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__________________________
Like seeing a car crash about to happen and feeling powerless to stop it.
That was how most things felt when Fran Fine was involved.
It had been almost a year with her.
Maxwell had gotten pretty good at intervening before things went too far.
It must’ve been the same feeling the taxi driver experienced that night. Except on that occasion, not even God himself could stop it.
It had been almost five years without her.
And as predictable as time itself, Mother’s Day would soon be arriving again.
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“You know, I hate to bring this up, but what do they do for Mother's Day around here?”
“We don't mention it.”
“Well, if you want my opinion…” A beat passed. “I said, if you want my opinion…”
“Desperately.” Niles suppressed a smirk.
“I don't think it's normal. I mean, they all act as if Sara never existed. You know, in my house, if we didn't talk about the dead, we'd have nothing to talk about...except food. Great thing about funerals. You get both.”
“Well, Mr. Sheffield likes to keep the children busy so they don't get depressed. Every year, he comes up with a new diversion.”
Niles had so far survived four other Mother’s Days without Sara. There had been a highly structured itinerary of events during each of those times; not accounting for the dramatic, Shakespeare-esque suicides that Brighton had staged during the last three. This year, the fifth, would be the first one with a female presence in the house who actually constituted someone warm and loving. He didn’t count the other nannies, they never stuck around for long enough. And he certainly didn’t count C.C.
But Fran was infinitely more than just warm and loving. She was funny, enigmatic, street smart in a way that the Sheffield’s had never encountered and weren’t entirely sure how to process. She had quickly grown to become his best friend. And try as he might to resist her charms, it had felt overwhelmingly comforting to have a close ally in the house again. He hadn’t had one for over four years now. In that time, he’d been so busy trying to hold the family together that he hadn’t really reflected on what it meant to finally be able to relax. Even in the early days of her living there, she had shown him comfort and care in a way that made him feel truly seen for the first time since Sara died. When he had come down with a cold, she was no nonsense, sending him to bed and ordering takeout for the family for dinner. There was simply no hiding things from her and after years of swallowing down his own grief, he was relieved not to have to anymore. His boss may have hired Fran as the nanny, but she had come to care for all of them in a way that no one could have anticipated.
It was as if Sara herself had sent her.
__________________________
“Daddy, can we be in the pageant?”
“Uh, well, no, sweetheart. We-we already have plans for Sunday.”
“We do?”
“Yes, we have the Guggenheim, the Radio City Music Hall, Empire State Building, Circle Line tour…”
“That's all?” Fran raised an eyebrow in bemusement.
“Then lunch, then the zoo, then the Statue of Liberty, F.A.O. Schwarz…”
"What's your problem?"
“Miss Fine, the last thing Grace needs on Mother's Day is to be reminded of her mother.”
“All right.”
“What, you think I'm wrong?”
She certainly didn’t think he was right. “All I'm saying is that Grace is a little girl who wants to be in a beauty pageant and get all dolled up. Now, if it doesn't bother her, why should it bother you?”
“I just don't want to see Grace get hurt, that's all.”
No one standing in that room at the country club knew more about hurt than Maxwell Sheffield did.
The kind of hurt that came from burying your wife in your thirties.
Of rocking your three children to sleep, two of them far above the age when they should’ve needed it.
The hurt of your own parents being nowhere to be found when it happened, instead receiving a fax that your father had slipped an extra $50k into your bank account in lieu of providing any real, tangible support.
The hurt of keeping a company running when the essence of what motivated you no longer existed.
The hurt of watching your household cycle through nanny after nanny, all of them highly trained with impeccable pedigrees, yet unable to simply understand your traumatised children and offer them any semblance of comfort.
It was too much hurt for a fully grown man. He couldn’t fathom seeing even a speck of that in the eyes of his six year old daughter.
And as much as his bright and vivacious nanny had done for his children, it was just one of those things that he felt she could never truly understand. Fran laughed in technicolour and dressed in something a level above that. He couldn’t imagine a world where she could experience the same bone-deep pain that he had and still come out the other side as bright and sparkly as she was.
He didn’t yet know that her strength existed quietly inside of her, firm and enduring.
No one standing in that room at the country club knew more about hurt than Maxwell Sheffield did. Or so he believed.
Luckily for them all, this would turn out to be just one of the many times over the years that he had underestimated Fran Fine.
__________________________
Brighton and Maggie leaned against the edge of the table in the entranceway, watching Fran, Gracie and Niles assemble all the parts for the magic show.
“I can't believe Dad's letting Gracie do this.”
“I can't believe I am”, Fran muttered from inside the magician’s box.
