Back to Fan FictionGo back to Parts One through Four
(Parts Five through Eight)
Contributing Authors: Contributing Authors: Abby, Ari, Rokay and "Evangeline"
Back at the house, Abby adds:
INT. KITCHEN - NEXT DAY
Niles and Fran are busy preparing food for the evening's festivities.
There are pots and pans and platters all over. Niles is rolling out
dough for cookies; a dab of flour decorates the tip of his nose. His
apron is stained with various hints of culinary delights. Fran's is
impeccably clean.
The phone rings.
FRAN
I'll get it ... Rudolph.
[she dabs Niles' nose with a cloth as she picks up the phone; he
sneezes]
Gezundtheit ... I mean hello! ...
[Niles stares at the dough, realizing he has just sneezed into it]
He's not here right now. Can I take a message?
[she writes as Niles grabs the dough, dumps it onto the floor and does
a Flamenco dance on top of it]
Uh-huh, uh-huh ... OK. And your name? .... No, really. Oh. You're
kidding. Your mother named you Remington Stormington? How long
was she in labor? ... hello? ... hello?
Huh! Did you ever? The longer the name, the ruder they are!
[she hangs up, pulls out a nail file, and sits at the table]
Niles, how long are those cookies gonna take?
INT. KITCHEN - A BIT LATER
Niles is now busy making stuffed mushrooms. Fran is "supervising."
Sylvia enters from the side door.
SYLVIA
Hello, bubala.
FRAN
Ma, what are you doin' here?
SYLVIA
I came to help.
[she sashays over help Fran "supervise." They both watch Niles stuff
the fungi]
Uh, darling ... you're doing that wrong.
NILES
Pardon me?
SYLVIA
The mushrooms. They should be fuller.
NILES
This from the woman whose idea of gourmet is taking the Mu shu
*out* of the cartons!
SYLVIA
Hey, are you paying for this advice?
FRAN
Maaaa, you're distracting him. Do like me and stay out of the way.
NILES
(sotto) That's an understatement.
FRAN
OK, how can we help?
NILES
See that door?
FRAN
No, c'mon. I can cook.
[silence]
All right, so I can't cook. But I can clean up!
[silence]
SYLVIA
Darling, you wouldn't know a brillo pad from a broomstick.
[Fran thinks hard]
FRAN
*So?*
NILES
Miss Fine, do you think you can boil a pot of water?
FRAN
(to Sylvia) Huh! Piece of cake.
[she pulls a frying pan of the cupboard and holds it up for Sylvia to
see; Niles turns around quickly, bonking his head on the pot and
knocking himself out]
CC enters briskly.
CC
Hello, hel ... Oh Niles, for heaven's sake. Taking a break *now?*
[Fran wears a guilty expression]
(anxious) Nanny Fine, why is our cook sleeping on the kitchen floor
mere hours before our biggest backer's party of the year? Please tell
me he's sleeping. Please ...
[she grabs Fran by the shirt]
Please!!!
[Fran shakes her head "no" as CC lets her go]
(increasingly hysterical) Nooo, no, no. This isn't happening. It's a
joke, right? OK, Niles ... up off the floor. Veeeerrrry funny. Boy, you
really got me this time. Come on ... *up* off the floor. *Come* on ....
Oh Niles, PLEASE get up! I'm-sorry-for-anything-I've-ever-done-to-you-
you're-right-I'm-such-a-witch-now-just-GET-UUUUPPPPPP!!!!!!!!
SYLVIA
I think he's drooling.
INT. KITCHEN - LATER
The kitchen is a disaster area. Pots and pans are strewn willy-nilly,
smoke escapes from the oven, CC and Fran are completely disheveled
and covered in various samples of food. CC is chopping liver in the
blender; Fran is making rice.
[Fran shakes a large box of rice]
FRAN
How much of this do I use?
CC
How the hell should I know? Just dump in all in - it's a long guest list.
[Fran pours the entire box into pot, then adds water so that it spills
over the top]
FRAN
There. That should be enough. What time is it?
CC
What do I look like, Big Ben?
FRAN
Huh! Just 'cause *you've* been to Rome ...
[CC spoons a very thick substance into the blender]
Excuse me, Julia Childish, but what is that?
CC
Pate, Nanny Fine. Liver, chopped onions and egg. It's a delicacy.
FRAN
For who? Lassie?
