Hello readers! Again, I'm very sorry for the super late update. I have been very busy lately and haven't had the time I would like to sit down and write. I'm slowly chipping away at this story and hope to finish it soon. Anyway, enjoy this next part and don't forget to leave a review!
Chapter 9
It was late by the time Fran returned home from the Sheffields'. She dropped her keys in the small ceramic bowl on the shelf in the entryway then locked the door behind her. The only light in the apartment came from the single fixture above the sink in the kitchen. She could hear the tv in the living room, recognizing the voices of the Mets' commentators.
Fran flipped the light switch in the living room. That got his attention.
"Oh, you're home," John said, turning around from his spot on the couch to face her. "I didn't hear you come in. How was the beach?"
"I had a wonderful time. The weather was perfect." Fran dropped her purse on their 'dining room' table then picked up the two large bags she had brought to the beach.
John noticed her struggle with picking up the cumbersome bags. "Here, let me help." He got up and effortlessly picked them up.
"Just put them in the hall, I'll take care of it later," Fran replied.
John did as he was told and when he returned, he found Fran on the couch, snuggled up against the armrest. "That's my spot." He chuckled and she just rolled her eyes at him. "I'm sorry," he said, sitting down next to her. "You're probably tired." He put his arm around her shoulders and Fran turned and cuddled up next to him.
"When's this over?" Fran asked as she yawned.
John kissed the top of her head. "Almost. It's the bottom of the eighth. Only five outs to go, that is if the Mets don't blow it." He rubbed her shoulders to try and jostle her awake but Fran protested. "Why don't you go to bed, then? I'll be in as soon as it's over."
"Fine. If you want to get rid of me just say so." Fran smiled and elbowed him playfully in the side. She placed a kiss on his cheek before she stood up. "Goodnight," Fran yawned once more.
"Night." John watched her lazily walk to their bedroom. He'd never seen her so tired and worn out before. But it was a good thing. She finally had a reason to spend some time away from work and get out of the apartment. Except he did feel a little jealous about her being around Maxwell Sheffield so often. She told him that she spends her time with the kids but he knew better; he just didn't want to stir up another unnecessary argument. He let out a sigh. Only two more months. Then he could officially call Fran his wife and no longer have to worry over his fear of Maxwell Sheffield intruding on their lives.
Fran quickly changed out of her clothes and into her nightgown. As soon as her head hit the pillow she surrendered to sleep.
Sometime in the middle of the night, Fran couldn't be sure when, she heard the front door of the apartment slowly creak shut, as if whoever entered or left didn't want to be heard. She lifted her head from her pillow and turned to see that the space next to her was empty. Where was John?
For a minute Fran debated about getting up but the sound of feet shuffling on the other side of the bedroom door startled her. She squeezed her eyes shut, anticipating the worst, but soon felt the dip of the mattress and a familiar hand slide over her hip. Fran opened her eyes and turned around. "Where did you go?" she asked him, now able to control her rapidly beating heart.
"Hmm? Oh nowhere. Just checked the lock on the door. I thought I heard something earlier."
"Oh," was all Fran could say as she lay back down. He didn't sound too convincing, but the middle of the night was not the time to discuss it. But still, Fran couldn't help but wonder what he was up to.
Over the next several days Fran kept herself busy with work. She was happier now that her cousin had given her more freedom with his fashion lines. The added responsibilities to her job meant less time she could spend with the Sheffield children. She remembered that Max was due in London on Thursday and she still hadn't decided whether or not she wanted to stay at the townhouse. Fran knew the kids would be ecstatic but was more worried about how their nanny would handle it.
As Fran finished tidying up the apartment, she made up her mind about Max's offer and picked up the phone.
"Hello, Sheffield residence," came Niles' soft English accent.
"Hi Niles!"
"Oh Miss Fine, I mean Fran. How are you?"
Fran smiled as she listened to him. "I'm well, thank you. I was wondering if Mr. Sheffield was in?"
"I'm sorry, Fran but he's at the theater. Would you like me to take a message for you?"
"Um, no thanks, Niles. Maybe I'll just drop by and see if he can spare a minute. I'm not too far away, so . . ."
"It's the 43rd St Theater. That's where he is . . . with Miss Babcock as well."
Fran noticed the change in Niles' tone as he mentioned Miss Babcock. "Thanks, Niles. And you know what?"
"No, what?"
"I think you like Miss Babcock." She heard him scoff loudly into the phone and smiled, trying to suppress a laugh.
"Me? Like Miss Babcock? Just the thought makes me wish I hadn't eaten anything this morning."