“No, I mean, being in the Mother's Day pageant. Dad doesn't even like to talk about Mum.”
“What was she like?”
“Oh, she was really pretty.”
“She had the best laugh.”
“And she always liked to sing…”
“Off-key.” They looked at each other and smiled.
Maggie didn’t tell anyone that she often came to visit, late at night. Usually, at precisely 2:04am. It started with her waking up to the room smelling different. Not unpleasant, just different. The scent of citrus perfume carried through the air and cloaked around her as she sat up in bed. She never could remember much of the visits when she woke up the next morning-except for the eyes. Her mothers bright, sparkling eyes staring down at her, sea blue and full of glittering humour and overwhelming kindness. Sara would smile knowingly, as if basking in the secret between them, and Maggie could only stare, enraptured, hoping desperately that this time might be real, but always knowing deep down that it wasn’t really. Sometimes her mum would wave, small and conspiratorial and she would wave back, lost in the kindness of the piercing blue stare.
The room would still smell different for hours after she woke up. Her sheets and the air lingering with enough evidence for her to know that it had really happened. Her mum had simply come to say hello once more.
Maggie drifted back to the present, shifting from one foot to the other, watching Fran as one half of her shrieked shrilly in the entranceway and the other half was off being spun into another room. It didn’t seem so scary telling your nanny things when she was willing to be sawed in half in a magic show just to make your little sister happy. She resolved to tell her before bed that night.
Somehow she knew that, much like how her mum used to, Fran would simply just…understand.
__________________________
Fran told her not to talk to anybody. Not to trust anybody. Especially the No-More-Tears babe and her Breck girl mother. She did her best to follow the directive. It wasn’t her fault that Betty Jo tripped her up on a technicality. Like the fact that Fran wasn’t technically her mother.
“Listen, you are not this child's mother. You're her nanny.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Well, this is a mother/daughter pageant.”
“Well, we're very close.”
“So what if she's not my mother? What's the difference?”
“It's against the rules.”
It wasn’t Fran’s fault that she was beautiful enough to be seen as a legitimate threat to the competition. It was her own for forgetting not to trust people. So she spoke up.
“I don't have a mother. She died.”
She spoke up, and then she ran off.
Gracie didn’t tell anyone that she couldn’t really remember her mum. She existed as a mysterious figure in the shadows; a woman that people only talked about in solemn whispers when they thought she wasn’t listening. She missed the idea of her, but had nothing tangible to hold onto when she felt all alone in the world. That was when Imogene had first appeared.
She would often lay awake at night, hoping that maybe the mysterious lady would visit and remind her of who exactly it was that she was supposed to miss. But the clock would keep ticking. 2:04am. Gracie had only recently learned to tell the time properly.
What would she be like if she did appear?
Would the room smell different?
What colour were her eyes? Were they piercing blue like hers? Or brown like daddy’s?
Somewhere deep inside her, she remembered a warm smile and tight hugs.
Little waves across the room, just to remind her that she was nearby.
At least, that’s what she thought she remembered. She couldn’t be sure when no one ever visited her in her dreams. All she wanted was for her mum to simply stop by to say hello.
She couldn’t tell her siblings. Or daddy. At least, not without Fran there. Fran was the reason she was finally able to say goodbye to Imogene. She hadn’t been as lonely over the past year.
Maybe it was time to tell them. Somehow she knew that, Fran would simply just…understand.
She hoped that wherever she was, her mum would too.
__________________________
The moment Grace ran through the door with Fran racing in after her, Maxwell’s heart sank. He. just. knew.
“Well, Gracie is all upset because some nutcase woman made a big stink just because I'm not her mother, and then, well, Gracie had to say that she doesn't have a mother, and it kind of went downhill from there.”
“I just knew this was a bad idea. I should have trusted my instincts.”
“Oh, Mr. Sheffield, don't blame yourself.”
He glared at her.
“I don't.”
Like seeing a car crash about to happen and feeling powerless to stop it.
That was how most things felt when Fran Fine was involved.
It had been almost a year with her.
Maxwell had gotten pretty good at intervening before things went too far.
Except this time, he’d let her take the wheel. He’d followed her big idea, like he often had over the past year. Things generally ended up in a mess and she somehow always managed to work it out. But this was different. This was his daughter. This was Grace. His baby. Not a test pilot for Fran’s whims
Much like the fate of his late wife, some car crashes felt preventable. If only he’d listened to his instincts.
