Disclaimer: Not mine; no profit being made; no offense.

Author Notes: Bart graciously let me post my 'response' to her "It Happened One Weekend" installment in two parts - so, you're stuck with me for another week before beginning the count down to Bart's fabulous next part.

The Play's The Thing

by

Dafni Laurel
(dafnilaurel@yahoo.com)

"Are ya sure, B? Your father and I were going to take you out for ice cream afterwards," Fran cajoled, while Brighton’s posture slumped at the idea of following up his performance in the school play with his father and nanny rather than his friends.

"We were?" came Max’s surprised reaction as he walked the rest of the way into the living room, took off his glasses, and looked up from the treatment for a new play he was considering producing.

"Fraaan, the whole class is going out for pizza afterwards..." Brighton’s tone begged for understanding.

"Okay, okay. We’ll just wave to you from the audience and see you back here later; but not too late! Good luck!" Bracing her hands on his shoulders, Fran spun her young charge around and urged him out the door to Mrs. Cowell’s awaiting carpool.

"You’re not supposed to say ‘good luck’ to someone who’s going on stage, Miss Fine. That, in itself, is bad luck," Max admonished with a lightly condescending tone, which he assumed Fran would take as the teasing remark it was mean to be.

"Well, we can’t all be Broadway producers, now can we?" Feeling that his attitude was entirely unnecessary, Fran tinged her defensive reply with a taste of vitriol.

"Are we off the hook for dessert with Brighton, then?" Not wanting to continue the tense conversation, Max tried to steer things back in a more friendly direction.

"Mr. Sheffield! I’m surprised at you – don’t you want to show some support for your son – spend a little time with him after he makes his stage debut?"

"Well, we don’t want to stifle his social skills, now, do we?" Max smiled proudly at what he thought was a pretty keen understanding of his son’s need to be with his friends instead of his parents. Father and nanny, his mind corrected itself.

"True, it’s not like he could learn much from his father in that department," Fran said under her breath as she fluffed her hair in the hallway mirror. Not quite ready to let her agitation go, she just wasn’t in the mood to be patronized – or scolded for not knowing the exact terminology for the theatre. And a real friend should have sensed that.

"What’s that, Miss Fine?"

"Nothing, nothing." Fran sighed, and, thinking maybe it would be best to end the conversation, she turned and made her way to the kitchen. If he’d just knock off the ‘Maxwell Sheffield, Broadway Producer’ shtick, they could have a civil conversation – then she could get on with her ploy to show him that ‘just friends’ was all she intended to ask of him, whether or not he liked it.

Max thought he’d been doing the right thing – trying to get back some of the easy teasing they’d shared in the past. Before, they’d been able to laugh at things like Fran not knowing the correct protocol for a particular situation. – or even Max not understanding a joke in Yiddish. Why was she being so testy?

Back in his office and spending another few minutes wrapping up work for the day, Max thought forward to the evening’s activities. He was certainly looking forward to seeing Brighton in "Peter Pan," and he thought that if they could get beyond their earlier conversation, perhaps tonight would help he and Fran to find their way back to their old, easy rapport – just friends. Margaret and Grace were both out for the evening – conveniently otherwise engaged on the night their brother was performing in the middle school play. With most of the household gone, Max thought a friendly dinner with Fran would make perfect sense. And he gave an anticipatory chuckle as he imagined how he’d have to firmly squelch any flirting that Fran might attempt.

******************

Max swung the kitchen door in to find Fran talking with Niles over a cup of tea and a plate of cookies.

"Ah, Miss Fine, there you are. Since it’s just you and me tonight, what do you say to grabbing dinner before the show?"

"Um, sure Mr. Sheffield." Checking her watch and quickly calculating that they’d have to leave in just fifteen minutes, Fran had a brilliant idea. "Let’s hustle, mister! I’ll meet you at the limo in fifteen!"

With forced leisure, Fran picked up her tea cup and the plate of cookies, inquired if Niles was done with his tea, and she bussed his dish as well.

Niles and Max followed her with their eyes wide and their mouths open in astonishment. Fifteen minutes?! Fran was dressed in a short white tennis skirt and sporty, formfitting tank top. It was hardly what one wore to the theater – even if it was just a middle school production. And, from experience, they both knew better than to think Fran could get ready for dinner and a play in just under fifteen minutes.

As she ascended the back steps to her room, Fran waited until the turn in the staircase before she ran like mad to her room.

