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Sylvia and Fran sat at the kitchen table as Mr Sheffield walked in.
“Ladies, tell me, what could be better than my new play being nominated for a Tony Award?”
“Your face on my grandchild.”
“No, seriously, Sylvia, I've been nominated for five Tonys.”
Fran leapt out of her chair in excitement. “Mr. Sheffield, I'm so-- Am I coming too?”
“Of course”.
“--happy for you!”
“So, what is the play about?”
“The Widower? It's about a man who loses the love of his life and vows never to love again. So he foregoes any chance to remarry and remains a widower till the day he dies.”
“Sounds very poignant.” Sylvia angled her body towards her daughter, “ You need a house to fall on you?”
“Ma, it's a beautiful love story. Not even the gorgeous governess in the third act could turn the widower's head. I don't know what happens after that. I was sobbing too violently.”
—------
It had been the most successful run of Maxwell Sheffield’s career. The Widower, the first play that he had both produced AND written, was an outstanding success, netting him five Tony award nominations. He had taken such a gamble, risking his own personal story, the story of losing his beloved Sara, and sharing it with audiences in such a public way.
He still remembered the opening night-the entire audience was sobbing after the final act, where the main character had vowed never to love again. A standing ovation, the most memorable of his career, mixed with the sound of the audience rustling for tissues and trying to control their emotions. He had also been sitting in that audience, overwhelmed by the positive response, electrified by the energy in the room. Miss Fine, his beautiful nanny, the woman who so clearly meant far more than that to him, sat beside him in floods of tears, holding his hand like she might never let go. In that moment, it had all been too overwhelming and exciting to contemplate what it really meant. He was swept away by the raucous crowds, by CC angling him in the direction of Very Important People, oblivious as always to the emotions stirring beneath the surface of himself and what they could mean.
Fran had taken the kids home with Niles hours earlier and the house was quiet. She had thought she’d heard Mr. Sheffield arrive home at some point not long prior, and although she desperately wanted to see and congratulate him after the emotionally charged evening, she was sure she had heard his bedroom door click shut already. Restless and probably slightly dehydrated from the storyline-induced sobbing earlier in the evening, she let out a wry chuckle to herself and padded down the back staircase to the kitchen. In the dim glow of the streetlights that whispered into the room, she saw him standing at the kitchen counter, completely still, almost as if in a trance. He didn’t look like he was celebrating. In fact, he didn’t look like he was doing much at all. She walked over to him slowly, careful not to break the spell.
She spoke quietly, almost hesitantly. “Uh…Mr Sheffield?”
He jumped, startled by her presence.
“Uh…Miss...Miss Fine…what are you doing up at this hour?”
“Oh ha, sorry Mr Sheffield, I was coming downstairs anyway and I just wanted to congratu-”
She was about to continue with her excited gushing, when she caught the look on his face. It was serious, almost pained. His eyes were clouded over with darkness, like someone had closed the blinds inside his soul. Far too serious for someone who had just had quite possibly the most successful opening night of his career.
She recalled the way she had gripped his hand as the curtain went down on the final act and the way that he had squeezed it back just a little too tightly. The way he had stared ahead, a steely and stoic expression on his face, as the 500 plus audience drowned themselves in their own tears around him. She knew the play was of a serious nature but she had assumed he would be thrilled, glowing with pride. ‘Hit of the season’, she had heard someone throw out. It was not just his play, but his writing, too. A surefire hit: The Widower.
The Widower.
Oh.
Not just his play.
His story.
Realisation suddenly wracked her. His biggest personal tragedy was about to become his biggest professional hit. Fran couldn’t imagine how much he must be hurting against such a jarring juxtaposition. But, she knew this man better than he knew himself. Which meant she also knew that she had to play it safe, or she would scare him and his stiff British sentiments from ever opening up to her. It was then she realised that he was still staring at her expectantly, waiting for an answer to break the painful silence.
“-I just came down to get a glass of water”. She stared at him carefully, analysing his expression from under her lashes.