__________________________
Fran could feel him vibrating with barely-suppressed anger behind her, but he let her enter the room with him anyway. His little girl was brokenhearted a day out from Mother’s Day. Even if he fired her after this, she knew that he needed her there. She knew that he blamed her, that she’d just messed everything up again, that the gamble she was taking had sacrificed Gracie as the bargaining chip of her whimsy games.
In truth, she was ready to sacrifice her own livelihood, her job as the nanny, her home in their mansion, to push for a life where his three children weren’t relegated to uttering their mother’s name in only the shadows. However this next conversation went, she hoped that one day he would realise that too.
“Sweetheart, I do understand how you feel...all those other girls with their mummies. It's just reminded you how much you miss yours.”
“But that's what's wrong. I don't miss her.”
“You don't?”
“No. I don't remember her.”
And there it was. In all its plaintive truth.
“Oh. Oh...Gracie. Come here.”
“Brighton and Maggie do, but I can't. Is that bad?”
“Oh, no, of course not, sweetheart. They're older than you.”
“But how come you never talk about her?”
“Well, because sometimes it's very...difficult for Daddy.”
“Oh. You can't remember her either?”
“Oh, no, sweetheart, I remember everything. I remember the first time I saw her. I remember her sweetness and her laugh. I especially remember how much she loved you.”
“She did?”
“Oh, more than anything. And I should never have let you forget that. I was just trying to protect you, and I suppose myself. Can you forgive me?”
“It's okay, Daddy.”
Fran blew her nose loudly into a tissue, breaking the moment. “Well, at least now you two can remember her together.”
“Do you think that Mummy would want me to be in the pageant?”
“I think she would want whatever you want.”
“I want to do it. Me and Fran are gonna kick some country-club butt.”
“Oy! I don't know where she gets these things.”
Gracie grabbed Fran’s hand and dragged her out of the bedroom, ready to run off downstairs and tell her siblings that the show was back on. Fran halted her gently in the hallway, urging her to run along ahead of her, promising that she’d be down in a few minutes.
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She found him on the bench seat in the sitting room, staring out the big bay window at the world passing by outside.
“Are you okay, Mr. Sheffield?” She stepped towards him hesitantly, carefully observing the tension in his jaw and the way in which his fingers sat poised rigidly against his trousers.
He didn’t answer for a moment, gathering his words in the lingering silence. When he spoke, it was laced with the kind of pained restraint that could only come from a man so lost in his role as a father, that he’d forgotten he was also a grieving husband.
“I’ve been selfish, haven’t I?” He didn't look at her.
Something twisted tight in her chest and she took another step closer. “Whaddya mean?”
“I’ve been so busy trying not to remind myself of Sara that I completely forgot to, well, remind them of their mother. Of the love she had for them. Of the love I’m sure she still has for them, wherever she is.”
He shook his head sadly, glancing out the window up towards the line of the sky. A flock of birds flew overhead, the world still carrying on outside without him, as he sat there, suspended motionless in his memories.
Fran dropped down tentatively beside him, resting her hand atop his own. “You did what you thought was best.” She nudged his knee with her own. “Sure looks like you’ve done a pretty good job to me.” She flipped his hand over, tracing his palm with her thumb. “This time of year must be hard for you too.”
Maxwell nodded, jaw clamped tight.
“You wanna talk about it?”
He cleared his throat, attempting to speak, but no sound came. He tried again, pausing as his first word broke on a wobble. Finally, voice low and gruff, he managed it.
“She visits me sometimes.” He shot her a sideways glance, waiting for her to tell him that he was certifiably nuts, ready for the loony bin.
Instead, Fran looked around the room. “You mean like a ghost?”
He laughed despite himself, a rogue tear bubbling up over his lashes and tracking down his cheek before he could stop it. She bit her lip, reaching up to swipe it away automatically.
“Oh, Mr. Sheffield, you’re gonna get me started again! You know I’m a sympathy crier!”
He chuckled, warmer this time, another tear painting a hot path down his face. She intercepted it gently with her thumb and his breath caught. “I’m guessing you haven’t done much of this talking stuff, huh?”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t suppose I have.”
“So you were saying she visits? When? Ya know, my family has a Bubbe Sophie that visits us in dreams.”
He paused, thoughtfully. “Well, I guess it’s kind of like that. It’s always at the same time. 2:04. She smiles and waves. I tell her I miss her—” His voice cracked, another tear escaping— “and she tells me that I’m doing a good job with the children.” He stared down at her hand resting in the palm of his own and curled his fingers tight against her. “But I haven’t done a good job, have I? Grace can’t even remember her own mother.”
