I took a small hiatus, but for a good reason. My game was mercilessly taken over by
this little cutie-pie (minor spoilers in the link). Why write when you're busy playing?
Aw! Shark and Jules are so sweet together.
Also (and rather irrelevantly), I love your blue/purple recolour of that leafy pattern from Generations on that panelled wall. I've never managed to get it to look good with changed colours.
That pattern recolors weirdly. It works for the wallpaper, though. Looks nice in white and blue/lilac, and had just the right ratio of fun to tastefulness.
I never played with Pansy's family, but it's really cool to see what she looks like all grown up. I wonder how her brother turned out...
Whoever Franco chooses, both Hannah and Pansy will contribute some interesting genetics into the Waverly mix.
I know that Parker Prudence was one of Franco's makeover victims, but I didn't get a good shot of him. He's a weird-looking kid. And it's funny that the two women that Franco liked both had brothers named Parker!
Hehehehe, leave it to Shark to find his true love in the same gender. It's incredibly sweet and loved the fact that Harwood got to come out and be immortalized in ice, even after he'd already left the mortal coil!
I do have a quick question regarding your strategy. So, you ensured there was a plethora of spousal choices by using your male helpers as pollinators, correct? I'm currently doing some planning to start a new Dynasty, and one of the things I've always been afraid of is running out of spousal material.
I don't control his wish panel.
Ah,
if only I made a guide to the art of townie genes. But yeah, I had any men in the house contribute their genes to the town, as well as a rotating cast of elderly original townie men moved in for the sole purpose of making nooboos around town.
Wow, I never realized you could even sculpt a ghost. I learned something new today.
Now the next question on my mind is this: Pansy or Hannah? I suppose that too will be answered in time, won't it?
I'm glad you can sculpt ghosts! Harwood couldn't be properly immortalized without the trick. He couldn't sculpt himself, and Shark didn't finish Ice Personality before he passed away.
Hmm, yeah. I'll answer it sooner or later.
Franco could still make good use of Hannah's genes, but for some reason I'm guessing Julian will do that instead. Of course, Trip could just tricksy by moving in Pansy for Franco.
Aw, I'm glad Shark figured things out! I thought he was going to fall for Annette and pine unrequited. This is much better, even if long-distance relationships aren't ideal.
I'm very tricksy! And keeping my lips sealed about what happened to Hannah and Pansy (though Pansy's story will be revealed pretty soon).
I actually thought he would go for Annette too.
Chapter 25: Don't Be Eileen
France was a nice place.
While Shark found his love, Franco found secret doors in labyrinths under mansions and art museums. While not exactly a graceful or limber man, or someone who could fit into tight crawlspaces, he pushed through tombs with sheer force. And read the plaques, like any adult could do. If only he tried harder in his French classes back in high school.
After that, he came home at odd hours to a hug from his girlfriend.
Although he once fell asleep in the wrong bed. In his defense, Hannah wasn’t there when he crawled under the blankets. He had a glass of nectar, on his mum. Very much asleep and placated by alcohol, he snuggled next to whoever was there. It could be Amy for all he cared; a sleepy Franco never had good judgment. In the end, he thought that he got a free body pillow.
Needless to say, Pansy walked into the bedroom while the two were sleepy and had a mouthful for Franco the following morning. Not even Annette’s breakfast crepes, stuffed with locally-sourced cheese and topped with the best French produce, dulled Pansy’s anger at her boyfriend. Why couldn't be choose a single bed like the rest of them? Franco had the easy answer: the double bed had a better mattress and his feet didn't dangle off the end.
“I don't care. I was okay with you having a female roomie, but I will not stand for her taking my place! Behave yourself,” Pansy wagged her finger at Franco. “Or I’m packing my bags.”
“Look, bring this up with Hannah,” said Franco, “I do love you. She’s just having trouble getting her mind around that. I mean, how can I know exactly how she feels? Maybe I just need to clear my mind of her. Honey-pie, uh, wanna go tomb-raiding?”
By tomb-raiding, he meant “semi-unwarranted searching of someone’s basement,” but some of the French had weird requests. The owner suspected that his house was under a burial site, and Franco was the man to investigate. Making it a team effort was fine too.
“You just can’t stand not looking at your own pretty face, huh?” asked Pansy.
“Shut up,” Franco said, examining what he thought was his first wrinkle, or a too-visible pore. “How good is that nectar?”
“It’s nectar. How am I supposed to care?”
“Is there a year on it?”
“2095. Cormier Vineyards. Look, I don’t know a thing about nectar.”
“Then how do you expect to stay with me? Offering me something from a recent batch?” asked Franco, with a chuckle. “I kid. I’ll take some anyways.” Pansy filled up the glasses to the halfway-point with rosy-colored, transparent nectar. Franco took one, noting its sweet aroma. One sip, and it was rather sweet. It burned his tongue a bit, confirming to him that it was actual alcohol, but was still sweet. Rather new-tasting, as he expected. Above all, it couldn't have been more than 10 simoleons.
He tried to keep a straight face while finishing it up.