"I guess I’d better put on a suit," Max said, his voice illustrating his confusion at Fran’s very un-Fran-like actions. But he assumed she’d, somehow, magically, turn up dressed to the nines for the evening.

"Hmmm, I suppose so, sir." Niles had no idea what Fran was up to, but he just knew that whatever Fran intended on wearing that night, it wouldn’t be what either he or his employer expected.

*****************

Using the hall mirror to arrange his necktie in a tight double Windsor, Max admired the way the burgundy pattern of the tie complimented the warm gray of his pinstriped suit.

At precisely fifteen minutes after she’d departed from the kitchen, Fran came down the staircase, feeling quite anxious to see Max’s response revealed.

Instead of her usual habit of putting her hair up as high as possible and donning more make up than probably necessary for a school function, Fran was employing a different tactic – she’d fixed her hair in a rather subdued style, held back from her face with a barrette and nearly as flat as CC’s; her make-up pallet was as close to "natural" as Fran had ever been seen out of the house in. But the topper was her outfit. It was not the sequenced gown or even black cocktail dress you might have expected – or so she’d hoped Max would be expecting. Tonight, she’d chosen a dress that she would have described as "librarian-ish."

Forcing herself to come down the stairs casually, Fran was not disappointed at Max’s reaction.

Turning from the mirror when he heard her coming down the stairs, Max looked up, interested to see what outfit Fran had chosen for the evening. One never knew what she’d come up with. Usually overdressed, but always right in "theme," Max had come to look forward to her glamorous and often sexy wardrobe choices.

But what he saw was not like anything he’d seen her in before. This was downright frumpy; the dark blue dress fell far past her knees, the sleeves went all the way to her wrists, and the neckline came nearly all the way up to her chin. He did a double take, almost hoping he’d been imagining it.

"Why, Miss Fine, that’s a rather conservative dress." He didn’t know what else to say. To divulge that he was disappointed would’ve been admitting defeat!

"What? This hot little number? I like it, it’s comfortable!" Fran’s mustered-up enthusiasm didn’t quite convince him, but there was nothing else he could say on the matter without drawing undue attention.

Max was positive that Fran had never once selected her clothing based on comfort, but he couldn’t imagine why she’d be dressed in this manner. Her hair was rather flat, and was she even wearing make up? She still looked beautiful, but he missed her sexy look. And that particular line of thinking was strictly taboo; so he bit his tongue, and silently read himself the riot act for wanting to ogle her in her usual short skirts and cleavage-revealing tops. That was no way for a friend to expect another friend to dress! And Max suddenly felt a bit like a dirty old man, getting pleasure out of leering at the nanny.

"Ready, Mr. Sheffield?"

"Um, yes. I thought we’d just grab a bite at Café Valentino; it’s near by and not too fancy."

"Let’s go!" Fran spun around, fetched her coat from the closet, and simply ignored Max’s attempt to take it from her in order to help her put it on.

A bit surprised at the rejection of his gentlemanly gesture, Max tried to overlook it, even in the face of the fact that Fran was usually quite happy to accept his chivalric actions. Adding insult to injury, when they got to the limo, Clevis held the door open for them, but Fran simply refused to get in first.

"Nah, g’ahead."

Wanting very much to not argue, Max shrugged his shoulders and resignedly got into the vehicle. She’s acting so strangely. Not like his Fran at all. Not that she was ‘his,’ mind you, he reprimanded himself silently.

Dinner progressed in much the same manner: a refusal to have the door of the restaurant held open for her, and she wouldn’t even let him help her with her chair as they sat down. Max refused to let it bother him; he would not be swayed by the absence of her usual charms, even as she did her best to turn them off.

Conversation over their meal was strained; though, to a stranger, it would’ve seemed normal. Fran and Max made small talk about how ticket sales were fairing for his currently-running production, the new salmon dish Niles had prepared last week, and how well Grace was doing in school.

Fran sensed the way Max was holding himself back, as if he wanted to say more. On the surface, he was the perfect, polite dinner companion. If she hadn’t known him so well, she’d never have guessed that there was something amiss. But she did know him. On the outside it was ‘business as usual;’ on the inside, however, there was something lacking – a spark of life that was missing from his demeanor. God, he’s turned into a Pod Person!