Fran sat there, gripping his hand for dear life, heart breaking for the amount of pain he’d spent almost five years carrying on his own. Her eyes burned with the hot sting of unshed tears, too afraid to speak, knowing she’d probably fall apart and sob against him. Maxwell raised his face and caught her doleful expression.
“Oh I’m sorry, Miss Fine, I feel terrible. Now I’ve upset you too.” He shook his head in self-admonition. “What must you think of me?”
The look on his face was of forlorn defeat and it broke her even more. She nibbled the inside of her cheek, forcing enough composure to generate words.
“Mr. Sheffield, I—”
He looked at her expectantly, hopefully, as though waiting for her to absolve him of his rare show of emotion, to give him some kind of pass for the moment they weren’t meant to be sharing.
Her voice wavered. “You’re doing great.”
Without thinking, she leant forward and pulled him into a soft kiss, her lips brushing tenderly against his as her hand curled up to wipe the stray tears still leaking passively down his cheeks. He pressed his lips firmly against hers in return, his hand clinging tightly to hers as they found comfort in the simplicity of each other.
She drew away first, wondering if she’d crossed a professional line, expecting to be chastised for her usual lack of restraint. Instead, he released her hand and reached up to lace his own hands behind her back, pulling her against him in a hug so tight that it almost knocked the air from her lungs. His face tucked against her curls, fingers threading into her hair as though he might never let go. In the anonymity of each others’ shoulders, they both cried quietly, a silent agreement of a moment that would likely never be discussed again. Or so they thought at the time.
“Thank you,” he murmured against her cheek.
“You know, if she visits again and you wanna come and tell me, you can.”
Maxwell nodded against her, a tiny part of his heart finally starting to defrost as he breathed her in. What neither of them knew at that moment, was that over the coming years, his visits from Sara would not only be something he ran to tell her about, but that it would become part of their own little ritual. He would wake up after one of his dreams and whisper to her at breakfast that she’d come to visit again. Later that day, Fran would perch on his office desk or curl up on the couch next to him as he recounted all he could remember. Always 2:04. Always the glittering sea-blue eyes. Always without the knowledge that maybe this was something orchestrated by Sara herself, to bring together two souls who were clearly always meant to be.
The only other person who had ever bear witness to any of it was Niles, who would smile quietly to himself, head bowed as he pretended to dust, all the while knowing that the woman who showed up on their doorstep by accident, would likely remain with them forever.
__________________________
Gracie had found Fran again, the pair running off to rehearse in a fit of giggles, and Maxwell trudged to his room to process everything that the last hour had brought.
The confession from Grace.
Her decision to move forward with the pageant.
The moment with Miss Fine.
Especially the moment with Miss Fine.
His ears burned with shame at his prior internal attempt to blame her for the mess that he’d made for himself. All she had done since moving in a year ago was bring his children back to life, teach them how to be a family again. She showed him his own parenting blind spots with compassion instead of judgement, humour instead of mocking. He had relearnt what it meant to be a father, someone far unlike his own detached and disinterested father, and he only had her to thank for it.
He had been too busy judging what he didn’t understand, to see the harsh truth right in front of him: Fran wasn’t the car crash waiting to happen. He was. And she was his divine intervention, pulling him and his children to safety before he’d even had time to notice the threat of danger. He kicked off his shoes aimlessly. Perhaps it was the kind of divine intervention sent by none other than Sara herself, her own permission slip from beyond the grave that it was okay for them to finally be happy again without her.
Niles knocked gently on the bedroom door, breaking him from his reverie. “I thought you might be in the mood for a spot of tea, Sir.”
Maxwell’s insides tightened, hoping Fran hadn’t just gone and made his butler privy to his unplanned display of emotion. “Did Miss Fine say something to you?”
Niles looked at him curiously. “No, but I thought it was common knowledge that the British liked tea? What would she have said?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
“The last I saw, you were chasing her and Miss Grace upstairs and I was busy trying to cast Miss Babcock out on her broom. Depending on how the first thing went, I thought you could use a comfort beverage. The second thing went very well, by the way.”
Maxwell perched on the edge of the bed, gesturing for Niles to come in and put the tray down. He did so, then made for the doorway again, speaking over his shoulder. “Well, Sir, if that’s all you need from me, I’ll—"
“Do you ever think about Sara?” He hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
Niles froze in place, but didn’t turn around. “What do you mean, Sir?”
“Well, when it’s not Mother’s Day. When I don’t bring her up. Do you think of her?”
He closed his eyes, absorbing his boss’ words, equal parts shocked at the blunt line of questioning and terrified to offer up the real answer. His fingers tensed against his dress pants, shoulders stiffening as he fought to maintain composure.
