Chapter Four
Niles uncapped the jar of eucalyptus oil, dipping his digits into the gooey elixir and expelling a sigh of gloom.
Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since Miss Babcock entered his room the previous afternoon. Yet the aroma of C.C.'s lilac perfume still clung to the air particles. Despite a stuffy nose, the butler's olfactory nerves managed to detect the enchanting fragrance.
Niles remained unsure as to what compelled him to behave so despicably towards C.C. Force of habit, perhaps. But that explanation was far too simple.
And, if the butler would bring himself to admit it, far too inaccurate.
Conceivably, beneath the myriad layers of animosity lay a burgeoning feeling of . . .
Of what exactly?
Affection?
Love?
Desire?
No. Unfathomable. Never. Entirely out of the realm of possibility.
A lowly house servant lusting after a posh Park Avenue businesswoman? Even if he were cuckoo for CaCa, the likelihood of the feeling being mutual was slim to none. According to Niles's calculations, he had a far greater chance of being appointed Queen of England.
The butler felt utterly farmisht, farkakt, and verklempt. On top of that, his contemplation had resulted in a perennial migraine.
"You want me to talk to her? You're gonna need to cut back on the slurpees, sweetie," Fran frowned, stroking Gracie's mousy brown cranium. "All that frozen gook is causing permanent brain-freeze."
"But, Fran, think about it," the girl persisted. "If C.C. starts dating Niles, maybe she'll forget all about Daddy. It's the perfect way to kill the competition . . . metaphorically speaking, of course."
"Uh, the competition?" Miss Fine echoed, her voice rising in pitch. Were her feelings for Maxwell that obvious?
"Fran, everyone knows you have a crush on Daddy. The mailman, the pizza delivery boy, the seniors at Grandma Yetta's retirement home, the-"
"All right already!" the nanny interposed. "I do not have a crush on your father."
"De-ni-al," crooned Gracie, wagging her index finger at Fran.
"Well, maybe I do have a teensy, weensy, little, itty bitty crush . . ."
The pint-sized psychoanalyst patted the elder female on the shoulder. "There. That wasn't so hard to admit, now was it?"
"Are you patronizing me? You're patronizing me, aren't you? I can't believe I'm being patronized by someone who hasn't even reached double digits yet!"
"I'm wise beyond my years," Grace rationalized with a casual shrug. "What can I say?"
"Is that a 'yes'?"
"A heart-to-heart? Nanny Fine, I really don't have time for idle chatter. I have work to do. Unlike you, I actually have a job that matters."
Letting the insult roll off her back, the nanny guided the squirming worm of a woman into the kitchen. Once ensconced at the table, Fran clasped her hands together, resting them atop the surface. Silence descended, and for a moment, she and C.C. resembled mourners sitting shive.
"Genug is genug."
Two tweezed eyebrows narrowed in bewilderment. "What?"
"Enough is enough," the caregiver translated.
The blonde's lacquered fingernails began drumming on the tabletop. "Enough what is enough what?" the vexed vixen probed, frustration escalating rapidly.
"This whole denial thing. You know, denial is a very unattractive quality, Miss Babcock. Not to mention, it speeds up the aging process. It's already taken at least three years off your life."
"Nanny Fine, is there a point to this prattle?" A few more minutes alone with this babbling brunette, and the businesswoman would be entertaining – and acting on – thoughts of a homicidal nature.
"My point is: you like Niles, Niles likes you. Everyone knows it – the mailman, the pizza delivery guy, the old folks at Yetta's retirement home. So, why fight it? Just face it – you and Niles are condemned to coupledom. You're-"
"Genug!" Miss Babcock growled. Fran had struck a nerve, and it was clear from the blonde's countenance that C.C. was quivering in her pricey pumps. Externally, she maintained a dour demeanor. "Words of wisdom from someone who thinks that the 'Für Elise' is a type of winter coat," she jeered.
"For your information, Miss Babcock, the 'Für Elise' is a musical piece written by Beethoven." While Fran's alabaster complexion glowed, C.C.'s drained of pigmentation. To further incite her nemesis, the knowledgeable nanny continued, "That's Beethoven the composer, not the Saint Bernard."