Disclaimer: The Dugray and Huntzberger families (and Francie) were not conceived in my brain, but their elaborate backstory was (periodic author notes will be at my LJ). Welcome to the fringe.

Part III: Back to December

Tristan Dugray dialed a number on his cellphone as he reclined in the driver's seat of his car. He was parked outside a Boston office building as he waited for his girlfriend. No, that was wrong, she wasn't his girlfriend, but his fiancée, and not for too much longer. They were on the home stretch. The bridal shower was a month ago and the calligrapher was addressing the invitations. They'd be ready to mail in no time.

The phone rang three times before his sister answered, "This is Guinevere."

He reached to turn down the volume of the radio so he could hear her better. "Hey, you're actually at your desk. I figured there was a fifty-fifty chance you were on the road."

"For a very limited time, I am at my desk. What's up?"

"What does your work schedule look like next weekend? I was wondering if you could come up to Boston, maybe do some shopping."

"You did?" she asked, too brightly.

"Yeah."

"Where would you get an idea like that? I'm sure the gossip girl would be a much better shopping companion than me. I'm positive, in fact."

"Could you please stop calling her the gossip girl?" he asked with a cringe. "You aren't even in the position to call the kettle or any other kitchenware black. You are the blackest of them all."

"You're missing my context. I mean the show Gossip Girl," Guinevere said. "I think she'd fit right in with Blair and Selena, probably because she went to Constance Billard-St. Judes School, just like them."

"That isn't even a real boarding school," Tristan argued.

"But it's based off one—not Choate, obviously."

"Since when do you watch Gossip Girl?"

"When I'm jet lagged and don't know what day it is and flip through the channels looking for One Tree Hill," Guinevere said.

He scowled half-heartedly. "How can you watch that?"

"How can you not?"

"I think it would be too weird for me."

"I'll admit it's no Friday Night Lights, but there's drama, there's basketball. What more could I want?" She returned to his original inquiry, "What do you need to shop for, anyway?"

"I don't need anything. I was hoping the two of you could hang out for a day."

"I hate shopping. You know this. How about we all go see the Red Sox play and I'll explain the finer points of the game?"

"She's not really into baseball."

"Sounds like we're at an impasse."

"Come on, it would mean a lot to me if you bonded with her. She's your future sister-in-law, you know."

"The key word there being future. For two more months she's just the girl whose purse you hold while she shops. See what I did there? I brought it back to you shopping with her."

He asked, "Do you have a dress for the wedding?"

"No."

"There you go," he said, raising his shoulder an inch. "This way you can get help from the bride herself and you won't have to worry about it anymore."

His sister argued, "I have two months, I wasn't worried. It's still pretty low on my priority list. It's just how I operate. The deadline is too far away."

"Your lack of motivation astounds me," he said flatly.

"It's not that I lack it," she said. "And I'm not a self-saboteur or anything interesting like that. I just can't force myself to care before I absolutely have to. I've always been this way, haven't you noticed?"

"I guess I thought something like your only brother's wedding might be different than an assignment."

"Nope. I like the rush of the last minute. It's when I do my best work." She sighed in resignation. "But, if this bonding thing is so important to you, I can actually come tomorrow if you don't already have plans."

He sat up straighter. "Tomorrow, you can? Are you covering the Sox game?" he asked accusingly. "You wouldn't even be able to sit in the stands if you're there for work."

There was a silent pause. "Tristan, do you realize I haven't covered baseball since I went to J-school? Four years ago."

Slowly, he said, "Yes."

"Mm-hmm."

"I just assumed you got your old beat back after you graduated."

"That's not how it works when you take a step back, it's cutthroat out here. I've been covering hockey."

"Oh," he said, frowning. "You learn something new every day."

"Yeah, pretty sure I've mentioned it within the last two years."

"I thought you were just making general conversation when you talked about the Rangers."

Dryly, she said, "It's good to know you don't fall prey to Slate's click bait."

"If it makes you feel any better, I haven't read all the articles in Mom's series about the women's shelter from last year," he said. So she won a second Pulitzer for the work. He never read the article from her first one either. That one was older than him though, so he thought he was off the hook. "Was it a happy transition to hockey?"

"It's fine. It's not like I got turfed to features or anything drastic like that," Guinevere said. "It is what it is, and it doesn't really matter anymore."

"Why not?"