Maxwell leaned forward on the edge of the bed, perplexed by his response. “Niles? Are you okay, old chap?”
It barely constituted a whisper. “All the time, Sir. She was my best friend.”
He still didn’t turn around.
“Oh.” Maxwell’s eyes dropped to the floor in shame. “I’m sorry I didn’t see it at the time.”
Apparently there were a lot of things he had missed over the past few years. Like the pain of those around him. The pain of those same people he claimed to love so dearly. The pain that sat invisible against the weight of his own.
Niles’ voice was gentle, filled with an understanding that Maxwell felt he didn’t currently deserve. “You had enough on your plate. Three children. The production company. It was my job to keep the household running.”
“Still. I’ve known you since before Eton. I should’ve realised.”
He watched Niles’ shoulders slump, his head droop just slightly, inspecting a spot of dust on the carpet that they both knew wasn’t really there.
“Will you just turn around, old man. I can’t have this conversation with the back of you.”
“I don’t think I can, Sir.”
At that, Maxwell stood, walking up behind him to pat him awkwardly on the shoulder. “Well, we can just face the same way, then.”
“Oh, Sir.” He blinked rapidly, refusing to violate his Butler Society training and show any weakness in front of his Master.
“Don’t worry, Niles. You’ll make another best friend.” He tightened his hold on his shoulder.
Niles’ cheeks curled upwards, a smile breaking through his pained expression. “I believe you hired one for me almost a year ago.”
Maxwell nodded, seemingly to himself. It appeared that Fran had offered a lifeline to other people in the household without him even realising that they needed one. His head had just been too far up his own ass to notice it until now.
“Niles, I um. Well you know I...you and me, we. And I, uh…you know.”
“I know, Sir. And I, you.”
The awkward shoulder pat stretched into an awkward side hug, two men barely containing their emotions in the face of shared grief. Just two men caught in a stalemate between proper British sensibility and the realisation that they’d somehow always had each other.
And now, they each had Fran, too.
__________________________
Did he think of Sara?
Not as often as when it first happened. But often enough.
Niles didn’t tell anyone that she sometimes came to visit, late at night. Usually, at precisely 2:04am. It started with him waking up to the room smelling different. Not unpleasant, just different. The scent of hot tea and warm, buttery scones carried through the air and cloaked around him as he laid there in bed. He would wake up the next morning still able to remember every detail. It was like being back in the kitchen with her, sitting at the counter gossiping while Mr. Sheffield was busy with his latest production. She would hurry in with a mischievous look in her eyes every time she had a new piece of gossip to share with him and he would brew a fresh pot of tea and have baked goods fresh out of the oven, waiting for them. In the darkness, those glittering blue eyes would stare down at him, full of the same humour and mischief as when she was alive. Sara would smile knowingly, as if basking in the secret between them and Niles could only stare at his long-lost friend, enraptured, hoping desperately that this time might be real, but always knowing deep down that it wasn’t really. Sometimes she would wave, small and conspiratorial and he would wave back, lost in the memories conjured by her piercing blue gaze.
The room would still smell different for hours after his alarm jolted him awake. On those mornings, he would put in the extra effort to make her favourite type of tea and lots of hot, buttery scones for the family for breakfast. He often caught Maxwell analysing the meal, as though it reminded him of something that he couldn’t quite place. But recognition didn’t matter to Niles. It was his own personal reminder that his best friend had simply come to say hello once more.
He didn’t dare tell his boss about the dreams. For one, he was sure he’d be told that he was certifiably nuts and would receive a first class escorted ticket to the loony bin. The second option was that Maxwell might actually believe him, but would have his heart broken if Sara wasn’t visiting him, too. It just wasn’t worth the risk.
He sat down at the kitchen bench, thinking back to all the cosy morning teas he’d shared there with Fran over the past year. Warm bagels had since replaced the scones and her nasal laugh rang out far louder than Sara’s refined giggles. But the essence of it remained the same. Just two friends on equal footing, finding solace in each other in the midst of their busy days.
He resolved to tell her the next time it happened. Probably over bagels, gossip and sugary tea. Somehow he knew that, much like how Sara used to, Fran would simply just…understand.
__________________________
Fran walked up and dumped another multicoloured pile of clothes on her bed and Gracie dived into them, shuffling through the different fabrics and textures like a kid in a stylish candy store. If that candy store went by the name Loehmann’s. The door stood slightly ajar, their stream of chatter floating down the hallway and fanning out to no one in particular.
“Fran, are you mad at me for running off earlier?”
The little girl held up a fuzzy orange coat and wrapped it around herself in a brave demonstration of muppet-chic.
