Author's notes: this is a bit of a narrative experiment--a story cycle,
which goes Niles, Daphne, Roz. There are a couple of counterpoints (clearly
labeled so no one gets confused) but I think all in all it's pretty easy
to follow.
By Eve (feedback to: dr_dana@xfilesfan.com)
It was, by all accounts, a perfect gem. I found myself fascinated by the way the light caught each facet and set it afire, by the colours it poured into the palm of my hand. I turned it over in the light to look at it more closely--
"For God's sake, Niles!" my brother yelled. "You've been staring at it for five minutes! Just EAT the damn thing!"
I popped the cough drop into my mouth so hastily I gagged on it and almost choked.
Frasier can be such a brute sometimes.
"I've been thinking--" I began, only to be cut off by Dad's gruff retort.
"Thanks for sharing, son. You just go right on thinking. Only do me a favour and do it quietly, would you?" He returned to the soft electric glow of the television, my brother to the book he was reading, and Daphne to the laundry she was folding. Filtered sounds of sportsmanship mingled with the patter of the rain on the windows in a melancholy fugue. As if in protest of the oppressive silence, Daphne dropped the heavy laundry basket directly behind my father. It hit with a sharp crack! Frasier rolled his eyes in that diva-esque way of his and muttered something about the trials suffered by his poor hardwood floors; Dad started in his seat, turned around, and actually, physically growled at her. Laughter threatened to erupt from me, but I managed at the last second to turn it into a long cough. Stopping at one cough, however, was another matter. Then Daphne was beside me, placing a hand on my shoulder, easing me back.
"There, now, that's better. Isn't it?"
My whole left arm was pins and needles as blood rushed to the spot where her hand rested. "Much. Thank you."
Frasier glared at me from his seat at the dining table. "There's nothing wrong with him, Daphne." He obviously assumed that I was capable of self-immolation if it earned the reward of a smile from the angel herself. Well, perhaps I was. Not intentionally--I just seemed to suffer a complete lack of dignity and/or coordination whenever she was in the room. I've been told that women find my vulnerability rather charming. In which case I ought to have been damn near irresistible by now. "Besides, if he's that sick, he can just go home."
She shot him a defiant look and touched the back of her free hand to my head. She's a woman of strong loyalties, our Daphne, and I'm just glad to be counted among them. "No one's going anywhere in this weather, even if you were in fit condition to be driving," she announced, ostensibly to me.
That settled that.
The only response from Frasier was a muffled "Hmph"--which, admittedly, was better than the noise he'd made an hour ago when he'd arrived home from a dinner date to find me propped up on his sofa. I had wandered in from the maelstrom soaked, feverish, and mildly delirious, and collapsed the moment Daphne opened the door. A lesser woman wouldn't have managed to catch me, let alone to get me out of my wet overcoat and into some dry clothes. Well, perhaps that last bit was partly wishful thinking. It would be more accurate to say that she got me, the clothes (which in point of fact were my brother's), and the wet overcoat into the bathroom, where I had been left to my own devices long enough to realize that there was no way I would make it out of the apartment, let alone home, without someones assistance. When I came out with shirt buttons badly askew, she did fix them for me. Before I knew quite where I was, I found myself swaddled in blankets and stretched out on the sofa. I'd been in and out of consciousness for a bit, vaguely but pleasantly aware of a benevolent presence straightening the blankets, flitting in and out of existence with tea and cold compresses. For reasons beyond even my comprehension, I thanked it in Italian, and it pressed my hand in both its small ones and told me I should try to rest. It might have been Daphne, but, the state I was in, it might just as well have been a dream.
"Besides," she added, deliberately treating Frasier to the nape of her neck, "you're a lovely patient, a positive joy to take care of, which is more than I can say for SOME people I could mention."
Even I was lucid enough to note that both Dad and Frasier looked decidedly sheepish. She was right, though--I suspect it comes from their being adamant alpha-male types. They can't stand the thought that a woman might actually know their needs better than they do themselves. Living with Maris had rather acclimated me to that fact, and to have Daphne be the one to anticipate me was, as she would so aptly have described it, a positive joy.
"More tea?"
"Please, if it's no trouble." I achieved just the right tone of apology--not enough to be saccharine, but enough to avoid being lumped into the category of ungrateful so-and-so, along with SOME people she could mention.
I was rewarded with a smile sweeter and more golden than the honey she had been spooning into my tea. (What a fulsome turn of phrase--speaking of saccharine...!) The way she effortlessly retained everyones little habits, including that I tried to avoid sugar in the evening, fascinated me.
"No trouble at all." I watched her disappear into the kitchen to work her behind-scenes magic, belatedly becoming aware that Frasier was asking me to repeat what I had been about to say.
"Oh--I, ah, I was just thinking about how much pleasure I used to get from something as simple as a cough drop."
My brother and I exchanged conspiratorial smiles. Daphne, proffering the brimming cup and saucer, nodded knowingly.
"I know all about that," she remarked. "But Roz told me breath mints work even--here, now, you'll spill that if you're not careful." She took the cup from my trembling hand. Judging by the look on my father's face, for once she'd actually meant what I had inferred. Poor Dad was too shocked even to cheer when his team scored a goal, or a touchdown, or whatever you call it in football when someone kicks the ball far enough in the right direction. I thought I was going to liquefy and seep into the fabric of the sofa. By the time my heart started beating again, Frasier was explaining.
"...and the prep school we were at didn't allow you to have candy or gum, so we used to suck cough drops."
"Ohh."
"Niles had a record--he spent seven hours on the same one."
"Almost starving to death in the meantime," I added proudly.
Dad looked mildly disgusted with the pair of us.
"How on earth d'you manage that?" asked Daphne, handing me back my cup.
"Just talented, I guess. So, Daphne, referring to what Roz--"
"Talented? Oh, come off it, Niles. Your childhood behaviour practically screamed 'Oral fixation'."
"Strong words from a man who can't so much as sign his name without gnawing on the pen--at least I knew where that thumb had been!"
"Well, you--"
"That's enough, you two," Dad warned.
Daphne was obviously intrigued. "Could you still do it now?"
The cough candy in my mouth was almost gone at this point. I shook my head. "Part of it was attitude, I think. Then, little forbidden things like sweets could be the highlight of your day. I don't even bother to suck hard candy at all anymore." I wonder when that happened? I thought. I wonder when I became so preoccupied with myself that I lost my ability to concentrate so intensely on something simple?
"Me neither, come to think of it," echoed Frasier.
"I never sucked," Daphne replied. "You have to be quick when your brothers have all got their mitts in the candy dish and you want what's coming to you. Sometimes we'd actually come to blows over the last mint humbug, and then there'd be quite a brawl."
"How very mercenary, Daphne. I'll have to remember to keep my candy dish well-stocked when you're coming to visit." This statement was abruptly truncated by a yawn, which took me quite by surprise.
She grinned. "That's the way to my heart, all right. Do you know, Donny--"
If there was anything I didn't know about Donny, I was too ill to be beaten over the head with it now. "What about you, Dad?" I asked hastily.
"If you ask me, you two suck as much as you ever did."
"Dad!"
"And you can take that any way you like. Now pipe down. This is the last time I'm gonna say it."
Frasier heaved an exaggerated sigh of relief. "Thank God."
I yawned again.
"You finish that," Daphne commanded, indicating my cup, "and then we'll get you tucked in for the night." Obediently, I drained it to the dregs in two swallows.
"Not in my room."
"Dad, as always, has spoken the mot juste," Frasier added.
Daphne made an impatient noise which can only be approximately transcribed as "OooOOooh!" and sat beside me, initiating a shock wave that sent the remaining droplets of tepid tea into my lap. Oddly, this didn't bother me, although I did have the rather alarming sensation of feeling as though my head was going to fly right off my neck and float away.
"I don't mind the thofa," I protested, trying to speak around my tongue. My mouth had suddenly acquired the taste and texture of cotton, making every word an effort. "Reeeeally."
"Don't give it another thought," she soothed, giving my leg a pat. "You can sleep in my bed."
At this point I became convinced I had fallen asleep and was dreaming--which might account for the sudden weight my eyelids. They were so heavy I could barely keep my head up.
"And where will you sleep, Daphne?" demanded my brother, in what I like to call his "voice of God" tone. I heard him as though from a great height.
"On the sofa, of course!" she replied. I couldn't tell if she was angry or amused, but there was definitely some sort of reaction in her voice. I let my eyes close, and my head fall. It fell for quite some time before landing against what I presumed was the arm of the sofa, and the last thing I heard was a little insect buzzing, tinny and faraway, remarkably like the voice of my dad saying:
"What the hell did you put in that tea, anyway?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Just an old Moon family secret," I answered, smiling.
The 'secret' was really only a good dose of equal parts brandy and honey, but I wasn't about to tell them that. Not after how they'd treated poor Doctor Crane. You'd think they'd never been sick a day in their lives, those two, the way they teased him.
"In that case, I don't wanna know."
I looked down at the tousled blond head resting on my shoulder, and checked to see whether the fever had gone down at all. His face felt cooler, but not by much. He was quite relaxed and breathing deeply, evenly, apart from that little hitch. I was wondering whether I should put a bit of Vicks on his chest when the elder Doctor Crane called out:
"Oh, Niles, get up!"
Martin--I called him Mister Crane, a gesture of respect and deference, but privately I always thought of him as Martin--came to his son's aid with, "Lay off, Fras. He can't hear you anyway."
The patient stirred in his sleep and his eyelashes flickered slightly, but he was obviously down for the count. Both men looked at him in concern.
"He'll be fine," I assured them. "A good night's sleep'll do wonders, you'll see..." I hauled him to his feet and slipped one arm around his waist. "Come on, then..." Together we padded off to my room. His breath, warm against my cheek, smelled sweetly of cherry cough drops and honeyed tea. He dropped down onto the bed, curled up, and barely moved as I pulled the covers up over him.
I'm the first to admit that I rather like having someone to take care of. In all likelihood that's why I became a physical therapist. But over the years these three men had come to mean more to me than just my work. And I was saddened by the fact that I was soon going to be leaving them. They would still be a part of my life, of course--we'd already discussed it, Martin and I, and I'd told him there was no reason I couldn't stay on as his physical therapist--but I'd miss out on all the little things. The late nights we'd all sat up with a bottle of wine, laughing and talking. Rainy afternoons, one or another of the brothers at the piano, Martin patiently teaching Eddie a new trick and grumbling good-naturedly when I reminded him it was time for his exercises. It was like having to leave home all over again, this time in a more permanent way, because, rather than being welcomed into and becoming part of a family, I would be expected to help Donny form an entirely new one. So I had been a little over-solicitous as of late, finally finding a willing recipient of my attentions in the younger Doctor Crane.
I had never been able to call him by his first name, even in my mind, because there had always been some barrier of formality between us. At first because he wasn't a person I had any stake in: a patient's son, an employer's brother. As we became friends, I felt as though to put myself on the same level as him would have made me seem quite the little social climber. Especially considering the way his marriage was in a state of perpetual collapse. I didn't want to start the kind of talk that would hurt anyones reputation. Once or twice I was tempted to try it, regardless, but couldn't get the name out without at least a smile, even after the night we danced together at the Snow Ball. Not much call to bother about reputations after that.
But his manner with me was so gentle and formal that, in the end, it didn't matter what we called each other. Obviously he regarded me as an acquaintance of second degree--someone you know only through relationships in common, never on your own terms--and intended it to stay that way. I felt as though I was forever at arm's length with him; I let him into all my little confidences, but he rarely took me into his, and always seemed vaguely uncomfortable whenever my questions became too personal.
Looking at him now, though, it was easy enough to think of him as Niles. I don't know a single person who manages to look attractive in their sleep, and he was no exception; but he had this sort of fledgling schoolboy look about him. Too fair and refined to be thought of as rugged, but too gangly to be feminine.
He rolled over and wheezed pitifully. I sat on the bed, reached into my night table drawer and pulled out a small jar of Vicks. I'd had a bit of a cold recently, necessitating the jar's temporary relocation from the medicine cabinet. I eased him onto his back and undid the top two buttons of his shirt.
No, I thought, definitely not feminine.
He didn't so much as twitch as I coated his throat and chest with the camphor-smelling salve. Of course, at this point he probably would have remained oblivious to a nuclear strike in the living room. It hadn't taken much to knock him out; he'd barely been conscious enough to clothe himself earlier. I'd had to redo all his shirt buttons, under the watch of those fever-bright eyes. It was the first time I'd ever seen him do a less than meticulous job of dressing, even when he was seeing that waitress who wanted to 'mess him up'. I hadn't had the heart to tell him that the drawstring on sweat pants usually goes to the front.
Poor man, he always seemed to be having a rough time of it.
"That should do it," I told no one in particular, buttoning him up and tucking the covers close.
For the second time that evening, he mumbled something that sounded like "Grazzi." Then, in a whisper barely more than a breath, said my name.
"Yes?"
"Don't, Daphne..."
"Don't what?"
"Please don't..."
He seemed really upset. Delirious, no doubt.
"I won't," I assured him, feeling a bit foolish, but the last thing he needed was to get all worked up. "I promise I won't. You're going to be fine... Niles. Now go to sleep."
That reached him, somehow, and he stopped thrashing about and sighed. I figured I must have escaped the burning building, seen the truck coming and jumped out of the way, stopped disarranging his collection of Egyptian scent bottles, or whatever was upsetting him so. I put out the light, closed the door behind me, and left him to it.
When I came back into the living room I found that Martin had apparently gone off to bed, and that my spot on the sofa had been usurped by Roz. She was in evening dress, soaking wet and looking very determined.
"Please, Frasier?"
"Oh, all right." With a show of reluctance, he handed her a set of keys. "But if I find even one scratch--"
"Yeah, I know." She caught sight of me and grinned. "Hey, Daphne. Warren's car broke down."
"Warren? The one with the really big--"
Dr. Crane turned to stare at me.
"--bankroll?" I finished lamely.
He left the room without a sound.
Roz's grin widened. "Yep, that's him. Alice is with her grandma for the weekend, and I'm taking advantage of my newfound freedom. Can I borrow your..." She made tracks for the coat rack. "Oh. Never mind. You don't have a raincoat?"
"It's in my room--wait, you can't," I added as she barreled off in that direction. "Dr. Crane's in there."
Roz shot me a puzzled look. "No, he isn't. He's in the kitchen."
"Not that one, the other one."
"Niles?" Involuntarily her face twisted into a grimace. "What's HE doing in there?"
"Sleeping." I lowered my voice a touch, hoping she would follow my example.
Her eyes widened in disbelief. "What?!"
I shrugged and began straightening up the sofa. "Didn't Dr. Crane tell you? He was worn out, and it wouldn't have been fair to send him out in that storm. I don't mind sharing. Why don't you just go and get a garbage bag?" Slyly, I added, "You don't want to keep Warren and his big bankroll waiting..."