[CC presses a button; the blender spins once, then gets stuck and
hums]
Uh, I think it's a little thick.
CC
Nonsense, it's supposed to be rich.
[she opens the top and sticks a spoon in; suddenly, the appliance spins
at high speed, sending pate all over the room and directly onto CC's
hair; she stands there, stunned, as Fran stares, dumbstruck; CC turns
off the blender and slowly wipes pate out of her eyes]
If you say one word ...
FRAN
Oh, one wouldn't be nearly enough... Hey, what's that smell?
[she turns around just in time to see the rice boiling over the pot and
cascading down the front of the stove like a carbohydrate Blob. The
two gourmets grab several pots and try to salvage the oozing mass,
slipping on the slick floor along the way and covering themselves in
rice and pate]
INT. KITCHEN - EVENING
The room is returned to its original state. Fran enters from upstairs in
a short, snug, ruby red sequin cocktail dress, humming pleasantly. CC
enters from the hall in a long, elegant white satin dress, whistling.
Niles enters in a tuxedo, rubbing his head and moaning. Fran and CC
both casually tap their fingernails along the counter. The doorbell
rings. They suddenly bolt for the door. Several Chinese men enter,
carrying trays upon trays of little white boxes. Niles stares at the
proceedings in shock.
CC
(gesturing) Just put everything inside - there's plenty of serving dishes
all laid out.
[the men file through the kitchen and out the swinging door. Fran is in
deep discussion with one of the men]
FRAN
The bill goes to Sheffield. S-H-E-F ...
****
Ari adds:
Niles snickered at Fran and C.C. "Two females hit the kitchen, the
food's three quarter's of the way there, and they still manage to screw it
up!" Niles said breaking out into a laugh, as the women glared back at
him.
"Niles!" Fran whined.
"What a sexist thing to say, Julia Child-less! I'm insulted!" C.C.
responded haughtily.
"Oh, very sorry. One female, and one canine hit the kitchen..."
Niles was cut off as C.C. slapped his shoulder.
Just then Maxwell entered the room, all decked out in his tux.
"What's going on here?" he asked the three stooges.
The women were drawn to him like bees to honey, their eyes nearly
popping out of their skulls.
"Maxwell, you look fabulous!" C.C. exclaimed, her hands coming
to her cheeks, as she stared at the fine specimen before her.
"Hey, ho, Mr. Sheffield, looking good!" Fran cheered, giving Max a
quick hug.
"Well, thank you, C.C., Miss Fine. Oh, The food looks delicious! I
had no idea you were going dim sun. Not very Christmassy, but with
all the Christmas parties, I think people will like the change of pace.
Great idea! Good work, Niles... and C.C., and Fran!" he added,
grabbing a dumpling and quickly retreating, having forgotten the
women's participation.
Fran sighed. "All in a days work," she stated, as Niles gave her a
reproachful look. She sat down, leaning back into the chair.
Suddenly the doorbell rang, as the first guests arrived ten minutes
early. Niles grabbed the hors d'oeuvres, and followed C.C. out of the
kitchen and into their usual respective roles.
At exactly the same moment, Fran heard a rapping on the back
door. She looked up to see her mother and Grandma Yetta smiling
and waving. She let them in, giving them each a hug. "As the gentiles
say, Merry Christmas!" she said, releasing her grandma. The short
wrinkled woman had a black cocktail dress on that wiped the floor, as
if it were too long for its wearer. Her mother's dress was less
simplistic as it sparkled, and hugged her plump form.
"Ma, you look fabulous!" Fran stated, holding her mother at arms
length to get a better view.
"Thank you darling, sorry we're late, your father thought so too!"
she said with a wry smile, knowing the response she'd get out of her
daughter.
"Ma, please," Fran scolded. "Anyway, you're not late, you're early.
The party doesn't start for ten minutes. The first guests just only
arrived," Fran explained.
"Who's talking party, I meant for dinner! Sweetheart, you know
how I get if I don't eat before a social event," Sylvia warned.
"I'm still remembering cousin Rose's wedding! You know, until that
day, I never knew wood was the sixth food group," Fran joked.
"Don't get smart, and bring me a baby spare rib, would ya?" Sylvia
asked.