“Of course not, sweetheart. I was just worried about you.” Fran reached across and plonked a pink beret on her head, completing the look.
“It’s not that I didn’t wanna do the pageant with you.”
“I know that, angel.” She reached down to pluck a stray curl from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear so that the hat would sit better. “You know you can always talk to me about these things, don’t you?”
“Yeah. I just didn’t want daddy to be mad that I’d forgotten.” Her small frame drew inwards.
“He could never be mad at you, princess. It’s just hard for your daddy sometimes.”
“Why?
“Because he loved your mummy very much and he always will. Just like he loves you.”
They sat in silence for a few moments and she could see that Gracie was processing the conversation as she painstakingly knotted together a clown-car’s worth of rainbow scarves.
“Fran, do you remember when I ran away and you took me to that wedding?”
“Honey, how could anyone forget that hideous pink dress? I had to get Ma to burn the photos!”
“Remember when daddy showed up?”
“Yeah?”
“You said you don’t get paid extra for loving us.”
“It’s true, I don’t. But what did I say next?”
“That you love us anyway?”
“I do. With all my heart.”
“Does that mean you’ll stay with us forever?”
“I’m counting on it, kid.”
“Good. Because if I don’t have a mum, then at least I have you.”
“Always.” She held up a selection of patterned tops. “Are these giving you any ideas for what you wanna wear for the pageant?”
“Well, all the other mums and daughters are dressing the same. Can we dress the same too?”
“Of course we can. But you don’t have to do it just so that people think I’m your mother, okay? The lady said she would bend the rules for us.”
“I’m not. But you’re kinda like my mum, right?”
Fran's chest fluttered with the exquisite pain of wanting something she was too scared to hope for. She smiled brightly at Gracie, reaching for a rogue animal print suit in an attempt to regulate herself.
“If that’s what you want.”
“Good.” Her tiny charge pointed to the outfit she’d just picked up. “Then what I want is leopard print.”
She clutched her chest dramatically. “Oy, now you’re sounding like my daughter!”
Maxwell hovered outside the door, unsure of his next move. He’d only come to say goodnight to Grace and check on their preparations for the following day, when he overheard the tail end of their conversation. He fidgeted awkwardly for a moment, inwardly debating whether he should reveal himself, before changing his mind and quietly retreating to his room.
He made a beeline for his closet, moving aside a row of suit jackets and a dusty leather briefcase, to pull out an old, worn looking box. Across the top, scrawled in permanent marker, was Sara’s handwriting:
Home Videos
The box hadn’t been touched in five years. He opened it gingerly, scanning the contents until he found the tape he was after. Maxwell vowed to himself that whatever the outcome of the pageant was tomorrow, he’d have something nice for everyone to watch on Mother’s Day.
__________________________
He’d just barely made it backstage after the award ceremony, when Gracie shrieked and ran towards him.
“Did you see me up there, daddy?”
“I did, my darling. You were a star!”
“And Fran too, daddy!”
“Yes”, he laughed, “and Miss Fine as well.”
She held out her shiny blue sash. “Can you believe it? First runner up! Fran said she didn’t get her first pageant sash until she was nine!”
“I’m very proud of you, Grace. But most importantly, did you have fun?”
“I did, daddy.” She paused, hesitating. “Thanks for letting me do this. I know you didn’t want me to.” She shuffled forward and curled herself into his arms, face nuzzling into his chest.
“What do you mean, darling?” His brow creased in concern.
“Fran told me it’s hard for you sometimes.”
“Oh.” He exhaled softly. “Sometimes, yes. But not this part. Seeing you happy is the easy part.”
She unburied her face, looking at him hopefully. “Does that mean we can do it again next year?
He laughed, hugging her tight as he lifted her squealing into the air. “Whatever you want, my love.”
__________________________
Fran sat in the dressing room backstage, staring down at her blue and white sash. First Runner Up.
The twelfth time she’d received such an honour.
The first time it had really truly mattered.
She knew it had been a risk. As much as Maxwell had thought this was just another one of her whims, she wasn’t stupid. She knew what the potential cost would be if things went wrong.
She also knew it was far less than the cost of letting things continue the same as they had for the past five years.
In the background, she could hear Gracie’s joyful shrieks as Maxwell swung her into the air, a father and his baby girl finally aligned in honesty. She blinked rapidly, fighting back the same tears that she’d just barely kept at bay since the talk with Maxwell and Gracie the preceding afternoon. It had been an emotional few days. But her gamble had paid off.