"You're right," she conceded, and went skidding into the kitchen. Alone for the moment, I tucked the still-warm blanket around me and picked up the remote. It was mean of me, I reflected mischievously, to deliberately give Roz a wrong impression like that, but no doubt Dr. Crane--one or the other--would soon set her straight...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I have just two questions for you," I told Frasier. "Has Daphne lost her mind? And where do you keep the garbage bags?"
"Any particular order you'd like those answered in?"
"First things first: garbage bags." I do have my priorities, after all.
"Here, I think." He opened a drawer to be confronted by tea towels. "Or not. Hmm."
Which is how I found myself, on a Friday night, in a dress that had cost me a week's pay, with a gorgeous-when-wet accountant of staggering anatomical correctness waiting two blocks away, on my knees, rummaging through a co-worker's kitchen. Nursing a sore throat to boot.
"Dammit, Frasier..."
"What was the other question?" he asked from the inside of a cupboard.
"Daphne."
"Right. Do you mean in a general sense, or did you have something specific in mind?"
"This thing with Niles."
"Oh, that." He stood up and surveyed the kitchen in obvious confusion. "Well, I can't say I like the idea, but it was pretty clear that was Daphne's intention from the start."
"Really?"
"I don't think he would have given in if she hadn't been hanging around him all evening. But I suppose if I'd really put my foot down, she would have taken him back to the Montana and spent the night there." He shook his head wearily. "At least here I can keep an eye on him."
"I suppose that's one way of looking at it. What did your dad have to say?"
Frasier smiled. "He was to the point, as always. He said, 'Not in my room.' His first and last words in the matter. Eureka!" He opened the last drawer and handed me a package of neon orange trash bags.
"That seems reasonable to me." I took a bread knife from the counter and started making holes in the appropriate places. "I just hope she knows what she's doing," I told him.
"God, yes. The last thing she needs is him as her little shadow. Especially with the wedding coming up."
I dropped the knife in shock. "She's still going through with it?"
"Last I heard. Why?"
"Oh, no reason."
The sarcasm in this escaped him completely.
"Anyhow, first thing tomorrow morning I'm packing Niles off back to the Montana. The longer he stays here, the longer this whole affair will drag out."
"What about Daphne?"
"She can focus her kind ministrations on her fiancé. Or Dad, if she wants, I don't care."
"She's been after Martin too?"
"Well, he's the one who spends the most time with her." He shrugged. "He complains, but you know Dad. Secretly he's enjoying every minute of it."
"Look, Frasier," I said, pulling the garbage bag over my head, "this has been... informative. But I'd better get going. I'll bring the car back tomorrow. Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
I spotted a box of cough candy on the counter. "Hey, do you mind if I--"
"Don't mention those either." He winced, seemingly involuntarily.
"What's with you?"
"Daphne has been enlightening my brother as to the various non-medicinal uses of cough drops."
More info than I needed, Frasier. "I have a sore throat, okay?" I glared at him, put the box down, and left.
It was going to be a long night, in more ways than one.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was nearly mid-afternoon when I awoke the next day, feeling that delightful chill that comes with the breaking of a fever and the restoration of one's sanity. I saw the events of the night before in a bit of a haze, with a few clear points: rain, tea with honey, blankets, my brother's inimitable 'voice of God' tone, cough drops (!), and Daphne (!!). This last-named point came into sharp aural focus as I was able to discern her voice, on the other side of the closed door.
My God, was she crying?
"But Donny--Donny, no..." she was whispering into the phone as I came out into the living room. The bright sunlight and my shaky legs combined to set me momentarily off-balance. "You know that's not true, love. Why would Roz--? I don't... I told you, I was only joking with her when I said that..." She turned around then, and saw me struggling to maintain verticality. "If you don't believe me," she said, in a frosty tone I'd never heard from her before, "you can ask him yourself."
The phone was summarily thrust into my hand. "Hello?"
"Niles?" Even over the phone I could tell Donny sounded tired. And angry.
"Yes?"
"You're a good guy, and I've got a lot of respect for you, so I'm just going to ask you straight out. Are you sleeping with Daphne?"
I hit the floor so fast, my initial impression was that the walls were growing.
"N-n-no..." I finally managed to stammer as Daphne helped me to my feet.
"You don't sound too sure of yourself, there, buddy."
"Of course not!" I sat down at the dining room table and adopted the most righteously indignant tone I could muster. "That's preposterous! That's insane! Why on earth would you even think such a thing?"
"You spent last night in her room." It was not a question.
"If Daphne told you that, then no doubt she also told you where she spent the night relative to myself."
"Well, I'll say this for you two, at least you've got your stories straight." I looked over at Daphne, who was angrily swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. Instinctively I reached for my handkerchief, which, naturally, wasn't there, and had to settle for offering her a napkin.
I cleared my throat. "I really do not need this right now. Look, last night I was too sick to make it home on my own. You saw what the weather was like out there. Daphne generously let me have her room, and she slept out here on the couch. For God's sake, ask Frasier!"
"Roz already did. Nice try. She also told me you had a thing for Daphne even when you were still married. Well, I don't know why you chose now to put the moves on, but I hope you're happy."
My head was pounding, my throat was itchy as hell, and the sight of Daphne dabbing her tears away with one of my brother's carmine-coloured table napkins made me wish, not for the first time, that I had never heard the name Donny Douglas. "Enough," I said. "Donny, you're a lawyer, so I'm not going to lecture you on the validity of hearsay evidence. But what I will say is that if you don't even trust Daphne out of your sight for one night, and you can't bring yourself to believe her when she says that nothing happened, that's not much of a basis for a marriage."
"You're one to talk--you married money."
I slammed the phone down onto the table. It was a cordless, so the impact of the gesture was a bit lost by my having to pick it up and press the END button, but I think the message came through.
"I'm so sorry," Daphne told me.
"What for?"
"It's all my fault. Last night I..." she explained how she had playfully contrived to mislead Roz.
"So that's where Roz comes into it." I put my head in my hands, trying to reconcile my agitation with a twisted sort of flattery. "What I can't figure out is how Frasier managed to give her the impression... what a god awful mess!" I stood up. "I should go home. When Frasier comes back, you can get him to call Donny and fix things." I hoped she didn't think I was taking the coward's way out.
"Your clothes are hanging up in the bathroom."
"Thank you."
"Are you going to make it all right? I want to see you walk a straight line."
I did so, touching my finger to my nose for bonus points. "If anything," I remarked, "this is my fault." Which it was. I introduced her to Donny in the first place. "I'm sorry."
She shook her head, sadly, defeatedly, but said only, "Go on, now--and you watch those buttons."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The day was a complete bust. Martin, back from his morning stroll, flat-out refused to get out of his chair, claiming he was exhausted. I didn't buy it; I knew the only reason he didn't want me along on those long walks of his was because he wasn't going any farther than the donut shop down the block. I finally coaxed him onto the exercise mat with a promise that I'd let him rot away the rest of the day, beer in one hand, remote control in the other, TV guide on his lap.
I called Donny four times, left four messages on his machine. Six on Roz's. The elder Dr. Crane's cell didn't pick up; heaven only knew where he'd got to by now.
So I rallied my last ounce of self-control, had a hot shower, and went for a walk in the park with the least complicated, most affectionate male in my life to date.
Namely, Eddie.
Thinking back, I suppose it would never have come about at all if it hadn't been for Missy Sayer. I'd worked for her father in the year before he died, after which she'd become quite the stereotypical madcap heiress. Along with her rhinoplasty, she'd apparently ordered an attitude transplant; before the money came into it she'd been as likely to talk to me as to anyone else, but since then we'd barely said two words to each other. Finally I realized that the only reason she'd been nice to me in the first place is because Daddy Dearest had been fond of me; as long as there was a chance I might end up s.b., she'd thought it prudent to stay on my good side. When he kicked off, her affection for me wasn't far behind.
If only the silent treatment had lasted.
"Daaaaaaphne!" she called, across a great dane the size of a small bicycle. Reigning in the beast, she walked abreast of Eddie and myself for a bit before announcing, "How ARE you, dear? Heard you were going to be married."
Oh, hell, I thought. But I forced a smile and replied, "Yes, that's right."
"To a successful lawyer, I believe?"
Well, that explained that, anyway. "Donny's done all right for himself," I replied.
"Good for you, girl!" She eyed my ring finger for the sparkle of tradition, conspicuously absent. I'd decided I couldn't wear it until the whole mess had been sorted out.
"The ring's at the engravers'. Should be ready any day now." I shifted self-consciously and walked a bit faster. "Come on, Eddie, get a move on."
Missy and her pony of a dog kept pace with us easily.
"I wouldn't mind meeting him. I've got a divorce lawyer on retainer, of course, but I'm always ready to trade up." She flashed her eyeteeth at me. "Besides, he looks quite dapper, judging from his picture in the society page."
"The society page?"
"Heavens, yes! When he was in on that case against what's-her-name--Crane, that's it, Maris Crane."
"Right, I remember now." It had been a nice picture, at that; Donny and Dr. Crane, smiling and shaking hands. But there was something about that photo, some sort of... what was it again?
"Never met her myself, of course, or him--different circles. I'm on the continent most of the year now."
"Oh." What was it? Why couldn't I remember? Something so simple... Donny had laughed about it, on the phone with Dr. Crane, and joked about a retraction being to his disadvantage...
"You and--Ronny, is it?"
"Donny."
"You both should meet me for dinner sometime."
The caption, wasn't it? 'Dr. Niles Crane (left) being congratulated by his lawyer on a successful settlement'.
"Of course."
"I'm leaving Monday night... how about Sunday? Say, eight-ish? At my hotel. Just me, my IN-timate friend, you, and Donny."
Or maybe it was the picture...
"Daphne?"
"I'll have to ask him," I replied, my mind still on the picture with its hidden iniquities. "He's been busy lately."
"I'm sure." She flashed the teeth again. I wondered idly how much they had cost her. "Too busy even to pick up your ring from the engravers', no doubt."
"And just what's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, you know what they say... sometimes there's no fire, only someone blowing smoke."
I don't know what possessed me to say it. Pride, I suppose. "We'll be there."
"WON-derful. Looking forward to it." We reached the end of the beaten path at this point, and Missy climbed into a waiting car, leaving her attendant to take charge of the animal. "Eight o'clock at the Balmoral uptown, Suite 1501. Don't forget. Ta, Daphne!"
I managed a sickly smile in return.
All the long walk back, I kept wondering how I was going to get Donny to agree to this little dinner engagement. Or to any engagement at all, for that matter. It wasn't until I was on my way up to the apartment in the elevator that my thoughts returned to that picture in the paper. Now I remembered: the printers had somehow managed to reverse the photo. The one on the left was actually Donny. And the one on the right--the "quite dapper" man that Missy Sayers and her "IN-timate friend" would be expecting me to bring to dinner on Sunday night--was Doctor Niles Crane.
In the words of the man himself, what a god awful mess.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was just like Frasier to disappear when I had a problem. All right, sometimes he could be a pompous ass, but once he got through with the finger-wagging and the I-told-you-so's he usually had some good advice. Which I then summarily ignored, but that's neither here nor there.
Now, don't get me wrong, I liked Daphne. As a rule I didn't have a lot of girlfriends--as funny as it sounds, a lot of the time I'd rather just be "one of the boys". I suppose it's because I've always been more comfortable around men. The female friends I have had were put off by my healthy attitude towards men. All right, let's face it. Some of them were put off by my healthy attitude towards their men. I'm not going to make excuses for myself. But in Daphne I'd found someone who was sweet, supportive, willing to listen, and wore many of the same sizes I did. If that's not a dynamite recipe for friendship, then I don't know what is. The first couple of times I met her, she seemed a little spacey, but the more time we spent together, the more I liked her. Psychic flashes and all.
Daphne had spent most of her life around men, too, but in a different capacity. She'd always been the dutiful girl, the younger sister: through this she'd evolved into sort of a Florence Nightingale figure, a silent, steady companion who seemed to enjoy helping as much as most people enjoyed being helped by her. I don't think she realized what a mystique that kind of attitude holds for a lot of men in this day and age. She was simple, open, affectionate with men, and exuded a refined sensuality that they positively drooled over. The distinction was subtle but definite: I was a woman, but Daphne was a lady.
Not that I'm complaining, of course.
At first, for Daphne's sake, I figured I should keep my big mouth shut. There was probably some whole understory to this thing I was missing. But the more I thought about it, the more I felt sorry for Donny. He was really getting the short end of the stick: not only from Daphne, but from Niles, whom he considered a friend. And it wasn't fair to Niles either; I'm all for having your cake and eating it too, but marriage is sort of an implicit ban on dessert in that respect. And it wouldn't just be a bit of fun for him; I'd never seen anything like the torch he'd been carrying for Daphne. A man who managed to combine economy of movement with a tentative grace, he tensed up and moved like a marionette whenever she so much as looked in his direction. It would have been cute if it didn't creep me the hell out.
So I did what I thought was the best thing for everyone involved.
I told Donny.
We met for coffee. He thought it was some sort of ploy on my part to come between him and Daphne, but when I told him to talk to Frasier if he didn't believe me, his whole face hardened and he opened his cell phone. It turned out Frasier wasn't there (he'd gone to some art auction or other), but Daphne was. She gave him the most feeble excuse I've ever heard in my life, and I've heard some lulus. I've made some lulus. Then Niles got in on the conversation--the very fact of his being there a point against him--and even I heard sound of the phone hitting the wall, or the floor, or whatever he threw it against to end the call. Donny just got up and left the cafe, without saying a word.
I sat, staring down my hot chocolate, and tried to figure out the situation.
The more I thought about it, the less it made sense. Why would Daphne do something like that so publicly and think she could get away with it? She could have easily gone to Niles' place without telling anyone. And why him? She couldn't just be completely oblivious after all those years and then, suddenly figuring it out, decide to throw over a perfectly serviceable fiancé for a weedy little chair-duster without so much as a warning to either party... I credited Daphne with more feeling than that. And I knew she wasn't capable of that sort of calculation. There had been times when I'd suspected her of teasing Niles, playing on his infatuation with stories about nude sunbathing and whipped-cream teddies, but I'd come to realize that she just felt comfortable talking about those sorts of things to him, the way she did to me. God only knows how many thrills she gave the poor guy with just ordinary girl-talk. I was certain that, if she had intended a transfer of affection, she'd have done it properly.
So what if...
What if...
What if she really did sleep on the couch that night?
"I thought I might find you here, Roz."
Speak of the devil... well, in this case, think of the devil...
"We have to talk."
"Yeah, Niles, we do. Sit down." He hesitated. "Go on, sit down before you fall down." This was a guy who gave more care to his personal appearance than anyone I'd ever met--and he looked like his dry-clean-only suit had been washed and wrung with him still inside. He sat. "You look like hell."