Through the whole Fine fashion and food review, neither had
noticed Yetta milling about the kitchen. She washed her hands for
dinner, then grabbed a dumpling. At 87 years old, one fat one was a
meal. Then she went to work. She sifted through her purse until she
felt the tiny one ounce bottle tap her withered fingers. She pulled it
out, and removed the cap. Now she had to decide what dish to taint
with the concoction. As she looked around, nothing came to mind.
Everything was too solid, and the black of the liquid would give away
the game. Then her eyes came to rest on the large dipping bowl of
soy sauce, and she smiled. Perfect! The stuff was tasteless, and would
mix easily with the sauce. She also knew that everybody dipped
something, noodles, vegetables, or dumplings in the soy sauce when
having Chinese for dinner. When her Frannie and her grandson-in-law
did so, the spark was sure to come back into their marriage. She'd
have more great grandchildren yet, and her own bundle of joy would
stop bemoaning the fact that her daughter wasn't married. Of course,
the contradictions in her thinking never occurred to her, as she happily
mixed her old world love potion into the soy sauce. Then she took
another dumpling, eating it dry.
Niles then walked into the kitchen, and grabbed the bowl, not even
noticing the Yiddish woman was suspiciously close to all the food. He
walked back out into the hall.
"Wait, where's he going with your dinner?" Yetta asked, concerned.
"Yet-ta, that foods not for dinner, that's for the party!" Fran
informed the matriarch.
"Speak for yourself," Sylvia said, finishing her sixth spare rib.
Yetta walked out of the kitchen as fast as her two old feet could
carry her. She'd forgotten that her granddaughter was rich and they ate
in a dining room. A few people were mingling, and she notice the
blond floozy who was always after her son-in-law, dipping a baby corn
into the bowl as the butler put it on the table near her. Words were
exchanged between the woman and the servant, as he dipped a small
rib for himself. A tiny part of her was relieved when they both bit
their food, at least the hussy wouldn't make a play for her favorite son-
in-law, but as more and more well dressed people came over to the
table, her muscles tightened. Yetta frowned. "Uh Oh!!!"
*******
Rokay adds:
"Ma! You did what?!" Sylvia screamed. In her shock she dropped
the partially eaten fried wonton she was holding. Scanning the kitchen
quickly, she picked it up again, blew on it lightly and popped it into
her mouth. It was still perfectly all right, she reasoned. Niles kept
these floors spotless. As she chewed, her concerned expression
became more thoughtful. "Does it really work?" she inquired of the
older woman.
"Does it work?" Yetta repeated scornfully. "Didn't I learn it from
Bubbe Sophie? Didn't she learn it from her mother and her mother
before that?" She dismissed her daughter's question with a wave of
her hand. "No girl in the old country ever lost her husband when she
used this stuff. No girl in the old country went without a husband
when she used this stuff."
"Then why didn't you give it to Franny before?!" Sylvia screamed
again. "She and Mr. Sheffield could have been married already!" This
last was close to a wail.
The old woman's look of ridicule increased. Sometimes her
daughter made no sense at all. "Why would we want her to marry him,
when she's already married to that handsome, rich guy?"
"Hunh? Ma, who're you talking about?" In her confusion, Sylvia
chewed her food all the faster.
Then, as if a soap opera actress turned TV sitcom director had
instructed him to do such a thing, Maxwell, tall and handsome in his
tuxedo, his hair perfect, strode into the kitchen right on cue. "Him!"
Yetta pointed.
Sylvia stared. "That IS Mr. Sheffield, Ma!"
"You see?" Yetta shrugged, her point proven. "The potion is
working already."
Max made no response, he asked no questions. Whatever Fran's
mother and grandmother were discussing, he didn't want to know.
With a nervous smile, rather the same sort of smile he might reserve
for the first stages of motion sickness, he merely added some ice to a
glass he was holding and left the kitchen without a sound.
***
"Ma! She did what?!" Fran screamed. In her shock and dismay,
she dropped the half-eaten shrimp she was holding. Sylvia glanced
quickly around the kitchen, then retrieved it, wiping the boiled
crustacean on her napkin before finishing the last bite and tossing the
tail section into the trash. No sense in letting it go to waste. These
were jumbo shrimp.
"A love potion," she told her daughter for the second time. "In the
soy sauce."
"Oh my God!" Fran exclaimed. "How could she do this? This is a
very important party to Max. He's going to kill me!"
Sylvia blinked in surprise. She even stopped chewing for a
moment. "Since when do you call Mr. Sheffield 'Max'?"
