Sun Worshippers

by aura218

N,C What if Niles and CC called a truce?

"Sun Worshippers" by Ofnone

The family was not at home.

I reveled in the thought: there was not a Sheffield in the house. Every room was dead silent, which was directly related to absence of the nanny, Fran. It was two o'clock on a Friday afternoon, and the woman had convinced her terribly responsible boss, who would have preferred to work until dinnertime, that it was too beautiful a day to waste indoors.

"Mr. Sheffield," she had whined, "there'll only be a few more days like this left. It's supposed to rain next week, and September is almost over. Soon those little trees in front of the house won't have any leaves left."

Max had looked up from the papers on his desk, mildly amused. "Since when have you taken notice of nature?"

"Since it came back into style," she said with a wink. "I got this darling little khaki colored midriff--" slight emphasis on "midriff," "--and I want to wear it somewhere appropriate."

Maxwell's eyes had begun to loose focus. She's got him, I had mused, momentarily breaking my concentration from my argument with Babcock. "Midriff?" he had asked. "Well- uh- where would you suggest we go?"

Fran suggested the zoo, and my dear friend Maxwell agreed. The children didn't have school that day, so Fran and Maxwell pulled Gracie away from her psychoanalysis session with her dolls; convinced Maggie to cancel plans with her girl friends; and simply turned off Brighton's newest video game while the boy was still playing. With only minimal argument (the most dramatic of which was from Brighton, who had just collected the last secret crystal or some such nonsense), the family plus one was out the door and in the Town Car. With any luck, I wouldn't hear from them again until late this evening.

Which left me with quite a bit of time on my hands. Technically, I'm still "on the job" until five o'clock. There were a few messes about, letters to mail, and other such tasks that a butler is hired to do. I finished taking care of them and changed into less formal clothes (slacks and a polo shirt).

Earlier I had schlept (do you note the influence my best friend has had on me?) the family's laundry from the basement to their respective rooms, and now I was feeling parched. On the way to the kitchen, I abruptly halted. I was sure I had heard a noise in the back of the house. Shuffle of papers? Another noise: a thump!

I changed my destination and walked toward the office. Just as I reached the door, it swung inward, and a form dressed in black stepped out. I yelped in shock and almost struck the unknown person . . . until I realized that the answering shriek belonged to a woman.

So to speak.

"Niles!" Babcock punched my arm, quite unlike a Fran Fine playful swat. It made my bicep smart. "You scared me half to death!"

"I scared you?" I returned. "How do you think I feel -- the house was completely empty until you materialized from your vampiric lair. You nearly gave me a second heart attack."

She scowled. "The house was not empty; I never left. Just because Maxwell goes gallivanting on a Friday afternoon doesn't mean that the rest of the business world shuts down. Anyway, it wasn't like I was tiptoeing around. You would have heard me if you weren't going deaf in your old age."

"Of course you weren't tiptoeing. Chickens can't do that."

A moonless night in the most remote corner of an Arabian desert couldn't be as dark as the look in her eyes. Inwardly, I grinned.

"Will you please get out of my way?" Babcock said, irritated. She shoved past me and started down the corridor. Having nothing better to do, I followed her.

"Don't you have a floor to scrub or something, Pine Fresh?" she asked. She waved her hand as if swatting a fly.

"No," I answered.

"So you're going to hound me all day? Pretty pathetic," she taunted. We had reached the living room.

"Actually, I do have something in mind to do, if you're interested."

She chuckled low in her throat. "First of all, I didn't know it was possible for you to think without Maxwell telling you to. Second, whatever it is, the chances that I would be interested are about as likely as Nanny Fine being featured in People's Best Dressed." She began rummaging through her purse, which she had left on the sofa, and strove as best she could to ignore me.

"Really?" I drew out the word, taunting her with its syllables. "With all the time you spend underground, I was sure you'd leap at the chance to sunbathe."

She cast me a sidelong glance. "Where are you going to sunbathe in New York City?" Her voice was laced with suspicion. "No one has a yard. And you could lie on a shattered crack vial in the park."

I smiled. Her paranoia never fails. "I know a place that's utterly secluded and has not been marred by a human footprint in four years."

She stood straight and narrowed her eyes. "Where? Is this a trick?"

"If this was a trick, would this really be my style?" I honestly had no diabolical plans.

