Return-Path: CaseyMacD@aol.com
From: CaseyMacD@aol.com
Date: Sun, 7 Sep 1997 22:03:09 -0400 (EDT)
To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com
Subject: Daily Chores (01/02)

Disclaimer and Datclaimer:  Nick & friends, of course, belong
to TPTB and I'm borrowing them for a very brief interlude,
just for the heck of it.  Claudette is my creation, so please
do not use her without my okay.

This story is an exploration of both a mundane topic -
housework, and a not-so-mundane issue - faith in God.
While washing sheets today, I found myself wondering if
Nick had to do his own laundry, vacuum, dust, etc., and
my reply was "Naw, couldn't be.  He'd have a maid.
And, she'd probably be French."  'Nuff said.

"Daily Chores" (01/02)
  by Kay Copeland
  (c) 1997

She was a breathtakingly beautiful young woman with long,
dark hair and Nick Knight thought the moment he saw her,
'She can't be the maid.'  But she was.

She handed Nick the form from the agency as she stepped
off the elevator into his loft.  Nick stared at it a moment,
then looked back at her, and found her gazing up at him
with a look of wide-eyed innocence.

"There is something wrong, monsieur?"

Nick shook his head.  "Uh, no."  He returned to the form.
"You are Claudette?"

"Oui, monsieur.  My father, his name is Jean-Claude, so,
voila, I became Claudette."  She laughed, a delightful
sound to Nick's jaded ears, and he thought briefly of all
the beautiful young women he'd known over hundreds of
years, so many of whom had laughed with the same
feeling of joy at life's peculiarities as this girl who now
stood before him.

"It says you're an exchange student from Paris.  You're
working your way through school, then?"

"Oui, that is correct.  Now, if I suit you, I may begin?"

Nick mentally shook himself and nodded.  "Of course.
I'm afraid that I don't clean, so I don't have anything
here you can use."  He gestured around the loft.
He had only lived there a month and was new to his
job as a Toronto homicide detective, as well, but it
had not taken him long to realize that, if he wanted
to stay in Toronto for a time, then he would need
domestic help.

Claudette took a few steps inside and surveyed the
kitchen, dining area and living room quickly.  "It does
not look so bad, monsieur.  I shall have it, as you say,
'spic-and-span' in no time at all.  I have everything I
need downstairs in my car.  I'll be back up in a
moment."

And, so, Claudette became Nick's maid.  She came
to the loft every Friday evening for the next two
years, just after sundown, as Nick was preparing to
leave for the station.  She kept the loft spotless and
the laundry done and Nick soon accepted her as a 
necessary part of his life.  He thought little about
her at any time, and it never occurred to him to
wonder or to ask what she did during the day,
besides going to her classes at the university.

Whenever he was slated to have a rare Friday
night off, he called the agency to re-schedule,
and Claudette would obligingly come on
another night instead.  He received an invoice
from the agency every month, which he paid
promptly.  At Christmastime, he even left
Claudette a gift on the dining room table.
It was just a small bottle of very expensive French
perfume but she loved it, she said, in the thank-you
note that he found propped on the same table the
following Friday night.

Finally, Capt. Cohen convinced, or rather ordered,
Nick to take some time off, so he put in for a
vacation, which would begin on Friday.  He had
no idea what he would do with himself for a week.
He tried to stay away from The Raven as much as
possible, now that he and Natalie were working
so hard to find a cure.  He would read, he supposed,
paint, certainly, perhaps he might even take a
short trip.  He hadn't been to New York City for
over thirty years and, surely, there was no one
there who would recognize him now.  Seeing a
Broadway play could be enjoyable.  He might even
dare ask Natalie to go with him, since they had
grown so close.

Nick sat before a blazing fire, glass in hand.
He used the remote to raise the window coverings
as night fell.  It was then he heard the sound of
the elevator and realized, too late, that it was
Claudette's night to clean and he had forgotten
to call to re-schedule.

"I'm sorry," he met her as the door slid open.
"I'll be at home tonight.  I'll certainly pay the
agency for your time, though, so why don't
you just come back next week?"

Claudette looked at Nick uncertainly, then
glanced past him.  The loft was a bit cluttered
but basically clean.

"If you do not mind, monsieur, I will do the
cleaning anyway.  It will not take me long.
But I would not take money I have not earned."

Nick considered, then nodded, stepping back.
He had no plans for the night.  Natalie was
working, so there wouldn't even be videos to
be watched tonight.  It could do no harm, he
supposed, as Claudette carried in her box of
supplies, pushing the vacuum cleaner in front
of her.

*con't in part 2*
*Comments, etc., to CaseyMacD@aol.com*

Return-Path: CaseyMacD@aol.com
From: CaseyMacD@aol.com
Date: Sun, 7 Sep 1997 22:02:36 -0400 (EDT)
To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com
Subject: Daily Chores (02/02)

Disclaimers - see part 1.

"Daily Chores"
  Part 02/02
  by Kay Copeland

******************************************************
For an hour, Nick watched her, pretending not to.
He hid behind a copy of "War and Peace" written
in the original Russian, but his eyes followed her
as she moved with practiced efficiency around
his home.  It occurred to him that she must know
it as well as she knew her own by now.

She picked up a stack of newspapers and he
felt a twinge of guilt for having discarded them
to the floor so carelessly.  She vacuumed, dusted,
straightened and plumped sofa pillows, washed
glasses he'd simply rinsed and left in the sink.  
Finally, she turned and headed for the stairs.