Fran shrugged and shook her head. "Oh, I don't really. They won't
let me yet. Always with the 'oh, we don't want to move the
relationship along too fast' business," she whined, her frustration with
the writers and producers coming to the fore. "But I think it's time!"
And her mother nodded her agreement.
Fran took a deep breath and steeled herself for what was to come,
the inevitable moment when she had to go back out there and tell Max
what Yetta had done. He'd undoubtedly be angry. He'd certainly yell
at her. Those greenish-brownish eyes of his would start shooting off
sparks, and then that front lock of hair would fall down across his
forehead. He'd probably chase her around the house again
and....maybe this time if she was lucky he'd actually catch her. Her
heels were unusually high tonight, and the shoes themselves were new,
still slippery on the bottom. Thinking quickly, she snatched up her
mother's purse and pulled out a compact, checking her make-up and
then her teeth. Perfect. She adjusted the top of her dress, making sure
her cleavage was just so. Another deep breath and she was out the
kitchen door to find Max. If she had to face his wrath, there was no
time like the present.
***
"She did what?!" he demanded incredulously.
"I know, I know," Fran shook her head, all the while looking as
remorseful as she possibly could. "I don't know what to say. You're
probably just furious, aren't you?"
Max's eyes traveled over her as she leaned against his office door.
Her hair was pinned up most becomingly, at least he thought it was her
hair. Lately, it seemed to look different every time he saw her and he
was never quite sure where she left off and a wig began. But as for
that snug little dress, there wasn't anything artificial hiding in there.
She looked beautiful tonight. And very, very sexy. Being furious with
her was the furthest thing from his mind. To her he said, "Well, no,
I'm not angry exactly. What's supposedly in this stuff anyway?"
She paused a moment before answering. Why did he have to be so
impossible to predict?! "You're not angry? My grandmother slips an
olde world love potion into the food at your big, fancy Christmas party
and you're not angry?"
He laughed. "I'll be angry if it makes anyone ill. That's why I want
to know what's in it. But as far as the whole love potion thing is
concerned, surely you don't expect me to be worried about that?"
"Are you saying you don't believe in the power of magic spells?"
She waggled a finger at him, and he laughed harder.
"Oh come on, Miss Fine. Magic spells and hocus pocus and people
falling under enchantment?" He rolled his eyes at her. "I may not be
the foremost authority on matters of the heart..."
"You can say that again!" she chided.
And that did annoy him. "Fine, I'm not an expert on the subject at
all." He moved her out of his way and began to exit the office.
"Unless there's something else, I've got to get back to my guests. At
least I do know better than to believe that love can come in a bottle."
"Oh yeah," she called after him. "Well, you've obviously never
tried the Godiva chocolate liqueur!" Disappointed and irritated, she
sat down on his couch in a huff.
Max ignored her final remark and kept going. If there were any
more superstitious people in all the world than the Fine family he
didn't want to meet them. Love potions! Magic spells! He was still
thinking about their foolish gullibility when he spied George Hearn
dancing a one-man tango on the coffee table to the enthusiastic
applause of Bebe Neuwirth. And he'd just pulled his eyes from that
sight, when he glanced up and caught a glimpse of Marvin Hamlisch
sliding down the stair banister like a kid of 8. Slowly, and with
mounting horror, he began a tour of his Christmas party, cataloging the
indiscretions as he went.
***
Fran had only just emerged from his office when Max came rushing
up to her and caught her by the arm, half-dragging her back inside and
shutting the door behind them. Maybe that love potion of Yetta's was
going to do the trick after all, she thought hopefully. And then she saw
the look on his face. He was livid. Once again, she'd misjudged his
mood.
"I still don't know who invited him," Max fumed, "but I just saw
Andrew Lloyd Webber chasing Carol Channing up the stairs, and he
was wearing her feather boa! And by the way," his tone now rising on
every syllable as he fairly spat his words, "you might be interested to
know that Ernest Borgnine thinks your mother is Ethel Merman and
wants to effect a reconciliation!! And I can't find Niles or C.C.
anywhere!" He laughed suddenly, mirthlessly, in a way that made
Fran realize just how angry he really was this time. "Tell me," he
asked her, "has your entire family made it their life's work to ruin me?
Or do you all just want to see me in an early grave from terminal
ulcers?!"
She put a hand on his arm to try and calm him a little but he shook
her off. ''I'm sorry!" she told him. "It's not like I knew she was going
to do this!"
