20. Ode To Barbra Joan

"Do you realize, Miss Babcock, that if Miss Fine marries your father, she could become your new mummy?"

Miss Babcock fainted.

Niles' laughter stuck unpleasantly in his throat. He rushed to catch her, but it was too late. He knelt down on the carpet, ignoring the screaming pain from his corns, and stared down at her face.

She was pale as newsprint and, from this angle, it was obvious she'd been crying. Her mascara couldn't hide the swollen redness around her eyes. Somehow, when Miss Fine had keeled over with excitement after being invited to the Barbra Streisand concert, it hadn't been quite the same thing.

"Oh my Gawd, Niles, is she okay?" Miss Fine wrung her hands. "Did she hit her head? Should we call an ambulance or somethin'?"

Cautiously, he eased one hand under her head and felt for injuries. Her hair was very soft. He hadn't expected that. For God's sake, man, focus.

She wasn't hurt, as far as he could tell. The wave of relief that crashed through him at this fact, making him weak in the knees, appalled him. He needed a zinger, quickly, before Miss Fine's shrewd dark eyes saw right through him.

"Well, if she had hit her head, I doubt we'd notice a difference, but she's fine."

"Thank God!" Miss Fine caught herself. "Oy. Never thought I'd say that."

"Help me shift her, would you please? Mr. Sheffield doesn't like the drawing room cluttered."

"Right. I'll take the shoulders, you take the feet."

"And let's disarm her of those dangerous stilettos while we're at it."

They settled her on the sofa, their movements much more gentle than their words implied. Watching Miss Fine arrange the pillows beneath Miss Babcock's head, Niles had a curious sensation he couldn't pin down. How strange, to see C. C. Babcock being taken care of by a woman she hated. She'd probably be outraged if she knew. Almost as outraged as if the caregiver were himself.

"Niles," said Miss Fine, sotto voce, or as much so as her voice permitted. "I think I know what's wrong with her."

"Oh? Perhaps you should write a paper. I'm sure the New York psychiatrists' association would be fascinated."

"She misses her daddy." She reached out to brush a loose strand of hair from the unconscious woman's forehead. "And here's me hoggin' all the guy's attention. No wonder. I could kick myself if it weren't a waste of these shoes."

Niles thought of Morty Fine, his grunted answers to any question and his habit of disappearing into the other room whenever his wife and daughter were around. He had seen his friend looking wistfully at a closed door more than once. No wonder she understood what Miss Babcock was going through.

He understood, too. That didn't stop him from being irritated.

His own father had died of a heart attack years ago. He'd give anything to talk to him again. Seeing Miss Babcock's tell-him-I'm-not-here signals when Mr. Babcock had called on the phone still rubbed Niles the wrong way.

"It's absurd," he grumbled. "Utterly absurd. If she wants to go to the concert with him so bloody much, why not tell him? I always knew she was a few knives short of a picnic, but this - "

"I know!" Miss Fine rolled her eyes. "And if she won't tell him, I will."

Niles startled. "You'd do that? Give up your ticket to the concert?"

Miss Fine shuddered and set her teeth, as if the idea were equivalent to giving up her right hand. "Oy, Niles, don't talk so loud! Ma might hear ya from clear across the city! But I may have to."

"Miss Fine, you're a saint."

"I wish." She sighed. He imagined visions of Barbra swirling around her head.

He looked over at Miss Babcock, who still lay on the sofa with her eyes closed, looking small and frail and like the kitten her father had nicknamed her. It was disconcerting. Any minute now, she would wake up and be as caustic as ever. But in the meantime, he had to clench his fists to stop himself from stroking her hair.