"I will tell you in person, now that I'm coming to see you. I'll take the train tomorrow morning. How's that?"

"Sounds great." He glanced at the office building and saw the woman he was waiting for emerge from the entrance. "Call when you need me to come get you."

XXX

"Hurry up," Francine Jarvis said, turning back to her 13 year old charge, who was dragging her feet down the hallway. "Why are you walking so slowly?"

The girl, Tiffany, looked back toward the elevator terminal, as though willing one of the set of doors to open. She had dull brown hair and skin that looked at least lightly tanned all the time. "I'm coming." Suddenly, she determinedly caught up to Francie and her younger sister, Danielle. As soon as they got inside the luxury apartment, she grabbed a small mail box key that hung from the wall and turned back to the door.

"Where are you going?" Francie asked with a frown.

Tiffany held up the key. "Getting the mail, duh."

Francie reluctantly let the girl pass, but crossed her arms and watched the door. To the younger girl, she said, "Get started on your homework."

"Can I do it in my room?"

"No, sit at the table. Ask for help if you need it." Francie leaned back against the kitchen counter, tapping her self-manicured fingers on her upper arm. After a few minutes, she asked, "Why is she taking so long?"

Danielle looked up from the backpack she'd opened on the table top. "She probably wants to see our neighbor's boyfriend. He stays with her over the weekend a lot. She usually gets home from work soon. If we time it right, we meet them in the hallway on their way in."

Francie had yet to see her employer's neighbor, having only taken the nanny job two weeks ago. She'd worked as a teacher upon graduating from college, while taking grad classes at the same time. It had been a terrible idea, trying to balance a demanding job as well as continuing her education. She needed more flexibility. She saw an ad for a divorced woman needing a nanny for her two daughters. The job included a place to live as well as a modest salary, which was too good to pass up. Francie's baby-sitting career spanned back to her Catholic school days, so she had the experience.

"So how hot is he?" she asked.

Danielle pushed her brown hair back behind her ear and raised her brows enthusiastically. "He's really hot. He's tall and has blond hair. Tiffany wants to marry him." The girl made a face. "But he's marrying Rosemary."

"I bet he's too old for Tiffany anyway."

"He isn't that old. He graduated college last year, so Rosemary is a year older than him, because she graduated two years ago. Shouldn't the girl be younger?"

Francie pursed her lips. "She doesn't have to be, and it's only a year." She glanced at her watch. "I think I'd like to see if Tiffany has good taste. I'm not too young for him."

Danielle hopped up from the table and rushed over. "I'll come too."

Francie eyed her. "Are you sure your sister is the only one with a crush?"

The girl smiled and ducked down as they walked out the door. They found Tiffany at the row of mail boxes two doors down from their own. She was slowly taking out one item at a time, studying it before glancing at the elevator and then reaching for another envelope. Rinse, lather, repeat.

"What's taking so long?" Francie asked as they approached.

The girl jumped and turned to them quickly. "We have a lot of mail today. I want to make sure I get it all. Just go back inside, I'll be right there." Tiffany had yet to warm up to Francie. She was still adjusting to her parents' divorce, though they had been separated for a while, and thought she was too old for a nanny.

Francie shook her head. "I can't go now. I hear a really hot guy is about to walk through here. I like to gawk at hot guys as much as the next girl."

Tiffany scowled at her little sister.

"I do have a question though," Francie said. "How do you two know so much about your neighbor?"

"We listen to her phone conversations when we share an elevator," Danielle said. "Sometimes her friend, Juliet, is with her. We like it better when her boyfriend visits." She turned to tease her sister. "Tiffany wants to kiss hi—"

"Shut up." The girls started to squabble when the elevator doors dinged.

"Shhh," Francie cut them off. "Someone's coming. You don't want to look immature in front of an older man."

Tiffany, who had thus far had not been eager to follow her new nanny's instructions, quickly went back to pretending to sort the mail. Francie recognized that move when she saw it. She'd perfected it in high school sophomore year when she was at her locker, desperately acting like she didn't notice—

She inhaled sharply when two people emerged from the elevator. "Tristan," she said under her breath as the tall blond walked toward them with a young woman with dark red hair.

Danielle looked up at her in wonder. "I didn't tell you his name. How did you know?"

Francie's cheeks warmed and her palms were suddenly clammy. Where was her locker when she needed to appear indifferent? She turned to the mail boxes and grabbed what Tiffany had in her hand. "Did you get anything good?"