"Thanks. I feel even worse." He passed one hand over red-rimmed eyes, a pale face rippled with fair stubble, a mobile mouth that couldn't seem to decide whether to be angry or amused. "Daphne was only kidding you, you know."
"I figured that out afterwards."
"After the damage was done. Brava, Roz." There was no spite or venom in his voice, just a weary sort of bitterness--not at me, but at the world in general for screwing him over yet again. I couldn't very well blame him.
"Is she mad at you?"
"No." He coughed once, touched a handkerchief to his mouth. "She's mad at herself, which is worse. You'd better talk to him."
"I will. And I'll apologize to Daphne."
"Good." He shook his head. "How do these things happen?"
"Well," I mused, "there's an ancient Chinese proverb that curses a person by condemning them to live in interesting times. Obviously you really pissed somebody off."
"You know, Roz, sometimes I think you're a lot more literate than you let on."
"I read it in a fortune cookie."
"Well, even the greatest pearl of wisdom is born of a little imperfection."
"Good one. Who said that?"
"I did." He grinned. "Just now. Obviously you weren't paying attention, my little imperfection."
I stood, swatted him on the shoulder, and told him to go home and get some rest. Then I left.
I had some imperfections of my own to put right.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Impossible to know whether my little talk with Roz had done more good than harm. The only thing I could do, really, was to sweat it out. I ordered a latte to go, assuming that ought to be enough to get me home without falling asleep at the wheel, and was just on my way out when I ran into Eddie. Actually, to be painfully accurate, I tripped over Eddie. I'm not sure which one of us was the most disconcerted at that point, but I suddenly became the heavy favourite as I righted myself and bumped directly into Daphne. Again, let me correct myself. Daphne came running up, made a lunge for Eddie, and crashed right into me. My coffee exploded between us with an audible pop! Her mouth opened in a silent O of apology.
"I'm so sorry, Daphne. Are you all right?"
She nodded.
"Well, it looks like you owe me a latte," I prompted, trying for a deadpan, but she didn't laugh. In fact, she looked like she was going to burst into tears. "You're not--burned, or anything, are you?" I tried to look anywhere but at the front of her shirt, saturated with coffee and clinging to her for dear life. Instead I concentrated on her mouth, which seemed to be grasping for words.
"Eddie," she said finally. The beast, hearing his name, stopped licking latte off my shoes and sat up. She snatched up the leash. "He got away from me in the park and ran all the way here. Bad dog!"
"Probably looking for Dad," I theorized.
Daphne nodded again, and bit her lip. Cafe patrons stared at us through the window, busybodies who hadn't got anything better to do with their time than smirk smugly at the troubles of strangers. Much as I missed being the one on the inside, making the witty little play-by-play, in this case I think I was actually better off.
"What's wrong?" I took her by the arm and steered her away from our ersatz audience, to a nearby bus stop bench. The day was cloudy and cold, the sidewalk virtually deserted, apart from a couple of teenagers across the street who were far too absorbed in their mutual tonsillectomy to notice us. She took a moment to compose herself, and then, little by little, out came the whole story: Dad's exercises, Frasier's ever-so-convenient outing to the Northrop Society auction, Missy Sayers and her catty little invitation--and the clincher, the newspaper photo.
"She's going to be expecting you," she told me. "I mean, she's going to be expecting Donny, but she thinks Donny looks like you--not that I'm ashamed of Donny, mind you, I like the way he carries himself--but even if she were expecting Donny, I still wouldn't be able to pull it off, would I?"
"Well--"
"And if Donny does agree to go, which he probably won't, then I have to turn up and explain why Donny is Donny and not you, and then he'll get mad all over again because he'll think I've been misleading people, or something!" She clutched at the sleeve of my blazer, so tightly I expected there to be little holes in the fabric when I examined it later. "I wanted to show this woman that I'm happy just being myself, which is hard to do if she thinks Donny is someone else. Does that make sense to you?"
"Absolutely," I lied fervently. I would have done anything to erase the hurt in her eyes, although it seemed pitifully unfair that I was always helping her fix things with boyfriends, or ex-boyfriends, or would-be boyfriends--Donny, Joe, Eric, Clive...
Clive...
"Daphne!"
"Hmm?"
"What if--" I was almost hysterical with laughter at this point; it was just insane enough to work! "What if I were Donny? I mean, what if I pretended to be Donny on Sunday night? We managed to pull off a similar pretense once before, on that ex-boyfriend of yours--it worked a little too well, as I recall..."
"Oh, but that wouldn't be--and what if her date recognizes you?"
"You say she lives in Europe, right? She's never met me, or Maris, or any of our set, and, from what you've told me, doesn't care to, so we're not likely to know anyone in common. And she's leaving tomorrow, so it isn't as though it'll be any kind of sustained deception. No one else will have to know; you can tell Dad and Frasier you're meeting an old friend for dinner and leave it at that. Donny will have time to cool off, and," I added recklessly, "Monday you two will have worked everything out."
I could tell she wanted to believe me. "Do you really think so?"
"There's always hope... one thing, though."
"What's that?"
"For heaven's sake, don't tell Roz!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sunday dawned clear and cool, and I felt all washed clean inside. It was really going to work, this outrageous plan. I could feel it. I had faith in my own acting ability; I had faith in the gullibility of Missy Sayers; but, most of all, I had faith in Niles Crane. He was always looking out for me when I needed it most; for the second time in as many days I'd put him in a spot, and both times he'd come through without so much as a word of reproach. It was more than I had any right to expect, really, and it left me with rather a strange feeling--sort of a mental tickle, like the kind I'd get before I had one of my visions. If it were anyone else, I might wonder if they weren't up to something... but not him.
What could he possibly stand to gain out of all this?
Roz called early in the afternoon, and we made it up. It wasn't really her fault anyway, but she promised she would never get involved in mine and Donny's relationship again. I said I hoped she didn't mean that, because she was supposed to be one of my bridesmaids, which was rather an involved role, if you thought about it. We laughed and chatted for a bit before she begged off, with the excuse that Warren was on his way over.
Donny called not five minutes later. "I talked to Roz," he said, humbly.
"And?"
"I'm sorry, Daph. I should have trusted you."
"Yes, you should have."
He chuckled deprecatingly. "And once I thought about it, I realized the whole idea was sorta ridiculous anyway--I mean, you and Niles..."
I bristled. "What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing--just that, he's, well, you know... he's Niles. I didn't exactly have much to be worried about."
"He happens to be an attractive, intelligent, caring man--not to mention well-off. If your fiancee is the unfaithful type, I'd say you have a lot to be worried about."
"Very funny, Daphne. I see what you're doing here. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me. I am a professional liar, you know. Listen, how about we go out for a late lunch and you let me prove just how sorry I am?"
"Can't, I've got to get ready. I'm meeting an old friend for dinner."
"I'll go with. What time?"
I was glad he couldn't see how red my face was going. Dating a professional liar didn't necessarily mean you became one yourself, after all. "You'd better not, love. Very posh, you'd have to dress up, and it'll probably be a late night anyway. How about dinner tomorrow?"
"Anytime you say, sweetie. I really am sorry."
"I know. You can pick me up at seven. Fair enough?"
"Fair enough."
So that was settled, at least. You'd think I'd have been relieved to have fixed things with Donny, but I felt strangely uneasy. Part of it was the way I'd reacted when Donny had laughed at the idea of me and Dr. Crane. But why shouldn't he? It was pretty ridiculous... we weren't even on first name terms. Well, he was, but I wasn't. Funny how that works. And all Donny knew about Niles was that he'd married into a wealthy family, that I'd helped cause a stir among his society friends with a fast dance and a few warm words, and that he was far too polite. "I could have asked him for twice what I did, he would've paid it without question," Donny had told me the night we worked at preparing my deposition. "If he ever gets married again, I hope he does it right, because he wouldn't survive another divorce."
Why was it that remark didn't strike me as being patronizing at the time? It certainly did now.
I had plenty of time to mull over this while I dressed and fixed my hair. In a way I was looking forward to the evening: it had been a while since I'd gone anywhere where I needed to dress up. Donny preferred dating on a more low-key level; the movies, a reasonable restaurant, a walk in the park, a quiet drive. The only time I got any sort of social excitement was when one or another of the Cranes invited me to these fancy little soirees they enjoyed so much. Donny came with me, of course, and he always looked very smart, but he would never wear black tie as effortlessly as the Crane boys did. Even Martin managed to carry it off. Maybe it was genetic...
"Where are you off to, Daphne?" asked Dr. Crane, somewhat disinterestedly. He'd finally gotten home late the night before, full of apologies for the misunderstanding with him and Roz. Apparently his brother had called him on his cell and explained the situation, and he, in turn, had called Donny and delivered a glowing testimonial on my behalf. "Celebrations with Donny, I presume?"
"Something like that." I'd decided I didn't want to bring the mention of an old friend into it at all; Dr. Crane was far more inquisitive about my comings and goings than Donny was. I suppose he had a right to be--he was my employer, after all. But I needn't have worried: he didn't seem particularly enthralled by my response, and I got the sense that he'd only asked out of politeness.
The phone rang again just as I was checking my hair in the hall bathroom. "Oh, hello, Niles," I heard Dr. Crane say. This was awkward; he was phoning to tell me he was here to pick me up, in all likelihood, but he couldn't very well ask to speak to me without arousing some suspicion. "Your what? Hang on a moment, I'll ask her. Daphne!"
I poked my head out of the bathroom in what I hoped was a non-committal fashion. "Yes?"
"You haven't seen Niles' keys around, have you? He thinks he might have left them here."
"He had them in his hand when he left yesterday--ask him where he went after that."
"Niles, Daphne says you--oh, you heard. Mmm-hmm. Well, I would if I were you. All right, goodbye."
I gave the dress one last good tug and tossed my wrap carelessly over one shoulder. "Did he find them?"
Frasier shook his head and sighed. "He thinks he might have left them at that grubby little bookstore around the corner. God only knows what he was doing in there."
At least now I knew where he was waiting. "Well, I'm off!" I called.
"You're not the only one," he replied cryptically. "Sometimes I really wonder about my brother..."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It really burned me--I thought I had Daphne all figured out. She said nothing was going on with Niles, got Frasier to back her up, and I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. Then I pulled up a block or so from the Elliott Bay Towers, where I was headed to drop off a skirt I'd borrowed, and who did I see, across the street, sitting in his parked car? None other than Dr. Niles Crane. Well, all right. It's not a crime to hang out in your car, although it isn't exactly my idea of a fun solo activity. Nothing incriminating there.
Then around the corner zipped Daphne, in that cute navy dress Niles had been trying to get her to wear since he'd dropped by the apartment one afternoon and found us in the midst of our quarterly clothing swap. He had insisted on sticking around, to give us his objective opinion (although his objective opinion was that I was unsalvageable, while Daphne would have looked stunning in a burlap sack and clogs). It was a crushed velvet number with a generous neckline and a little silver choker clip. Not the kind of thing you'd wear to the Academy Awards or anything, but nice for a dinner date. When she came out of the bedroom with it on, I was this close to telling Niles to pick his jaw up off the floor. I traded the dress to her for two skirts, because, frankly, it looked great on her and did absolutely nothing for me; however, I had begun to wish I hadn't, because he knew she had it and obviously didn't intend to let up until she was doing the housework in it. Lately, though, he'd shut up about it; I'd assumed that was just because Donny was around and might not appreciate his little inferences.
I guess now I knew better.
She got in the car, and in the moment before the door closed both their faces were illuminated. He was happier than I'd ever seen him, and she was positively glowing.
Dinner with an old friend, my ass.
Well, this time I wasn't going to do anything. A promise was a promise, after all. She'd made her own bed--in point of fact she'd made two of them--and she could damn well lie in them until it blew up in her face. If someone asked me, though, I wasn't going to lie for her.
Now the only thing left to figure out was how I was going to get Frasier to ask the right questions.
It turned out to be harder than I thought. Normally Frasier can sniff out a subtle hint like you wouldn't believe--and I was anything but subtle. I opened with, "Hi, I just came to drop this off. Daphne around?"
"Oh, she went out."
"By herself?"
"I think she's meeting Donny somewhere."
"Is that what she told you?"
It seemed as though he might actually grab a clue, but instead he just stared blankly ahead and casually replied, "I think so, why?" as though he didn't care one way or the other about what was going on between his brother and Daphne.
"No reason. Hey, where's Niles?"
Frasier woke up enough then to frown at me. "You do realize that, contrary to popular opinion, he doesn't live here."
"I just wondered if--"
"Nor am I his babysitter. Excuse me." He reached around me for his coat, and I noticed for the first time that he was dressed for going out.
"Hot date?"
Grinning in that wolf-like way he has when he thinks he might actually get some action, he came back with, "You'd better believe it."
"You're not the only one."
He fiddled idly with his tie, checking his reflection in the glass of the balcony window. "Seeing Warren again tonight, are we?"
"Nope."
"Roz," Frasier sighed. "I don't particularly want to know whatever dirt you came to dish tonight, and I'm sorry Daphne's not here to hear it. If it really can't wait, call Donny's cell phone and deliver your little inferences in person."
"If I wanted to do that, it wouldn't be Donny's phone I'd be calling," I told him pointedly. Clarity lit up his face.
"Oh, good God, Roz, not that again!" He raised a hand to his forehead.
"Frasier, I saw them."
"Are you sure?"
"Well, I--"
"This is my brother we're talking about here. You'd damn well better be sure."
"I know what I saw!"
He shook his head. "I can't deal with this right now. I have a date with a charming young lady in a half-hour and this is the absolute last thing I need." He opened the door for me, followed me through it, and locked up, before turning to look me in the eye. "The truth is, I don't want to know."
"You think I do?" I squeaked. "Daphne's my friend."
He was silent for a moment, as if trying to think of a retort. At last, he settled on, "Go home, Roz."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I gripped the steering wheel with both hands and guided the car out into the street, trying in vain to keep my eyes on the road and off the figure in the passenger seat beside me. Finally I gave up and just plain stared.
"You look wonderful," I told her. "I've been telling you for months now you ought to wear that dress more often."
"I didn't exactly have anywhere to wear it to, did I?" She returned my stare with one of her own. My eyes dropped and I forced my attention back to where it should have been. "You don't look bad yourself. D'you think we should stop and pick up a bottle of wine?"
"Got one," I said. "Nothing ostentatious, just enough to let her know that you've been living well."
"I ought to pay you for it. How much?"
I laughed, a bit self-consciously. "Don't worry about it." I didn't want to hurt her pride by revealing the cost of that one bottle, more than a month's salary for her. "Think of it as a thank you for the other night."
"I'm just glad you're feeling better," she replied.
"So am I." There was no need for her to know the truth--that I wasn't feeling anything of the sort. As long as I avoided the wine (which, as I knew full well, wasn't exactly the best chaser for any kind of medication) I would be able to keep up at least one of the pretenses I had in mind for the evening.