"Probably not . . . but you are a shifty little troll."

I grinned. "You flatter me."

"Oh, wonderful, I flatter him," she said to no one.

"Come on, Babcock, what say we call a cease fire for this afternoon? I give you my word that I'm not luring you to a trap."

"Why?" she asked.

"What, I need a reason not to insult you?" She gave me a look. "Oh, fine," I sighed. "I have no reason other than this place is more fun with another person."

"Oh, very well," she finally conceded. "I wasn't looking forward to calling this new backer anyway. I was going to have to pretend to be nice to her."

"How utterly dreadful for you."

"I know!" she cried. "So, Haz- er, Niles. Where are we going?"

"Follow me."

*

I led her through the house, taking a few rarely trodden halls that the original designers had included to allow the domestic staff to move quickly from point A to point B without encountering one of the family members. C.C. seemed quietly amazed by the narrow, dusty, dimly lit corridors. I suppose she had thought that service passages only existed in the nineteenth century works of literature she had read at Bryn Mawr.

"This is how you know all the gossip, isn't it?" she said, so suddenly that I started.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"We're walking behind the bedrooms now, right? There are only two layers of wall between us and the other room. If any of the family members were in their rooms, we would be able to hear everything they were saying."

Wow, she was smarter than I gave her credit for. "I could, but I don't," I answered. Only a small lie. I rarely do would be more accurate. I could tell she wasn't going to believe me without an excuse. "It's too dusty back here," I said, and that was true enough. "Someone on the other side," I rapped my knuckles on dingy wall looming to the left of us, "would hear my sneeze."

C.C. didn't answer, so I let the subject drop. Presently, we came to a long staircase. At the top I opened a door, and took care to flick the light switch which would darken the hallway. We were now in darkness.

"Why did you do that?" C.C. asked.

"Apparently there's a little hole in the wall in Margaret's room."

"Peephole, you mean," she interrupted.

"I didn't put it there," I replied. "Anyway, last time I left the light on I didn't remember until that night when Margaret woke us all up screaming. She had thought the little spot of light had been an eye looking at her."

C.C. laughed, which annoyed me somewhat. I let it slide. I reached inside the doorway and felt along the wall until my fingers contacted the switch. I pressed it, and light filled the room.

"The attic?" she asked. "You've really lost it, Hazel."

"Will you be quiet and follow me?" I said with mock impatience. I really was beginning to wonder how good of an idea this had been.

The boards creaked under our feet, lending the feeling (accurate or not) that the Sheffield attic wasn't the safest place to be. I led Babcock across the cluttered room, picking up two beach type lounge chairs as I went. We reached a door with slat glass panels. Shifting the chairs from one hand to the other, I began struggling with the doorknob. The wood had swelled and it wouldn't be coaxed open. Babcock stood watching and didn't offer to hold the chairs for me. Eventually, I more or less kicked the door open, and stumbled into the sunlight.

The balcony was one of those decorative things that had been put onto the house in an effort to give it a regal Roman feel. It was fairly secluded; buildings loomed on all sides. But since the mansion pointed south, the back of it received direct sunlight. The balcony was never in shadow except late in the evening. At the moment, sun shone brightly down upon us, but a muted breeze usurped the heavenly body's sear.

I set one chair aside while I unfolded the other. C.C. remained stiffly at the door.

"Aren't you going to come out?" I asked her.

"I thought these things weren't built to support weight," she explained her hesitance.

"There have been six or seven people out here at a time. If they didn't fall to their deaths, you--" I paused dramatically, as if I was an engineer considering the new burden the balcony would have to heft-- "will be supported as well. Probably."

She ignored the rather weak barb (I admit it wasn't my best) and inched a hesitant toe onto the paved floor of the balcony. "You sure?"

"Of course I am," I replied. "If I wanted to kill you, I have a lot more inconspicuous means available. I do cook the meals here. This balcony is plenty safe -- see?" I jumped once and deliberately landed hard. C.C. gasped and grabbed the doorframe, but the balcony still held, as I had promised. She shot me a look, then bravely stepped outside. She sidled along and slowly inched down onto the lawn chair, which I had just finished unfolding. I sat in the other chair and relaxed into its ergonomic design. C.C. took her cue from me and also reclined.

