Disclaimer: The Nanny does not belong to me. Because of that, I am quite verklempt.
This fanfiction is dedicated to Kristen M.
Hope you enjoy.

Niles and Tribulations

by

Allison Lindsay
(allisonlindsay29@yahoo.com)

C.C. Babcock waltzed through the swinging door and into the Sheffield kitchen, her eyes glued to the contract she held between expensively manicured fingertips.

As she searched the contents of the refrigerator, C.C. heard a rather unpleasant sound that reminded her of a dentist’s drill. She paused, listening intently. Upon hearing nothing, Miss Babcock concluded that her mind was simply playing tricks on her. With a shrug of dismissal, she turned her attention back to the fridge. That's when the offending noise punctured her eardrums once more, louder this time. She decided to investigate.

It took the amateur detective all of two seconds to locate the source of the sound. There, at the kitchen table, clad in pajamas and a robe, sat a dozing Niles, his cheek resting atop the wooden surface.

A devilish grin crept onto Miss Babcock's face. Quietly, she tiptoed up beside him and bent at the waist so that her lips were resting right next to the man’s ear. "Oh, Ni-les?" she crooned.

Feeling the breath of his archenemy against his unshaven skin – though unaware that C.C. was in the room - the butler stirred slightly. His hand fluttered, as though he was swatting away a fly, and he whacked C.C. in the process.

Miss Babcock grimaced and massaged her sore nose before continuing. "Niles? Guess what? Maxwell and I are getting married!"

At that, the butler sprang up, rewarding C.C. with yet another involuntary whack in the face. "You and Mr. Sheffield are what?!" he cried, leaping to his feet.

"Ouch!" whined Miss Babcock. But the resilient businesswoman recovered quickly and in no time at all was cackling hysterically. "Ohh! You should've – haha - you've should've seen your fa-"

C.C.'s laughter dimmed, however, when she got a good look at the man before her. "Oh, Niles. You look terrible! You're positively revolting."

"I'm sick. What's your excuse?" the butler’s retort reminded her, his quick wit never failing him.

A split-second pause followed while his verbal sparring partner struggled to think of a comeback.

"What have you got, Niles? Rabies?" C.C. sniped.

"Why, yes, in fact. A stray dog bit me . . . a stray dog named CaCa. I'm still trying to convince Mr. Sheffield to have her put to sleep."

The blonde responded with a lofty scoff. "We're out of tomato juice, Butler Boy. What are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing," Niles replied in a frigid tone, pushing his chair in and folding up the newspaper.

"Oh, come on, Niles. You always do nothing. Don't you think it's time for a little change of routine?" C.C. challenged.

The pajama-clad butler glared at her. "Look, Miss Babcock, I am going back to bed. If you want tomato juice, then I suggest you hop on your broom and get it your bloody self!" Niles hollered. Pushing past her, he stormed out of the kitchen and up the back stairs to his room.

"‘Hop on your broom,’" C.C. muttered, mocking him. "Oh, good one, Niles. Yeah, real clever." Shaking her head, she continued griping to herself. "He sounds even more awful than he looks. So nasal, just like Nanny Fine. Oy."

"Is someone calling me?"

Miss Babcock cringed at the sound of that headache-inducing voice. Turning, she caught sight of the pouffy-haired, tight-skirt-wearing nanny bounding down the stairs, her British boss in tow.

"Maxwell, what are you doing with Nanny Fine?"

"Not enough, unfortunately," Fran murmured.

The comment did not go undetected by Miss Babcock. "What was that, Nanny Fine?" the bitter blonde demanded.

"Uh, Mr. Sheffield and I are going grocery shopping."

"But that's Niles's job," countered the churlish businesswoman.

"My God, C.C.!" the producer exclaimed. "Have you seen the poor man? He's practically on his deathbed!"

"I wish!" But Maxwell’s reproachful expression prompted C.C. to change her tune. A pair of cherry-red lips spread into a spurious smile as she amended, "That he would get better . . . very soon."

Mr. Sheffield didn’t buy it for a second; neither did Miss Fine. "Well, now we know where the nickname Ice Princess originated from," remarked the effervescent nanny.

C.C. inhaled sharply, restraining herself from responding.

Mr. Sheffield held the back door open for Fran. "We'll be back within the hour, C.C."

"Maxwell, I really don't see why you have to go. Nanny Fine's a big girl. She can push the cart all by herself, can't she?"

