “Please, dear Lord, grant this miracle I ask of You, not for myself, but for Philippe. Daniel must reach here safely so he can take Philippe to America, to his…to his mother and father.”

The night was womblike with a dense, cloudy sky hanging overhead as if suspended. Threatening, low-rolling thunder grumbled from its midst, setting Daniel Bishop's teeth on edge. All day he'd been jittery as he ambled aimlessly around his luxurious Fire Island summer home. He knew the condition of his nerves had nothing to do with the impending summer storm. His less than happy marriage was part of it, but not the only reason for his restlessness. There was something more, something lurking just out of reach, something intangible—his sixth sense issuing a dull warning. For as far back as he could remember, he'd had these feelings of foreboding, the inexplicable conviction that something was going to happen. These were free-floating, anxious feelings, ominous and hungry, as though wanting to be fed. Fed with…what was it this time?

Daniel opened the sliding doors impatiently. Although he could hear the ocean slapping rhythmically just a few yards away, the heat of the night was oppressive. His shirt clung to him, and everything he touched was damp. Maybe the heat had something to do with his feelings. He watched as if in a trance as lightning skittered across the sky. An appropriate end to a boring Fourth of July, he thought morosely. He was so keyed up right now, he was capable of creating his own fireworks. Rajean had cajoled him into coming to their summer place, insisting they both needed to get away from the bustle of Washington, D.C.

“Everyone leaves the city, darling,” she'd repeated at least a hundred times. “It will be good for Cornelia. We can spend time together and not even plan out our holiday. Sort of leave it all open, maybe even picnic.”

Daniel laughed to himself with disgust.
Picnic
was an alluring term—but
forage
was about as close as he could get to the reality. The only thing left in the kitchen remotely resembling food was a stale, damp bag of pretzels.

He peeled his shirt away from his chest. When he let go, it restuck itself to his skin with perverse tenacity. Maybe he should go for a swim. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of another split-second bolt of lightning racing down into the Atlantic. No, swimming is not an option, he told himself. A drink, then. Alcohol was the one thing they always had plenty of. He'd never been more than a social drinker, preferring to keep his wits about him. He supposed it was the lawyer in him. They were so different, he and Rajean. Like night and day, Reuben would say, and Reuben should know. Not only had they been best friends forever, but Reuben was married to someone just like Rajean. Reuben…Always the voice of authority and experience. Perhaps he should have paid more attention when Reuben had advised against his marrying Rajean—but then, Reuben had ignored
him
when he'd issued the same advice about Bebe Rosen. A pity neither of them had corrected their mistakes early. A divorce didn't make one a pariah anymore, and he should know; in his day he'd handled plenty of top-drawer divorces, some full of scandal and all full of bullshit.

He'd seen his wife exactly twice during the past four days. Once she'd waltzed through the beach house to change her clothes for an afternoon cocktail party. The next time she'd put in an appearance, it was to replenish someone's dwindling liquor supply. He hadn't seen much of Cornelia, either, but at least his stepdaughter called and breezed through every few hours. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth at the thought of her…sweet Nellie with the sunstreaked golden hair and bottle green eyes.

In his thoughts Nellie was always the young innocent, shy and ever so considerate. He loved her as though she were his own, and the moment he'd signed the adoption papers she truly had become his own. She was eighteen now and in September would head for California and UCLA. He was going to miss her terribly. She was as pretty as a picture, he mused, and the one thing he could never understand was why she didn't have more friends. Every so often a horde of young people would descend upon the household for a few weeks, and then they would disappear, to be replaced months later with new faces. Once he'd asked her why she didn't seem to have any one-on-one friendships. She'd responded blithely that she didn't need them; she was her own best friend, she said, and would never disappoint herself the way friends did. She dated, and boys called, but he never saw the same one more than three times. After a while he didn't mention it. If Nellie was happy, that was all that mattered.