"What sort of wine is it?"
I launched into an elaborate description of the taste, the vineyard, the grapes, the vintage, and the funny little fellow who had managed to sell me four bottles through his remarkably fluid English and my not-so-formidable Italian. Finally she interrupted with, "I meant, is it red or white?"
"Oh." Chastised for the moment, I answered, "White." I needed to remember who I was talking to. Daphne didn't want to hear about my little adventures as a connoisseur; I had probably been boring her half to death for the last five minutes.
"It sounds very nice."
"It is. Listen, Daphne--hadn't we better, well, to put it crudely, get our story straight? I mean, just in case your friend Missy decides to give us the full-fledged society maven's inquisition. They can be very good at it--Maris was one of the best." I grinned. "Unless, of course, you want me to be sort of a trophy fiancé, sitting there looking pretty while you do all the talking..."
This didn't get the laugh I'd hoped for, but she smiled. "All right, then: how long have we been seeing each other?"
I almost swerved into the path of a large and sinister-looking SUV. "Er--what time is it?"
She glanced at her watch. "Seven thirty-eight."
"Seven plus three plus eight is eighteen, so let's say eighteen months. A year and a half. Sound good?"
"Fine by me."
"Now, let's see... how did we meet?"
"You know perfectly well how Donny and I met. You introduced us. There's nothing wrong with that story, is there?"
"I'd like to avoid talking about myself if at all possible," I admitted. "It's easy to get tangled up. Better just to stick to fiction. It's when you try to tell half a lie that things get messy," I added ruefully, thinking of Phyllis. But perhaps I did have an ulterior motive too: for tonight at least, I was to be allowed to live out my little fantasy. I didn't want any sort of uncomfortable reality intruding on the dream world I intended to create for myself.
"Maybe we met at a bar."
"That's not very romantic, Daphne..."
"It happens, though."
"You spend too much time listening to Roz."
"I met Rodney in a bar!"
Case in point, I thought, but said nothing.
"All right, all right... maybe a bookstore. We both reached for the same book at the same time."
"That's better. What was the book?" Catching sight of the mischievous glint in her eye, I cautioned, "Anything but 'Slow Tango in South Seattle'."
She swatted my arm. "Oh, Doctor Crane, you're no fun at all. Let's see... how about 'Under the Silver Sun'?"
"That's one of your trashy romances."
"How would you know unless you'd read it?"
"It was a fascinating exercise in comparative literature. What about 'Strong Poison'?"
"Sorry, never heard of it. How about 'Savage Breast'?"
"Good lord, no, I'm surprised that one hasn't been permanently banned from Chapters. I don't care if it is a best-seller. It's practically indecent and it isn't even any good. How about the collected works of John Donne?"
"Not bloody likely."
"The man wrote some of the most beautiful love poetry of all time!"
"That filthy-minded woman-hater? I don't call it beautiful when a man tells a woman to shut up and let him love."
"Let's just go with the bar."
"How about 'Jane Eyre'?"
This, unlike her first two suggestions, had the ring of an authentic choice to it. I turned it over in my mind for a second, hoping to find some sort of hidden signal that boded well for yours truly. Unless it meant she was falling for Frasier, there was no subtext there. "All right. At least that's settled. Next question: where are we, ah, going for our honeymoon?"
Daphne reddened. I wiped my face with my handkerchief.
"She won't want to know that..."
"They always want to know that. It's because they've been everywhere on earth by the time they're seventeen; they practically salivate at the chance to brag about it in the form of travel advice. So where's it going to be? You've got the whole world at your fingertips..."
"Donny wants to go someplace in Wisconsin, where he's got family. He says it's very pretty."
"Oh, for the love of--!" I took a moment to compose myself before starting again, although I didn't quite manage to keep the anger out of my voice. She deserved more than that, and it was obvious from the way she said it that it wasn't where she'd had in mind. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I'd be able to pull that off convincingly."
"Well, where do you think would be convincing?"
"This isn't about me," I backpedaled. "A man would count himself lucky to be going anywhere with you, especially as your, uhm, in that capacity. Where would you like to go?"
"I... well... Donny teased me when I suggested it..."
"Where?"
"Have you ever been to Nice?"
"As a matter of fact, I have. When I was in France I vacationed there for a week with some school chums." I didn't bother to mention that I was 'with' them only in the sense that we stayed at the same hotel for a few days.
"I've always wanted to go, it looks lovely in pictures, all sunshine and beaches... you can go for a drive around the countryside, take a day trip to Monaco, see all the shops and casinos there, and even bathe in the Mediterranean. Did you do any of that?"
"I did. Well, I saw the shops and the casinos, anyway. The town itself is close enough to Italy that I got to practice my Italian on all the pretty girls... so if you ever need to reject a horrible malformed Italian slug, I can tell you how to say it. Too cold for swimming when I was there, but I forgot my noseplugs anyhow." She giggled at this, but I put it down to nerves.
"Say something in Italian, Doctor Crane."
"Listen, I know it's awkward, but you've got to remember to call me Donny."
She nodded, then, smiling, repeated her request, and would not be put off by my efforts to change the subject. Even complimenting her on her dress again didn't sway her from her objective.
At last I acceded with, "What do you want me to say?"
"What's the first thing you ever learned?"
"I don't know, Daphne, it's pretty silly..."
"Well?"
"Verrei una camicetta gialla."
"That's very pretty. What does it mean?"
"'I want a yellow sweater.'" She burst into whoops of loud laughter. "Well, I hope you're satisfied."
"Why--why--" she gasped, trying to catch her breath, "would you want--a yellow--sweater?"
"It was page one in my phrase book, thank you very much! I don't see you volunteering any international syntax for my enjoyment."
"I know a dirty limerick in French," she offered.
"Well... er, no. But thank you just the same... um. Nice it is, then." I pulled into the parking garage of the Balmoral and reached for my handkerchief again. "Anything else, or are we all set?" I dabbed at the sweat on my upper lip. Daphne turned to me, apparently about to say something, but instead gave a little exclamation of surprise. "What is it?"
She held out her hand for the handkerchief. "Your nose is bleeding..."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I took the elevator up to the fifteenth floor by myself, with what I was certain was an outrageously expensive bottle of wine in one hand and a blood-stained handkerchief in the other. I'd left the car with it in my hand, without my purse, and my dress didn't have any pockets. Obviously my mind was somewhere else tonight... at home on my shelf, perhaps? Between the covers of that careworn, thirty-year-old hardback edition I'd nicked from Grammy Moon's bookcase? I'd never realized until just that moment that I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times Jane had called Mr. Rochester by his first name. Of course, that was a different era, and he was in love with her; he was off-limits because he was married; she was trying to distance herself from her feelings for him...
Perhaps my thoughts were with the wine. It made me terribly nervous, having something in my hand that was probably worth more than every item I owned put together. He hadn't wanted tell me what it had cost; he didn't need to. I'd heard that laugh before, when he used to wheedle to his wife on the phone, trying to convince her that this, that, or the other Victorian knick-knack he'd spotted was merely a drop in the bucket. Easy to say when your bucket is the size of an Olympic-sized swimming pool--or, for that matter, a koi pond. There would be this long pause on his end, during which she must have asked how much, and then he'd laugh just that way, and tell her he didn't remember exactly, or that he'd misplaced the particular page in the catalogue and he would call her back when he found it. Towards the end of their marriage, he became a bit more creative: he'd say "no more than your such-and-such, my darling"; "oh, hundreds more than Mrs. So-and-so's, the one she bragged about so shamelessly last week"; or even "it would be rude of me to tell you, dear, I wanted it as a gift for you". But it all came to the same thing in the end: he would sit, nodding into the phone, with the occasional "Yes, Maris," for good measure, and that would be the last anyone would hear of it (except, perhaps, for a brief outcry a couple of weeks later when the coveted knick-knack showed up on his brother's shelf of objets d'art).
Usually he'd come wandering into the kitchen after one of those little phone conversations, doing his best to make more work for me by knocking things over and/or injuring himself in some fashion. As much as it frustrated me, I never chased him out, because I knew that was exactly the problem with everyone else around him: no one ever let him feel as though his help was really appreciated. Here he was, a grown man, denied any sort of approval from the people whose opinions he valued most, and all he wanted was for me to give him laundry to fold or dishes to dry, and to thank him once he'd made a proper mess of it. Well, maybe not always. He knew his way around the kitchen better than you'd think to look at him, and he was extremely organized as a rule. And he refused to give up on a thing until he'd got it right, or until I took it away from him, usually the former.
I emerged from the elevator, into a suite that made the Montana look like a cracker box. It was the only hotel room I'd ever seen with a chandelier and a baby grand in the front room, although, no doubt, Dr. Crane wouldn't even take a second look. I felt embarrassed all over again about our conversation in the car, when he'd been so patiently explaining the wine to me, as though I were just as intelligent in these matters as he was, even going so far as to tell me a little story about how he'd bought it--and I'd all but bitten his head off for it. You could practically hear the barriers snap back into place after that. When I'd offered to help him get cleaned up, he'd looked at me with such alarm that for a second I thought perhaps my hair was on fire and he was just too polite to tell me outright. He'd assured me that I didn't have to do that--unless I wanted to, of course, diplomat that he was--and that he'd be along the second his nose stopped bleeding. He was prone to that; something to do with allergies, I suppose. I wasn't relishing the thought of going up to Missy's suite without my fake fiancé, but it was already past eight and it would have been silly for us both to sit around down there...
Missy came out of one of the rear rooms to greet me. She, of course, was extravagantly decked out: forest green silk (the kind that looks absolutely stunning on a blonde), jewelry dripping with emeralds. I allowed myself to be swept into one of those fake kiss-kiss greetings without much enthusiasm, wishing my companion would get here so I'd at least have the comfort of familiar company.
Turns out I needn't have worried on that score.
Recalling the handkerchief, I handed her the bottle somewhat unceremoniously and clasped my hands in front of me. "Donny will be along in a minute," I told her. "He's just parking the car. Is there somewhere I can freshen up?"
"Of course. Right this way--oh, but first, you HAVE to meet my friend." She got hold of me by the elbow, I was dragged down the hall to a room identical to the first, and, before I knew quite what was going on, found myself face to face with some very familiar company indeed.
"Daphne, meet Doctor Frasier Crane."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I've been told that, when I make things hard for myself, I do it subconsciously. For example, that the reason I date so many men is because, subconsciously, I'm insecure about my ability to carry on a long-term relationship. You'd think that, considering the fact that part of my job is to sit and listen to psycho babble, I would be able to avoid some of these so-called subconscious screw-ups. But apparently it doesn't exactly work that way.
Subconsciously, I wanted to follow Frasier. I wanted to yell at him about what was going on with Daphne, to make him sit up and pay attention and tell me what the hell was really going on. I knew he knew more than he was saying: it was impossible to think that he would actually leave his brother alone, even for a second, especially in the very situation he had been so adamant about avoiding all this time.
That was why I left a very important item in the backseat of Frasier's car the other night. It had nothing to do with what may or may not have been going through my head, or various other areas of my anatomy, at that time. It was all part of the deeper workings of my psyche.
Hot damn, I should really work on getting my own radio show.
I managed to trail him a few blocks before I lost him around the corner of a construction site. In Seattle we have two seasons: winter, and construction. I suppose most cities are the same way. But by the time I managed to pick my way through the sluice of traffic, he was nowhere to be seen. I should probably mention at this point that the item I'd left in his car was not something he would particularly have appreciated his date discovering--especially if, as usual, he was trying to pump himself up as a real he-man lady-killer type. So, after circling the block for five minutes or so, trying to get a lead, I did the only ethical thing.
I called his cell phone.
The first two times I tried it, I got a busy signal. The third time, he picked up. And boy, did he sound irritated.
"Frasier, it's Roz."
"Of course! Who else could it be? If you're calling about... what we discussed earlier, don't bother. I've had a conversion."
There was a funny sort of echo in the background. "Where are you, anyway?"
"Not that it's any of your business, but I'm in the washroom."
"And you're using the phone from there? Eww! As for the other thing, that's not why I called. I left something in your car."
"What sort of something? Something you can live without?"
"Something that will take a lot of explaining if your date finds it..."
"Such as?"
"My bra."
"Oh, Roz..." he rumbled in his very basest baritone. The subtext being, he was never going to let me within ten feet of his car again as long as I lived.
"I'll come and pick it up right away. Where are you?"
"You're very fortunate. I'm at the Balmoral, and, with any luck, my date will not be in my car this evening."
"I'm so sorry."
"So am I, believe me."
"So you changed your mind about Daphne?"
"There's definitely something funny going on. You see, she's here."
"DAPHNE is your DATE?!"
"Of course not!" Someone must have knocked on the bathroom door, because he called, "I'll be out in just a moment!" before adding, "She's a guest of my date, apparently. Missy told me she was going to be having some friends over for dinner and invited me to join them before we... adjourned to the less public forum of the evening. And Donny's supposed to be with her, but..."
"But what, Frasier?"
"Well, I slipped in here just now and called Donny myself. He's at home watching television. Apparently Daphne told him she was going out, but turned him down when he offered to join her. According to Daphne herself, he's parking the car and will be up any minute."
"That's weird."
"Anyways, I'd better get out of here before my date begins to wonder if it was something she said."
"You do that. Keep me posted."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My cell phone rang while I was waiting for any one of the six elevators at the southeast end of the lobby. "Niles Crane," I said tersely.
"Donny, where are you?" The urgency in Daphne's voice was palpable.
"Just coming up now," I replied as the elevator door opened.
"Meet you in the lobby?"
"No, I said, I'm coming up."
"Well, stay there, I'll be down in a second."
I turned to face the right wall of the elevator as several other passengers crowded in. "I think it's a bad connection, Daphne. I said I'm on my way up."
"Yes, and Missy and her friend would like to meet you, too. You'll never guess who her date is..."
"Who?" I felt a sickening lurch as my stomach suddenly acquired the weight and density of a large stone and plummeted to somewhere in the vicinity of my ankles.
"Doctor Crane."
"Yes?"
"Doctor Frasier Crane."
The backlit elevator buttons swam before my eyes like so many pastel-coloured stars. "Oh, God."
"That's all right, love, you just stay in the lobby, I'll be right there. Hold on." To the other people in the room, she murmured, "I'm just going to pop down for a..." the rest of which was obscured by the sound of my own shallow breathing.
I got off on the fourth floor and took the stairs two at a time back to the lobby, nearly pitching headlong over the railing at one junction when a burly security man rounded the corner and impeded my passage. When I arrived, breathless and unkempt, Daphne was waiting.
"I knew this wasn't going to work!" she wailed. "Now what do we do?"
"Nothing else we can do. That was commendably quick thinking, Daphne, but the second he sees me, it's over anyway. We might as well go."