Looking up, Fran noticed the drip of tomato-cream sauce that Max had clinging to the corner of his mouth. She became transfixed on the dollop of liquid, waiting for Max to wipe his mouth with his napkin, or, at the very least, lick it away with his tongue. But he didn’t. He knew it was there, all right, but he was baiting her. Just waiting for her to reach over and smear it away with her finger, as he’d done for her on their shopping spree lunch-break. But she didn’t. He was sure she knew that drip of sauce was there; she kept looking at it. Yet, she did nothing.

Fran stayed her course. She would not touch him. She would not reach, wipe the sauce away with her thumb, and suck the savory flavor off. It would’ve have driven him crazy, she knew; but that wasn’t what this was about now. This was war. And she would definitely not wipe it away with her finger, only to tempt Max into licking it from her digit with his own tongue. Which would’ve driven her crazy.

Finally, after the pesky drip was nearly crusty from drying on his face, Max employed his napkin and got rid of it. He was unbelievably annoyed. How could she have left him hanging that way?

The waiter appeared several times during their meal to inquire after them, and Fran displayed her usual friendly, flirtatious personality. The young man, who’d introduced himself as "Ethan, your waiter for the evening," smiled warmly at them, and directed most of his attentions towards Fran. Her glass of iced tea was never more than a quarter empty, and a free dessert was even provided, with the claim that it was "left over in the kitchen."

"Why, Ethan! Thank you!" Fran practically squealed.

Max’s rolled his eyes at what he thought was a fairly grotesque display of flirting.

"Miss Fine, would you please stop encouraging that waiter? It’s embarrassing. Besides, you’re old enough to be his -- "

"You finish that sentence, mister, and this tiramisu will become an accessory to that suit of yours. Besides, is it my fault if I attract the attentions of a young, handsome gentleman?"

Fran was flattered by Ethan’s attentions. She knew she was beautiful, and usually expected to turn heads with the more revealing outfits she favored; but to have the barely-twenty-year-old ogle her in what she was wearing tonight did wonders for her ego, which, frankly, was a bit bruised and battered after the past several weeks with Max. Plus, she thought, she was made for flirting. It was her natural state, and if Max wasn’t going to allow himself the pleasure of being on the receiving end of her attentions, there might as well be someone benefiting from it!

Max couldn’t believe the way she’d been encouraging the young man - staring at him, taking an extra long time to decide on what to drink, and winking as she asked for another lemon for her iced tea. Max had thought he was giving her some friendly advice, telling her to stop flirting with such a young ‘target.’ He wanted to save her the personal embarrassment when she realized he was just angling for a good tip. That was what he was doing, wasn’t it?

"Not that you gave the boy much of a choice, mind you. He was just looking for a good tip."

"Is it such a shock, Mr. Sheffield that a man in his twenties just might find me attractive?"

Max opened his mouth, completely unsure of what to say. There was no way he could get out of this gracefully, and he knew it.

Fran was insulted. How dare he imply that she’d been forcing herself onto Ethan? He probably was just looking for a hefty tip, but Fran had enjoyed the exchange, and she thought Ethan had as well. Max was probably just jealous, she mused. Well, too bad, FRIEND!

"You know what? Never mind, don’t answer that question." Fran held up her hand to preemptively halt any attempt at an answer. She decided it was better to simply rise above the insult than to give Max the satisfaction of getting a rise out of her. "Let’s get the check and just go."

He couldn’t believe she’d put a stop to their discussion about Ethan the waiter. If there was one thing Fran was vocal about, it was men. Maybe he liked her better when she was being feisty.

With the arrival of the bill, Max smiled a mannequin-like grin and grabbed it up, prepared to argue that he wanted to treat her to dinner as a friend, in thanks for her support of Brighton’s endeavors in the drama club. Instead, Fran smiled and thanked him.

"I’ll treat you next time," Fran’s chipper voice chimed; and Max found himself disappointed that she hadn’t even protested a little.

Rejecting Max again at every turn, Fran held the door for him as they made their exit, thinking that maybe she liked this whole "independent woman" thing. It was fun; or maybe she was just getting a charge out of frustrating Max, which had its own appeal.

*************

Finding their seats in the auditorium of Brighton’s exclusive private school, Fran and Max leafed through their programs, both immediately searching for Brighton’s name. There he was: Lost Boy #5. Fran was so proud. Max hoped his son would remember his one line.

Max perused the names of the other cast members, and mulled over a theory that Robert Cole’s father must’ve recently given the school a sizeable donation to result in the casting of his son in the lead role of Peter Pan – Max had met Robbie, and he was about the shiest young teenager Max had ever met. Brighton had told his father that Robbie had thrown up at every rehearsal.