"Yes, but now it's done, isn't it?!" He continued to shout. "So tell
me, just what are we supposed to do about that...that spectacle out
there?!"
"I don't know."
"Well, is there an antidote?!!"
"I don't know! It's not my potion! You'll have to talk to Yetta!"
Now she was shouting, too.
"Ah, yes, Yetta! The Yiddish Marie Laveau!" He ran his fingers
through his hair and tried to regain a little composure. "All right. I
will go speak to your grandmother and try to make her understand how
important this is. You," he pointed a finger directly into her face, "will
get out there and try to advise the guests against swinging on the light
fixtures. And if you run across Niles or C.C., tell them what's
happened and get them to help you. Maybe we can all still keep this
out of the papers if no one actually gets arrested!"
***
Trying to ignore all else, he found his quarry emerging from the
downstairs bathroom. Very gently, considering where his temper was
headed, Max shoved Yetta ahead of him, through the dining room and
into the kitchen, surprised, but relieved to find it temporarily
unoccupied. As calmly as he could manage, he placed both hands on
her petite shoulders and began to speak, carefully measuring his words
in the vague hope that a display of serenity would somehow help her
make more sense of his plea.
"Yetta, I know about this potion of yours," he explained quietly.
"Your granddaughter told me all about it. Now I don't care what's in
it, and I don't care why you did it. Just please, please tell me, for the
love of God, tell me that's there's an antidote." That was good, he
thought. He sounded perfectly tranquil. She'd give him the answer he
wanted and, someway, the party could still be salvaged.
The elderly woman nodded at him. "Of course, there's an antidote.
For every potion there's an antidote, for every spell there's a cure."
Max almost kissed her. "Oh, thank God!" he exclaimed.
She was still nodding. "I don't know how to make it."
He sagged away from her and leaned against the counter, its
substance giving him something stable to hang onto. With remarkable
restraint, he kept his voice under control. What good was yelling at a
senile senior citizen going to do him anyway? No one in the theatrical
community was going to be speaking to him by tomorrow. "Are you
trying to tell me that we just have to wait for...," he waved his arm
about in the air, " 'all this' to wear off, and in the meantime I'm just
going to have a house full of...." He paused as the back door opened,
emitting Niles and C.C., both looking slightly disheveled, both
walking quickly through the kitchen and out again without a word or
sideways glance. "That." Max pointed distastefully at the still
swinging door.
Yetta was patting his hand. "You should thank me that floozy
found someone else to chase. I only did this for you and Franny. Why
don't you go try some of that sauce before it's all gone? Then go find
my granddaughter and give her a happy holiday she'll never forget."
He knew before he opened his mouth that he'd regret it, but he
couldn't help himself. "What are you talking about?" he asked
plaintively. "What do you mean you did this for us?"
"To help your marriage," she explained with exasperation.
Honestly, she loved her grandson-in-law, but he was dense sometimes.
She gestured him over to the kitchen table, sitting down herself and
waving him toward the chair beside her.
With resignation, Max did as she compelled. What did it matter?
What else did he have to do?
"You think I don't know you've been having problems?" she told
him. "I wanted to help. I want you two to be happy again." She
nudged him wisely. "Have another baby."
Max looked at her dully. He rubbed a hand over his face with a
sigh and tried to decide how to extricate himself from this
conversation before things got worse. "But Yetta," he almost whined,
"we're not ma...." He stopped himself and sighed again. She believed
what she believed. She had meant well. The Fines always meant well.
The resulting disasters were never intentional. He patted her hand.
"We're not...exactly having problems," he said, his voice soft and
serious, avoiding condescension. "We're just..going through a phase, I
think. It happens."
"But the important thing is," Yetta was tapping the tabletop with a
finger for emphasis, "you still love each other. She loves you. And,"
she poked him with the same finger that had just been tapping, "I
know you love her. You can't tell me different. I see. I know." She
fixed his confused hazel eyes steadily with her own, suddenly
remarkably clear, dark eyes and challenged him with her gaze to deny
her words.
He started to laugh. He started to tell her, politely, that none of this
was any of her business and he should never have begun discussing it
with her. He started to tell her she was wrong. And then he heard
himself admitting, "You see a lot, Yetta."
She smiled triumphantly. "Then that's all right. As long as you still
feel like that, you two will be all right."