Nellie was late getting started in college because of an emergency appendectomy that had kept her out of school the better part of a semester. The nuns at Holy Cross felt it would be better if she stayed back a year, and he'd agreed. Now he frowned, trying to remember something one of the nuns had said about Nellie, something so totally out of character, he'd dismissed it—out of character for Nellie, that is. Nuns didn't always know as much as they pretended to. Whatever it had been, it was so ridiculous that he'd shelved it, and now it wouldn't surface.

Daniel raked unsteady fingers through his sandy hair, his deep brown eyes narrowing behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Jesus, he hated humidity. He'd been thinking about Rajean before Nellie popped into his thoughts, or was it after? Christ, he couldn't get a clear thought in his head these days no matter what he did. When Nellie left for college he was going to have to decide what to do about his empty marriage.

He leaned on the terrace railing and gazed out toward the ocean. He could hear it, but it was shrouded by the night. The slight breeze was hot and stifling. Thunder growled. In the orphanage where he'd spent his youth, the nuns had called it God's wrath. At an age when they were still convinced the world revolved around them, he and his friend Jake would always run and hide, certain they'd done something wrong for God to create such a tempest. He'd been fourteen before he realized, along with Jake, that it was all a trick by the nuns to get them to behave. He smiled, wondering where Jake could be now. Someday he'd run into him, he was sure of it. Hell, he had enough money to hire a detective to track him down if he wanted to. Someday…

The usual evening sounds silenced suddenly, as though they'd scrambled into hiding. It was an eerie feeling, one Daniel didn't like. The sky, which seemed to be hovering just beyond his reach, grew as dark as his thoughts. Within a few steps he was at the door, sliding it surely on its track and stepping safely inside. From there he watched his own reflection in the glass as the first drops of rain splattered onto the flagstone terrace.

Daniel threw himself onto the sofa and tried to relax. It didn't take him long to realize that the drumming rain wouldn't lull him into the peace of mind he so desperately sought. Instead he felt even more tense, ready to burst. Somewhere, someplace, something was wrong. Reuben…he should call Reuben and see if all was well with Hollywood's biggest mogul. And he should make the call now, before the telephone lines went down the way they usually did during a storm.

Daniel groped for the telephone and was relieved to hear the dial tone buzz in his ears. He could almost picture a little old lady crawling out of bed and cursing as she shuffled in bare feet to her switchboard. He rattled off Reuben's number when the operator came on, then waited. Would Reuben be home at nine o'clock on the Fourth of July? It didn't matter; he knew Reuben's haunts and habits as well as his own. One way or another he'd find him.

“Reuben, is that you?” Daniel spoke rapidly into the phone as soon as he heard his friend's voice. “I was hoping I'd catch you home. How's it going, old buddy?”

Reuben's voice boomed over the wire. “It's going, but that's about it. How are you?”

“Great,” Daniel said lightly.

“I was sort of hoping you'd make it out here in April. I know, I know, law and order and all that shit. Read about you in
The Wall Street Journal.
Big man in Washington,” Reuben teased. Then his voice turned serious. “I heard about the offer to serve on the White House legal staff. Why'd you turn it down?”

“Crooked politicians aren't my cup of tea, Reuben. You know that. And I use the word
crooked
loosely. It's all a game, anyhow. It's called
Cover Your Ass,
and by that I mean if I took the position, that's all I would be doing, covering someone else's ass. That's not why I went to law school, and I'll cover my own ass, thank you.” Both men laughed. “I'm doing just fine,” Daniel continued, “two full partners, three junior partners, and six associates. We're turning business away. But enough of that. How's Bebe?”

“Off on a toot somewhere. She hasn't been home in three weeks.”

Daniel digested his friend's statement. Even though it was said with no real emotion, he wasn't going to touch it. “And the boys?”

“Simon's up at Big Sur working for the summer. Dillon's in camp.” Daniel couldn't help but hear the pride in Reuben's voice.

“Jesus, I miss you, Dan'l”

“You know, Reuben,” Daniel admonished gently, “planes travel both ways. You could come east to see me. If I remember correctly, I made the last trip.”

“I know. I've been thinking about it and halfway promised myself I'd make the trip in August. How's Nellie?” he asked fondly.