"This is . . . nice," she offered. "I can't really hear any street noise."

"Yes, the buildings block the sound well," I said unnecessarily.

"The sun certainly feels nice."

"Hmmm, yes. One thing I miss about the mansion in England where Maxwell and I grew up was that it had acres of surrounding grounds. Of course, the sun doesn't shine too often in England."

She didn't answer, but sat up a bit and shrugged out of her suit coat, revealing bare arms and a pale blue sleeveless top. She also folded her long skirt up above her knees.

"My god, you do have legs," I joked. She cast me a look "Did you have them waxed recently?"

"That's an awfully personal question!" she gasped.

"I'm sorry," I lied, "it's just that I see no feathers."

C.C. bolted straight up and looked at me angrily. "It was your idea to call a truce," she said hotly. I grimaced. I'd forgotten. "I'm sorry," I said sincerely. "Force of habit. I promise not to insult you again."

We sat in semi-uncomfortable silence for a moment until C.C. said tentatively, "So . . . you said you haven't come out here recently?"

"No, not for years," I replied. "When Mrs. Sheffield was still alive and there was a larger staff, we would come out here somewhat often to escape, oh . . . the children being especially whiny, or an argument between Mr. and Mrs. Sheffield. Or simply to take a break."

"I never heard Sara and Maxwell argue." C.C. said, intrigued. And she calls me a gossipy fishwife.

"No more than any other couple," I replied.

Another uncomfortable pause ensued. "When did you stop?" she asked abruptly.

"Coming out here?" She nodded. It took a moment to dredge the old memory to the surface. "When Miss Grace was three, she followed us. And then she squealed."

C.C. laughed aloud. "I knew there was a reason I liked Grace . . . she's the little one, right?"

"Yes," I answered. "You should know their names by now."

"I know the children's names." She sounded insulted. "Grace, Megan, and Brian."

"Oh, I stand corrected," I said with exaggerated sincerity.

She regarded me suspiciously for a moment. Then she closed her eyes and appeared to be relishing the sun on her face. "It's funny that Grace would be the one to squeal," C.C. commented.

"Why is that funny?" I asked. I had closed my eyes to the sun as well.

"Oh, just that it's obvious she's your favorite." I opened my eyes and observed her carefully. Was she serious? "You would think she would want to keep her favored status."

"I don't have favorites. Those kids drive me crazy equally, and I love them equally." Why am I so bothered by the idea of having a favorite? I continued to watch her, and she continued to bask sightless in the sunlight.

"Oh, come on. Before Nanny Fine showed up the older ones used to come into Maxwell's office all the time whenever that had some little problem. 'Dad, could you help me with my homework?' 'Dad, I fell off my bike and broke my arm.'" She mimicked the children as if they were spoiled and helpless. (Not too far from the truth.) "Gr-um, the little one--"

"Grace," I supplied patiently.

"Right. Grace never showed her little face. I thought she was just unusually self sufficient, but I realized a little while ago it was because she went crying to you all the time."

I considered that for a moment. I did recall Gracie, barely old enough to walk, following me around on occasion. I used to sit her on the counter while I made cupcakes and let her lick the spoons. "She was the smallest," I rationalized aloud. "Mr. Sheffield didn't hire a nanny right away, and Margaret and Brighton were old enough to look after themselves when they got home from school. Gracie didn't go to school every day until almost two years after Sara past on. The rest of the staff either left or were let go fairly soon after the accident."

C.C. opened her eyes and broke in, "Maxwell said he wanted to grieve in private."

"So I guess Gracie attached herself to my side because there wasn't anyone else in the house," I said. "She never did like playing by herself."

This time the silence was companionable. I don't know about Babcock, but I mulled over assorted and unrelated memories of Gracie when she was little. She had been such a sweet maideleh. I hadn't really thought it had been a good idea to let her lick the batter off the spoons, because of the raw eggs. But she could win me over with that bright-eyed smile of hers. It's true; men do have a weak spot for little girls.

A memory floated to the surface of my mind; one that was a perfect example of what Babcock had been saying.

"I remember once," I started. Babcock lifted one eyebrow to consider me, then closed it again.

"Hmm?"

"When Grace was about four. I'm not sure who had gotten Gracie dressed at that point. Probably not Mr. Sheffield. Maybe it had been Margaret." I was digressing. "Anyway, whoever it was always put those silly little black shoes on her feet, the type with no traction on the bottom."