The chestnut eyes of the charming brunette propelled bullets at her opponent. "For your information, Miss Babcock, Mr. Sheffield practically begged me to tag along. He would be so farmisht without me."

With that, Fran looped her arm through Maxwell's and the two went on their way, leaving a very feeble Niles in the care of the spawn of Satan.

~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~

"Mr. Sheffield, what is this sick obsession you have with one-upping that Weber guy? Just let it go already!" Fran admonished her boss as she toted two of the four grocery bags into the kitchen. Maxwell had been moaning and groaning about his rival for a solid hour now. In the supermarket, the producer had overheard two theatre patrons raving about Andrew Lloyd Weber’s latest production, and that had set him off like a firecracker.

"That’s easy for you to say, Miss Fine," Maxwell sneered, closing the door with the heel of his shoe. "You’re not the shlemiel who passed on Cats!"

"Oy," kvetched the nanny. "You’re like a broken record. You know, maybe you should try getting your head shrunk. Therapy is very in vogue this year."

"Miss Fine, do you know what would happen if word got out that I, Maxwell Sheffield, was in therapy . . . again? I would be shunned by the entire Broadway community!"

Her interest peaked and her ears perked, Fran queried, "You were in therapy? You never told me that."

"Exactly. Because it’s none of your business."

"But-"

"Miss Fine," Maxwell cautioned the busybody brunette.

Placing the heavy bags onto the counter, the nanny began unloading their contents. "All right, all right," Fran relented. "Besides, I like a little mystery." Strutting over to the refrigerator, she deposited the milk and announced, "I’m gonna go check on Niles. I’ll be right back."

While Miss Fine looked in on the butler, Maxwell remained in the kitchen and attempted to put away the groceries. Picking up a box of Cap’n Crunch cereal, he examined the colorful cardboard carton, scratching his scalp thoughtfully. Despite having resided in the Sheffield mansion for well over a decade, the producer was still unable to navigate his way around his own kitchen. After some deliberation, Maxwell decided that it would be best to consult Fran on the matter of what belonged where.

When he reached the second floor of his home, the handsome Brit was none too pleased with the sight that greeted him. Outside Niles’s room was Nanny Fine, down on her knees and peering through the aperture in the entryway. She had been spying for at least five minutes and, miraculously, her presence had yet to be detected. Granted, Fran could not see much, but the little that she could see was enough to sustain her attention.

The ill butler lay in bed. At his side stood Miss Babcock, leaning over him, her back to the door. The nosy nanny could only guess what they were doing, but from the scent of menthol and the sounds of pleasure emanating from Niles, she had a pretty good idea.

"Miss Fine!"

"Get a load of this," Fran urged, motioning for her boss to join her.

"Miss Fine, I do not condone spying. Now, get up."

"Doors were made for spying, Mr. Sheffield. They don’t call it the peephole for nothing," the nanny reasoned.

"That’s keyhole, Miss Fine."

"Well, if you’re gonna get technical about it . . ."

Fran attempted to rise to her feet. But she had been on her knees for so long that her balance was wobbly. Much to her delight, she fell right into Mr. Sheffield’s arms. Fran emitted a coy giggle and flashed her dazzling smile. "Good catch."

"Mmmmmmm!"

The sound came not from her boss but from her best butler friend. The dark-haired pair exchanged glances. "What in God’s name is that?" Maxwell demanded in a hushed voice.

"Sounds like Niles is feeling much better."

Mr. Sheffield dismissed the comment, fearing that something was terribly wrong with the servant. Releasing his employee, he barged into Niles’s room. Had Miss Fine not grabbed onto the doorframe, she would’ve tumbled to the floor.

"C.C.?!" Maxwell cried in utter disbelief. There before him stood his cold-hearted business partner, tending to the needs of a man she repeatedly claimed to loathe more than anything and anyone, including Nanny Fine.

Miss Babcock’s eyes enlarged in diameter. A strangled gasp escaped her. Then, she froze, as though a magic spell had just been cast.

"Oh, thank heavens!" Niles exclaimed, sitting up in bed. "Another minute and I would have been a goner!"

His remark snapped C.C. out of her trance. "What?!"

"Well, first, she makes me soup - poisoned, I’m sure of it. I wouldn’t touch it. Next, she tries to force-feed me the poisoned soup and nearly gags me with the spoon. And then, she attempts to asphyxiate me with this." Niles plucked a white linen napkin from the bedside table and held it up for inspection. "I put up quite a fight, but the Abominable Snowman overpowered me."