"Oh, c'mon, Niles. I haven't been around long enough, but from the way you two interact, I know there's something more between you."
"Miss Fine, the only thing between Miss Babcock and myself is the irritating notion where she thinks Mr. Sheffield could even be remotely interested in her."
"So you've noticed that too, huh?"
"Oh don't get me started."
They both laughed and continued to exchange idle banter. After Fran ended her conversation with Niles, she grabbed her purse and keys and headed out to catch the next train into Manhattan.
From the few times Fran had been to a Broadway show, the streets were usually aglow with bright marquees and flashing signs. But during the day, the theater district was dull and quiet.
After circling the same block twice, Fran finally found the 43rd St Theater. She stepped inside and could immediately hear the sounds of rehearsal coming from the stage. As quiet as she could be, Fran slipped into the auditorium and stood in the back near the doors. For a few minutes she watched the scene being rehearsed on stage and was instantly mesmerized by the young actor's powerful, yet gentle voice.
Once there was a break in rehearsal, Fran scanned the theater for Max. She found him sitting in the front row directly in front of the stage, one leg crossed over the other with a legal pad resting on his thigh. His suit jacket was draped over the armrest and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow. He was in his element and Fran was a little nervous about disturbing him.
She made her way to the front row and sat down next to him. He briefly glanced at her, not recognizing her as his mind was preoccupied.
"Fran?" He fully turned to face the woman who was seated next to him. "What are you doing here?" He took off his glasses and stuffed them in the pocket of his jacket.
"Hi, Max, I was wondering if you had a few minutes to talk?"
Maxwell looked to the stage then back to Fran. "Of course. One moment." He stood up and went over to who she assumed was the director.
When he returned he took her elbow and led her over to an area out of earshot from everyone else.
"What's on your mind?" he asked as he buttoned the top button of his shirt and straightened his tie.
"I've been thinking about your offer to have me stay and look after the kids. And . . . Well, I think it would be a great idea. The kids will enjoy themselves and it'll be nice to stay somewhere with more space. Not that I don't enjoy living in Queens, it's just that our apartment is rather small and it gets a little cramped at times, and I'm rambling now, I know." Fran looked away, feeling embarrassed. She never knew how to act around someone as sophisticated as Maxwell Sheffield.
"No, that's alright. I love listening to you talk."
She gazed back at him in surprise and couldn't help but smile. "You do? Even with my voice?"
"Yes." He moved closer to her. "It makes you unique. That's what I like about you, Fran. You're never plain or ordinary. You're . . . You."
Fran wasn't sure if he was complimenting her or not. But the softness of his voice told her that he was. "Um, what time should I be at the house?" she asked, trying to deflect the conversation.
Maxwell realized he'd been staring and nervously cleared his throat. "I have to be at the airport by four so anytime before then would be fine."
"Great! I look forward to it!"
"Yes, and so will the children."
Fran nodded her head, unsure of what to say next. "Well," Fran said, looking back at the group near the stage, "you must be busy. I'll let you get back to work."
Maxwell just stared at her, entranced. She was always so beautiful. He longed to tell her but felt too afraid to do so. Whenever he tried to express his feelings around her, it always seemed to put a strain on their friendship. Oh how he wished things were different between them - simpler. That way he could show her . . . tell her how he felt. But this was how it had to be.
"Right, yes." Max rubbed his hands together to curb his nervousness. "I'll see you Thursday, then?"
Fran nodded. "Thursday." She gave him a smile before she turned and headed for the exit, her thoughts swimming in anticipation of the days to come.
On Wednesday it was the warmest day of the week and Fran was anxious to get home. She could barely stand the train ride. It was stuffy and to her, felt even hotter than outside, and not to mention the smell - a mixture of sweat and body odor. She was just thankful that the few seats around her were empty.
When she finally unlocked the door to her apartment, Fran could smell something cooking in the kitchen. She smiled, thinking how wonderful John was making dinner for her. "Sweetie!" she called out to him from the entryway. She hung up her purse and set down her briefcase before meandering into the kitchen.
"Hey, how was your day?" John answered, looking up from his work at dicing a tomato.
"Long. I'm just glad to be home." She came up beside him and wrapped an arm around his waist, leaning up to place a kiss on his cheek. "What are you making?"
"It's a surprise." He smiled down at her with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Give me a hint?"
"Ok. It's something Italian."
Fran let out a breath of air and shook her head. "That could be anything. But I'll leave you to it. It isn't everyday when a woman gets to come home to her man cooking dinner."