"Hey!"

She grabbed the girl's wrist. "We should get back inside."

"But you wanted to see the hot guy too," Tiffany hissed back.

"I saw. Now we can go."

It was too late. Tristan Dugray stopped at the mailboxes with his apparent significant other. "Hi," he said to Danielle, who was staring up at him dreamily.

"Hi." A bit more formal, she added, "Hello Rosemary."

The woman tossed her a glance. "Hi." She did a double take at the sight of an unfamiliar adult. "New nanny?"

"Mm-hmm. Francine, but she goes by Francie." She turned to her care taker. "Right?"

Francie saw Tristan turn to her out of the corner of her eye. There was no escape, she had to look up. Slowly, heart pounding, she did. He set his jaw and his eyes hardened. He shifted his weight to the other foot and crossed his arms.

"Right," she finally answered. She nodded. "Tristan."

Tiffany and Rosemary both stopped the mail pilfering to look at Francie. "Do you know each other?" Rosemary asked.

For a beat, neither answered.

"Chilton," Tristan said, finding his voice. "Same class."

"Oh, you went there too?" she asked Francie. "Were you friends?"

"I'm not sure I'd call it that," Francie said.

At the same time, Tristan flat-out said, "No."

Rosemary looked from her fiancée to Francie, noticing the tension. "So you dated then."

"Yup," Tristan said, not bothering to lie.

Tiffany and Danielle, who'd been quietly drinking in the conversation, looked to Francie with awe.

Rosemary laughed. "Big surprise there. Didn't you date all the girls at that school—except Rory Gilmore?"

Tristan smiled tightly. "Pretty much." With steely eyes trained on Francie, he continued, "To the point the word girlfriend has no meaning."

Francie crossed her arms to mirror him, not wanting to give him the pleasure of knowing his aim to sting hit the target—but probably failing.

Rosemary rolled her eyes. "You were just like Logan in school."

Francie remembered that name, and would have argued on instinct, but instead said, "It's uncanny." She added, "Sparking Tristan's attention was the easy part for a girl."

Smiling up at him, Rosemary said, "I guess it takes someone special to keep that attention, huh?"

Francie smirked slightly. Rosemary had just unknowingly backed Tristan into a corner.

He kept his lips sealed tight and avoided eye contact to grudgingly agree, "Mm-hmm."

Rosemary addressed Francie again, "Hey, I guess you know Rory too. I went to college with her, we ran in the same circle."

Francie was under the impression that particular former classmate was above running in any kind of circle. "Wow, small world. So you went to Yale then?"

Rosemary nodded. "I did, Tristan didn't. But I'm good friends with his cousin." She added, "We met at his sister's wedding."

Francie looked up at Tristan, forgetting to be hostile for the moment. "Guinevere got married?" She recalled his sister's frustration with her male peers. Girls could fall into the friend-zone too. Francie was happy to hear some guy realized Guinevere was, in fact, a girl.

Rosemary snorted. "No."

Tristan reluctantly contributed to the explanation, "She meant Logan's sister, not mine."

"Ah, your New York cousins," Francie said.

Rosemary chuckled softly. "New York cousins? Is that what you call them?" she asked Tristan. "I've never heard you call them that. That's cute." She frowned in thought. "How do you know Guinevere and his New York cousins?"

"I brought her to the Christmas party once," Tristan said, before Francie could answer. "So she met some of them."

"Oh. Well did you know Logan dated Rory in college? It's kind of hilarious they both went for the same girl." She considered Tristan. "Just think, if your parents hadn't shipped you off to military school, maybe you would have worn her down."

He shrugged. "We'll never know."

Rosemary told the younger girls, "Rory was kind of his what-if girl." Raising her eyes to the other redhead, she added, "I guess you knew that."

Francie scoffed, unable to keep it in. With Tristan's glare on her, she said, "It's just funny, because he looked like such an idiot when he was trying to date her. What was it you said to her right before you left?" she asked, feigning ignorance and curiosity. "I heard all about it the next day—you wanted to kiss her goodbye and she could slap you after, if she wanted?"

He scowled again and Francie was delighted to see him blush. "I didn't say that," he said defensively. "Her boyfriend was there, watching me like a hawk."