“All grown up. Starting college in September. She always tells me to send her regards when I speak to you. I'm going to hold you to it, Reuben.”

Reuben laughed. Christ, he loved Daniel! He loved him and knew him so well that he was aware something was wrong—something Daniel wasn't telling him. “Why don't you let me know the real reason for your call now, and let's see if we can fix it together.” He heard Daniel's sigh of relief. “Is it Rajean?” he asked.

“It's a lot of things, Reuben. Today was…is…I have this feeling. This…I don't know what it is, but something is wrong somewhere…you know how I get…”

Instantly Reuben became more attentive. Over the years Daniel's hunches and gut feelings had been beacons of light, highlighting problems before they erupted fully. The Depression had been one of them. Without Daniel's insight, Reuben and his close associates would have been wiped out like countless others during the crash of 1929.

“Jesus. Maybe it's the war…I can't put my finger on it.” Daniel heaved another sigh. “Anyway, I had to call to see if everything was all right with
you.
”

Reuben's voice softened. “I appreciate that, buddy, but I'm okay and so is the family. The war is hanging over all of us….”

Daniel understood what Reuben meant without having to hear the words. Although they had talked about the war and how it was affecting France, they had never mentioned their time there, never spoken
her
name aloud—she was always synonymous with their worries about the war raging its way through Europe.

“I hear a storm in the background, maybe that's what it is,” Reuben offered gently. “You always hated storms.” He couldn't think of anything else to say. “Daniel, if there's anything I can do…if you need me, I can be on the first plane tomorrow.”

“I know that, and it's not necessary. I'm sure it's a combination of a lot of things. As long as you're all right, I'll turn in now. It was good talking to you, Reuben. Let's do it more often.”

“Daniel,” Reuben said simply, “I talk to you every day in my thoughts. Sleep well.”

“You, too. Take care, Reuben.”

When Daniel replaced the phone, the sound of the rain beating across the roof in windy spurts enclosed him. He made a mental note to get together with Reuben as soon as possible. It had been too long.

As he climbed the stairs to his bedroom, Daniel went over their conversation and acknowledged a certain amount of relief. He peeked into Nellie's room and found her sleeping soundly. It wasn't until he settled himself in bed that it occurred to him to wonder if his wife was all right. For all his nervousness and worry, he'd not once considered her as the possible cause of his uneasiness. Carefully he rearranged the pillow behind his head and turned on his side, toward his wife's side of the bed. The sight of the tidy, unused space didn't elicit any feeling at all in Daniel. Rajean could take care of herself, as she was fond of informing him.

Forty-five minutes later Daniel was still awake, the sheets and pillow damp with his perspiration. He couldn't imagine staring at the shadowy ceiling much longer. Maybe if he got up and took a shower, he'd feel better. The storm was still battering the summer house, which meant Rajean would be out all night. Not that it mattered.

Daniel had one foot in the shower when the phone jangled. Perhaps it was Reuben, he thought, calling back to see if he had settled down. He picked up the phone, a snappy retort ready, then frowned when he heard the operator's sleepy voice tell him there was an overseas call for Daniel Bishop. What the hell? No one knew where he was except his answering service and Reuben. “This is Daniel Bishop speaking….”

“Very good, sir, hold for the French operator….”

“Jesus Christ! Yes, hello…hello? Speak louder, I can barely hear you. There's a storm here. Who's calling, Operator?” A spurt of crackly French came over the wire. “Mickey! My God, Mickey, is that you?”

“Daniel, please, we may be cut off momentarily…Daniel, please, you must come…I need…” Daniel strained to distinguish Mickey's desperate words from the relentless crackle of overseas static. “Urgent…please…I beg you…we…we need you…not for myself…for…Daniel…you have to get him out…not safe for him…Daniel…speak to me…”

“Mickey, what is it?” Daniel shouted. “I can hardly hear you. Take who? Are you all right?” Jesus Christ, of
course
she wasn't all right! Germany had invaded France.

The telephone stabilized, and he heard Mickey's remembered voice clearly. “You must get Philippe safely to his father….”