"I don't know that it's that simple," he said ruefully.
"Of course it is!" Her index finger was poking his arm again. "You
love each other enough, everything else takes care of itself! There's
just one thing you gotta do," she instructed. "You have to tell her. Not
me."
Max leaned his elbows on the table and looked at his companion
appraisingly. "Why is it I'm suddenly overcome with the feeling that
you know a lot more than you let on?"
She winked and smiled conspiratorially. "Son, when you're my age
and everyone thinks you're half-meshugge, you find out everything."
And he began to laugh, a laugh of genuine amusement, for the first
time since the 'S.S. Fire & Ice' had begun to sink.
He really was adorable, Yetta thought to herself. No wonder her
precious granddaughter was so crazy about him. She hoped this little
talk had helped, and that they got busy soon. It was time for another
great-grandchild and she was wishing for another boy. That Schmuey
kid was sweet, but he just didn't look like anyone else in the family.
Aloud, she said, "And remember my advice. Have another baby."
Max's laughter slowed, and he shook his head at her in affectionate
bewilderment. Slowly, he leaned forward and kissed her gently on the
cheek. And with a wink of his own, he placated her. "Why don't you
let me work that out with your granddaughter, and we'll get back to
you?" He rose to his feet, and helped her up beside him. "Come on;
let's go see what other odd couples that potion of yours has brought
together."
*******
"Evangeline" adds:
In the end, it wasn't so bad really, Fran thought. Oh, there had been
the rather surreal moment when Tommy Tune began singing "Mad
About The Boy" to Ed Koch, while Jerry Herman backed him up on
piano, but then Ed had joined Tommy in a rousing rendition of
"Bosom Buddies" and all had seemed quite right with the world. Niles
and C.C. had disappeared again, but no one was truly worried about
their safety or their whereabouts. Max had had to sternly convince a
smitten Savion Glover that Yetta was perhaps not the perfect addition
to the first road company of "Bring In Da Noise, Bring In Da Funk",
but Savion was young and would recover from the disappointment.
And as the gathering wound down and she and Max checked all
rooms, hallways, and closets for lingering guests, everyone kept
congratulating him on throwing the best Christmas party they'd ever
attended. His spirits improved with each compliment though, she'd
noticed, his mood had been pretty good ever since he'd had that talk
with Yetta. Fran still didn't understand that one, anymore than she'd
understood Yetta giving her a knowing nudge and telling her to be sure
to shop the after Christmas sales for baby things so she'd have less to
buy next year. But then, making sense of Yetta's sayings was often
best left unattempted.
As Fran walked down the stairs from checking on the kids - the
girls had been asleep, Brighton had been chatting away on his
computer and she'd left him to it - she saw Max waiting for her on the
sofa, the lights in the living room dimmed. Slowly, she walked up
behind him and placed her hands on the back of his neck, rubbing
lightly. "Got rid of the last of them?" she asked, indicating the
departed guests.
He exhaled his relief, "Finally! Now with any luck, that mysterious
potion will also induce a nice safe case of amnesia in everyone after a
good night's sleep." Fran giggled as he leaned his head back to look up
at her and placed a hand over one of hers on his shoulder. "Before you
turn in, how about joining me for a little cognac? Relax a while?"
A glance at the coffee table showed her two Baccarat snifters, side
by side, cognac poured and waiting. Moving to the front of the couch,
she sat down, smiling at him. "Well, considering you already poured it,
I wouldn't want it to go to waste."
A strand of her hair had escaped its pin and fallen in front of her
face. Max reached for it, carefully tucking it behind her ear and
allowing his hand to rest against her neck, his thumb gently stroking
her cheek. "I was assuming you'd say yes," he admitted, smiling back
at her.
They gazed fondly at one another for several moments, she only
gradually aware of the sound of her own heartbeat, loud in her ears,
faster than it should be. She hoped sincerely that he couldn't hear it,
too, but it seemed deafening to her and she didn't know how he could
fail to notice. If only he didn't look so incredibly handsome tonight.
She'd hardly been able to look at anything else all evening. And now,
he'd removed his jacket and tie, and undone the top two studs of his
shirt so he looked even sexier than he had when wearing the whole
tuxedo. Even in shadows, with the main sources of light coming from
the waning fire in the fireplace and the Christmas tree's twinkling
bulbs, she could see him easily enough. Abruptly, she lowered her
eyes, concerned suddenly that he would read her emotions all too
clearly on her face.