"Couldn't we tell her that--that Donny and he don't get along, or something?"
"He's not going to let that stand."
"Well, I can't just run out of here without an excuse... He thinks something's going on already anyhow, I can tell by the way he keeps looking at me."
"Let's see... tell you what: you go back up there and tell them I've suddenly had to cancel. One of my clients or something. In about ten or fifteen minutes, I'll phone up to the room asking for you, and you tell them that it's the hospital calling and that Donny's been in an accident--nothing serious--and that you have to go to him. Don't let Frasier try to come with you. He won't insist, especially if he's making good time with your friend Missy."
"That's all very well, but what happens the next time Donny comes to pick me up and he's not injured?"
"Turns out it was a prank call."
"What if your brother answers the phone? He'll know your voice."
I fished the cell phone out of my inner breast pocket and handed it to her. "Then I'll call you on that. Try not to let Frasier see it if you can help it."
"You sound as though you've done this sort of thing before..." she noted, her tone one of suspicion.
"Merely damage control. Haven't you ever had a purely disastrous date?" The look on her face spoke volumes. I continued, "This way, if you really and truly can't stand it any longer, just go into another room, call my phone from her phone, and--"
"I don't know the number."
"I'll write it down for you." I took out my pen and glanced around me for paper.
"I've got nowhere to--here, hang on."
Daphne tugged up her sleeve and proffered a length of creamy forearm for my inspection. "Very nice," I told her, after due admiration of the limb in question.
She huffed impatiently. "Write!"
"Oh--oh!" I took her wrist in one hand and began scrawling the number on the pale underside of her arm with the other. I'd always been taught never to write or draw on my hands as a boy; my mother was careful to explain to my brother and myself the dangers of ink poisoning. She scolded my father to no end if he happened to come home temporarily tattooed with a careless line or two of his own tiny handwriting. Once or twice I'd seen Daphne jot down a few extra items for the grocery list on her palm, but had never quite managed to frame the right sort of warning without sounding particularly condescending.
The smoothness of ink on pliant skin was something I hadn't anticipated. In that instant I wanted nothing more than to trace the delicate veinwork underneath that skin, fair to the point of near-translucence and exquisitely soft. The ball-point worked better than it ever had on paper, and the resulting experience was positively sensual. As a result, my usually neat script came across rather wobbly and tentative. "Looks a bit drunk," I remarked. "Can you read that?"
"It's fine." She rolled the sleeve back down. "Thank you so much, Doctor Crane. I do appreciate this. Any time you need anything..."
"Actually," I confessed, "I would like a favour in return. I'd--would it--could you just call me Niles?"
"Of course."
I admit, I hadn't really expected her to agree, and definitely not as quickly as she did. I certainly didn't expect the hug that enveloped me a moment later, or the warmth of the breath-whisper that set my ear afire: "Ten minutes, Niles."
"I'll be counting the seconds," I promised.
As she ran to catch the elevator, I adjourned to the hotel's lounge to do just that.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I made my excuses to Dr. Crane and Missy. The former gave me a bit of a look, but said nothing. Missy just sighed exaggeratedly and told me she was glad at least I could make it, even if she wasn't going to meet this e-LU-sive Donny of mine. I submitted to another embrace, teeth clenched, then we made our way into the suite's dining room.
She must have ordered every conceivable item on the hotel menu--a ridiculous amount of food for even four people, much less three. Missy apologized for the size of the spread.
"It's just that I did think I was going to have the pleasure of seeing your handsome fiancée this evening. But let's just see how well we can do on our own, shall we?"
Dr. Crane cocked an eyebrow at me from the far end of the room. 'Handsome' was perhaps not the adjective he would have chosen to apply to Donny. Well, nor would I have, I reasoned, the first time I'd met him; but once I'd had a chance to talk to him, I was impressed by his sharp mind, his sense of humour, and, most of all, his kindness. Poor Dr. Crane--Niles (whatever had prompted that, I wondered, after all this time?)--had been in the process of falling apart, and it had been Donny's resourcefulness that had kept him together. I'd really admired him for that, and for his gentlemanly restraint in never asking the question that was so obviously on his mind the night we rehearsed my deposition over dinner--had there really been anything between me and his client? No, THAT question came later: on a peaceful Saturday morning, as I sat watching cartoons, waiting for my bedroom door to open so that I could check on my friend and slip in to fetch a clean pair of undies. THAT question was a bloody blindside, the last thing in the world I could have been prepared for.
Not that I hadn't thought about it myself, once the suggestion had been implanted... thought, and wondered...
"You ought to try earth sometime, Daphne, you might like it."
I heard Dr. Crane's voice in some distant recess of my brain, and managed to snap back to the surface enough to realize I'd been asked a question.
"Sorry?"
"I said, have you decided where you and Donny are going on your honeymoon?" Missy's tone was syrup, sweet and sticky. A positive trap.
"Nice." I didn't even have to think about it--it just slipped out.
"Oh, how WON-derful for you. Nice is so pretty, and Italy is RIGHT next door. Do you speak any Italian, Daph?"
"I know one phrase," I affirmed, distinctly conscious of the spiral I was poised to plunge into. Dr. Crane would undoubtedly recognize my one phrase, and then he'd know. He could probably tell by the look on my face. "But it's rather silly."
"Well, I always say, there are only two words you need to know to get by in Italy: 'quanto costa'."
She and Dr. Crane laughed. They didn't care to explain the joke, and, frankly, it didn't much matter to me just then. I flushed hotly, ashamed of my feelings of guilt. There was nothing wrong with having shared something as harmless as a phrase about a yellow sweater with a friend. If anything, it was probably the most personal thing Niles had told me since... since...
Well, since I'd been engaged to Donny.
Until now I'd put it down to hurt feelings: I'd been awfully rough on him about my visions, reacted angrily because I had thought he'd been completely patronizing about something I'd always put great stock in. I'd yelled at him, both of us near to tears, and hated him for a period of about five minutes before it had occurred to me that what he'd actually been trying to do was to give me the kind of support I really needed, without interfering with, and perhaps being directly responsible for, my decision. He'd respected me enough to allow me to come to my own answers, and that was probably the best thing anyone could have done.
I'd apologized, but he'd always seemed uncomfortable around me after that, especially when I talked about the wedding. We spent less time together; he stopped hanging around the kitchen, rarely offered to help fold the laundry, and took up with a succession of women: Roz, that girl from the cafe, someone he met through a dating service, and probably others he hadn't told me about. As much as he complained about it, it was easy enough for him to get dates. A few of my girlfriends had begged me to talk them up after meeting him for only a few seconds, but I'd resisted out of fear that one or another of the parties involved would get hurt and never want to speak to me again. None of his relationships--if you could call them that--lasted long anyway. He always seemed attracted to women who were entirely wrong for him. I think it was just a way for him to get outside himself and the pain he'd been feeling over his divorce. He tried to hide it, but he'd been so melancholy since the settlement, and nothing I said or did seemed to cheer him up for long. I'd suspected that, had I been single, even I might have been one of his targets--although maybe that was just vanity...
"Wherever did you find this wine, Daphne? It's FAB-ulous."
"Oh, a friend of mine recommended it."
Dr. Crane turned the look on me again, and I could tell that this time he wasn't going to let it drop. "Your friend has excellent taste. You'll have to introduce her sometime--or is it a him?"
Before I could answer, Missy stepped in with, "Oh, that's right, you two know each other!"
"In a manner of speaking," he affirmed. "Daphne is my father's physical therapist. Say, how is Dad, anyway?"
"You saw him yourself this afternoon," I replied, confused. Then it hit me. He wasn't watching me like that because he was waiting for me to make some sordid confession; he hadn't wanted to tell Missy he was living with his father, and he was nervous I was going to let something slip. I could have brought in Prince Albert and called him Donny if I'd wanted to, and Dr. Crane wouldn't have breathed a word, for fear I might betray his little deception.
Just then the napkin in my lap trilled. Dr. Crane paused in his stammering explanation to stare at me expectantly. "Excuse me a moment," I said, pulling out the phone.
He could have his silly secret, and Missy into the bargain; I'd had as much tension as I could stand for one evening, thank you very much. I didn't care if it was Niles calling, or Donny, or an incredibly ambitious encyclopedia salesman. I was going to bluff it and get the hell out of Dodge.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When I decided to call Niles' cell, I was prepared for just about anything--denial, excuses, confrontation, tears, or an explanation. Anything except for what actually happened.
Daphne answered.
"Hello?"
"Daphne?"
There was a pause, and then: "Speaking."
I lost it. "What are you DOING? Donny's a great guy, he doesn't deserve this!"
"I'm sorry, Donny's what?"
"You know, I thought you had more sense than that."
"Is it serious?"
"You're damn right it's serious! Honestly, Daphne. If you knew Niles felt that way about you, why didn't you do something about it before? You have to stop this before you hurt two men who care about you."
"I will, right away. Thank you."
"Are you even LISTENING to me?!"
"I guess not."
What the hell was she up to?
I stepped away from the phone kiosk and surveyed the lobby from end to end.
There was no way of knowing where in the hotel Daphne might be--except,
didn't Frasier say his date's name? Marla--Mandy--Missy, that was it. Maybe
if I played dumb with the young guy at the front desk he would help me
out...
But there was no need for that. Just as I was crossing the room, I happened
to peek into the lounge and spotted a familiar pair of shoulders, holding
up the top end of a well-tailored royal blue suit. Niles was never more
than ten feet away from his cell at any time, which meant that Daphne must
be nearby. Either way, I intended to find out what was going on.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Eight minutes.
I put my hand under the table, resolved not to check my watch again for at
least the time it took to bring a glass of ice water up to my lips and
back. Lift, sip, swallow, replace.
Eight minutes.
It had still been only eight minutes. Why was it that years of longing
could be as ephemeral as a blink, while an entire eternity of waiting could
be compressed into--
Eight minutes.
It was so quiet in the lounge I could hear my heart keeping time with my
thoughts: eight minutes eight minutes eight minutes eight minutes--
"Niles!"
She came upon me so suddenly that I knocked over my glass.
"Roz... we meet again."
I dabbed hopelessly at the deluge of water spots on my tie. I'd worn it
specially for the occasion. A few months before my divorce was finalized,
Daphne had circled a particular item in Frasier's catalogue in bright red
ink, earmarking the page. When Frasier, aghast, had confronted her about
this act of vandalism, she'd glanced past the throbbing vein in his temple,
to me, on the couch. "I thought you might like to see it."
Flattered that she'd given me any consideration at all during the course of
her day, I had eagerly wrenched the catalogue from my brother's
tightly-clenched fist. The object that had caught her eye was a tie,
patterned in flowing blues and greens with a thread or two of stark gold.
"I think it would look very sharp with that navy blazer of yours, don't
you? And look," she'd added proudly, holding the page up beside me, "it
brings out the blue in your eyes."
I'd nodded, entranced. She had seen this thing, and thought of me, for no
other reason than the colour of my eyes. That alone made it well worth
ordering. It didn't hurt that she had exquisite taste. For two weeks after
it arrived I'd made a point of wearing it over to Frasier's. Finally
Frasier had commented that it was a shame I had forgotten the way to my
dresser, or had I perhaps been the victim of a tie robbery? Needless to
say, I'd been a bit more sparing with it after that.
"I know what's going on here, you know."
"So do I," I countered, devoting the majority of my attentions to my
violated neckwear. "You're stalking me."
"That's right, Niles. I want you bad." She scowled, eyes searching the
room. "Where is she?"
"The waitress? Right over there." I beckoned to the server. "Have a drink,
Roz. My treat."
The ritual of ordering--in this case, an amaretto and coke--seemed to
placate her momentarily. "So... how's Warren?"
"He's fine. How's Daphne?"
"Also fine, when last seen. I'm assuming the situation hasn't changed in
the past hour or so."
"Well, you would know."
I gave up on the water stains and tossed the napkin down angrily. "Look at
my tie!"
"It's nice."
"It's ruined!"
"It sure is; what is that, blood?"
I couldn't bear to look. "Undoubtedly."
"Isn't that the one Daphne picked out for you?"
"Roz, are you going to continue dropping these cinder blocks you call hints,
or are you just going to accuse me of whatever it is you think I've done?"
"I saw you two leaving together tonight," she announced.
Damn it, I thought, but kept my reaction to a minimal twitching of fingers.
"If you mean Daphne, I did give her a ride over here. She's having dinner
with a friend. It just so happens that I am waiting for a date."
"You are not!"
"I could be. Not, might I add, that it is any of your business in the
least."
"Oh, cut the crap. You're here with Daphne, and I'm just going to sit here
and wait until she shows up."
"Get out of here! You're scaring off my date!" I complained, hoping the
panic I felt wasn't showing on my face. "I've been more than cordial to
you, I've bought you liquor, now go crawl back under your rock and leave me
to drink in peace."
"You don't have a drink," she pointed out.
"Go away so I can order one."
Just then, the server swooped in with Roz's drink and a martini for me.
"Compliments of the lady across the room," she murmured, nodding discreetly
at the party in question--a leggy brunette with a heart-shaped face and
vacant eyes, who must have been about half my age. Where were these girls
when I was an awkward little undergrad? I would have given anything in
those days to be smiled at like that. Now that I no longer craved their
attentions, here they were in spades. I nodded a polite thank you before
turning back to Roz.
"Now you have one."
"I salute you, Roz Doyle, patron saint of the blindingly obvious." I raised
my glass to her and drank it in one swallow.
"Oh, bite me."
"And on that charming note, I shall be leaving you." I stood, waited a
second for my stomach to catch up, and threw down a bill to cover her
amaretto and coke.
Ten minutes exactly.
Was my timing great, or what?
"Going to meet your date?" she demanded, somewhere in the background. All I
could hear was the rhythm of my blood, thundering in my ears--a rhythm that
had changed from a sedate pace of I exited into the lobby, trying to remember where the pay phones had been.
My legs were a bit rubbery, and I sat on a bench beside a potted plant to
get my bearings.
"Are you all right, sir?" It was the hulking security man I'd nearly bumped
into before on my way downstairs. I assured him that I was fine.
The geography of the lobby seemed to have altered slightly since I'd been
there last, and the bustling back and forth of hotel staff made me feel
dizzy. I stumbled, and had to hold onto the wall for a second, but I was
sure I would be all right as soon as the initial buzz wore off. I spotted
the phones at last--but what a funny place for them! How would I ever reach
them all the way up there?
It wasn't until it struck me that the wall I was hanging onto for dear life
was actually the floor that I began to fathom the magnitude of my
problem...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
How a man accustomed to taking a glass of wine with dinner, not to mention
sherry beforehand, could manage to get intoxicated after not even ten
minutes in a hotel bar was completely outside my comprehension.
Nevertheless, there he was, clutching desperately at the well-muscled
shoulder of this sasquatch of a security man in an attempt to stay upright.