“Ahh”. He nodded as though she had just said something insightful, then looked away, avoiding her eyes.
She leaned back casually against the kitchen bench and pressed on, determined. “It was a wonderful play, Mr. Sheffield. Who knew that you’d finally get a massive hit just writing about your life?”
He didn’t respond. His fingers tightened ever so slightly against the countertop, as though he was trying to anchor himself, just slightly. Almost imperceptibly. But Fran noticed, because of course she did.
“Sooo….watcha doing up this late, anyway?” She attempted a cheeky smile. “Too busy thinking about those Tony nominations that will start rolling in soon?”
She winked at him with that last sentence and noticed his attempt to reward her humour with a warm smile, one that didn’t quite meet his eyes. She leaned in slightly, concern written all over her face and gently brushed a finger along his bicep. “Mr Sheffield...are you okay?”
He faltered.
Her heart ached for the man in front of her, so afraid of his feelings, so afraid of himself. Apart from the time she and Gracie had entered the mother daughter pageant several years prior, when Mr. Sheffield had surprised the family afterwards with some home videos featuring Sara; he had never really talked about his deceased wife in more than a passing comment. And if he did? The same stoic, emotionless look clouded his eyes, as though he was merely discussing the weather or current events, and not the love of his life and mother of his three beautiful children. But she knew. He had put himself in the role of Protector, Master of the house and reliable Father. Maxwell Sheffield, Broadway Producer and grieving widower. There was no room for error and certainly no room for any perceived weakness.
“Miss Fine, I…uh…”. Maxwell stammered, desperately trying to force himself to form a cohesive sentence. “..I just have some things on my mind. Opening night stuff, you know…”. He smiled at her again, tight, unconvincing.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. She might not have known what they were after Paris, but she knew they were something. They kissed, they held hands, they supported each other. They were Producer and Nanny, yes, but they were each others’ best friends. She knew it and she knew he felt the same way, even if he couldn’t admit to it.
Sara was a topic that Fran never really pushed him on-it felt too private, too painful. The kids talked about their mother with Fran often. They would all sit snuggled up together with their favourite nanny, swapping stories and snacks. Some days there were tears and others, just laughter. Fran felt like she knew Sara as if she were still alive and the more she learned, the more she understood why Maxwell had fallen so head over heels for his beautiful wife. She also understood why he never joined in on the family sharing sessions and so she never pressed him to. One night, on the anniversary of Sara’s death, the kids had asked Fran what Jewish people do when someone dies. She had patiently explained to them the concept of the Yahrzeit candle and Gracie had excitedly asked her if they could light one. Fran had been slightly horrified at the innocent request, not knowing if she had overstepped or how Mr Sheffield would react. To her surprise, he had not only willingly agreed, but gathered with the family as Gracie did the honours. Fran had stood behind the children and their father, letting them have their moment. When she noted her boss beginning to lose his composure, she subtly stroked his back until he had regained control of himself. She hadn’t missed the overwhelmingly grateful look he shot her afterwards as he hastily retreated to his office, but, like most things in the stuffy British household, it was never spoken of again.
But, tonight felt different. She knew what was wrong and she decided that she was going to go for it and just deal with any consequences later. Maxwell taking back The Thing had made things messy between them already and if she was being honest with herself, it was worth risking making it messier with what she was about to do.
Fran placed her arm on his arm-warm, comforting, familiar. She stepped forward to close the distance between them and gently turned his body until he was facing her. Maxwell looked startled and slightly afraid, looking around the room as though an easy escape or ready excuse would miraculously appear; but in the shrouds of late night darkness, none came. He stared at the floor. She reached out and gently lifted his chin, tilting it slightly to force him to look at her, to meet her eyes.
“Tell me about her, Mr. Sheffield”. Fran’s heart thumped so hard in her chest that she was sure he could hear it.
He went white. He knew exactly who she was referring to.
“My…my wife?” he managed to stammer out.