No one had ever really talked about Sara during her tenure at the Sheffield residence. She’d seen some pictures and knew that Gracie had her eyes and Maggie had her smile. She somehow suspected that Brighton’s mischievous streak didn’t come from his father. But otherwise, Sara had remained an enigma, a forbidden mystery, until just a few days ago.
But now Fran felt it: a chain reaction had already begun. Brighton tugging her awkwardly into his room to show her the macaroni artwork that he had once made. Maggie whispering to her at breakfast that morning that she had something to tell her later. The look in Niles’ eye as he prepared their ritual pot of hot tea and warm bagels. The air had shifted. Her heart had shifted with it.
Whatever strange twist of fate it was that brought her to the Sheffield door, she was grateful. Grateful for the three kids who had wrangled their way into her soul without even trying. Grateful for the butler who had quickly become her best friend and closest confidant in the house. Grateful for her stuffy British employer who wasn’t really stuffy at all, beneath his armour of grief. In fact, he was sweet, funny, passionate…a father just doing his best. She hoped he knew that she loved his children as if they were her own.
Fran snuck a glance over at where he was still engaged in a lively conversation with Gracie and her heart fluttered indiscriminately.
Neither of them were ready to go there yet.
He looked up, as if sensing her watching him, and their eyes met in mutual understanding.
Maybe one day.
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Maxwell walked into the living room that evening, holding the home video in his hands. The glow in his daughter’s cheeks was brighter than the sash still adorned across her tiny frame. She had since changed out of the leopard print set that matched perfectly with Fran’s. He had never seen leopard print on a seven year old before. But her smile was tinged with pride and her eyes twinkled with the sort of happiness that couldn’t be fabricated, the kind he’d only started seeing from her after Fran showed up. He paused when he saw the television was already occupied with videos of a baby Fran.
“Oh, you're already watching something.”
“Oh, that's okay. That's okay. We're just watching some adorable shots of me, but I made you all copies, so…”
“What's that, Daddy?”
“It's a special Mother's Day gift for all of us.”
Fran took the tape from his hands, shooting him a questioning glance. He nodded subtly to her, as if to say, ‘it’s okay, I can do this’. They all curled up on the lounge chairs as the video began to play, Maxwell standing behind Fran and Gracie as they watched. A younger Brighton and Maggie came on screen, followed by Maxwell, flopping dramatically onto a sunlounge as he attempted to hit a tennis ball around.
He looked the same as always, but Fran observed how he seemed happier, more carefree back then. The way his smile reached his eyes, as though the light hadn’t been extinguished somewhere deep inside him yet. A man who didn’t yet know what the future held. Her heart ached for the version of the man between the one in the video and the one who stood behind her now.
“Gracie, that's you, angel.” Fran pointed to the footage of a toddler Gracie picking up a ball.
“Oh, there's Mum.” Maggie exclaimed, the room suddenly falling silent.
Sara’s face came into focus, smiling and laughing, her piercing blue eyes lighting up the whole screen. She picked up baby Gracie, pulling her in for a hug as she peppered her cheek with kisses.
Curled up on Fran’s lap, Gracie gasped quietly to herself. “I remember that.”
Fran stretched her eyes wide in an attempt to accommodate the tears gathering there, praying they wouldn’t fall. She sensed Maxwell drawing tense behind her, his grip tightening on the back of the headrest. She reached up, stroking tenderly against his arm as the home movie continued to play.
Niles stood at the coffee table, immobile, staring intently at the footage, memories of his previous Lady of the house and best friend flooding back to him. On the opposite couch, Maggie and Brighton found a rare moment of solace from their bickering, Maggie wrapping her arm around his shoulder and pulling him into her. “Come here, little twerp.” For once, he didn’t even have a retort, instead leaning in to his big sister gratefully as they all watched the stolen moment in time.
Gracie curled into Fran, a beaming smile across her face. “I guess I do remember mama.” She nuzzled against her shoulder, before exhaling quietly, “I love you, Fran.”
“I love you too, angel.”
__________________________
Maxwell hovered behind Fran and Gracie on the sofa, jaw tight, swallowing hard. He stared straight ahead at the screen, refusing to blink, though the home video was turning blurry in front of him. He felt her comforting touch, her arm beginning to graze his in soft, soothing patterns. Up his forearm, circle at the elbow, tracing back down again as her thumb soothed his wrist and her fingers slid slowly to entwine with his. The home video continued to roll.
Breathe in, Breathe out.
And then he heard it. The tiny, cheerful voice of his smallest child as she spoke into the hushed room. “I guess I do remember mama.” He watched her sink into Fran, her little body melting against her in relief, the knowledge that the memories somehow still existed inside her as real as her own heartbeat, even if she couldn’t recall them as easily as her siblings.