As he was contemplating Robbie Cole’s sensitive system, Max overheard Fran gushing on and on to her seat neighbor. "We’re just so proud of him. I mean, he’s always been a real thespian around the house, but to see him on stage – we’re just beside ourselves! His father’s Maxwell Sheffield, you know – the big Broadway producer."

It was endearing to hear Fran speak of his son with such love and pride; almost as if she were his mother. His heart swelled and a warmth spread through him as Max forgot the complicated predicament of their convoluted relationship and simply thought about Fran as the maternal influence she was on his children.

"Well, I’m really just the nanny. But I think of B as my own," Fran said, with no shame in her voice at being ‘just’ the nanny.

Fran’s statement, which admittedly spelled out his own thoughts, suddenly drove all cozy thoughts about his children’s nanny from his mind. In a decidedly irrational and un-Max like moment, he now focused on the fact that she was just the nanny; she’d cast herself in the maternal role without really even consulting him. Since when had she assumed it was okay to take over that place in their family – his family? How dare she work her way into the hearts of his children with such impunity! Didn’t she realize how dangerous that was? How badly she could hurt the children by assuming such a familial role in their lives when she truly was just the nanny.

Full well knowing he was being irrational, Max still fumed as he let his eyes adjust to the darkening theater, and he tried to focus on the play, awaiting Brighton’s big entrance in several scenes. The time dragged agonizing by, but when Brighton stepped on stage, dressed in his muddy, ragged Lost Boy clothing, looking like he was having the time of his life, Max literally beamed.

Fran smiled widely and waved at Brighton, who gave her a not-so-subtle wave back and a quick ‘thumbs up’ letting her know he was doing just fine. She then turned her attention to the man beside her, and she could see nothing but fatherly pride radiating from his expression. Well, why shouldn’t he be proud? His children had really come out of their shells in the past few years. Even Gracie was only going to therapy every three weeks. She felt such love for those kids, and liked to think she’d had at least a little something to do with the progress they’d made towards becoming the confident, beautiful individuals they were growing into.

Fran wished that Max would let her into his heart the way Maggie, Brighton, and Grace so easily had. Though, she wouldn’t trade what she had with those kids even for Max’s heart. But she lamented the way he shut everyone out, always keeping everyone at arm’s length when it came to truly open or intimate relationships – even with his brother. Sighing, Fran felt a bittersweet gladness that while he may have decided to keep close guard on the keys to his own heart, he couldn’t control the hearts of his children that way.

‘Just the nanny’ and her employer passed intermission standing in line to use the restrooms, and as the play came to an end, the audience was on its collective feet with enthusiastic applause for their children’s performances, in spite of Tinkerbell forgetting her lines, Wendy tripping on her nightgown six separate times, and Robbie Cole looking rather green the entire time.

Fighting the sea of middle-schoolers and parents, Fran and Max heard Brighton’s yell, loud and clear.

"See? He did get something from my side of the family," Fran quipped while Max pinched the top of his nose and furrowed his brow, feeling the beginning twinges of a headache.

"B! You were great!" Fran congratulated him with a kiss on the cheek and a hug.

"You really think so, Fran? My entrance wasn’t right." Brighton pulled away, instinctively wiped the lipstick off his cheek and scrunched up his face in doubt.

Spitting on a tissue and wiping off the remainder of the offending kiss-mark, Fran reassured, "Brighton, you were perfect, you played it off like a pro, we didn’t notice a thing!"

"Well done, Brighton!" Max suddenly felt quite outside the image of perfect parenting he was witnessing between his son and the nanny.

"Thanks, Dad! I’m ready for Broadway; you can cast me in a show now."

"I’ll take that under serious consideration, son." Max put on his ‘serious’ voice, wanting to bolster Brighton’s confidence.

"I gotta go; Robbie was so nervous, he ate a whole tub of Red Vines at intermission – we’re going to go watch him throw up now!"

"Brighton, be nice! And have fun at the pizza party, B. You be sure to call us from Mrs. Webber’s house."

With that, Brighton was a muddy streak and gone from sight.

Looking at each other, then looking around, then looking at each other once again, Max felt ridiculous; as if he were in high school. Not knowing what else to say, but feeling as if he should suggest it – it was what friends would have done, after all – Max ventured, "Would you like to grab a cup of coffee before we head home, Miss Fine?"