Fran softened and looked into his eyes again, conveying a caring warmth that Maxwell was sure had just pierced his soul. The woman standing in front of him knew him better than anyone had known him in a long time, not since his wife, and it was quite frankly terrifying.
“Tell me about Sara”, Fran repeated, emphasising her name.
Max held her gaze for a long minute and Fran stood, patient and waiting, refusing to hurry him, refusing to look away. His eyes dropped to the floor again and when he looked back up, Fran was both shocked and slightly scared to discover that his eyes had filled with tears. She had known this man for almost five years at this point. Almost five years of living in his house and raising his children and, although he was known for his emotional and angry outbursts (if she were being honest, they were almost always directed at her for whatever latest deal she had ruined), she had never seen so much as a tear in his eye after watching The Way We Were together.
“Mr Sheffield, are you sure you’re oka-”
“I miss her so much”, he whispered hoarsely.
His voice broke.
A single tear betrayed him and slid down his cheek.
Maxwell was looking at her with a mix of such devastation and mortification that she realised that if anyone walked in on them right now, with him like this, he would likely never leave his room or face anyone ever again.
Fran squeezed his hand and leaned in against his ear to whisper, “it’s okay, Max. It’s okay. I need you to hold on for me for another two minutes and I’ll get you up to your room. Come on…I’ve got you. Two more minutes”.
And with that she gently led him out of the kitchen, up the back stairwell and into the safe confines and solace of his bedroom, never taking her eyes off of his face or letting go of his hand.
—------------
Max. She had called him Max. The thought whirled in his head as this beautiful, caring woman, his wonderful nanny, the most important woman currently in his life, led him gently by the hand and out of the kitchen. He didn’t know exactly what was happening now or what was about to happen next. All he knew was that he had dropped CC home from the theatre and then completed the ride back home in the limo by himself. It was only a fifteen minute trip at that time of night, but it was still about fourteen minutes too many. All the adrenaline had worn off from opening night and he was left alone with his thoughts. Thoughts of the show, of his life as the real-life widower, of his beautiful wife Sara that had left him far too early and…thoughts of Fran, the woman who he had admitted to loving, and then took back in a moment of sheer panic. He thought back to her hand in his at the end of closing act, her normally flawless skin stained by the tear tracks that ran down her face, the tragedy of the story too much for even her waterproof mascara. The empty seat next to him in the limo had felt particularly devastating tonight and he couldn’t seem to get a grip on his emotions. He missed Sara. He needed Fran to tell him it would all be okay. But she had taken the children home hours ago and was probably fast asleep in her room. His heart ached. He needed a drink.
He bid goodnight to his driver and came in the back entrance of the house that led to the kitchen, desperate for the escape of his most expensive scotch. Smooth, grounding. If only he’d made it that far-his thoughts seemed all consuming and somewhere along the way, he had forgotten to even make himself the drink. He was a man in turmoil and lost in thought when he first heard the familiar nasal lilt of her voice and then saw her, his favourite person, walking towards him in the kitchen with a look of concern on her face. Miss Fine. Fran.
He wasn’t entirely sure what she was saying but he knew she was asking questions. Something about the show. Did he answer her? He wasn’t sure about that either. The look she gave him told him that she knew something was wrong.
“Tell me about her, Mr. Sheffield”, she asked. Not demanding. Soft, loving, inquiring.
Her words pierced his soul. He sometimes hated how well she knew him. They had talked about Sara a little bit over the years. Sometimes they would be up late watching a movie together and something would remind him of her. He would make a passing comment before he’d even realised what he had said. Miss Fine would always ask a follow up question but he would quickly change the subject and she would kindly let him off the hook, nudging him. She knew his game but kindly let him continue playing it in order to protect himself. Then there was Sara’s anniversary two years ago, when Margaret and Grace had asked him about the candle. Miss Fine had given him an out-she offered to tell the children that it was only something you could do if you were Jewish, but he knew that they needed it, all of them. And so he had agreed. But watching the flicker of the candle and thinking about his darling Sara and how grateful he was that Miss Fine was helping his children keep their mother’s memory alive-it was almost too much to bear. Right when he thought he was about to embarrass himself with an unplanned show of emotion, she sensed his inner turbulence and silently stepped in, soothing him without alerting the children, until he was able to excuse himself.