Maxwell wanted to pull her into his arms and sob, to say he was so sorry again, that he never should have put such a heavy burden onto such a small child. But then she spoke again.
“I love you, Fran.”
He held his breath.
“I love you too, angel.”
And released it again.
Fran stopped the path up his arm, instead holding still in place on his wrist, her finger pressing lightly against it in an attempt to help regulate his heartbeat. It worked, his pulse slowing as her hand maintained a steady presence against him.
Breathe in, Breathe out.
__________________________
It had taken all three of the adults in the house, but the kids had finally managed to be pried away from the home videos and sent off to bed. For once, Gracie didn’t need a bedtime story. Brighton didn’t try his usual delay tactics. Maggie had leant into Fran, speaking quietly against her ear, shared understanding stretching across both of their features as the teenager found her voice.
Niles was now slumped in a recliner, bowl of snacks in hand, shoes off and sleeves rolled up in a way that was so uncharacteristically relaxed that Fran had to stifle a laugh when she saw him. She sunk down onto the couch opposite him as Maxwell eyes his seating options, before hesitating, turning pink and awkwardly taking his place beside her. Her hand shot out on instinct, fingers threading back through his in steady companionship and he felt his heart tug, just a little, just enough to let himself hope.
Maybe one day.
“Niles, pass me the popcorn, will you?”
“I’m off the clock, Sir.”
“You’re still right next to the popcorn bowl, old man.”
“Oh, right.” Niles passed the bowl across the coffee table, startling as the clock chimed midnight behind them, the heavy noise reverberating through the quiet room.
Fran’s eyes lit up, delighted. “Would ya look at that, it’s over. You got through Mother’s Day without a hundred distractions this year.”
Maxwell raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Huh, I suppose I did.”
“And one very shiny sash hanging on Miss Grace’s bedroom door.” Niles leaned forward and refilled his own whisky glass from the decanter.
“You did a good thing today, Mr. Sheffield. I know it wasn’t easy.” She nudged his leg with her own, mirroring their shared moment the day prior and his chest fluttered.
“Well, Grace was right. I haven’t talked about her enough.”
She settled back, throwing a buttery kernel into her mouth. “Ya know, Niles, you and I are pretty close. You musta been close with Sara too, right?”
Maxwell glanced at Fran, before looking across at Niles expectantly. He wondered if her timing was always that uncanny, or if she simply knew more that she’d ever let on.
Niles face took on a wistful expression as his eyes replayed the memories of what felt like a lifetime ago. The same expression he wore when his back was to his employer. The same expression he wore in his dreams. At last, he answered.
“I was, Miss Fine. We used to sit in the kitchen when Mr. Sheffield was held up at the theatre, drinking cups of tea. I should have been calling her Mrs. Sheffield. She insisted that I call her Sara.”
“You must miss her a lot, too, huh?”
He swirled his glass, suddenly appearing very interested in the warm amber liquid. “I do. I was very lonely after she died.” He looked up at Maxwell, who nodded at him to continue, before smiling fondly across at Fran. “But about a year ago, this big haired woman from Flushing with a most unusual voice, showed up on our doorstep, selling cosmetics.”
Fran shot him a look of feigned outrage, throwing a piece of popcorn through the air towards him. It hit his chest with a small thunk.
“Hey! I have good qualities too!”
Niles laughed. “You do, Miss Fine, including those. But what I was going to say was, this strange woman showed up on our doorstep. And from that day onwards, I really wasn’t so lonely anymore.”
“Oh Niles.” She jumped up from her seat, launching herself across the coffee table to wrap her arms around him. “I love you, bestie!”
From over her shoulder, he shot a wry look at Maxwell. The same thing they had struggled to say to each other just a day prior, even after decades of familiarity, seemed to come so effortlessly to her. He put his glass down on the table beside him and wrapped his arms stiffly around her. He was still British, after all.
“I love you too, Miss Fine.”
She peeled herself back off of him after a few moments, taking her place back on the couch beside Maxwell, who cleared his throat awkwardly and then pretended it was a cough. She linked her hand back into his, her other arm patting him on the bicep reassuringly.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Sheffield. We love you, too.”
He tilted his face down and kissed her gently on the forehead, ignoring the Cheshire cat grin Niles shot from across the room.
“Happy Mother’s Day, Miss Fine.”
__________________________
Like seeing a rescue beacon in the distance and praying that nothing would stop you from reaching it.
That was how most things felt when Fran Fine was involved.
He hoped that it would never change.
Maxwell hoped that this time was forever.
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