22. I Don't Remember Mama

From the moment Niles woke up that fine May morning, he had the nagging feeling that something was missing. Had he forgotten to buy cleaning fluid at the supermarket? No, there it stood on the shelf. Was there plenty of artificial sweetener for Miss Margaret, who was going through a dieting phase? Yes, an entire package. Did Mr. Sheffield have enough of that cologne left, the one that made Miss Fine follow her employer around the room like her mother after cheesecake? Certainly.

Then he glanced at the calendar.

It was Mother's Day.

Knowing the Sheffields, it was going to be traumatic. Knowing Miss Fine, she would throw herself into cheering them up. The late, beloved Mrs. Sheffield (whom Niles himself still missed, as she had been the only one of his employers with a sense of humor) was going to haunt the house all day, with her strawberry-blond hair, her wry, patient smile, the apple blossom perfume she had always worn, and the ragged hole her death had left behind.

There was one thing Niles could not endure in the house today, and that was CC Babcock, simmering with jealousy of the dead lady under a thin veneer of grief. Mother's Day made her toxic, and knowing what little he knew about Mrs. BB Babcock, he was not surprised.

He plotted and schemed all day, just as Miss Fine was scheming for permission to sing with Miss Grace at the Mother-Daughter Talent Show. When the time came, however, the opportunity came almost by itself.

There he was in the kitchen, brewing a fresh pot of coffee. And here was Miss Babcock, sweeping in as always without looking left or right, wearing a lovely and expensive lavender silk blouse with ruffles at the throat.

A splash. A shriek.

"Beg your pardon, Miss Babcock," he deadpanned. "How clumsy of me."

"Damn it, Niles!" She snatched a paper towel to dab at the blouse. The stain was already spreading. "Are you blind, senile, deliberately vicious, or some combination of the three? I can't be seen at Maxwell's club like this!"

"That's never bothered you before. Oh, wait, did you mean the coffee?"

"That dry cleaning bill is coming right out of your wages."

"I understand. I'll take excellent care of your blouse, I promise you."

"Knowing you, I'll find it shrunk to the size of a finger puppet. I'm coming with you, Butler Boy, whether you like it or not."

"If you insist. Here." He turned his back and held out his jacket, which had been hanging over a chair in preparation for a peaceful solitary springtime walk.

She grabbed it without even thanking him. After a few suggestive, silky, rustling sounds (which he was careful not to speculate about), she ordered him to turn back around.

His tweed jacket suited her. She handed him the stained blouse without another comment. (It still held her body heat.)

"Well, come along, Miss Babcock," he said brusquely. "The sooner we get this over with, the more I might be able to salvage of my day off."

The more distance between her and the Sheffields on Mother's Day, he thought, the better. For their sake – and for hers.