"Really, Claudette, that's enough.  The rest can
wait till next time."

Claudette paused and her mouth turned down in a
worried frown.  "You wish me to go, monsieur?"

No, Nick realized, he didn't wish her to go, at all.
"I'd like to you sit down for a minute and talk.  You've
worked here for two years and I do not know you at
all."

She came to stand behind the sofa, her hands resting
on the back, her fingertips pushing against the soft
leather nervously.  "There is very little to know about
me, monsieur."

"No, that can't be," Nick rose and motioned her forward.
"Come and sit down."

Claudette frowned again but she complied, perching
anxiously on the edge of one of the sofa cushions.
Nick realized that he hadn't heard her laugh in so very
many months.

"I have spent time in Paris," he began cautiously.
Perhaps he was wrong to intrude?  "But it has been
a very long time.  Tell me of your life there."

"My life in Paris?  My life is here, monsieur, at least
until I finish school."

"And when will that be?"  Nick prompted.  "When will
you return to France?"

Claudette looked down and wove her fingers together
distractedly.  Finally, she looked up and her eyes,
when they met Nick's, were brimming with unshed
tears.  "I will *not* be returning to France."
She spoke with such a great sadness that Nick's
heart, which he had so long thought cold and
untouchable by such things, wrenched in his chest.

"Why not?  Surely you wish to see home again?"

"Of course," she hastened to answer him.  "It is
just that I may not.  My father...my father has said
that I may never come home again."

Nick sat forward in his chair.  This lovely young
woman was in great pain, a pain she had hidden
well and lived with for who knows how long, and
he wanted to help her.

"Why?  Why would any father say that to his own
child?"

Claudette lowered her head again and her shoulders
shook with tiny sobs of despair.  Finally, she raised
her eyes and wiped the tears away angrily.  "I have
disappointed him, monsieur.  A disappointment so
great that he says he can never forgive me."

"There is nothing, I think, that you could have done
that he could not forgive you."

"Oh, but I have.  You see, I came here to Toronto
to study only on the condition that when I finished
my degree, I would return to Paris and join the
order as a teacher of music.  But I have had, how
do you say it, a 'crisis of faith,' and I wonder
sometimes if God really even lives at all.  I have
told my father that I cannot give my life to the
church when I have such doubts and it is for this
reason that he cannot pardon me."

Nick moved to the fireplace, resting his arm against the
mantle, lost in thought.  He knew all too well the
feelings of abandonment and guilt that Claudette
must be experiencing, even though his circumstances
were very different from hers.  Still, he had his
'crises of faith' on a regular basis and he understood.

"I was Catholic once, myself, a very long time ago,"
Nick returned to his chair, "and, I can assure you,
Claudette, that God *does* exist.  If you once wished
to become a nun, what has happened that has made
you doubt that fact?"

"Oh, monsieur, I could never doubt that our God
exists," Claudette assured him.  "I am uncertain
only that He lives...inside me."

Nick exhaled with such force that he had to clench
his fists and force himself to once again draw breath.
This lovely girl, who could never have done anything in
her life that could begin to compare to the sins
he'd committed, still wondered if God was in her.

The irony was not lost on him.  Claudette searched
now for the same reassurance that he, himself, had
sought for centuries.

"Why..." Nick began, unsure what he could say next.
"Why do you think that God might not live within you?" 

"I have thoughts, monsieur, ideas that are impure..."
Claudette blushed and rose from the sofa quickly.
"It is not proper for me to discuss such things with
you.  I must leave."

Nick was in front of her before she could take two
steps, his blue eyes locked with her green ones.
"Stay," he commanded and she stepped back.

"Monsieur?"

Nick tore his gaze from hers.  True, he only wanted to
help her but to force his help on her would not be right.
"I, too, have struggled with this problem.  Longer than
you have, Claudette.  In fact, I continue to struggle."

Claudette took another step back.  "You frighten me."

"No, please, I truly mean you no harm."

She considered a moment, then nodded, and returned
to the sofa.  They stayed a moment that way, lost in
their own thoughts.

"Have you talked about this...struggle...with your priest?"

Nick turned to her, genuinely surprised.  He had wanted
to offer her hope and now she was trying to counsel him.

"No."  His definitive answer was harsh and he added, "I
haven't spoken to a priest in many years."

"Then you should," she told him firmly.  "You must still
have faith or your conscience would not trouble you so.
The faithful often leave the fold because of such things,
only to return stronger than before they left because of
their ordeal.  A priest may be able to help you."

"Maybe," Nick admitted and he smiled.  "And perhaps,
Claudette, you should take your own advice?"

Claudette smiled then, too, a sight that warmed Nick's
immortal heart.  Her eyes, still bright with tears, turned
toward him.

"It is true.  I have not talked to my priest, either.  I go
to mass every day and I have longed to speak with him,
and yet I have not."

"You are afraid."

"Yes.  Afraid that admitting to my unclean thoughts will
somehow make them stronger.  Afraid that God will
leave me...as I feel I have left Him."

Nick took Claudette's hands in his and she seemed to
welcome his touch, the gentle ministration of one
believer to another.

"Faith can be a strange thing.  Just when you feel
that you have only a little bit left, that small amount
becomes just enough to carry you through the worst
you can imagine."

*The End*

Comments, etc., to CaseyMacD@aol.com