"Mary janes," C.C. said. "I had eight pairs of those when I was a child. I once slipped down the marble steps in the garden while wearing them. Mummy told me if I wanted to be a lady, I would have to learn to present myself as one. And if my knees scarred, I would never be a debutante."

Not at all surprised that those words would issue from the mouth of the woman who raised C.C. Babcock, I continued with my story. "Right, well . . . Brighton had been home from school that day, and I suppose Gracie had been bothering him. I was in the kitchen, and I heard the two of them racing down the hall above my head. They tore shrieking down the stairs, through the living room. They finally burst into the kitchen. Brighton was yelling about some toy he accused Gracie of breaking, and Gracie was insisting she hadn't touched the toy." I smiled at the memory of the argument. C.C. looked less than enchanted by the antics of the children, so I quickly continued.

"I hadn't thought there was any danger, even though I was washing the kitchen floor at the time. Before I had a chance to tell them to stop running, her feet in those shoes skid across the floor one way, and the rest of Gracie went the other."

"Been there, done that," C.C. muttered.

"She smacked her head on the corner of the kitchen table. There was a gash, and I was sure she had cracked her head open. There was blood everywhere, and I was kind of afraid that I was going to be fired."

"I know what you mean," C.C. said. "Employers are so protective about their kids. Once the big one slipped on the stairs or something and I made sure I got out of there before she told her dad I pushed her."

"Did you?"

"Not exactly."

"I suppose that's the difference between you and those of us with souls," I said. "I picked Gracie up and sat her on the counter. They could have heard her across town for as loud as she was wailing. Blood was streaming down her face and staining her dress. Brighton was standing at the door in astonishment. I suppose I should have scolded him for chasing her--"

"I would have," C.C. inturrupted. "Throw the blame."

I pretended not to hear her. "--but he looked like he was feeling guilty enough.

"I grabbed paper towels fast, but Gracie wouldn't move her hand. You know how kids do that, they put their hand over their injuries because they're afraid you'll hurt them if . . ." I trailed off. C.C. was staring at me blankly. "Well, they do. She didn't want me to, but I eventually convinced her to move her hand. She wasn't as badly injured as I had thought. The bleeding stopped fairly quickly after that. Then I gave her ice cubes in a little sandwich bag, and she liked that."

"Grace liked ice? I liked to play with ice," the Glacier Queen recalled.

"To put on her head, Babcock! She was getting a goose-egg."

"A what?"

"A goose-egg. You know, a lump."

"Oh."

"So anyway . . . Gracie kept the ice on her head, and it didn't swell too badly. Brighton spent the next four days playing Barbie hostage situation with her." Story ended, I sat back against the chair and closed my eyes. The sun would dip behind the roof soon.

"That's a charming story, Niles."

My eyes snapped open. "What did you just say?"

"I said that I think that that is a charming little story."

I blinked several times, honestly considering that I had not been talking to C.C. Babcock this entire time. The person on the lounge chair must have been someone similar to her but with a real heart instead of a little shriveled black one.

"I suppose you held her while she was crying?" C.C. asked.

Maybe she's talking in her sleep, I considered. "Yes, of course," I answered. "She put her arms around my neck," I tested her.

"Charming," the woman posing as C.C. said.

"Uh huh, well . . . the Sheffields and Miss Fine should be home soon. Maybe we should go in," I suggested.

"In a little bit," C.C. said. "It's nice out here."

I stared at her. "Miss Babcock?"

"Hmm?"

"What are the children's names?"

"Maxwell's children? Marion, Bart, and Gertrude. Why?"

"No reason. What would you say if I told you my slacks had shrunk in the wash?"

"I'd tell you that cheap polyester doesn't shrink and lay off the Malomars."

"Oh, good. Just checking."

I relaxed against the beach lounge, and together we waited for Maxwell, Fran, and the children to come home.

~*~

Thanks to my drill sergeant of a beta reader, Liz. See? I finished the durn thing! And to Ally, my creative consultant unaware. You're a peach, kiddo. Happy Belated Birthday. Send feedback to annegirl11@juno.com.

All standard disclaimers apply. The Nanny and its characters belong to High School Sweethearts.