"Hmm, that is so strange. That must have been someone else's line. Tell me, did Rory write you any letters after you left?" She smiled as she said it, hoping to pull off lighthearted teasing. It was making him mad. Good. Deciding this little reunion was over, Francie told the girls, "We should get back inside, you have homework to do." She gestured for the girls to follow her down the hall to their apartment, Tiffany muttering about hating summer school.

"You dated Tristan?" Danielle asked in disbelief when the door was closed behind them.

"Get started on your homework."

"We want the details," Tiffany protested.

Francie put her hands on her hips. "We dated when we were young. Then we broke up."

Tiffany scowled. "That's it?"

"Yup."

The girl roughly opened her school book and flipped through the pages. She muttered, "You were probably dumb enough to break up with him."

Francie just looked at her grimly, not bothering to indulge them with the specifics.

XXX

The next day, Guinevere was resting her cheek on her fist from her place at Rosemary's table. She and Rosemary had returned from their shopping trip by mid-afternoon, the latter dropping Guinevere off before running to an appointment at the salon. She wouldn't be too long, she was only getting a trim. She didn't want her hair too short for the wedding.

"Now was that so bad?" her brother asked.

"Kind of. I had to try on at least fifteen dresses at five different stores. And I still need shoes—that's always the worst part. Rosemary said a pair of nude sling backs would go with it. Tristan," she said seriously, "I don't know what the hell sling backs are, but they don't sound like something I want to wear on my feet."

"It's just for one day," Tristan reminded her. Across from her, he picked up the black garment bag she'd draped over the back of one of the chairs and he tugged on the zipper. "Can I see it?"

She shrugged. "I'm not the bride."

He unzipped the bag to reveal a cocktail length navy dress with capped sleeves. "It looks nice."

"That was a Rosemary-approved color. It won't clash with the bridesmaids," Guinevere said. "Did you see the size?"

He glanced at the number on the tag. "What about it?"

"I always considered myself thinner," she said.

"You aren't fat."

She gave him a look. "I didn't say I was. I just thought I would need a smaller number. But I'd try a dress and had to keep asking for another size up."

Tristan zipped the garment bag and hung it on the chair again. "Maybe the airport and stadium food caught up to you."

"I guess."

"Did you and Rosemary get to talk?"

She shrugged again. "Sure, she talked about what she does and my eyes glazed over. I talked about what I do and her eyes glazed over. Then I shared no more than two mildly embarrassing childhood stories about you," Guinevere said. "So I think that counts as a successful bonding experience."

"Good."

"She has that shopping gene that makes it easy and enjoyable for her. She knows how to put together a coordinating outfit for the office and then change the jacket and lip gloss to make it a whole new outfit for girls' night."

"She does know her way around a retail establishment." Tristan went to the kitchen to pour them each a glass of water and then led her into the living room, where she plopped down on the couch.

Guinevere glanced at an engagement photo of her brother and Rosemary on the end table next to her. She ran her middle finger along the table and lifted it closer to her eyes for examination. It was completely clean. She muttered, "I wish I had someone to dust."

"Hire someone," Tristan said.

"Do you know what I do for a living?"

"You'll have more funds next year."

He was referring to her windfall, which they were not to speak of. She'd have access to it in a year. Her first priority was to pay off what she still owed from grad school. She hated being in debt to lenders, but life was expensive and her income was limited. "I don't think that's the intended purpose," she said.

"Maybe Mitchum could send a company-paid cleaning lady over to your apartment. It'd probably only take an hour to tidy up your place."

"Probably, except my lease is up at the end of the month and I'm not renewing it."

"Did he buy you a penthouse?" Tristan asked eagerly.

"No, and shut up. The company pays my travel expenses. There's no reason for him to provide my housing. Unlike the other family member he's employed, I don't require incentives to grow up." She looked at the ice in her glass and said, "I have some news."

"You're moving."

She nodded and looked up from her glass. "I quit my job too."

He stared. "You quit Slate?"

"Yup, I put in my two weeks about a week ago. I took a job as news editor at the Forestbrook Sun-Times."

"Where the hell is Forestbrook?"

"South Carolina," she said. "You can find it on Google maps if you zoom in." She quickly took a drink of water. "It isn't too far from Myrtle Beach."

"Does Mitchum own this paper, by chance?"

"He does."

"Then I think he does owe you a penthouse and cleaning lady if he's sending you to the Deep South."