He tried to buy himself some time, a minute to regain some of the control over his emotions that he again felt slipping, “My…my wife?” He asked. Good. A coherent sentence. He internally congratulated himself.
“Tell me about Sara”, she corrected him.
Damn. He should’ve known that he couldn’t hide himself from her. Just as he had thought himself safe, she had gone and done it again, just like she always did. She cut right through his protective defences and forced him to confront what he was doing a terrible job at avoiding. Sara. His beautiful late wife had a name and it deserved to be spoken. Fran had always talked about Sara with the utmost respect and reverence. Now here he was, faced with the two most important women in his life and he couldn’t have either of them, for very different reasons. He dug his nails hard into his sides, but it was no use. The very proper upper class British gentleman was about to do something very not-proper and very not-British, if he couldn’t get a handle on himself. He couldn’t. His eyes prickled.
“I miss her so much,” he choked out, meeting Fran’s eyes. As soon as he saw the love, warmth and understanding waiting there, his eyes filled with tears. He knew he was very close to doing something he hadn’t done since Sara’s funeral and was suddenly acutely aware that he was in the kitchen of his family home, at risk of being found out at any moment. Most likely by a yenta butler wearing a satellite dish and headphones.
Thankfully, Fran must have sensed the same, as she leaned into him and comfortingly whispered that he just had to hold it in a little bit longer and she would get him to bed. He vaguely wondered if it was even appropriate to allow her back into his room (he still hadn’t lived down the last time she was caught in his bed), but was too intent on trying to safely get up the stairs, semi-blinded from the tears that he refused to let fall. The expression on her face was filled with so much love and kindness that he was sure he could feel the sobs building in his chest and was desperately trying to swallow them down. Maxwell let himself be guided to his door, expecting her to drop him off there and leave him to his misery.
But she didn’t. Fran looked at him briefly, questioningly, as if waiting for him to deny her. But he couldn’t, not tonight. She led him inside gently and sat him on the edge of his bed, easing herself down next to him and taking his hand in hers.
“Miss Fine, I’m…sorry for this”, he stammered. “I don’t usually make a habit of...well. This.”
She was looking at him, searching his eyes, then she slowly leaned in and grazed her lips with his. It wasn’t like any of the other times they had kissed. It was soft and full of love, offered with no expectation of anything in return. Offered as if to say, “I’m here and I’ve got you”. He kissed her back, wanting to convey with his lips everything that he couldn’t bring himself to tell her.
She gently pulled away again, looking back at his face and he knew that she saw it: still just barely holding it together, still broken, still guarded, as though showing any sense of vulnerability might destroy him. The words found him, at last.
“You know, Miss Fine, I…uh...I don’t really...you know..in front of other people. I uh…I’ll be quite alright. Thank you for bringing me up here but maybe you should…go now.”
He stared at the floor again, knuckles white, face steeled. Breathe in, breathe out. It wasn’t what he wanted. But he was about to emotionally embarrass himself in ways that couldn’t be undone if she stayed for much longer and he needed to try and get her out of his room, preferably as soon as possible. Before all thoughts of propriety flew out the window.
—---------------
She stared at him, a deep pain cutting into her heart. He didn’t want her here. He was just so afraid of opening up. Even on a night like tonight, where the most painful chapter of his life was on full display and any normal person would understand his emotional fragility, he wanted to put those walls back up and shut her out again. Tears of hurt and frustration sprang into her own eyes and she stood up off the end of the bed, ready to make a hasty retreat to her own room and give in to her own sadness, alone. Just like he wanted for both of them.
Max caught sight of Fran’s face and somehow managed to make himself feel exponentially worse than he had about two minutes prior. He was suddenly desperate. For what? He didn’t know. He reached out and grabbed her wrist, interrupting her sudden hasty exit.
“Miss Fine, wait”.