Rather surprised at his invitation, Fran’s first instinct was to scold him that the late movie was The Prince of Tides and what was he thinking? But in an effort to keep up her own ‘friends, and nothing but friends’ plan, Fran felt that she just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to spend more time alone with Max, illustrating that if it was friends he wanted, friends would be just what he would get.

"Sure, Mr. Sheffield. And I’ll treat you this time."

****************

Sitting at the round, miniscule table at Vesuvio Coffee, Fran looked around the coffee shop. It was full of rather young, trendy yuppies. Not the kind of place she’d have expected Max to be familiar with, but he’d chosen the cafe.

"CC usually drags me here after we’ve been at the theatre. Terribly over priced and trendy, but the coffee’s good, and now I’m afraid I’m addicted to their café Americano."

"It’s a nice place. Loads of cute guys. No wonder CC likes it." Fran blew on her hot coffee – a mocha, to be precise; with whipped cream and chocolate shavings on top.

Max watched her sip her drink and couldn’t think of a damn thing to say. Being friends with Fran had never been difficult before ‘the thing’ and his infernal ‘friends plan’ – why was it so difficult now? Why couldn’t they just turn back the clock and start over? Even when she wasn’t flirting with him, like she had been during their past few outings, he felt pressured. First, he’d felt pressured to move their relationship forward when he just wasn’t prepared to. Now he felt pressured – well, he didn’t quite know why, but something just wasn’t right, and it irritated him.

Fran was surprised that this was one of Max and CC’s usual ‘haunts.’ A silly, jealous pang rose within her as she pictured Max and CC together, drinking fancy coffee drinks and discussing theatre. She knew Max had no romantic interest in CC, but it was the easy, if odd, rapport they had with each other that Fran was now envious of. If only she and Max could be in each other’s lives in such a comfortable way. Though, there was always at least a little bit of tension because of CC’s long-held interest in Max – but some how, the lines of their relationship seemed so simple and uncomplicated. Fran remembered a time when her relationship with Max had been easy and uncomplicated – and seemingly headed for something ‘more’ – but that time had passed; it was gone for good.

While Fran and Max were lost in thought, their waitress re-approached the table for what seemed to Fran like the twelfth time since they’d arrived only twenty minutes ago.

"Is there anything else I can get for you, Max? Would you like a refill? We have those apple turnovers that you like so much…"

"No thanks, Terri." Max smiled warmly at the woman. She was in her late twenties, Fran surmised. Long blonde hair fell naturally around her shoulders and she had dimples when she smiled – which she seemed to be doing a lot of, right at Max.

"And you, ma’am?" Terri inquired of Fran a bit coldly.

"Ma’am? There’s no ma’am here! I’m a ‘miss!’" Fran took offense at the implication of the title.

Coughing his slight embarrassment, Max introduced Fran. "Terri, this is Fran Fine, my children’s nanny."

"Oh! Nice to meet you, Fran. Can I get you another mocha?"

Fran turned down the additional drink and noted with interest how Terri had so instantly warmed to her upon finding out that she was ‘just’ the nanny.

"Have you just come from one of your shows, Max? I didn’t know anything new was opening, or I’d have gotten tickets. I just loved your last production. It was such a romantic story," Terri practically gushed to Max.

Fran thought that if the woman were leaning any closer to Max, his head would have been swallowed up by her cleavage, which she seemed to have put on display just for his viewing pleasure. And Fran’s displeasure. Could she get any more obvious?

Max, on the other hand, was completely oblivious. He was, of course, eating up every word Terri uttered – who wouldn’t love an attentive waitress who came to every single one of your Broadway productions? But he was immune to the fact that Terri seemed to have a particular interest in him.

Not a moment too soon – or so Fran thought – Terri was waived at by another customer.

"Boy, was she perky, or what?" Fran declared as Terri moved away.

"What? Terri’s always an excellent waitress," Max said, his voice innocent of any other possible motivations in Terri’s actions.

"Don’t you think Terri was paying just a tiny bit more attention to you than the average customer?" Fran had a hard time believing that Max was so totally unaware of Terri’s crush on him.

"Not particularly."

"Mr. Sheffield! She was almost in your lap! She’s clearly got a thing for you." Did she have to spell it out??

"A thing? You mean she likes me? I don’t know about that, Miss Fine." Max waved the notion off with his hand. However, there was something appealing about the idea that a young, attractive woman – who wasn’t the nanny – was hitting on him.