"That's right. Now you go relax, and I'll have dinner on the table in forty-five minutes." He leaned over and kissed her lips, letting it linger, then gave her a gentle nudge out of the kitchen.
"Alright," she huffed in mock seriousness, "I'll let you and your culinary genius be." He let out a laugh and Fran smiled as she made her way to their bedroom to change out of her sweat-damped clothes. It was a good thing the air conditioning was functioning properly.
Fran was impressed by the dinner John had made. He'd been able to recreate one of her favorite entrees from the restaurant they often frequented. It was such a sweet gesture she couldn't help but tell him every other minute.
"You know you're the sweetest man ever?" she said before taking a drink from her wineglass.
"Yes, so I've heard, many times."
Fran put down her fork and looked down at her plate, contemplating on how to voice her next thoughts. "Sweetie, I was wondering how you feel about me looking after the Sheffield kids for a few days. Max will be out of town and he thought I might want to watch them while he's gone."
John furrowed his brows together and let out a frustrated sigh. "Honey, you know I don't object to your spending time with those kids, but that's all you do. I mean, we don't do things anymore like we used to - just you and me. You're always taking the kids somewhere or traipsing around with him doing-"
"Excuse me?" Fran replied incredulously. She dropped her fork and it let out a screech as it hit the ceramic plate.
"I was trying to say-"
"No! You were implying that I spend more time with Max than I do with you. By now, after three years together, you should know that you're the one I want to be with, John. This jealousy, it has to stop, right now!"
"Fran-" John tried to explain.
"He's my friend, John, and I do care about him. He's alone with three children, whom I love as if they were my own. Forgive me if I feel a little sympathy towards them." Fran stood up and dropped her napkin on the table, suddenly losing her appetite.
"Fran, give me a chance to explain. I didn't intend to jump to conclusions."
"I don't care. What you said was rude and uncalled for." Fran left the table and headed for their bedroom.
John sat in his chair and watched her retreating form, thinking how in the world he had messed things up so quickly.
Ten minutes later, Fran emerged from the bedroom with an overnight bag slung over her shoulder. John abruptly stood from his chair and followed her to the front door.
"Fran, wait! Where are you going?"
"I'm going to my mother's. I can't be here with you right now." She picked up her purse and rummaged through it, making sure she had enough change to get her over to Flushing.
"Fran, this is ridiculous." John took hold of her elbow but she jerked away from him. "Let's talk about this."
She gathered everything she needed and turned around to face him. "I have nothing to say to you."
"Well, when will you be back?"
"I don't know. I'll call you tomorrow." With that she opened the door and headed down the hallway.
When the door closed behind her, John reached up and ran his hands through his short hair. What was supposed to be a pleasant meal turned out to be a disaster. He knew he was at fault but couldn't understand her reason for leaving. Surely they could have talked it out, but for some reason Fran was insulted, hurt even, by his accusations.
Her irrational decision to leave suddenly angered him. He picked up his empty wineglass and threw it down at the kitchen floor. It shattered and the pieces scattered like a million tiny diamonds. His heart was beating faster by the minute and his chest heaved with every breath.
Looking down at the sparkling, shattered glass, John turned and grabbed his keys. He left the apartment, slamming the door shut as he went. If she wanted her space, fine. He could have his too.
John walked until he came across a bar on a corner. Anywhere with something strong would do, he thought.
Fran was seated on the bed in her childhood room at her parents' apartment. She wiped at the tears that had run from the corners of her eyes. She didn't mean to get so upset with him. The constant jealousy was just becoming too much for her though. She tried to tell herself over and over that things between her and Max had to change, but so far nothing was different. If anything they seemed to be getting closer.
She let out a frustrated sigh and reached for the tissue box. The tears just wouldn't stop. Things between her and John weren't over, but his attitude toward Max had to change. He was her friend, she had a right to spend time with him and his family. And if John didn't like it then . . . well, she wasn't sure what she would do. She just knew that if she had to choose she wouldn't be able to do it.
There was a knock on her door and Fran perked her head up. "Sweetheart?" came her mother's tender voice, none of the usual shrillness behind it.
"Yes, Ma?"
"Would you like some pie? It's pecan. I just bought it yesterday down at the bakery."
"And there's still some left?"
"Of course there is, sweetheart."
Fran could hear the smile in her mother's voice. "Ok. Just one slice." She wiped her eyes then stood up to look in the mirror. Her eyeliner was smudged and dried spots of mascara lined her cheeks.