She looked beautiful. All evening, despite the insanity breaking
forth around him, he'd barely been able to take his eyes off her. He'd
watched her gestures, her walk, her dark eyes looking back at him as
though he were the only man in the room. And that red-sequined dress
was raising more than his temperature. Not that it mattered what she
wore. He'd love her in anything. He'd love her in nothing. And
THAT was a thought he needed to get out of his brain, and now! He
wasn't allowed to think such things in an 8:00 time slot. The last time
he'd felt this desperate they'd been on vacation. He, of course, never
did get to see her tattoo, but he had come away with a whole new
affection for the game of Ping-Pong. Quickly, nervously, he reached
for the two glasses, handing one to her. He swirled the deep-copper-
colored liquid around in his glass, the same color as the highlights of
her hair when touched by the fireplace's glow.
"To your grandmother," he toasted. "A very wise woman."
She stared at him dumbfounded. She sniffed her cognac. "How
much of this have you had tonight?" she asked suspiciously.
He chuckled, understanding her confusion. "Not as much as I
needed to get through Nathan Lane's fifth reprise of 'Comedy
Tonight'," he joked. More seriously he added, "I'm just saying that in
her moments of lucidity, Yetta can make a lot of sense."
The quizzical frown remained on her face, but she could see he
wasn't going to explain himself further. "To Yetta, then," she agreed,
and brought her glass up to meet his, clinking delicately.
Eyes on each other, they sipped, neither tasting the expensive
V.S.O.P., both lost to their own thoughts. Automatically though, she
settled against him when he laid his arm along the sofa's back, resting
her head next to his. She could feel the tension in him, or maybe she
was simply so wracked with tension herself that she was willing some
of it onto him. Her attention traveled to his partially undone shirtfront
and she wondered what his reaction would be if she were to begin
slowly unfastening it the rest of the way, following her hands with her
lips all the way down his chest. Would he rebuff or welcome such
advances? Would he make a few, very welcome, advances of his
own?
He felt her trembling, and wondered whether she was cold. She
could be, there was little holding up her dress, save two narrow straps.
Instinctively, he drew her nearer, near enough to smell the fresh scent
of her hair, underscored by just a hint of her perfume. If he allowed
his lips to wander, he knew he'd find the perfume's source just there,
behind her ear, equidistant to the nape of her neck or the hollow of her
throat. His mind began to tally all those little spots he'd like to kiss as
his fingers played along the bare skin of her shoulder. What if he told
her how he felt? No hedging, no taking back, just telling her?
It was so quiet in the room, only the crackle of the fire and their
own breathing. And so he startled her when he suddenly placed his
glass upon the coffee table and rose to his feet, rubbing his hands
together.
"You know what we ought to do?" he was saying.
"What?!" She couldn't help but laugh, he was so excited looking.
"I think you should open your Christmas present. I know it's still a
few days off, but so what? Want to?" He had little doubt she'd say
yes. He wanted to give it to her privately anyway. And at this
particular moment, he'd take any excuse to focus his concentration on
something other than red sequins and what lay beneath them.
She smiled and got to her feet beside him. "Well, if I'm going to
open mine, then I guess you can open yours. But," her voice faltered,
"it's kind of silly and sentimental and you may not like it. It was just
really hard," she rushed on, "trying to think of something for you. You
have everything."
He stared at her hard for an instant, a dozen different emotions
racing across his face. "Not everything, Fran," he whispered, in a tone
so soft she wasn't even certain she'd heard him. And before she could
ask him to repeat himself, his mood had altered and he was saying
playfully, "Whatever it is, I'm sure I'll adore it...You kept the receipt,
right?"
And she swatted him lightly on the arm, and he laughed. And
together they went over to the Christmas tree.
***
In the pile of bounty under the tree, they had found their gifts to
each other immediately. Now, knees touching, they sat opposite from
one another, he on the coffee table, she on the couch. Both smiling,
expectant, a little anxious, fingers rattling over the wrapping paper of
two similarly-sized boxes.
"You go first," she told him. Then held her breath as he ripped
through the wrapping paper and opened the box, her eyes fixated on
his face to gauge his reaction.