She stared at him, equal parts broken and angry, pulling her wrist back of his reach.
“Max, you and I both know that I’m not ‘other people’”, she whispered angrily. “I wasn’t trying anything tonight. It’s been almost five years and you freak out at the thought of even shedding a tear in front of me. You’ve seen me at my worst and here you are, still pretending, afraid of anything real. Your own children can manage it and you still can’t. I know how torn you are after tonight, how much you miss Sara and I came to comfort you as a friend, nothing more. But you won’t even let me in enough to do that!” The words rushed out, breathless but powerful. Maxwell looked like he had been slapped across the face, but said nothing. “You want me to go, so I will. Goodnight!”
Fran turned on her heel with every intention of storming off, until she reached the doorway and heard Maxwell’s voice behind her, sombre and quiet, with an edge she didn’t recognise.
“Please don’t..”, he whispered.
She froze, hand on the doorknob, refusing to turn around, waiting for him to continue.
“I…I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me tonight. Please Fran…I..I can’t…”. A muffled sob followed, and she knew he was trying to suppress it behind her. Instead of twisting the doorknob, she reached up and flicked the lock on the door.
—-------------------
Maxwell watched her lock the door, as he desperately tried to swallow down the wave of sobs that were starting to escape his chest. It wasn’t just tonight. It was everything. Years of all the pain he had kept in. Years of missing Sara. Of worrying about his children. Of seeing Margaret blossom into Sara’s twin and wondering how on earth he would protect her like he couldn’t protect his wife. Everything that had happened with Fran and everything that he wanted to happen with her that couldn’t-at least, not right now. All he knew was that despite asking her to leave his room just a few minutes prior, he wouldn’t be able to handle it if she actually did. A sense of heartbroken relief washed over him as she slowly turned around and walked back to him, scooping him up in her arms and pulling him towards her. He felt her gently guiding him up the bed so that they could both lean back against the headboard. She folded both arms around him and pulled him to her, as though she would never let go. A wall deep inside of him suddenly collapsed and he clung onto her for dear life.
“I’ve got you, Max”, she whispered, as hot tears soaked into her shoulder and heavy sobs began to rock his whole body.
And with that, Maxwell Sheffield, famous Broadway producer, with his stiff upper lip and stoic British propriety, did exactly what he never thought he would do: He fell apart in the arms of Fran Fine, grieving everything he had lost and everything he knew he couldn’t let himself have.
—--------
Outside Maxwell’s door, a certain yenta butler stood frozen to the spot. He knew Miss Fine was in his boss’s bedroom and he had been eagerly listening at the door, hoping almost five years of flirting and near-misses had finally culminated in them getting together. Except he was now hearing something else entirely. The same heartwrenching sounds that he hadn’t heard in almost eight years, not since Sara had…oh.
Niles quietly moved away from the door and sat down at the top of the stairwell, chin in his hand, tears slowly beginning to weave their way down his own cheeks. Tears of overwhelm, of relief. He had been there in those early days, carrying the burden of the household, swallowing his own grief over the former Lady of the house. There was no time to be sad over losing one of his own close friends-Mr Sheffield had needed him too much. Until one day, when it seemed as though his boss' heart had steeled over and he stopped needing anyone.
Miss Fine’s arrival had brought colour and laughter back into their lives and healed something inside Niles’ heart, too. He had a best friend again, unlike anyone he had ever met before. He knew that he would love her forever for what she had done for their household. But he also knew that Mr Sheffield was stubborn and refused to open up to her; refused to even mention Sara’s name, beyond “my wife”. It seemed that tonight, he had finally let his walls come down and was finding comfort in the woman that he loved. Niles knew it was love, even if Mr Sheffield would never admit it. He had seen that same sparkle in his eyes with Sara and he watched as the sparkle died with her.
Overcome, Niles buried his face in his hands and let out some long-suppressed sobs of his own. Holding everything together for his boss was no longer his heart-breaking burden to carry. Mr Sheffield had Miss Fine now.
They all did.