Miss Babcock gaped at the man. How dare he make such accusations! She had not even been able to defend herself, the butler had read off the list of unfounded charges so quickly.

"And then what happened?" Fran jumped in, enthralled.

"Miss Fine!" her boss chastised.

"What? I wanna hear the rest of the story!"

"Well, then, she-" Niles halted abruptly and glanced down. The butler’s pajama top was partially unbuttoned, and a white, sticky substance coated his upper body. Feigning embarrassment, Niles pulled the shirt closed, clutching the collar to hold it in place. "I’m sorry you had to see that," he apologized to the intruders.

"Not nearly as sorry as I am!"

The trio turned to Miss Babcock, whose pupils were propelling machetes at her accuser. Fran gasped in shock as she discerned tears forming in the corners of C.C.’s eyes.

The butler noticed this as well. His heart wrenched, sinking into his stomach. Inwardly, he admonished his ignominious behavior: Bloody idiot. You’re such a shmendrik.

"She was crying?"

Valerie Toriello sat at the Sheffields’ kitchen table, shaking her head in astonishment. But for once, there existed a genuine reason for the blonde’s customary clueless expression.

"Yep," Fran validated, reaching for another chocolate chip cookie.

"Real tears?"

"Mmm-hmm," the brunette garbled through a mouthful. "Couldn’t you just plotz?"

Val was completely bereft of words. While her friend attempted to revive her vocal chords, Fran went to retrieve the newly-purchased carton of milk to wash down the plate of cookies the pair had consumed. "You know what this means, don’t you?" asked the nanny, shutting the door of the refrigerator and striding over to the cupboards.

"That Miss Babcock has fully-functioning tear ducts?" Val ventured, to which Fran’s orbs twirled a three-sixty. "What? You just said she was cry-"

"Vaaal!" a rather exasperated Fran interjected as she rejoined her companion at the table. "It means that she’s human! Oy."

"Ohhhhh. You know, all this time, I suspected that, but until now, I never had any proof."

"I know, I know. It’s all so unnerving. I mean, you think you know someone . . ."

The two friends sipped from their glasses, then dabbed at their milk mustaches with pink paper napkins. Just as Fran was about to say something else, the kitchen door swung open and in stormed the youngest Sheffield sibling.

"Men!" Gracie snarled, plopping onto a chair and folding her arms across her chest.

Two pairs of eyes darted furiously about the room. "Where?!" the duo demanded in unison.

"Nowhere. I’m talking about some dumb boy in my class. He’s such a pest."

"Aren’t they all?" Fran jibed, nudging Val playfully in the ribs. To Gracie, she said, "Tell us what happened, sweetie."

"Okay, just let me get settled first. I can’t do this on an empty stomach." So saying, Grace snatched up the remaining cookie and sunk her teeth into it.

Leaning in Val’s direction, Fran whispered, "Would you look at this? She’s practically an honorary member of the Fine family. Remind me never to allow her and my mother in the same room again."

Val nodded in compliance, her golden curls bobbing up and down. "Gotcha."

"So, tell me about this boy, honey."

Having acquired Fran’s penchant for loquacity, Grace proffered the long version. According to her, there was enrolled in the third grade a naughty nuisance named Toby – dubbed Toby the Tormentor by his prey – who seized every opportunity to taunt, tease, and humiliate his classmate.

As she recounted the day’s events, the child worked herself into a fit of fury. When she finished, she pumped a fist in the air and enthused, "Let’s pulverize him, exterminate him, tear him to shreds!"

Her nanny, on the other hand, perceived the situation through a very different lens. "Isn’t that just precious? Gracie has her first admirer!" Fran gushed. She and Val proceeded to oooh and ahhh and awww.

Gracie scrunched her brow. Through squinted eyes, she stared at the women as if they had suddenly sprouted credit cards in the middle of their foreheads. "My first what?"

"Honey, relax. Toby doesn’t hate you," Miss Fine explained. "He’s doing all those terrible things to you because he likes you. It’s a crush, puppy love."

Grace slumped back against the wooden rungs of the chair. She needed a moment to absorb this. Folding their hands on the table, Fran and Val waited patiently.

"Okay, so let me get this straight. Toby picks on me, calls me names, pokes me, shoves me, and trips me because he likes me?"

Two heads nodded in the affirmative. "Exactly. Those are all signs of affection," the nanny confirmed, then elaborated, "Sweetie, some people – guys in particular - have a hard time expressing their emotions. So, instead of just coming right out and telling you that he likes you, he has to find more . . . subtle ways to get his point across."

