Sins of Omission. Fern Michaels

men who’d soldiered side by side before. Often it was the most unlikely of pairings, like this one—Tarz, urbane, streetwise, and slick; and Daniel, innocent and trusting.

      Daniel rolled back on his bunk, sweat glistening on his face. “I thought for sure…I’d hoped…prayed…but Jesus, I’m glad to see you. Did you pray before they took your bandages off?”

      “Me? Pray?” Reuben asked in mock outrage. “It was the luck of the draw, kid. We were either going to be all right or we weren’t. The damage was done out in the field weeks ago. Praying would have been kind of silly.” He hoped his words of bravado were loud enough for Madame Mickey to hear, but when he turned to look at her, she was gone.

      Reuben was annoyed. Why hadn’t he been able to tell Daniel that he’d prayed for him last night? The words had stuck in his throat, as if such an admission were impossible for him. Not for the world or all the Madame Mickeys in France would he admit that he’d been too afraid to pray for himself when he lay with his eyes burned by the gas and his head swathed in bandages. Something in Reuben made him feel undeserving of God’s intervention.

      A smug expression washed over Reuben’s handsome face; his silver-gray eyes were made brighter by the drops. “It’s time to go, Daniel, so let’s put this place behind us and get on with our lives. Madame Mickey is waiting.”

      Marchioness Michelene Fonsard could barely contain her excitement. She considered herself a lusty good woman who made amends for her sexual liaisons by doing good deeds for the parish curé. The curé prayed for her each Sunday because of her healthy donations to the church and for her generosity with her husband’s renowned Bordeaux wines. A true patriot to the very core of her French heart, she considered it an honor as well as a duty to minister in any way she could to the casualties of the terrible war that had been decimating her country. The soldiers she visited at several hospitals and clinics were the recipients of her generosity in many ways. She spent her days in her Citroën, covering distances along sometimes treacherous roads to deliver her cook’s homemade goods and preserves, to read to some of the men and talk with others, always ready to soothe with her gentle woman’s touch. Flowers picked fresh from her greenhouse were always welcomed by the convalescents. She brought cheer; she brought hope.

      Some called her saintly and beatific, like the parish curé. Others insisted she had the classic features of an aristocrat from a long line of handsome royalty, which always amused her. The soldiers thought of her as a beautiful angel, larger than life, and it was said that a lover or two revealed that her hair reached almost to her ankles and always smelled delightfully of her perfume. She owned fabulous diamonds and emeralds but preferred to wear the least ostentatious. Although refined in her taste, she always kept up with the latest style and fashion; and as sedate and meticulously groomed as she was through her years with her famous and doting husband, at night, alone, Mickey Fonsard gazed into the mirror and saw the plain face of a peasant, open and honest.

      She had been only fifteen when she married Jacques Fonsard, who was three times her age. True to his word, he’d given her wealth beyond her dreams, all from his famous wineries. She, in turn, had given him the best years of his life. In the end she held his naked body against her full breasts the way a mother would hold a suckling babe and watched his erection die for the last time. The smile on his face made her grieving bearable. He’d died exactly as he’d always hoped he would.

      Each time Michelene spent a franc, each time she took a new lover or performed a good deed, she knew that Jacques, wherever he was, approved. Marchioness Michelene Fonsard never looked back, nor did she look ahead. And she lived each day fully, as though it could very well be her last. If nothing else, she considered herself a happy woman.

      Soon she would be happier. There would be a young, hard body in her bed. She was happy that Daniel could be ministered to in a warm, loving atmosphere. Naturally she’d realized the way to get to Reuben was through his protectiveness for his friend. Such attention would win his gratitude, but humility…Ah, that was a different matter entirely. With her experience, she knew Reuben, young though he was, was not like all the others. This one, she mused, was a cut above the rest.

      Madame Mickey had never been in love. She’d cared deeply for Jacques, of that she had no doubt. But so often of late, with death and suffering all around her, she wondered if she would ever truly experience that much talked and written about euphoria of being in love. Sometimes she ached for that warmth when her passions were spent and her lover rolled over to drift off to sleep.

      In so many ways Reuben Tarz was a boy. Yet when those boys came out of the war they were men—men in the world of men, but boys in the ways of a woman and the boudoir. Her mission—and she accepted it gladly—was to make a man of Reuben. When they went their separate ways, Reuben would be a man to be reckoned with. She would instill in him a sense of confidence, integrity, loyalty, and motivation. And—equally important—she would teach him that whatever he wanted was within his grasp. All these qualities she admired in men, knowing she possessed each of them herself. As for social polish, Reuben had much to learn, of course, but she knew he would be a quick study. The proper haircut, the right tailor, exposure to correct etiquette, and he would be magnificent.

      In the early days of her marriage, while they waited for the grapes to ripen, Jacques had taught Mickey languages and geography; she had a natural ear for one and a thirst for the other. Now she could converse easily in seven languages, and her favorite, after her own native tongue, was English.

      What wonderful plans she had for Reuben! She’d motor to Paris with him and show him her beautiful house, where Jacques liked to play after the first planting of the young vines. Reuben would love Paris, especially when this damn war was over and things returned to normal. General Pershing had confided to her personally that they were only weeks away from an armistice, but she needed no confirmation that the Germans would be suppressed. From the beginning, Michelene had every faith in her countrymen and the Allied forces, and that life would always go on as it had: wonderful, beautiful, and pleasurable.

      Her mind, agile as always, devised a series of divertissements to please the senses and delight the soul. The Loire River, the only true French river, would be of interest to Reuben. The Mer de Glace would be a must. She’d introduce him to the Matterhorn and Mont Blanc. A two-or three-hour drive with picnic baskets to Rouen to see the quaint, gabled houses and the crooked streets would be another treat. The cave at Peche-Merle on the Sange River—now a chapel—would add to Reuben’s French education. And she must not forget the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Her second favorite spot was the site of Grosse Horloge, the big clock whose single hand had told time for more than four hundred years.

      Michelene Fonsard’s long, tapered fingers tapped the steering wheel impatiently. Her thighs tingled and tightened when she saw Reuben, accompanied by Daniel, approach the Citroën. Her smile embraced them, warmed them like a cloak as she settled them into the backseat. On the way home she kept up a running commentary on the conditions of the war whenever they asked specifics; otherwise she kept the conversation light and vivacious, telling them funny little tales of the villagers near her château and the eccentric ways of her friend, the curé.

      Daniel loved listening to her and complimented her on her exquisite English, but while they both were amused by her little stories, it was news of the war and the German advance that occupied their thoughts. The frequent German raids and intensified activity all along the front in the north of France indicated that a great German offensive was close at hand. The French thought the Allies would be able to hold without difficulty until the Americans could gain position and provisions. Provisions…That was the key word in this chaos. With all of America’s wealth, manpower, and ability, there was still the inescapable fact that the great country had been totally unprepared for war. American forces had been confronted by the mighty German military offense and compelled to stand by almost helpless and see the Allies suffer unspeakable losses. Provisions, the lack of them, the inability to move them across France to where they were needed most, could be their undoing.

      “Mon Dieu! I am sorry!” Madame Mickey’s apology broke into the worried thoughts of her two passengers. “This road is abominable, so rutted and bumpy. It is beyond repair, I am afraid. All the young men are gone from the village; there