Title: "The Mensch and the Meshugeneh"
Author: Allison Lindsay
Pairing: Fran/Maxwell
Rating: K+
Disclaimer: The Nanny isn't mine? Oy vey! As a means of mollifying my distress, I shall hurl priceless tchotchkes across the room. P.S. I'm neither endorsing nor promoting any of the products mentioned.
"Fran Lite" is the second season episode in which Maxwell briefly dates a woman who resembles Fran, both physically and personality-wise.
I use a number of Yiddish words in this story. If you're a Nanny newbie – or if you don't speak fluent Yiddish, lol – you may find yourself stumped. Don't worry. If you're in need of a translation, check out the "Lip Shtick" dictionary at Lifetime's Nanny page. (I'd provide the link right here, but this site won't permit it.)
Fran Fine stood at the foot of the back stairs, studying the comely, debonair Broadway producer through sparkling chestnut-brown eyes. The nanny grinned in admiration at the delighted expression delineated in his chiseled facial features. "Boy, do you look adorable!"
Hearing the nasal twang that could belong to none other than the Queens native employed as his children's caregiver, Maxwell Sheffield glanced up to see the winsome woman approaching. "Miss Fine. Where did you come from?"
"Oh, come now. Don't tell me you never got the whole birds and the bees talk," Fran teased, punctuating the remark with her trademark laugh. "So, what is it that's so fascinating over here?"
Her boss passed a package of chocolate sandwich cookies in the nanny's direction. "Look at that."
"Double Stuf Oreos," his companion read, unfurling the sleeve of her violet terrycloth robe and occupying the adjacent seat at the kitchen table. "Yeah, so?"
"You mean you've seen them before? When did they make these?"
"1975."
Mr. Sheffield's jaw collided with the black-and-white checkered linoleum.
"What? Listen, when you're a Fine, you learn two things, if nothing else. Number one: the history of every snack food ever made. And number two: how to return something after you've worn it once . . . or twice," she confessed, her cheeks taking on the color of strawberries. "So, whatsa matter? Can't sleep? Something troubling you?"
Maxwell nodded, scratching his scruffy chin.
"Bummed about the break-up?"
"No, it's not that. It's . . . Well, I'm not quite sure, really. It's something that Niles said, about how Leslie should remind me of someone."
"Audrey Hepburn?" Fran ventured.
"No. No. At first, I thought it was Connie Sellecca. But now I'm having second thoughts . . ."
"Say, did I ever tell you about my Aunt Shirley?" Fran queried at half past two. The pair had gabbed and noshed well into the night. "I know I told somebody in this house. Well, anyhoo, Aunt Shirley had cataract surgery, and a few weeks later, I go to visit her. You wanna hear what she says to me? Get this. She says: 'You know, Frannie, now that I can see you clearly, you look old.' Can you believe her? P.S. We haven't spoken since. But I guess I can't hold a grudge forever. What do you think, Mr. Sheffield? You think it's time I forgive and forget?"
In the midst of Fran's rambling, something very significant occurred to Maxwell. The hair, those clothes, that voice . . .
Doesn't Miss Leslie remind you of someone? Niles had inquired. It is rather obvious.
The realization bonked the producer on the noggin like a ton of tchotchkes.
Leslie was no dead ringer for Connie Sellecca. She was the spitting image of Miss Fine!
"Oh, dear God . . ." Maxwell murmured aloud, his mind completely discombobulated.
Placing her palm on the silken fabric of Mr. Sheffield's pajama sleeve, the nanny entreated, "What? What's wrong?"
"This is . . . This is cause for consternation . . ."
"Oh, fiber should help with that. I'll get you some Metamucil."
"What? No, not constipation, Miss Fine. Consternation. It's a kind of . . . paralyzing fear."