Gracie’s brain continued to battle this out. But her thought process was interrupted when a sonorous sneezing sound punctured the air.

"Bless you," the tablemates harmonized.

Three pairs of eyes set in three flummoxed faces exchanged glances.

Niles entered, clutching a handkerchief to his runny nose. "Thank you," he snuffled through clogged nasal passages.

Fran shifted in her seat to study him. The poor man’s condition had deteriorated considerably. "Niles! You should be in bed," the caregiver scolded.

"Yes, I should be, but I’m not," the butler groused, his sour mood evident in his tone. Padding to the refrigerator in fuzzy black slippers, Niles gripped the handle and yanked open the door with such force that Fran feared he had detached it from its hinges. Removing a carton of orange juice, the butler banged the fridge close and slammed the container onto the counter.

"Uh, why don’t I get the glass?" Fran volunteered, scurrying to the cupboard. Envisioning Niles stomping the gossamer crystal to shards, as is the custom at Jewish weddings, she instead retrieved a plastic Scooby-Doo cup. "Here ya go." His friend handed it over, forcing a congenial smile.

The cup was half empty – or, as optimists such as Nanny Fine favor, half full – when the kitchen collective swelled to a party of five. The instant C.C. Babcock appeared, Fran’s and Val’s eyes glommed onto her like a wad of chewing gum to the underside of a sneaker. C.C. blushed fuchsia. The duo was looking at her as though Miss Babcock had committed the unforgivable fashion violation of wearing white post-Labor Day.

Resolving to ignore them, the tall blonde averted her gaze. Obstructing her line of vision, however, was the man who had accused her of attempted murder. C.C. glowered; she could feel her blood pressure skyrocketing by the second.

"If looks could kill," Fran murmured, "he’d be laying in a puddle of . . . OJ." The nanny worried that the word "blood" might induce nauseating, nightmarish images in the mind of eight-year-old Gracie.

She erred in her thinking.

"Can I do the chalk outline?" the child chirped, displaying a bit too much enthusiasm for Miss Fine’s liking. At Fran’s frown, the child rushed to defend herself. "Hey, is it my fault you let me watch all those crime shows on television? You’re the responsible adult here; I’m just a kid."

Before the brunette could reply in rebuttal, Niles spoke. "Miss Babcock, I-"

"You what? You hate me? You despise me, detest me . . . you loathe me with every fiber of your being? Is that what you were going to say?"

"No, I-"

"Because that’s exactly how I feel about you," C.C. barked, voice tainted with venom.

Niles exhaled slowly and set down the beverage container. Advancing towards the infuriated female, he tried again. "Miss Babcock, please, I’m sorry for-"

"Keep your grimy, grubby little germs away from me, Butler Boy!" And with that, the boiling blonde pivoted on her spiked heels and marched out the door.

His conciliatory efforts unsuccessful, Niles heaved a sigh of resignation. The butler then picked up his cup, replaced the orange juice on its proper shelf in the icebox, and forced his ailing body to ascend the back stairs.

"What’s with them?" asked a baffled Gracie. "They’re acting even more abnormal than they normally do."

"Well, it all started with a tub of vapor rub," Fran began.

As the aspiring Louella Parsons prepared to launch into gossip mode, the entrance to the kitchen opened a fraction. A bleached blonde head emerged and inquired, "Is the human contagion gone?"

"All clear," Val responded.

"Good." As soon as Miss Babcock re-entered, she embarked on a tirade-cum-tantrum. "Ugh! I abhor that man!" C.C. fumed as she paced back and forth, her heels clacking noisily on the polished linoleum. "I could just wring that big, fat neck of his!" Seething with rage, the businesswoman proceeded to simulate the strangulation.

While C.C. ranted and raved and ranted some more, Grace ruminated on what Fran had told her earlier regarding boys and their so-called subtlety. If the businesswoman purportedly hated the butler, and the butler allegedly hated the businesswoman, that could mean only one thing . . .

"Niles and C.C. must really have it bad for each other!" Gracie observed, basking in the brilliance of her deduction. The mention of both names in one breath interrupted Miss Babcock’s budding scheme to eliminate Niles from the land of the living. Fearing that she and not he would become the woman’s first victim, the child hastened to explain. "Well, Fran says that-"

But Fran did not intend for her words of wisdom to be imparted on the curious, furious C.C. The nanny clamped a palm over Gracie’s mouth, halting the flow of words that was sure to land Miss Fine in scalding hot water. "Uh, Fran says that it’s time for Gracie to take a nap."