"The clues were pretty obvious. I can’t believe you haven’t noticed."

Max turned to watch Terri tend to her other customers, and he had to admit that Terri wasn’t as talkative or friendly with them as she had been with him. And, recalling the last few times he and CC had been in for coffee, Terri had been awfully chatty with him. Come to think of it, for a waitress at a coffee shop, Terri had seemed unusually interested in the exact nature of his relationship with CC.

His ego inflating by the moment, Max reveled in how nice it felt to be the object of someone’s affections – someone ‘safe’ and ‘normal’ to be precise. Perhaps this was just what he needed. A fun little fling, with no difficult emotional circumstances; something to get his mind off Fran. Someone to distract him. And Terri was really quite attractive, he thought. No, she’s far too young, Max tried to discourage himself. Though, who was he to stand in the way of attraction?

Finally emerging from his reverie and silent imaginings, Max focused back on Fran, who’d turned half way around in her chair, looking across the café. Max followed her gaze and spotted a twenty-something young man, staring rather blatantly at Fran.

"Miss Fine, that man is staring at you!" Max warned.

Not even sparing a glance at Max, Fran replied, "I know! Isn’t he adorable?!"

"It’s rather uncouth, don’t you think?" Leaning out of his chair, Max was straining to get her attention, trying to get into her line of sight.

"Well, I did wink at him earlier; he’s just returning the compliment."

Fran knew Max was probably jealous; but this was the perfect test. If he couldn’t be supportive of a single friend who was being hit on by a gorgeous stranger, what kind of a pal was he?

"He could be some crazy man!"

"I can only hope so!" Fran chimed.

"Miss Fine!"

Fran had, in fact, noticed the young man when they’d first arrived, and she’d smiled and winked at him. In a friendly, not-sleazy way, of course. Then, when Max had turned away to look towards his admiring waitress, Fran had checked to see if the preppy, yet somehow rugged, man was still there.

Indeed, he was. Fran had caught his eye and given him a tiny wave. He’d smiled widely, showing off a beautiful set of pearly white teeth.

Fran was soaking up the attention. She’d forgotten how nice it was to bask in the open admiration of someone who was so obviously attracted to her. She knew Max found her attractive, but his compliments and appreciative gazes were always either too short, or too bogged down with the baggage between them.

Getting an idea, Fran swiveled in her chair, flashed a smile at Max, and notified, "I’ll be right back; going to powder my nose."

In Fran’s absence, Max busied himself with his coffee and with watching Terri. Max was really starting to enjoy the idea of being on the receiving end of this crush. He’d even smiled and tried a wink of his own when she’d turned to him from across the café.

When Fran returned from the restroom, there was something distinctly different about her. The smile on her face matched the ‘bigness’ of her hair, which hadn’t been nearly that big before her stint in the ladies room. She was also wearing a bright red shade of lipstick, and her up-to-the-chin neckline was buttoned down substantially. Alarmingly, Max thought; almost down to her pupick, as Sylvia would say. But the most disturbing thing was the way she’d somehow ripped out part of the seam of her skirt – on one side, there was now a slit from the bottom of the garment almost all the way up her leg!

"Miss Fine, what on earth happened to you in there?"

"Nothing," Fran answered nonchalantly. She was quite satisfied with the outcome of her improvised transformation from ‘Marion the Librarian’ to ‘Fran the Fabulous.’

Max couldn’t believe what she’d done. Though he easily guessed the reason why. And Fran headed right over to talk to the man.

Max tried in vain to concentrate on Terri, or his coffee, or the other patrons, but he kept glancing to where Fran was putting on an embarrassing display of flirting with that man. He wasn’t so handsome, Max thought huffily. Sure, if you were into that clean-cut, yet rough around the edges, Harrison Ford type, he supposed the man might be appealing. Max tried to read their lips, but got nowhere.

Just as Fran was returning to their table, Terri approached with the check.

"Thank you, Terri. I’ll take care of that." Max swiped the check quickly away, wanting to appear as much the gentleman as he could, in spite of Fran’s declared intentions to pay. "I do have another show opening in a couple of weeks. If you’re not working, I’d be happy to provide tickets for you on opening night."

Fran sat down, amused at Max’s stiff attempt at flirting. He sounded more like a benevolent uncle than a man interested in a woman.

"I’d love that, thank you! I’ll be sure my schedule’s clear," Terri ate up the offer.