"All this over the Shirley story? If you wanted me to shut up, you should've just said so. Not that I would've listened-"
But Maxwell would not permit the completion of the reply. "Goodness. It's way past my bedtime," the man interjected, his voice tremulous, his limbs aflutter as he rose from his chair, almost knocking it off its legs. "Work in the morning. You understand." So saying, the producer scurried across the room and scrambled up the stairs.
"And he calls me meshuge? Oy. That's like Niles calling Liz Smith a yenta!"
For the next several hours, sleep eluded Maxwell. The producer traipsed from one side of his bedroom to the other, shvitsing like a marathon runner.
Mr. Sheffield had been attracted to a woman who bore an unequivocal resemblance to Miss Fine. Could this possibly signify an interest in the nanny?
Moreover, he had terminated the relationship with Leslie because there was, according to him, something missing. Could Fran be the deficient element?
Absolutely, said his heart. Absolutely not, said his brain.
Fran's The One, his heart insisted. Sara was The One, his brain contested.
Could one have more than one One?
Certainly, affirmed his heart. Certainly not, denied his head, which went on to question the producer's attraction to the nutty nanny.
Admittedly, the brunette qualified as a nudnick, a schlemiel, and a meshugeneh. She was also a yenta with chutzpah whose hobbies included kvetching and kibitzing.
In spite of – or, perhaps, because of – these idiosyncrasies, Mr. Sheffield found Miss Fine rather beguiling. And, more importantly, his children were actually smiling. In fact, Maxwell had not seen his offspring in such convivial spirits since the passing of his spouse.
From the moment the flashy girl from Flushing arrived at the Sheffield mansion, the producer's life had been turned inside out and flipped upside down, much like garments in a clothes-dryer.
But would he have it any other way? If Maxwell could go back in time and do it all over again, would he still hire Fran Fine?
Without a doubt, his heart asserted.
Mr. Sheffield waited, anticipating the discordant reply from the organ contained in his cranium.
But this time, there was no dispute. It appeared that his heart and his mind were on the very same page.
"But is the feeling mutual?" the producer pondered. "Does she fancy me as well?"
In response, his brain posed a rhetorical question: Is Sylvia Fine a nosh-aholic!
"Good point," Maxwell conceded.
Still, he harbored reservations about pursuing a relationship with the nanny. Would it be prudent for business and pleasure to schmooze? And suppose he and Fran did become romantically involved. What would happen if the relationship were to disintegrate?
If you focus on what if, you'll never know what could be. Don't let her be The One that got away, old chap.
"You wanted to see me, Mr. Sheffield?" Fran inquired, poking her head inside her boss's office.
Maxwell adjusted his necktie, tugging the knot this way and that. He loosened it. He tightened it. He nearly truncated his trachea. "Y-Yes, Miss Fine," he spluttered. "Do come in."
Sashaying to the desk in royal blue pumps, the nanny settled her tochus onto the oak surface, crossing one exposed gam over the other. Mr. Sheffield's eyes gravitated towards the dangling limbs; the papers in his hands began rustling like leaves. Fran's painted lips inched upwards, taking the shape of a smirk.
Clearing his throat, Maxwell began, "Miss Fine, have you ever been in a restaurant, and you're reading the menu, trying to decide what to order, when you notice the fine print at the very bottom of the page. And it says: 'No substitutions'? Well, that's what Leslie was to me, in a way - a substitution."
"Mr. Sheffield, has Niles been slipping something into your tea?" the befuddled brunette queried. "I don't have a clue what you're talking about."
The producer decided to approach the subject from a different angle. "Um, do you recall our conversation last night, when I mentioned that Leslie bore a very strong resemblance to a certain someone?" The nanny nodded. "Well, last night, I . . . I had a revelation. I . . . realized that that certain someone is . . . is you, Miss Fine."
"Really? I don't think she looks anything like me."
"But . . . how is that possible? The two of you could be twins."