Adamant on uncovering the truth, Miss Babcock gently removed the appendage. Bending forward to look Maxwell’s daughter in the eye, C.C. curled her lips into an insincere smile and affected a sugary-sweet tone. "Sweetheart, tell Aunt C.C. what Nanny Fine says."

Grace’s fair-skinned face blanched and she gulped audibly. "Um . . . um . . ."

Val rushed to the rescue – or so she thought. "Fran says that when you’re really cruel to somebody – you know, the way you treat Niles and vice versa – you don’t really hate them. You just don’t know how to express your true feelings in a healthy way. So, instead, you try to kill each other. Personally, I’m a lover, not a fighter. But, that’s just me."

"Vaaaaal!" Fran looked as though she was on the verge of a conniption. "Would you make like

Edith Bunker and stifle?!" she growled. "Not one but two cases of diarrhea-of-the-mouth? What is this - an epidemic?!"

In spite of the upbraiding, Nanny Fine was quite impressed that her best friend had successfully strung together a series of coherent sentences. Gee, I wonder what’s in those cookies. Or maybe it’s the milk, she pondered as her brown orbs continued drilling holes in Val’s skull.

Avoiding Fran’s glare, Val’s eyes gravitated to the surface of the kitchen table. In a meek, apologetic voice, she mumbled, "I was only trying to help. I mean, it’s obvious they’re in denial . . ."

The comment transformed Miss Babcock into a laughing hyena, her shrill cackle piercing the threesome’s eardrums.

Leaning across the table, Grace whispered to the pouffy-haired pair, "I don’t get it. What’s so funny? I think Val has a good point."

At that, Miss Babcock’s ears – and eyes - twitched. "Please, I can assure you-" The next word to pass through C.C.’s crimson-colored lips should have been "Gracie," especially since just moments earlier, Fran had addressed the child as such. But the businesswoman had always regarded Maxwell’s offspring as three spoiled nudnicks and, therefore, had never taken the time to learn their names. As a result of her indifference, she was forced to compromise. "I can assure you, darling, that I am not in deNiles."

With a smirk of self-satisfaction, C.C. Babcock strutted out of the kitchen, her chin tilted skyward, her posture exuding false confidence.

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. 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 composition 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."

Miss Babcock despised Nanny Fine. She reviled the brunette’s habit of brown-nosing. She detested the fact that she could not annihilate her with impunity. But most of all, she hated that Fran was right.

C.C. could pinpoint the exact moment when her ardor for Niles began to manifest itself. It all started with five simple syllables.

Cluck, he said, and C.C. was hooked. Not initially, of course. Initially, she wanted to grab hold of the fire poker and poke his eyes out, but later, when he kissed her, her insides turned to oatmeal.

At first, she attributed the feeling to alcohol-induced wooziness. Upon regaining sobriety, however, the magnitude of the incident smacked the blonde like a slap in the face. Not only had Niles kissed her, but she had returned the kiss. Furthermore, not only had C.C. reciprocated, but she had enjoyed reciprocating.

When her feelings for Niles continued to germinate rather than deteriorate, Miss Babcock considered checking herself into a reputable care facility. Surely shock treatment could expunge the unnatural thoughts whirling through her brain. A posh Park Avenue businesswoman lusting after a lowly house servant?

No. Unfathomable. Never. Entirely out of the realm of possibility.

Miss Babcock had been brought up to embrace and flaunt her upper class social standing. In her youth, she had emulated her parents’ supercilious perception of the servants as inferior, subhuman even. All her life, family members and pompous peers alike had instilled in C.C. the importance of dating up, not down.

This, she conceded, accounted in large part for her attraction to Maxwell. Mr. Sheffield possessed everything that C.C. had been instructed to look for in a man – wealth, good looks, wealth, membership in the highest of societal echelons, wealth. Granted, the man wouldn’t recognize a hit play if it nipped him in the tochus, but his production company was by no means in jeopardy.

Then there were the children – darling, her skinny, taller sister, and the short, blonde-haired boy. Schmuey was his name . . . right?

Perhaps C.C. was not nearly as infatuated with Maxwell as she purported. In any event, the producer displayed virtually no interest in his co-worker. Even if Miss Babcock were in love with Maxwell, it was a love that would forever remain unrequited. Loath as she was to admit it, C.C. had a hunch that Mr. Sheffield had developed a teensy, weensy, little, itty bitty crush on his offspring’s nanny.