He was thoroughly drunk, that much was certain: his movements were
grandiose and fluid, his balance precarious, his eyes glazed over and very,
very blue. I'd seen it once before, and hoped desperately that this time
his behaviour wouldn't occasion a morning-after apology. I'd had quite
enough of those this weekend...
"What happened to you?"
He grinned. "I believe this is what's known--" here he broke off as his
downward slide was prevented by his companion-- "as being under the
influence..."
"Is this gentleman with you?" asked the sasquatch politely.
"Yes. I'll take care of him, thanks." The security man shrugged and
returned to walking his beat. I took charge of Niles, who was apparently
incapable of standing under his own power, and propped him up against a
convenient wall while I collected myself.
"You always take care of me, don't you, Daphne?" he announced, a bit too
loudly for the tastes of most of the other patrons. They gaped at us,
expressions a mixture of disgust and amusement.
"Shh, now. What on earth have you been drinking?"
"Look at my tie," he whined, holding it up for inspection.
"It's very smart," I commented, trying to pacify him.
"Ruined, and it's all her fault."
Se he'd managed to find some pretty young barfly to booze it up with him.
Should I have been surprised? His motivation was a complete mystery to me
anyway, a mystery I hadn't even stopped to ponder until this weekend. And
the more I pondered, the more confused I became.
"I only had one, you know."
Whether he meant the drink or the tie was anybody's guess. "You'd better
give me your keys."
The grin became a positive leer. "Come and get 'em."
I reached into both pockets of his jacket at once, tucking my arms around
him. He took this as an invitation to bury his face in my shoulder, but I
quickly set him straight with an elbow in a convenient place. I could smell
the liquor on his breath.
"No keys there, Daphne. Next luck better time."
He was right about the keys, although I discovered out a miscellany of
other objects--some of which I didn't want to know about--including a
packet of strong cold and flu caplets. If he'd been taking these, no wonder
he'd been knocked for a loop by a single drink. It wouldn't have taken more
than one.
I moved on to the inner jacket pockets, which caused him to squirm. "Hold
still," I ordered.
"Tickles, that's all," he sulked. "No need to get upsssssset."
"It's a good thing I wasn't counting on you to rescue me," I told him,
extending my search to his trouser pockets.
"Yeah, 'cause I--whoop!" He jumped; delayed reaction, I would presume, for
I'd already found the keys and halted my reluctant invasion of his pants.
He lowered his eyelids and looked at me petulantly. "You have cold hands."
"Sorry about that, but you asked for it."
"I did." He grinned again, looking uncannily like his brother. "And you
gave it to me."
"Come on, let's get you home."
"Does that mean that, all this time, all I had to do was ask?"
I got behind him and began propelling him in the direction of the main
elevators. "You'd better watch it, before you say something you regret."
"I always do," he sighed mournfully. "I mean, I always don't. I don't say
something and then I regret."
Once we got down to the parking garage, the cool air seemed to steady him a
little, mentally at least. I poured him into the passenger seat and leaned
over him to buckle his seatbelt. He stiffened and his eyes got even
glassier, not to mention round as saucers. He made little alarmed noises.
"Don't worry," I snapped. "I'm not trying to get fresh with you."
"I should be so lucky," he replied, in a tone obviously meant to be
provocative. I was ready to smack him across the face. What is it about men
that gives them so much more confidence in their own powers of attraction
when they're drunk? Last time he'd bloody well proposed--well, I wasn't
having that again. "Did I say that out loud?" He actually sounded ashamed
of himself, which was a step up.
"Say what out loud?" I was beginning to see the humour in the situation.
"Nothing. I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about it." I patted his knee, and he jumped. I guess some
people just don't like to be touched when they've had a bit to drink. Or
maybe--this was a new spin on things--he didn't like to be touched at all.
Maybe all my little affections had always made him uncomfortable, and he
was just too polite to say so.
But that didn't entirely make sense either--not with the way he would
always angle for back rubs if he knew I happened to be in the mood. I think
it's fair to brag that I do give wonderful massages; I always used to work
the kinks out of Clive's neck and shoulders when he'd had a hard day at
work. Niles' back was usually a mess of knots (due mostly to marital
stress, I presume), and one day, when he had been complaining about it
almost incessantly, I'd gotten a bit fed up and ordered him to lie down.
Words cannot describe the look he gave me, or the vast catalogue of sounds
he made when I set about relaxing those sore muscles of his. "Where did you
learn to do this?" he'd gasped, adding, "If Frasier is ever insane enough
to let you go, I--mmmm... I'll pay you three times what you're getting now.
Ohh, make that four times!"
"Just for a little back rub?" I'd asked mischievously. "There's more to my
services than that, you know."
"If you've got any more hidden talents to demonstrate, Daphne, feel
fr--oooh! Do that again!"
From that point on, he'd presented a variety of bizarre injuries for my
consideration, most of them occasioned by his wife's hair-trigger temper.
When she wasn't throwing things and slamming doors, she was coaxing him
into some strange sexual acrobatics or other, and, after the initial
embarrassment wore off, I think he came more often to me than he did to his
chiropractor.
He'd seemed more than willing to return the favour, but I got the distinct
sense that Dr. Crane didn't like the idea of his fraternizing with the
help. Whenever Niles had offered to massage my aching feet, or agreed to
rub liniment into my back, whenever he'd touched me at all, his brother was
right there to remind him that it wasn't appropriate. Oh, he tried to be
subtle: sometimes it would be a look, sometimes a remark. He never came
right out and said what he must have been thinking, but his disapproval was
obvious; his voice saying Niles' name was enough for the slim shoulders
under my hands to tense and tighten immediately.
I drove out of the parkade and started in the direction of the Montana.
"I'm going to have to take a bus home tonight, thanks to you," I groused.
"Perfect end to a lovely evening."
He looked at me, bleary-eyed. "Take my car, my this car, my--oh, God, take
it, just take it."
"How will you get to the office tomorrow?"
His only reply was a long, hollow moan.
"Well, you will make things hard for yourself, won't you?" I scolded,
momentarily forgetting who it was who had caused this whole predicament.
"Oh, Daphne," he sighed. "Daphne..."
"Yes?"
"Daphne, I..."
"What is it?"
"I'm going to be sick."
We made it to a relatively deserted street corner and I pried the lid off a
trash can. The smell inside was almost enough to make me sick myself, but
it served the purpose, and I stood over the huddled figure of Doctor Niles
Crane, eminent psychiatrist, listening to him yell words I'd never even
suspected he knew how to use, in between dry heaves. He'd removed his
jacket, and the fabric of his shirt was damp with sweat. The heat radiating
from his back was warmth enough for the chill evening, and, for whatever
reason, Roz's words over the phone came back to me:
If you knew Niles felt that way about you, why didn't you do something
about it before?
If I wanted to be obtuse, I could have asked, what way? I could have denied
it. Or else I could have used my relationship with Donny as a shield and
simply refused to think about it anymore. But I didn't do any of those
things. And suddenly, just like that, all the pieces fit. His gentle,
persistent concern on my behalf; his almost childlike need for validation
in every little task; his initial reluctance to let me touch him, and his
cheerful submission to my ministrations thereafter; the barriers he had
maintained between us despite my attempts to knock them down; Frasier's
forbidding tones (he must have seen!); Roz and Donny's suspicion and
willingness to believe the worst of us both; all the little oddities in my
friendship with Niles had as their common source in this one, inescapable
fact. It was so simple. I couldn't believe I hadn't seen it before. The
situation didn't work any other way.
He was in love with me.
When it was all over, I put one arm around his shivering shoulders and
asked if he felt any better. He felt cooler, at any rate. He didn't flinch
at my touch this time, but leaned into it, gaining comfort from what he
perceived as my strength. The truth was, the only reason I hadn't gone
completely to pieces yet was that one of us had to be together enough to
drive, and I seemed to be the candidate to beat.
"A little." His voice was a harsh whisper. "Daphne, I am so sorry."
"So am I," I told him. "I should have known."
And now that I did know, what was I going to do about it?
Nothing. Furiously, I tried to convince myself that my little realization
hadn't changed anything. I was an engaged woman, for God's sake! Still,
engaged was not married... and engagements had certainly been broken before
now... and none of this bore thinking about while the object of my
consideration was climbing gingerly into the passenger seat of his own car,
waiting for me to get him safely home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I should have known."
Those four words were enough to pile fresh agonies upon the ones I was
already suffering. Should have known? Did she know? Had she really figured
out what I had spent a goodly portion of my life trying, and failing, to
conceal? And now that she knew, what was she going to do about it?
At least I'd bought myself some time to mull it over. If she decided not to
do anything, I could pretend I didn't remember. That wasn't entirely
untrue. A portion of the evening existed in my mind only in a series of
slightly blurry images, some of which made me cringe.
If she chose never to speak to me again, I wouldn't blame her.
But perhaps I was being paranoid. I couldn't remember much of my brief
spree of appalling behaviour, but I was pretty certain that I hadn't made
any particularly drastic revelations. A couple of clumsy overtures, but
those had been immediately slapped down by Daphne, some before they were
even fully formed in my mind.
We pulled up outside the rear service entrance to the Montana, and she
parked at the curb. Her reasoning was obvious; she was helping me save face
with the doorman and the other tenants. "Bless you, Daphne," I murmured
gratefully.
"Hold the congratulations until I find out whether we can get in or not."
She stepped out of the car. I watched her, silhouetted against the light
from the broad doorway, talking to a nondescript dry-cleaning man whose
truck was parked directly across from us. I don't know what she said to
him, or how she said it, but something about her was damned effective: he
very obligingly took off his boot and propped the door open with it before
continuing on with his towering load of evening clothes. Daphne thanked him
and ran back to open my door and help me out.
"Come on, we'll have you safely in bed before anyone sees you."
We rode the service elevator in silence. She seemed immersed in her own
thoughts, and I certainly had plenty to contemplate. My mind was dwelling
on the dry-cleaning man and his fortuitous footwear. Would I have done that
for her? I wondered. Would I really have jammed one of my treasured
handmade Italian calfskin loafers under that heavy steel door, and left it
there to crack and bend and be pressed flat out of shape? Of course I
would, was my knee jerk response, but once I thought it over, I realized
that, well, probably not, if there was some other way the objective could
be accomplished.
So was I only interested in the pursuit of Daphne insofar as it coincided
with my own interests? That was the question. And, thinking about some of
the tricks I'd gotten up to over the years, I wasn't entirely sure I liked
the answer.
Daphne had become my ideal, the yardstick against whom all other women were
constantly being measured. Whenever I brought dates over to Frasier's
place, they always seemed to fade in her light. Suddenly their eyes weren't
as sparkling, their jokes weren't as funny, their quirky little mannerisms
were just annoying and distracting. Consciously or unconsciously, she
defused every blond bombshell I elected worthy of introduction to my
family. But it's a lot easier to love a solid, immovable idol than it is to
accede to the wishes and demands of a real live person. Sure, I was willing
to die for her, but wreck my shoes? That was another matter entirely.
I must have laughed ruefully at this point in my self-exploration, because
Daphne shot me a look. "I'm glad you've found something about this whole
bugger of a weekend to cheer you up," she informed me softly. In a tone of
mingled amusement and resignation, she added, "Then again, you might as
well have your fun now, hadn't you? You won't be laughing tomorrow." One
warm hand pressed my shoulder.
This was what love really meant.
It wasn't about physical attraction, little things like the way someone's
body filled the circle of your arms so perfectly, or how her hair smelled
different on Fridays than it did on Tuesdays--although that was certainly
part of it.
It wasn't about manipulation, tricking someone into admiring you because
you were excessively manly, or witty, or urbane, or anything that they
deemed worthy of affection. That part, I think, was a remnant of my
marriage to Maris, who had learned at an early age to be a sort of social
chameleon, and had impressed those values upon me.
It definitely wasn't about scheming and plotting, contriving the exact
moment you would pounce, scrambling for the right reaction when someone
sought shelter and closeness from you on a rainy night, or kissed you on a
dance floor in a red dress you would give both your left feet to see her
wear again.
No, it was more simple than that.
It was knowing someone so well that you could choose an item of clothing
out of a catalogue and know in advance it would suit their tastes, their
wardrobe, and the colour of their eyes.
It was nursing someone who was too sick to know who you were or even what
language they were speaking.
It was not being afraid to show your affections through touch, and inviting
the other person to do the same.
It was doing what you could to ensure someone's happiness, even at the
expense of yours.
In short, Daphne had done far more to prove her love than I had done to
prove mine. Her affection for me was the love of a friend, a companion, an
ally against the troubles of the world and the well-meaning advice of
family members. Mine for her had begun as the infatuation of a zealot, a
lecher, a man channeling intense sexual frustration and family dysfunction
and parlaying it into an obsession with a name, a face, a voice. It wasn't
until later that love had come into it at all, and it wasn't until the day
of Donny's proposal, and Daphne's dependence upon me to help her make the
right decision, that I'd understood what it really meant to put another
person's wishes above your own.
Fat lot of help that little bit of wisdom was to me, coming, as it did, far
too late.
Whatever Donny's shortcomings might have been--and the little green-eyed
monster perched on my shoulder assured me they were both prolific and
heinous--that was the one thing he'd known long before I did. His approach
to Daphne had always been, however insipid and uninspired, completely
selfless. Whatever she wanted, he was happy to do. And he managed to do it
without sacrificing his own integrity into the matter.
Thus, as usual, I was doomed to be an also-ran before the race even
started--always a bridesmaid, as the saying goes, while Daphne would go on
to be someone else's bride.
It was a damned depressing thought. Right then I wished she'd turn around
and go home so I could crawl into bed for a good wallow in my own
self-pity.
That was when she came out with the last thing in the world I would have
expected her to say.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He didn't answer me. Just stood there and stared blankly for a bit before
exiting the lift and heading down the hall to his door. I followed him,
watched him grab at his trouser pocket for a minute or two before he
recalled who had the keys, and, colouring a little, stepped aside and
allowed me to make use of them.
The only word he uttered for the next ten minutes or so was, "Aspirin." He
left me, presumably to find some, and returned in his shirtsleeves, looking
slightly more alert. "Nothing to be done for this," he remarked, throwing
his necktie over the arm of the fainting couch.
"I'll take it with me when I leave," I told him. "See what I can do."
"I'm very much obliged," he replied absently. As though his mind were on
other things.
I waited until he had made himself comfortable before repeating the
question. He made no sign of even having heard.
"D'you suppose that fellow's shoe's still there?"
I said I didn't know.
"I'll have to find out who he was," he noted, thinking aloud. "Make sure he
gets a substantial tip next time they send my suits over."
Doctor... Niles," I began--I suppose seven years' worth of old habits take
quite a bit of killing-- "I'm not going to beg."