From an expensive and highly polished burled wood frame, a
photograph looked back at him. His own face and hers, both very
happy, arms twined round each other. The shot had been taken in
Paris by a cheerful gendarme, possibly the only one in the city,
Parisians not being generally known for their graciousness. Behind
them, Notre Dame rose solidly from its island in the Seine, spired
fingers reaching eternally heavenward. And overall, the glow of the
spring sunset burnished everything to gold. It had been a perfect,
romantic afternoon, and he'd known then if he hadn't known before
that he was completely in love.
"I thought the frame would go with your office," she said quietly.
She had no idea what he thought of it, he was staring down at it in
silence. "If you want to change the picture..."
He cut her off by leaning forward and placing both hands on either
side of her face, kissing her lightly on the lips. "Why would I ever
want to do that?" And she could hear in his voice and see in his eyes
that he meant it. "I love it." He meant that, too, and her heart pounded
as he kissed her again.
She'd nearly forgotten she had a present of her own, till he pulled
back and directed, "Now it's your turn."
She picked up the professionally wrapped rectangular box and
examined it. Too big for jewelry, she thought to herself. It could
almost be another picture.
Max watched her, as intent now as she had been when he had
opened her present. He was very glad he'd taken back what he'd first
chosen for her, the contents of that tiny box. It had meant a harried
trip back to the store this very morning, but he was much happier with
this, and so was the jeweler. He'd certainly spent considerably more
money, but it was worth it. He wanted her to know just how much she
meant to him, and this would tell her, even if words failed him.
Fran tore through the ribbon and paper in short order, but came to
an unexpected standstill as she reached the box itself. She knew that
Tiffany's blue as well as any woman in the city, even if she'd never
shopped there. Her eyes flitted from the box to Max to the box again
as she hesitated. Carefully, she raised the lid and peered in. And
gasped. "Oh, Max!" His name being the only thing she could think of
to say.
Nestled in its velvet berth lay a banded necklace, its surface
studded with diamonds. At the front hung a ruby as large as a postage
stamp, larger, surrounded by yet more diamonds. For several seconds,
her lips moved but no sound came out. She swallowed hard and at last
managed to utter, "It's beautiful!!....But it's so expensive! I don't know
whether I can accept....Can I?"
Max smiled warmly at her lost composure. Taking the box from
her, he lifted the necklace from its velvet nest and held it between
them while the diamonds glimmered and the ruby shot fiery sparks
throughout the room. His voice low and sensual, he unfastened the
clasp and explained, "I think if you take it on all its levels, you won't
worry about accepting it. It is a Christmas present," he acknowledged,
leaning forward and placing it around her neck. "It's also an apology
for my behavior this past year." He fastened the clasp. "And it's a
promise that next year will be different." He took both her hands in
his, kissing her fingers. "And you have to accept it, because you make
it look so good."
Tears shone in her eyes and as she blinked they spilled over and
down her cheeks. "I love it, Max," she whispered, and before she
could quite stop herself, "I love you." She was terrified the moment
the words were spoken. After the way he'd reacted to his own
confession months ago, she didn't imagine her feelings were what he
wanted to hear. But her fear was blessedly short-lived. His arms
slipped around her and he was on the couch with her in an instant,
holding her tightly, kissing the tears from her face.
He wasn't sure which was more of a relief; hearing her say she
loved him or hearing her use his name. His mouth played over her
throat, she nibbled his earlobe. "I love you, too, Fran," he whispered.
"I love you, too." She clung to him. Their kisses lengthened,
deepened. Continuous murmurs of their love until lips could no
longer form words. Hearts and bodies moved as one, joined as one to
a heated breathless culmination.
***
The first time had been necessarily hurried, even frantic, both of
them with only one aim in sight and terribly conscious, even in their
abandon, that they really shouldn't be doing this on the couch.
Nowhere to hide if one of the kids should wake and wander
downstairs. But the second time, after he had carried her up to his
room, the second time was all slow, gentle exploration and finally
joyous celebration. Max had not anticipated her level of desire for
him, her responsiveness to every caress of his hand, every touch of his
lips. Fran had never imagined him to be so passionate, so loving,
so...talented.
Outside snow began to fall, the first real snow of the season.
Dancing silvery flakes in the navy blue night. Fran and Max saw none
of it. They were wrapped in each other's arms, secure with their
feelings at last. Without having planned it, and perhaps with just a
little help from a canny old lady's love spell, they gave one another the
most perfect of Christmas gifts, each the other's dream come true.
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