Of the three kinds of men in this world - Mr. Right, Mr. Right Now, and Mr. Wrong – Maxwell was most likely her Mr. Wrong. Niles, on the other hand, was quite possibly her Mr. Right.

C.C. had two options: fervently repress her feelings for the butler, or accept that she was destined – well, doomed – to be with Niles.

The receding tiers of superficiality revealed a woman absolutely petrified. What, for instance, would her vicious, back-stabbing circle of friends think of her if she were to select choice two and enter into a relationship with the servant? Miss Babcock would become the laughing stock of the country club. She would be committing social suicide.

But did C.C. really wish to associate with such petty, pedantic people? After all, if indeed they were to ostracize and humiliate the businesswoman, could she truly call them her comrades? Nanny Fine functioned as more of a friend than any of them.

What’s more, if Miss Babcock chose option number one and attempted to subdue her attraction, the repercussions would be severe: persistent loneliness, intractable misery, perpetual bitchiness.

Oh, hell, who am I kidding? I can look forward to practically all of those things with Niles. Besides, misery does love company . . .

Miss Babcock smoothed the blazer of her navy blue business suit, inhaling deeply as she prepared to request access to the butler’s bedroom.

She raised her arm, then returned it to her side; lifted the limb again, then lost her nerve once more. The woman felt as though her head was submerged under water.

Don’t be such a coward, C.C. reproached her lack of fortitude.

"Don’t be such a coward." The blonde nearly jumped out of her snakeskin boots. "Come in," Niles called.

Spindly fingers curling around the doorknob, the jittery blonde willed the quivering appendage to remain still before responding to the invitation. "H-How did you know I was . . .?"

A smug smile materialized on the butler’s tanned face. "I’d recognize the scent of the Abominable Snowman from a mile away," he teased.

"Um . . . I . . . I wanted to tell you that I . . . accept your apology."

Niles’s disposition remained casual, nonchalant. Inwardly, however, his brain began chanting the lyrics to "Hava Nagila." The servant’s lips parted in preparation to deliver a reply, but he was interrupted by the bickering of two of the Sheffield brood.

"You’re toast, Brighton!" Gracie’s shrill screeching penetrated every wall of the Sheffield mansion.

"Plain, buttered, or with jelly?"

"Good one," Niles and C.C. cheered. No sooner had they uttered these words, however, than an awkward silence enveloped the room. The butler observed the businesswoman’s inability to make eye contact. He also noticed that her face resembled a fire engine.

"Miss Babcock-"

"C.C."

Hava nagila, hava nagila. Hava nagila ve-nismeha. "C.C. Perhaps, after my convalescence, I could take you to dinner," Niles suggested, "as compensation for my behavior the other day."

C.C. nodded slowly, pretending to mull over the idea. "Would this dinner constitute a date, by any chance?" Then, so as not to appear overzealous, she appended, "I was just wondering."

"Well, I’m not quite sure it qualifies as a date, considering that one of us is human and the other is . . . you." To indicate that he was only poking fun, Niles winked at the blushing blonde beauty.

Miss Babcock reciprocated the gesture. "All right. I accept. And I think I’ll be in the mood for chicken that night . . ."

Strolling across the room to where the statuesque blonde stood, Niles purred, "Followed by a little after-dinner clucking?"

C.C. swooned like a teenage girl at a Beatles concert. When she regained her composure, a full ten seconds later, she adopted a brazenly seductive tone and queried, "You wouldn’t happen to have any vapor rub left, would you?"

"Miss Fine!"

Maxwell was experiencing déjà vu. Once again, he had caught his nanny prying into the private affairs of his manservant.

"The butler did it."

Clasping Fran’s upper arm, Mr. Sheffield hoisted the sneaky snoop to her feet. "The butler did what?"

"Miss Babcock. Well, not yet. But from the looks of things, it’s bound to happen sooner than later."

"Miss Fine, what are you talking about?" the perturbed producer inquired.

Imitating the grandiloquent gestures of Barker’s Beauties on The Price is Right, Fran directed her boss to the slightly ajar door of Niles’s room. "See for yourself."

"Mmmmmmm!"

"I . . . don’t think that will be necessary . . ." Maxwell stammered, steering his children’s caregiver towards the staircase.

"Hey, I just thought of something," Fran remarked as they descended the carpeted steps. "If the two of them were to get married, her name would be C.C. the Butler."

"Nonsense, Miss Fine. They’ll be Mr. and Mrs. Niles Babcock."

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