There was a pause, during which the only sound in that cavernous room was
the audible thud-thud of my heart. The way he was watching me, I was sure
he could hear it too. "Excuse me?" he said faintly.
"I asked if you'd mind if I just stayed over tonight," I repeated,
awkwardly. "It's late, and I don't know if I can make the drive home."
"I'll call a cab for you. Don't worry," he added, waving away my
surreptitious opening of my purse to see if I had enough for a taxi ride to
the Elliott Bay Towers, "I'll cover it. It's my fault you're here, and,
hence, my responsibility to see you get safely home."
That was unlike him. He'd never not extended the hospitality of his home to
me, no matter what the circumstances. And I couldn't quite puzzle out the
catch in his voice.
"But there's no need for that. I'll be gone before you're up next morning,
and I'll even make do on the couch if your guestroom isn't ready. I won't
be any trouble." I'd said I wasn't going to beg, so I clamped my mouth shut
before I could go back on my word.
"Of course you won't, Daphne, it's not that at all." He wandered over to
the answering machine. "All right if I listen to my messages?"
"Go ahead." The question pressed down upon me until I had to ask: "If it's
not that, then what?"
As if in answer, he thumbed the machine's playback button. The disembodied
voice of Donny echoed through the apartment--the harsh, uncompromising tone
he called his hardass lawyer talk.
"All right, Niles, you lied to me the first time and I fell for it. That's
not gonna happen again. And don't you go running to Roz with that poor-me
act of yours, either--she didn't tell me this time, I saw you myself. Nice
trick, having Daphne drive your car while you duck down in the front
seat--what, you don't think I'd recognize my own fiancee? You know what,
I'm sorry I even defended--" here the machine beeped and cut him off, but
Donny apparently hadn't finished having his say yet. The second message was
a curt, "Stay the hell away from Daphne," after which the tape ran out and
had to rewind.
Niles looked the way I felt; like he wanted to sink into the floor and
never be heard from again. Our eyes met--if you say it like that, it sounds
like something out of a trashy romance, but that's exactly what happened:
our eyes met and mine dropped. I couldn't even bear to look at him. I knew
I'd start crying or laughing or God only knew what. My heart was thumping
so hard now it shook my body with every beat. I opened my mouth to
apologize, only he beat me to it.
"Sorry about that." He said it casually, the way you do if you've trodden
on someone's foot on the bus. "Things being what they are, I don't think
your staying over is a good idea, do you?"
"I don't mind the drive," I replied, "if I could impose upon you for a cup
of coffee to wake me up a bit first."
He smiled, and signaled me to precede him into the kitchen with a sweep of
his arm--a gesture that was comforting in its clarity, familiarity, and
above all, gallantry. The heavens may have been crashing down around me and
the earth breaking up beneath my feet, but, so long as one thing remained,
I knew I would survive.
Unsettling, to think that my own personal universal constant rested in the
elegant manners of Niles Crane.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She sat at my kitchen table, somewhat unkempt and absolutely, thunderingly
beautiful, looking like she was about to cry. Or give me a much-deserved
kick in the behind. Or both. Either of which would have been more cathartic
than what she actually did do, which was nod and say, meekly, "Cream and
sugar, please."
"Something to eat?" I offered. Now that the blinding, crippling pressure at
the base of my skull had subsided to more of a dull ache, I felt wracked
with pangs of hunger. "I don't know how far into your meal you got, but I,
for one, am famished."
"That would be nice. Thank you."
"Don't mention it." I delved into the refrigerator and came up with a
solitary baguette, a block of cheese, and a wayward apple from the crisper.
"Anything I can do?"
I couldn't believe I was actually about to say it, but I couldn't quite
stop myself. "Just keep sitting there and looking beautiful, that'll do
fine, thank you... er. Well. The groceries come Mondays, and I usually eat
out weekends, once I get down to the dregs... which is precisely what we
have here." Fetching a knife, I cleaved the apple neatly into two halves,
and handed her one with her cup.
"Got any peanut butter?"
I paused midway in slicing the bread and canted my head toward the
cupboard. "You've been around Dad far too long," I observed as she
slathered peanut butter onto the apple. "He's the only person I know who
does that."
She bit into it with gusto. "Now you know two."
"I do."
In the silence that followed, I had time to determine what I was going to
do about her transportation. I certainly wasn't going to let her drive home
if she was that tired, coffee or not. But she couldn't stay here, as badly
as I wanted her to... she wasn't going to beg?! Just recalling her tone of
voice as she'd said those words made me fumble the knife, nearly spearing
my own foot. Nice work, Niles. Exceptionally smooth, even for you. At any
rate, the moment her immediate needs were seen to, I'd slip into the study
and call for a taxi. By the time we'd finished eating, there would be one
waiting. Simple as that.
"Ever tried it?"
"Are you kidding? It would be like... dipping lobster in chocolate."
"Done it."
"You have got to be putting me on."
"You know what's even better? Honey and pickles."
"You stop right there. If we keep heading down that road I'm not going to
want any of this." I surveyed the meager feast for a moment before carrying
the platter out to the dining room table and holding a chair for Daphne.
She sat, and I helped myself to about a quarter of the ration of bread
before taking the seat opposite. I couldn't help myself any longer; I had
to ask.
"Honey and pickles?"
"I get some bizarre cravings during my time of the month." She finally
cracked a smile at that point. "Too much information?"
"Just a tad."
She examined the apple in her hand, then looked up at me. "Well, we don't
have any lobster and chocolate, but we do have..." she held it out to me.
"You really should give it a try before you dismiss it out of hand."
"I won't like it." I said the words, but, as I got a whiff of the peanut
butter, my stomach betrayed me with a loud yowl.
"You don't know until you try."
"Fallacious reasoning, Daphne. I don't have to try jumping off my balcony
to know I wouldn't like that."
"Fine, then." Her hand abruptly changed direction, aiming the apple at her
own mouth.
I reached out and grabbed her arm, mostly to shock away the look of
frustrated defeat that distorted her lovely features. "If it makes you
happy," I told her, "anything." And I took a bite.
She stared at me as though I were a stranger. "Anything," she echoed
distantly, tasting the word the same way I tasted the fruit in my mouth.
Actually, it wasn't bad.
I glanced down at my food for a moment, and when I looked back she was
still watching me. Neither appraising, nor criticizing, merely watching. So
I watched back. It was one of those moments where, had it been a movie,
there would have been soft music playing, communicating the things we
didn't dare to say. As it was, we seemed to be in a vacuum of sound. Both
of us were absolutely still, barely even breathing. It was as though there
was an event that was in the process of being born--as though we had
managed to become trapped in a moment a half-second ahead of sound and
movement, and were forced to sit, waiting, until time caught up with us.
After what seemed like an eternity, I remembered about the cab.
"Excuse me," I said, attempting to hide the effort it took for me to make
it to my feet. Make it I did--fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on
how you look at it. If I had fallen in that instant, there is no doubt in
my mind that she would have come to me, and then whatever was almost
happening would have exploded into the room, inescapable. But I stood
without so much as a wobble. "Back in a moment." In point of fact, I don't
even think she heard me. I hurried off to the study, certain to the very
core of my being that everything was about to change between us.
The question was, was it for the better?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The moment he left, the whole room seemed to heave a sigh and become
ordinary again. I was on familiar ground here--the home of a friend. I had
been at the auction where he'd bought this picture, seen the look of mild
distaste on his face when his father had given him that statue for
Christmas, even helped move many of the books on the shelves to their
current locations. Why, for the past few minutes, had I been noticing
everything in the apartment as if I'd never seen it before?
Including its tenant?
There was one night I'd been here--I remembered it through a haze of
perspiration--that my actions towards my friend had been so incredibly
forward I'd been almost too embarrassed to ever speak to him again. I'd
played the part of the temptress, because I was lonely and angry, and he
was a willing, available body, and that was wrong on so many levels I
wouldn't even know where to begin. For the next few weeks I would take
refuge in my bedroom or the kitchen whenever Niles knocked at the door.
Gradually, through his unchanged attitude and continuing helpfulness, he'd
managed to convince me that he didn't think any the less of me for trying.
After all, nothing had actually happened...
But something was happening now.
I stood, filled with a sudden surge of restless energy, and wandered over
to the bookshelf. Well, here was something new; he'd found an ornament to
replace that hideous thing Mrs. Senator Whatsits--why could I never
remember her name?--had knocked over during the lavish cocktail do a few
weeks ago. I hadn't technically been invited to the party to begin with,
but had received a frantic last-minute phone call following the discovery
that the caterer had double-booked. Arriving to find Niles seconds away
from self-immolation with carving forks, I gave him a well-placed shove out
into the living room to see to his guests, and soon had things well in
hand. Once the menu and the resulting clean-up had been dispensed with,
he'd popped back into the kitchen.
"Daphne, you're an absolute saint." A handshake had struck me as being just
silly, considering all the years we'd known each other; I'd neatly
sidestepped his waiting hand and gone for a hug instead.
"Saint Daphne. I like the sound of that."
"I, for one, would worship you regularly...um. Here's a thought: got any
plans for tonight?"
"I was supposed to see a movie with Donny." I'd released him from my grasp
to wipe a smear of custard off my wristwatch. "Bit late for that now,
though."
"Well, why don't you run home and get dressed, and come to the party?"
"Oh, your fancy friends won't want me around."
He'd just laughed. "Them? Now that it's been suitably impressed upon the
city's social honour roll that I've got more to do than just sit around
crying over my divorce, I couldn't care less if I never saw any of them
again. To be honest, I'd have left long before now, but I believe that's
considered bad form if you're the host. Besides, it's been ages since I've
seen you for more than five seconds at a time. In fact, I barely recognized
you just now, when I came in here and saw you weren't blurry."
I'd agreed in the end, and rushed straight over to Roz's (which was closer
than home) to borrow a dress and do my hair, so that I could return just in
time to help tidy up the mess left by the guests in their abrupt departure.
It seems that, after Mrs. Senator Whatsits had crashed into the bookshelf
in a drunken stupor, Niles had been less than sympathetic upon finding out
that one of his ornamental bookends had not survived the collision. Good
riddance, if you ask me; I have no sympathy whatsoever for ugly statues, no
matter how old they are or how much they are worth. The same went for Mrs.
Senator Whatsits, frankly, due in part to my having been forced to remove
her bodily from the kitchen after I caught her guzzling the cooking sherry.
Twice.
I leaned closer to the new ornament to get a better look at it. In the dim
light, it looked almost like... it bore a distinct resemblance to...
It couldn't be.
But there it was.
A black statuette of a dragon... propping up a thirty-year-old edition of
'Jane Eyre'.
I tugged at the book, tightly wedged between the dragon and a heavy volume
on Robert Browning--which in itself proved that the whole thing was a
coincidence; he probably couldn't sleep at night unless his bookshelves
were alphabetized. Still, how could I not have noticed it before? Turning
the pages, I could tell that the edition was identical to my own. What were
the odds? Infinitesimal, I'd say. There was his name, in heavy black ink,
upon the flyleaf--a laboured and pretentious script with several
flourishes, the hand of youth practicing a newly-formulated adult
signature. The margins had been annotated throughout, so heavily that you
could practically trace the evolution of the reader from tentative student
to self-defined lover of literature.
I felt my colour rise, and, although I wasn't doing anything wrong, I
quickly replaced the book. I had the distinct, ridiculous sensation of
having flipped through a friend's secret diary, and, rather than explore
that uncomfortable road any further, elected instead to consider the black
statuette. It was an unprepossessing little thing, not much of an
improvement on the one that had gone before it. For a weird moment, I
wondered if he might have purposely left it out for me to find. I knew he
was capable of that sort of calculation; I'd often seen him try to
manipulate people to get what he wanted, mostly without success. But he
could hardly have planned my coming back here, and there was nothing false
about the way he was sick in that trash can earlier in the evening.
Besides, I hadn't even mentioned my second vision, and I doubted Martin
would have told him after witnessing the blow-up over the first one.
was then that I made up my mind.
Not that the decision was based solely on my premonitions, although they
had been eerily accurate in the past. It certainly wasn't fair to Donny, to
go on clinging to him like a life preserver when my heart might not be in
it, or just because I was afraid of what might be ahead if I took the road
less traveled by. Not to mention the fact that I didn't particularly fancy
being married to someone who was suspicious of every move I made while out
of his sight; even if I could make it up with Donny again, I wasn't about
to go through this a third time the next time I wanted to spend an
unsupervised evening with a friend.
Nothing else for it, then.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When I got to Niles' place I didn't bother knocking. I figured that would
have just given them time to get some sort of excuse together. It took me a
while to convince the doorman to let me through, but at long last I made my
way up to his floor and walked into the apartment.
Silence.
At first I thought maybe I'd been mistaken, that they'd managed to ditch me
somewhere along the way and were laughing it up in some motel. That made me
madder than I wanted to admit. But then I heard the smallest sound, like
the sound a baby occasionally makes in the middle of the night when she
knows you're up and wants you to know she's up--not a cry, exactly, sort of
a cross between a giggle and a whimper. It came from the kitchen, so that's
where I headed, trying not to make any noise along the way. See, I had
gotten tangled up in this whole thing, and now I wanted to follow it
through, get the gory details. I was ready to credit Niles with just about
anything, but I found it hard to believe that Daphne could lie to me like
that, not to mention the way she brushed me off on the phone...
I peeked into the kitchen and saw Daphne. Solo. She was on the phone, and,
even though her back was to me, I could tell by the hoarseness of her voice
that she was crying.
"I'm sorry, Donny," she murmured. "I don't blame you for being upset,
but--Donny? Hello?"
So she'd decided to tell him, after all, and he'd reacted par for the
course. Well, in that case, it was none of my business. I turned to leave
the kitchen and, with my usual delicate grace and fine sense of timing,
knocked the flower vase clean off the table.
"Roz?"
Damn!
"Hey, Daphne."
She stood, phone in one hand, wiping her eyes--but apart from that, she was
extremely collected for someone who had just broken an engagement. "What
are you doing here?"
Honesty is the best policy, especially when you're pretty much cornered. "I
wanted to find out what's really going on."
Daphne sighed heavily. "We've been through this. Nothing is going on. Not
that it matters anyway; I've just told Donny I can't marry him." She stared
down at the receiver as if it were an object completely foreign to her.
"If nothing's going on, what are you doing here?"
"Niles wasn't feeling well, and he asked me to give him a lift. So I have.
He was kind enough to offer me a cup of coffee and something to eat, and
then I'm going to go to bed." Seeing the look on my face, she quickly
clarified, "My bed. At home."
I started to say something about Freudian slips, but instead settled for,
"Once you get out of high school, Daphne, it's usually safe to stop writing
your crib notes on your arm."
"Hmm? Oh." She licked her finger and began idly smearing a patch of blue
just above the wrist. "I'm so tired," she told me. "It's been one thing
after another this weekend, and now I just..."