After fixing and reapplying her makeup, Fran went out to the kitchen to join her mother. A single piece of pie was on a plate in the middle of the table. Her mother was at the stove stirring something in a pot. I don't know how she can still eat at this hour, Fran wondered, as she sat down at the table.
"Sweetheart, is everything alright? I know you didn't want to talk when you arrived but . . ."
"No, it's okay, Ma. I just didn't want to talk about it at first. But I've thought things over . . ."
"And?"
Fran was quiet for a few breaths as she picked apart and pushed around her piece of pie. "I don't know," she sighed. "I was a little too harsh with John. I should have stayed and worked it out with him, but I was so angry . . . So disappointed that he would say the things that he said."
Sylvia placed a cover over the pot on the stove then went to sit down across from her daughter. "Oh, sweetheart. Men can be a pain in the tuches sometimes but in the end we tend to forgive and let go - at least most of the time." That got a smile out of Fran.
"Thanks, Ma, but . . ." Fran sighed again then shoved her plate aside. "Everything's just too complicated." She could feel the tears pooling in her eyes and looked away from her mother.
Sylvia's face softened at her daughter's distress. Though she had a pretty good idea what all this was about. "It's that other man, isn't it?"
Fran sniffled and looked back to her mother. "What other man? There isn't anyone else."
"The one with the kids you spend a lot of time with. Mr. . . .?"
"Max? You think he's the other man? Ma, please, we're just friends, that's it. I do care about him, but John's the man that I love. And now I yelled at him and he probably hates me for leaving."
Sylvia reached over and took Fran's hands in her own. "Sweetheart, if you really love John and want to be with him then you wouldn't be here sulking. You know that no matter what you decide I'll always be here for you."
Fran nodded. "I know, Ma, and I love you, but there's nothing to decide."
"Ok, sweetheart." Sylvia paused, thinking of some way to cheer up her daughter. "How about tomorrow we pick up Yetta at the home and go out for a big lunch?"
"I'd like that."
Sylvia smiled and touched Fran's cheek briefly before getting up and checking the pot on the stove.
Fran watched her mother for a moment then looked down at the table. She noticed the slice of pie she left untouched and reached over for the plate. She'd have to remember to lessen her visits to her mother's, otherwise she was going to have a hard time fitting into her wedding dress. Just the thought of slipping into that beautiful gown she picked out months ago brought a much needed smile to her lips.
Early the next morning Fran returned home to the apartment. The rays of the morning sun lit the kitchen and living room. Their dinner from last night was still sitting on the dining table, just as it was when she left. A sparkle caught Fran's eye and when she walked into the kitchen, she realized there was glass scattered across the linoleum floor.
"John?" Fran called out. When she received no answer Fran retreated to their bedroom. The room was empty. The bed was still neatly made from the previous day. The bathroom was empty as well. For a moment Fran thought he might have gone into work early but noticed his suits were still neatly aligned in their closet. In the mornings he always left his clothes amiss when dressing and she usually tidied up his side after he left.
But Fran began to grow worried that something might have happened to him. She decided to call Harry, one of John's closest friends.
"Thank God, I've been so worried," Fran said into the phone. "Is he okay . . . ? Can you drive him over . . . ? Good, thanks, Harry." After hanging up the phone, Fran went back to the kitchen and cleaned up the broken glass and their spoiled meal, then sat down on the couch and silently waited.
After sitting for nearly half an hour, Fran finally heard a knock on the door. She wiped away a stray tear and rushed to the door, frantically unlocking it and pulling it open.
"Hi, Fran," their friend Harry said as he led a groggy-looking John through the doorway.
"Thank you so much, Harry." Fran put an arm around John's waist and guided him over to the couch where he sank heavily into it.
Harry was standing awkwardly in the entryway fiddling with his keys. "He should be fine, just a little too much to drink last night." He paused then hesitated before asking, "Is everything okay? I mean, John doesn't usually drink on a weekday, so when I got a call from him late last night. . . ."
Fran turned around from her spot on the couch. "Everything's fine," she lied. "I don't know what possessed him to go out."
Harry nodded meekly and turned to go. "Well, bye Fran. John will be fine, give him some time."
Fran smiled as she ran her fingers over John's hair. "Thank you for taking care of him."
"Anytime." He waved and let himself out.
After the door clicked shut, Fran turned her attention back to John, who was now asleep and partially slumped over. "Don't you ever do that to me again," she said to him. His response was a light snore. Fran angrily wiped at her tear-stained face, stood up, and retrieved a blanket and draped it over him.
After leaving a glass of water on the coffee table, Fran went to their bedroom and started packing for her weekend at the Sheffield household.