"Marvelous, I’ll have CC make the arrangements." Max felt a bit foolish, but he was determined not to let this opportunity pass by. After all, if this thing with Fran had taught him one thing, it was that he did, indeed, have needs and desires.

Fran couldn’t stand it any longer. Was he trying to get a date with her? It was sounding like he was making a business deal. Fran couldn’t decide if it was endearing or just painful to watch.

"Terri," Fran interrupted any further banter between them. "I was just talking with Erik; he suggested that the four of us hit the town for some dancing on Saturday."

Max stared at Fran and Terri, who proceeded to map out what sounded to him like a double date: he and Terri; Fran and this Erik person. And just how the devil did Erik and Terri know each other? Simply dumbfounded at what was happening, Max sat silently.

"Perfect, we’ll bring the limo and pick you guys up at your place at 9 o’clock."

"Your place?" Max finally sprung to life.

"Erik’s my brother; we’ve got a tiny apartment in the Village."

"Ahhh." Max didn’t know what to say. He hardly knew Terri. But that was the point, wasn’t it? To get to know her. But on a double date with Fran? He didn’t know if he liked the idea very much. Although, it did fit well into his ‘just friends’ scheme; and it would illustrate for Fran how they could be friends. Despite his grand plans of earlier, which included the fantasy of a fling with Terri, he was just, somehow, not totally comfortable with the whole scheme. He was just taken off guard, that was all – hadn’t dated in a long time. It must be nerves, he silently assured himself.

Fran chatted happily with Terri, another notion that made Max rather uneasy. He stared into the bottom of his coffee cup and wished he could glean some immediate instruction on how to be charming and suave; either that or that he could disappear into the bottom of the cup.

*******

Alone together in the limo, Fran and Max stared out the windows. Max was uncomfortable. Fran was lost in thought – what to wear on Saturday?

She knew very well that Max was not pleased with the events that had transpired. But she also knew that as friends they ought to be able to go out on a double date and to have a good time.

"You know, Mr. Sheffield," Fran mused out loud, turning to face him. "I’m just gonna have to go shopping for Saturday’s date. What are you going to wear?"

"Wear, Miss Fine? A suit, I suppose."

"A suit? You think ‘twenty-something Terri’ will want you in a suit? I’d go for something much younger and sexier."

"You want me to dress sexy for Terri?" Max didn’t know if she was being sincere or baiting him into wearing something ridiculous.

"Yeah, why not? She really likes you. Must have an older man complex," Fran tried to tease.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, she is a bit on the young side, don’t you think?" Fran was baiting him, and she knew it. She couldn’t seem to stop herself from trying to make him squirm.

"Maybe she’s wise beyond her years, and doesn’t want to waste time with the ‘boys’ her own age. An older man can offer quite a lot to a younger woman. She’ll benefit from my experience." Max had meant it in the most chivalric way. Fran snickered.

"I bet, Mr. Sheffield! And if the way you’ve kissed me is any indication of the kind of experience you have – Terri’s in good hands." Fran barely managed to make the remark sound matter-of-fact and almost flip. On the inside, she was torturing herself with jealous images of just how well Max’s experience would serve him with a woman.

Max didn’t know how to react. Fran seemed so enthusiastic about his date with Terri – more than he, in fact. And to even bring up their kisses – he was rather surprised. But he had to follow this through. It’s what friends would do.

He was more confused than ever… a phrase that kept coming to him, and, frustratingly, it applied every single time. Confused or not, there was no turning back – once Fran had pointed it out, he’d very much enjoyed Terri’s affectionate conversation with him; and she was quite pretty. But he’d never imagined that Fran would be along on a date with them. And dancing? Whose idea was that? Max sighed, resigned to the fact that this was what friends did together. He’d made his bed, now he’d have to lie in it.

Fran was also contemplating their ‘friends’ status, though her particular take on the situation was, ‘stick that in your ‘friends pipe’ and smoke it!’ She was looking forward to a fun evening with Erik – he was handsome, sweet, and would gorgeous be redundant? Fran knew it wouldn’t lead anywhere, but she thought it would be good practice to get herself ‘back in the game.’ She couldn’t guess if Max would ever be able to cast aside his emotional baggage enough to come to her willingly, so she might as well enjoy herself instead of pining away for him, or trying to manipulate him into a physical relationship. And she sure was enjoying rubbing ‘friends’ in his face!

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