Hello again! Wow, already three reviewers... That makes me quite happy! Thank you all for reading! (And I just wanted to tell you, I don't know what happened with Maxwell's first wife, so I just made it up.)
Fran stumbled down Broadway, clutching her handbag and duffle bag, and rolling her suitcase along. Queens was looking rather dismal, and she suspected it was just reflecting how she felt inside: cold, wretched, and miserable.
"Damn you, Mistah Sheffield," she repeated over and over again inside her head, like a mantra. "Damn you, damn you, damn you..." Her high-heeled shoe landed in a puddle, soaking her stockings. She leapt back with a small cry, falling against a beefy man who seriously looked like he would skin her alive for jostling him.
Smiling nervously, Fran quickly apologized and hurried over to a small stoop, where she sat down and tried to collect herself. Her brain kept drawing blanks as the gray sky above her started pouring rain.
All things considered, she had never been in a worse fix.
Honestly, she thought, heaving her suitcase onto the stoop next to her. Mr. Sheffield was just going to play with my heart until I died. I can't deal with his indecision anymore.
Shivering, she hugged herself and tried to simmer down. She gazed up at the sky in despair, hovering on the edges of righteous anger and downright misery.
Well, I guess I'll just sit here until I cool off, and then I'll—She paused, the implication of her thoughts dawning on her.
--And then I'll do what? I can't go home to the Sheffields. I guess I just seceded from the family.
Horror was creeping up her like a wave. Mr. Sheffield just hurt me, she thought, her breathing coming quickly. There is no way I can ever see him again.
But the kids, she thought, the sadness enveloping her. Maxwell's greatest fear had come true: his and Fran's relationship had ruined the home the kids had grown used to.
And I didn't even get any action! Fran whined inside of her head, pouting. I didn't even get the bing-bing!
Leaning back, Fran sighed. "I can't go to the Sheffields," she murmured to herself. "Can't get the bing-bing. And there's no way in Barbara Streisand's world I'm going back to Ma's." She chewed her lip in thought. "I can't bother Val, she still lives with her parents..."
And that left...
Nothing.
Yay.
Taking a deep breath, Fran got to her feet and surveyed the rain-splattered street. There was a cheap hotel the next block down... It looked like she was staying there for the night. Grimacing, Fran the ex-nanny ducked out into the rain, gasped as it immediately soaked her, and sprinted haphazardly down the sidewalk, almost knocking over an old lady with her suitcases.
Using a wad of cash she had gotten from Mr. Sheffield, Fran paid for a room in the dingy Motel 6, dragged her suitcases through the doorway, and stared at her Spartan surroundings.
"Well, it ain't Ralph Lauren sheets and a room with a balcony," she said, shrugging, "but I guess it'll do."
"Daddy?"
"Daddy, look at me!"
"Look at me, Daddy! Watch me, Daddy! Look what I can do!"
"Why aren't you watching me, Daddy?"
"Daddy?"
"Daddy, where's Mommy?"
Maxwell Sheffield sat numbly in his chair, in his office, in his beautiful, empty house. Niles had taken the children out for dinner; none of them could really talk to their father after he had driven Fran away. So Maxwell just sat there, his glasses on the desk in front of him. He had not even bothered to turn on the lights and actually chose to sit there in the dark, watching the sun steadily set outside the window.
"Daddy, why isn't Mommy coming home?"
"What do you mean, Mommy's gone away?"
The old, dull pain seemed to be gathering inside his chest. This was exactly what he had feared. He had alienated Miss Fine, and now she had left him. She would never bother him again in her nasally voice, never hop onto his desk again, never drive him insane with those dangerously short outfits she wore...
He got up and began to pace feverishly.
I didn't even do anything with her, he thought, and this has still happened. It's still ruined this household.
His eyes fell upon a picture of his late wife, Sarah, and he felt the familiar clenching of his heart. Suddenly, he was transported back in time.
"She's asking for you, Mr. Sheffield," the doctor said, his eyes wearing the look of someone who has had to say that too many times before. "She doesn't have much time... The injuries she sustained from the accident are too much for us to handle. She won't survive the night."
Stunned and in a daze, Maxwell ran after the doctor and burst into Sarah's hospital room, staring in horror at the tubes and wires and pale wife under thin blankets. Her eyes were closed. Breathing shallowly, Maxwell dropped to his knees next to the bed and grasped his wife's fragile, bandaged hand.
"Sarah?" he whispered. "Sarah, my love, can you hear me?"
Remarkably, her eyes fluttered open. "Max," she mouthed, unable to speak.
"Don't strain yourself, darling," Maxwell said, speaking at random, babbling; any word was a good word, because that was one more word he had with the love of his life.
"Max," Sarah breathed, trying to speak. "Dear, take care of the kids. Tell them I love them."
Maxwell Sheffield, the mighty Broadway producer, nodded like a bobble-head. "Yes, yes, of course I will."
"And you..." she whispered, stroking the side of his face. "You make sure you take care of yourself, Maxwell. Don't worry, all right? You'll be fine. Do not worry."
He stared at her. How could he not worry? His wife had just been hit by a drunk driver and was about to leave him alone in the world.
Sarah smiled at him. "Love you," she breathed, and then closed her eyes.
Flat line. Gone. Maxwell Sheffield, alone. Forced to return to a home that had once been full of laughter, now empty but full of children, all of who wanted the attention of a dead Englishman.
"Daddy? Watch me, Daddy! Why aren't you watching, Daddy?"
"Daddy?"
"Where've you gone, Daddy?"
Maxwell wrenched himself back to the present, shivering and shaking as he settled himself back into his chair. Where have I gone? he asked himself. Where did I go? I died and I came back when Fran started to work here.
He let his head fall back onto the headrest of the chair and closed his eyes. But I don't even date the woman, and she still manages to mess up everything here, he thought. There was a nagging feeling of guilt in his stomach, and he angrily shoved it away. If I can't even work in the same house with her without this happening, how am I supposed to BE with her?
The thought had materialized before he could stop it. He froze.
...Be with her?
Am I saying that I actually WANT to—
Of course not.
Never.
...Right?
Bloody hell, NO! Sarah wouldn't want me to be with somebody else.
He covered his face with his hands and rubbed his temples.
You're feeling guilty, Maxwell. You know Sarah wouldn't mind Fran. None of this was Fran's fault, either.
Of course it was.
Shut up, you!
Helloooo, Maxwell!
I thought I'd left you back in England!
It would appear not, sir. Would you really betray your late wife like that?
It's not betrayal. Fran's practically their surrogate mother.
It was a good chunk of time before Maxwell realized that he was arguing with himself. Grinding his teeth, he let out a groan.
You were wrong, Maxwell. Admit it.
So what if I was?
You just drove Miss Fine out of your life and it is ALL your fault.
...I know it is.
Then do something about it!
Maxwell got to his feet and stared out at the dark sky.
I can't do anything about it now, he thought to himself. Miss Fine probably doesn't even want to talk to me. She's probably gone to her mother's... She won't want to talk to me. I'll wait until tomorrow, when she's simmered down.
Then I'll talk to her.