Guinevere shook her head. "He didn't send me. He doesn't even know—at least, I haven't told him. I'm going voluntarily."

"Why?"

She sighed heavily and tilted her head. "I've visited half the papers, and I asked the editors about job openings. This one came up. Well, this and a staff reporter job in Seattle."

"And you passed on the major city because . . . ?"

"Because it's just another reporting job. I don't want to make a linear move."

"Wow," he commented. "30 must be hitting you hard."

She looked at him ruefully. "No, I was thinking someone in the family should work for the company. We aren't the Bancroft's yet."

"Logan was on the pay-roll."

"Yes. He was acquiring companies," she said. "He wasn't working to get his copy in by deadline. He's never answered to an editor in the real world. This is a newspaper company. Mitchum was the last Huntzberger to work on the editorial side, and it was so long ago it was still The Herald-Tribune Company."

Ah, The Herald-Tribune Company, named for their flagship, The New York Herald-Tribune. All the great newspaper families had one. The two papers were originally separate entities, until the owner of one married the publisher's daughter of the other. Or maybe the marriage was part of the merger deal. It depended on how romantic or realistic the story teller was. Either way, the family's relationship with the newspaper was a symbiotic one, each facilitating the other's rise to prominence in the 20th century.

And like the average great newspaper family, it caused friction through the generations.

"Okay," Tristan said. "But you've worked in newsrooms most of your life."

"I know. But the family justifies owning all these small town papers by claiming there's a sense of community. How can we say that when we're sitting in offices in New York and London?" she asked rhetorically. "We don't know anything about the communities our papers serve." She continued, "I'd have to go to work for Mitchum eventually. It's a bit of a conflict to climb the Huntzberger ladder while working for the Graham's, don't you think?"

"I guess." A smile slowly crept over Tristan's face. "You won't be eligible for press credentials. You, without a press pass."

"I realize that," she said. "Publishers aren't eligible either, so I might as well get used to it."

He didn't respond to this. He asked, "Have you told Mom and Dad?"

She sat her glass down on a coaster. "I told them I was going to take a job in the company when one opened up. They didn't say too much, because that's the alternate reality we are living in now." By and large they were supportive of her career decisions. They could also be discouraging at times. "It took Mom over 50 years, but she's finally conformed to the repression of polite society," Guinevere said, crossing her arms with a frown. "Who would have thought this, of all things, would be the trigger?"

Tristan shrugged. "I don't know. She's a mysterious woman."

They were silent for a few minutes. Then Guinevere said, "I saw a tennis court when we drove up. Does Rosemary have rackets?"

"In the closet," he said, nodding over to a door where the living room met the hallway.

She grinned. "Can we go out and play?" she asked hopefully. Her younger brother was not always interested in playing with such mediocre competition.

"Sure, come on," he said, making her smile wider.

She followed him out the apartment and down the hall to the elevator, where someone was already waiting. Guinevere kept walking, but Tristan slowed down. When she reached the woman, who had short curly red hair and a messenger bag hanging from her shoulder, she did a double take. "Hello," she said slowly.

Francie looked over at her. "Oh, Guinevere, hi."

Guinevere was momentarily dumbstruck. She looked over at Tristan, whose lips were pressed together in a line. "Francie is the neighbor's nanny," he explained.

"Ah."

"You know, we could just take the sta—"

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Both girls walked in and turned. Tristan sighed in resignation and joined them. It was a quiet descent, and not the comfortable kind. Guinevere could practically smell the elephant in the room. She asked the redhead, "You live in Boston now?"

Francie glanced over and nodded. "For grad school—at Boston College."

Guinevere tipped her head back to nod once. "I finished J-school a couple years ago, went ahead and got it over with."

Next to her, Tristan cleared his throat, a bit pointedly.

When she gave her brother a strange look, Francie said, "He'd rather you not talk to me."

Guinevere smirked up at her brother. "Really? That would be rude. You have an obligation to be polite to people you know."

"Used to know," Tristan corrected. "I haven't known in a long time. And I can make an exception for someone who dumped me."

The elevator dinged again and let them out. France glared at Tristan and said, "Oh sure, I dumped you. We can go with that." She walked away without another word, heading for her car.

Guinevere was openly smiling at Tristan now, giddy from the live drama. "What was that?"

"Nothing, let's go before I change my mind."