I stepped over the broken vase, grabbed the cloth from the sideboard, and
wet it. I knew Niles would freak if I spread ink and germs all over his
nice clean dishcloth--although Daphne-germs probably wouldn't upset him as
much as the ordinary variety--but it bugged me to watch her. It's that
motherly instinct kicking in. I guess we all gotta go sometime. "You just
what, honey?"
"I'm so confused..."
She cracked then. I saw her lower lip tremble, and then her whole face
crumpled, like a watercolour painting left out in the rain. "Aww. Don't
cry, Daph... c'mere and let me clean that crap off your arm."
She didn't move, so I went to her. I tried to get her to put down the
receiver, but she wouldn't. "This is Niles' cell number, isn't it?" I
asked, scrubbing as gently as I could. She shrugged. "It's his handwriting,
though."
"That could be anyone's handwriting," she replied defensively. "You can't
tell from a few numbers."
"He's the only person I know who makes his ones like sevens with feet." I
pointed. "Besides which, you're right-handed, and I know you're flexible,
Daphne, but I don't think so."
"He's my friend. Friends can exchange numbers."
Something occurred to me then. Call it a delayed reaction. "Who's your
friend?"
"Niles." Seeing where I was headed, she added, "Well, I don't work for HIM,
you know! Why shouldn't I call him by his first name?" and jerked her hand
out of my grasp.
"That's a good question. Here's another one: why now, suddenly? Why not
seven years ago?"
"Because I never saw him... I mean, I thought about it in passing, but I
didn't seriously..." she shook her head. "I don't even know what I'm doing.
It would be different if I knew for certain how he felt--and then there's
Donny. I wouldn't like to think that I was only breaking up with him
because I..." she hesitated, stumbled over the words, but said them in the
end: "have feelings for Niles."
"But do you?"
"I don't know! All right?" She pressed the back of her hand--the one still
gripping the receiver--to her closed eyes. "If all things were equal, I
would have to say yes. I suppose I have for a while now. But Donny--"
"Look, forget about Donny for a second. Step completely outside of your
relationship with him, and just think about this. Here's how I always do
it: if you got stranded alone with the guy on some tropical island--without
anyone's ring on your finger--would you be building a raft out of banana
leaves after the first thirty seconds, or would it not be that bad?"
"What do you think?"
I made a face. "I think Niles and I would kill each other long before I
finished the raft."
"Is that your clever way of letting me know I have to come to my own
decision?"
"You got it. I really have to start pushing for my own show; I'm so hot
tonight, I'm surprised the sprinkler system hasn't picked up on me yet."
The corners of her mouth turned upwards ever so slightly, and I knew she
was going to be all right. Instinct warned me not to push things any
further, but she looked as though she badly needed some reassurance--so I
gave it to her. "As for not knowing how he feels about you... Daphne, you
must be the only one on the planet with that distinction."
"You'd better get out of here before he sees you," she suggested.
"Talk to him," I urged. "And talk to me when you get through. I want to see
how it all turns out."
She nodded, but I could tell that, mentally, she was already lying in the
sand on my well-used hypothetical beach. I only hoped she was thinking
sunscreen; if Niles was anything like Frasier (and THAT was a real
no-brainer), her fantasy man would be that oh-so-attractive shrimp pink
colour long before she'd made any sort of decision.
I slipped through to the living room and already had a bead on the front
door when I heard Niles coming down the stairs. I ducked to one side of the
couch at an acute angle that barely concealed me, but something about his
demeanour told me there wasn't much chance of his noticing--or caring.
His demeanour, and the cordless phone in his hand.
Maybe they were made for each other, at that.
I left them to it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When I entered the kitchen, Daphne was wiping her arm, finishing the job
Roz had started. Never in my most delusional moments did I even dream that
I might someday be grateful to Roz, but just now I wanted to run over
there, sweep her out from behind that couch and give her a hug that would
leave her gasping for breath.
But first things first.
"Daphne," I said, in the bare ragged breath that had been passing for my
voice this past hour or so.
She didn't look up from her task. "Yes?"
"I..." I swallowed air the consistency of sand, and forced myself onward.
"I went upstairs earlier because I had planned to call a taxi for you."
"That was nice of you." Her voice was low and hollow. "Is there one
coming?"
"I, ah, was not able to make the call. You see, you were in here, and you
left the phone off the hook, and... uhm." I finally stammered to a stop,
watching her hand move the cloth in a hypnotic circular motion.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I should have asked, shouldn't I?"
"No, Daphne, that's fine, you're welcome to anything you like, it's just
that I... well, the fact of the matter is that I heard. You. Talking. To
Roz." Each word was like a jolt to the solar plexus--for both of us.
"Oh, God," she whispered. "How much did you hear?"
"You said you were confused, and..." My courage failed me at the last
second, and I looked down at my shoes, hoping the answer I needed might
somehow be written there. No such luck. "Roz babbled on about tropical
islands and sprinkler systems..."
"And you heard everything in between."
"Yes." I fiddled with my suspenders, unable to look her in the eye. "I'm
not going to press you about it, Daphne. But I wanted you to know that...
all things being equal... I would have to say yes, too."
"All things like Donny?"
I spread my arms helplessly. "I know what it's like to be cheated on,
Daphne. I don't think I could do that to another person."
"I don't want to think about it right now," she told me dully.
Denial. Now I was on familiar ground. I had taken years to tell her; one
night waiting for her response probably wouldn't kill me. "Then let's not,"
I pronounced, taking the dishcloth from her hand. "I've got something
upstairs that will get that right off, if you like."
"Thank you, but I can give it a good scrub in the shower when I get home."
Barricading my mind against the images that flooded in, I smiled. "All
right, then. We'll finish our dinner, such as it is, and then I'll see
about that cab--and, Daphne..."
"Yes?"
"What the hell happened to the flowers?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was, without a doubt, one of the strangest dinners I'd ever sat down to;
strangest that night, even, which was saying a lot. On the one hand, there
was tension--but not the kind of tension there had been before. This was
more of a gentle, steady pressure, like a hand on your shoulder, or a warm
breath on your neck. Quite a change from the heart-racing, room-spinning,
staring-openly-and-not-giving-a-damn variety we'd witnessed just a few
short minutes ago. But there was also companionship, the familiarity of
breaking bread with a friend, and that was comforting in the midst of all
this strangeness.
I ate the remainder of my apple and most of his; he felt it safe to stick
to the bread, considering that he'd been ill. Both of us ate slowly, as
though we were storing it, and took long, furtive looks at each other, as
though we were storing those too.
"Maybe you can clear something up for me. Tonight, at dinner, Missy said
there were only two words you need to know in Italian: quanto costa."
He laughed, dryly.
"What does it mean?"
"How much," he replied shortly.
So much for that avenue of conversation.
"I was looking at your bookshelf, earlier," I told him, as though I did it
every day. "Where did you get that dragon statue?"
He chuckled. "Oh, that. I needed something to replace the one Mrs. Senator
Brodribb-Davenport demolished, and that was hidden at the back of my
closet. Roz gave it to me, as a thank-you for a favour. She has interesting
taste, I'll say that..."
If there was any deliberate inflection in his words, I couldn't hear it.
"Why a dragon?"
"You know, I asked her that myself... she told me that she'd borrowed a few
catalogues from Frasier's place in sort of a last ditch effort to find
something I'd like, and that this particular statue had been circled in one
of them. To be honest, I put it on my shelf because I was hoping to flush
out whoever had done that." He paused to take a bite of his bread. "It
wasn't you, was it?"
"Oh, no. And I'm betting from your reaction that it wasn't your brother,
either."
"I assumed that. Well, I guess it must have been Dad--apparently he was the
one who let her take the catalogues. She told me Frasier thought she was
shopping for his birthday gift. What's so funny?"
A secret spring of laughter bubbled up inside me. The dragon--the
catalogue--a simple bit of subterfuge that had helped me come to realize
what Martin must have known all along. I wondered how he had planned to
work the red bow tie into it--unless...
Unless it was right there in front of me.
"I was just thinking. Did you know that we both have the same edition of
'Jane Eyre'?"
"Really?"
"Yes, it's propped right up against the statue. That's how I noticed it.
Isn't that a pretty inlay on the front cover? All those little gold
butterflies..."
"Yes. Funny how I managed to hang onto that one all these years. My mother
gave it to me, actually." He was examining his fingers rather intently.
"I took mine from my Grammy Moon's bookshelf. I used to read it under the
covers."
"Me too."
"She never did figure out what had happened to it. Her eyesight wasn't the
best, so I coloured all the butterflies in red, to match the cover, so she
wouldn't pick them out and recognize the book if she saw me with it." I
paused, waiting for him to make the connection, but he still seemed
preoccupied with his hand. "So it's--"
"I'm sorry, Daphne--could you look at this?" He held out his thumb to me,
indicating a little hole like a pinprick near the tip. "I think it's a
sliver of glass."
"You're probably right. Well, you would insist on picking up that broken
vase without my help."
"I didn't want to--" He winced as I prodded the tender spot with my
fingernail-- "trouble you."
"I can't see it properly in this light. Come over to the couch." I led him
by the thumb, turning on the lamp in passing. There was definitely
something hard under the skin, and when I turned it a little bit I caught a
tiny glitter. "Oh, yes, there it is. Shall I get it out now, or d'you want
to wait until it works its way to the surface?"
He shuddered. "Now. Please."
"Tweezers?"
"The medicine cabinet in my bathroom."
I fetched the tweezers, the needle from the emergency repair kit he kept in
the linen closet, a band-aid, and some ice. When I returned, Niles was
cradling the injured thumb fretfully. You'd have thought I was about to
amputate.
"Won't take a minute," I told him briskly, numbing the area with an ice
cube. "You'd better not look."
"I hope you sterilized that," he replied, eyeing the needle.
"I did, although hopefully I won't need it. Close your eyes."
The glass wasn't much, and he bore the exploration it took to find and
extract it with more fortitude than I would have given him credit for. He
never made a sound. I elected not to noticed the teeth marks in the collar
of his shirt. "There," I said at last. "Good as new." I exposed and applied
the band-aid in a single, fluid motion. I've always been good at physical
comfort, possibly because it's easier to give than the emotional kind.
He wiggled his thumb, and looked at me with renewed gratitude for a second
before a slow smile unfurled across his face. "Aren't you going to kiss it
better?" he asked teasingly.
"If you like." I pressed my lips to the fabric of the bandage, allowing his
hand to remain and caress my cheek.
"What about all my other hurts, Daphne?" His quiet intensity made me feel
all over pins and needles. "Are you going to kiss them better, too?"
"If I ever hurt you--" which I must have done! I added mentally-- "I
apologize."
"It wasn't your fault. You had no way of knowing." The smile remained
fixed. "But you haven't answered my question."
"You're not the only one who's been hurt, you know."
"I'd be happy to offer the same remedy."
"It's all or nothing, now. You can't take something like that back once
you've said it."
"I know." He sighed. "I suppose you're going to ask me to call that cab. As
well you should. I've had to say enough I'm sorry's this weekend without
adding Donny into the bargain."
"I've got better uses for banana leaves than a raft," I told him. "And I'm
no longer Donny's concern."
"That's why you were on the phone?"
I nodded. "Why don't you tell me where it hurts?"
In any movie that's heavy on the romance, a kiss is always a torturously
slow moment. You think the two people are never going to get there. But
what happened next was like a flash of lightning. He reached for me and I
reached for him, and then we were sharing the same mouth, the same
being--the same couch cushion. It was beautifully simple; I didn't even
have to think about it. I guess seven years is enough of a torturously slow
moment for anyone. And I didn't mind that he had five o'clock shadow, or
that he tasted faintly of liquor, and I'm sure he didn't much care that my
nose was running or that I was sweating ink all over the back of his shirt.
Because even if it wasn't perfect in that way, in another, deeper way, it
was.
I held my breath until my lungs burned, and then we broke for air, gasping,
and I buried my head in the juncture of his neck and shoulder. I could feel
the blood pounding in both our hearts, but it was impossible to tell which
rhythm was whose. "That's a start," I commented.
He tightened his grip on me. "I love you."
"I know." I smiled. "Roz told me."
"Damn Roz to hell, anyway!"
"She is partly responsibly for this."
"Then I retract my injunction. In fact, let's buy her a present."
"I can think of a much more constructive way to spend our time, can't you?"
"Good God, yes."
"I love you, too," I told him, and for the rest of the evening there wasn't
much talk. We'd both done quite enough of that for the moment.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"So nothing was going on?" Frasier was profoundly irritated--partly, I
suspected, due to his inability to get any the night before--and was
generously taking it out on me, the nearest available human being.
"Nothing?"
"For the last time, nothing!" I set the headphones firmly on my ears and
returned his glare through the partition. "Niles was there so that Daphne
had an out if dinner turned out to be really boring--sort of an extension
of the escape call. That's why she had his cell phone, and why she told
that whole big story about Donny having to leave. I guess she didn't count
on him getting sick again and needing her to drive him home." I checked my
watch. We still had a few minutes until airtime.
"Let me see if I understand: you call me, in the middle of my date with a
very attractive woman, to tell me that you have ocular proof that Daphne
is cheating on her fiancé with my brother; Donny calls my apartment at one
in the morning demanding to speak with Daphne, saying he KNOWS she's there
because she called him just a moment ago to break off the engagement;
Daphne herself comes in later than I do, and, might I add, spends all
morning wandering around the apartment with her feet barely touching the
floor, when she's not hugging Dad, who seems insufferably pleased with
himself; Niles leaves a message on my machine that he is backing out of our
plans for the evening, claiming he needs time to recover, which makes my
father beam even more proudly and sends his physical therapist into
positive fits of blushing and self-conscious laughter; and now you're
trying to tell me that nothing is going on?!"
Way to go, Daphne! I thought, but restricted my remarks to, "Nothing that I
know of. A whole lot of nothing, with any luck. One minute, Frasier."
"Well, then perhaps you would be kind enough to explain the message Daphne
asked me to deliver to you this morning, when she deigned to notice my
existence."
"What was it?"
"She said to thank you for the flowers, and to tell you that she doubts
she'll be needing the banana leaves after all."
I smiled. "I figured that."
He scowled. Frasier hates to be left out of anything. "Well?"
"It means... you're going to be seeing some changes in the near future. All
right, time to go, in five... four..."
Changes was right.
It really was about time I had my own show....
The End.
Posted 11/27/99
6. I'm Not as Think as You Drunk I Am (Niles/Daphne Counterpoint)
7. The Impracticality of Glass Slippers (Continuation of Counterpoint)
8. In the Temple of Her Familiar
9. Banana Leaves for Both or Neither; or, Too Much Nothing Can Be Hazardous
to Your Health
eunice's private collection | Frasier Fan Fiction Archive | DHP page | Frasier page | HOME