Fran shrugged. Coiling the telephone cord around her fingers, she considered what her boss had said. The nanny had adored Leslie. Like Fran, the woman had style, flair, and hair to "dye" for, all qualities that Miss Fine admired in her fellow females. Perhaps Maxwell's observation was accurate. But what was this "no substitutions" nonsense? What did her boss mean? "What do you mean?" she asked aloud.
Misinterpreting the question, Mr. Sheffield proceeded to expound on the similarities between his nanny and his former girlfriend.
"No, not that. What was all this about Leslie being a poor substitute or something?"
Maxwell stood erect and set about scuffing the wooden floor with the soles of his black wingtip dress shoes, all the while wringing his palms in a nervous gesture. "Well, um, what I meant was that . . . well, you see, I . . ." But her boss simply could not conjure up the appropriate words. Come on, man. Out with it! Just be simple and straightforward. "Simple and straightforward. Very well . . ."
"Oy. Would you stand still? You're so jumpy. What's bugging you?"
"It's a matter of harum-scarum, Miss Fine."
"My hair frightens the children?" Fran frowned, patting her pouffy brown coiffure.
"No, no, I . . . I just don't want to be reckless about this. I don't want to rush into anything."
"You are not making one bit of sense today, mister. Are you feeling okay? Maybe you're coming down with something. C'mere, lemme feel your forehead." Dismounting the desk, Fran advanced towards her employer.
"I'm fine, Miss Fine," the producer assured her. Don't schlep! Just tell her already! "All right, all right. I fancy you! There! I've said it!"
Fran's silver-frosted eyelids blinked rapidly. "You what?"
"I fancy you," her companion reiterated, thoroughly relieved that the admission was now out in the open.
The nanny could barely contain her elation. She felt like hopping about the room like a bushy-tailed bunny rabbit. "Wow. The only thing that could top this would be meeting the eighth wonder of the world!"the brunette enthused. But almost instantaneously, Miss Fine reconsidered. "Nah, on second thought, this trumps Barbra. Sorry, Babs."
Maxwell beamed, looking as though he'd just learned that Andrew Lloyd Webber's newest production had been declared a bona fide flop. "I'm very pleased that you feel that way, Miss . . . May I call you Fran, Miss Fine?"
"I don't see why not . . . Max."
"Well, Miss . . . Fran, I would like you to do me the honor of accompanying me to Rumplemeyer's this evening. It will be just the two of us." With a chuckle, he added, "We can split a banana split."
"You know, I once worked at an ice cream parlor," his companion saw fit to share. "They used to call me the Super Scooper." Then, without missing a beat, Miss Fine shifted gears and cut right to the chase: "So, are we a 'we' now?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Lemme put it another way: is it time to call a caterer?"
"Good heavens, no!" Maxwell nearly shouted. Diminishing the decibels, he amended, "I mean, I think it's best that we start at the shallow end and gradually, very gradually, work our way to the deep end."
Fran cloaked her disappointment behind a sympathetic smile. Gracie's grandkids will have grandkids by the time he proposes!
"I must admit," Mr. Sheffield continued, "I'm not entirely comfortable mixing business with . . . with non-business. I do hope it works out. I would hate for us to-"
"Max, would you relax?" the optimistic brunette interrupted. "Of course it'll work out! We've got chemistry, compatibility. Sizzle. We're like ketchup and mustard; what's one without the other?"
Sliding his hands into the front pockets of his tweed trousers, Maxwell took a step forward, minimizing the space between himself and his love interest. "Right you are, Miss Fine. Fran. I must say, I'm very glad things didn't work out with Leslie."
"I concur. Why settle for an imitation when you've already got the original? It's like Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell say: 'Ain't nothing like the real thing, baby'!"
End.
Author's Note: Me again. You're probably wondering why there's a second chapter. Well, in the original version of this story, posted at The Really Unofficial Nanny Homepage, Fran and Max kiss. But one of my readers suggested that considering Max's desire to take things at a glacial pace, the kiss comes too soon. I thought this was a very keen observation. If you'd like to read the original ending, please proceed to chapter two for the alternate alternate ending.