If only Pansy could.
“You’re still angry at me,” he said, “Fine. Be that way. I don’t care that you don’t trust me when I say that things between Hannah and I are over.”
“Cut your sarcasm and finish this basement with me. It's your job.”
As it turned out, Pansy fit into tight spaces pretty well. She squeezed behind a boulder for a pile of gold coins while Franco examined the walls for more secret entrances.
She was a keeper, alright.
Meanwhile, Hannah went back into her rut of not caring about anything but hobbies like gardening, which she still didn’t take seriously. She spent many lazy days at the cafe instead. Annette cared much more about the garden, but was too busy with recipe books to harvest grapes at the nectary. What a shame. Other than the nectar, she couldn't shut up about the foreign grapes she could grow.
As for the other three, they spent days keeping themselves at the art museum. Shark had Jules to keep him busy when he got restless, but Amy and Julian still went to the art museum when he was out. They swore that there were still exhibits they never saw.
If days at the art museum kept Julian from obsessing over the sink, Amy would do it. She worried about those habits of his.
Franco was determined to give his family something to do other than exhaust all of the activities at the base camp. The French government granted VISAs only to sims that proved themselves capable and beneficial to the nation. Annette’s cooking was decried as simple and foreign, perhaps true for the head chef at a greasy spoon. Therefore, it was up to Franco to further raid the tombs.
But it filled him with wonder.
It also filled him with creepy-crawly things that were just the proof France needed that he was stupid enough to raid awful, bug-ridden places for the benefit of the nation. Permission granted. He could buy a new home.
The home was secondary to the artists’ garden, but the base camp wouldn’t allow him to build one there. Of course, there was a kitchen too, for Annette, right near the stairwell. Because of that, everybody sleeping on the second floor could wake up to the smell of fresh bacon and rich French toast in the morning.
One morning, Franco was the only one to walk down the stairs to the smell of eggs, sausages, and hash browns. Why, it was a traditional Twinbrook breakfast! Annette served him a plate. She cooked enough for four, enough to sate a big eater and her own drunk hunger. Franco took a whiff; his mother was drunk in the morning.
"Mum, are you drunk right now?" he asked. It wouldn't be polite to assume such things.
"I'm not drunk, I'm mourning. My gawd, Franco," she said.
"It's been a few years now," he said. "Don't make this a habit."
"I bet you'll need this too! Because you're doomed with that nagging Pansy."
"Don't be ridiculous. Compared to dad cheating on you, she's a keeper." In spite of his confident statement, Franco just picked at his food like an unsure man. His plate still had plenty of eggs and potatoes by the time Annette cleared it.
“See, I knew it. This nectar helps me so much,” said Annette as she scrubbed the grease from the plate. “She wants to get serious, you want to get serious, and yet you really don’t want to get serious. I mean, there has to be a word for it, but this darn nectar ain't helping me there."
“Stop knowing me so well,” said Franco, “I just want the time to forget about being in love with Hannah. I was, at one point, but I need to find a way to tell myself that I don’t. Then I can marry Pansy and make her happy.”
“That's stupid. How about I tell you a story instead,” said Annette, slurring the last word. “Since everyone is out.”
“You know, what else can I do? It's come down to listening to a morning drunk.”
“Alright kiddo, you can stop complaining.. You don’t know much about my early life and you don’t need to. But I had a friend named Eileen. Darn, didn't everyone want to be her? She was so smart and pretty, charismatic and could get any guy she wanted. Much like this fat young man next to me, amirite?"
"Mother...this isn't a time for petty jabs," Franco said.
"It's always a time for that, for real. But you know, Eileen squandered so much of her pretty, pretty perfection. She was always chums with this Moonlight Falls guy...screw it, this ain't time for pseudonyms. His name was Arthur. Also handsome, friendly, stylish...of course he was gay. That closet had no door, 'cept maybe to his family. Those two got it in them that they needed to hide it best they could. And they could've gotten married to anyone. But they got hitched to each other. What a waste. And you know what happened to Arthur? Drowned. Eileen? Heart failure at 23. Bless their hearts."
“What’s your point? Did you just have the urge to drop a story? Is life so boring now that dad’s gone?” asked Franco, with a sneer.
“Yeesh grumpy-pants, I have a point. Gawd. So, was it worth it to protect him? Oh hell no. His family, as it turned out, didn't care much at all for some conservative old imps. They got themselves all guilty and sad over nothin'." Her southern accent came out in full-force. "So why be that? Don't waste your youth on somethin' bad like Pansy. Use your charm, hun. You're so young and handsome, with all the nice things in front of you. Be kind to you." She smiled and leaned back in her chair, full of drunken bliss. "And dear god, kiddo, promise me this. Don't be Eileen."
"Uh, okay mum," he said. "Remember to lay on your side, not on your back."
Annette heeded that advice, considering that she was alive and hungover after a nap that day.
Franco, however, ignored what she had to say. Annette didn't have anything left to tell him after that. Why should she? He could handle it like an adult.
After reading that chapter, I nap on the train seat, only to wake up a few minutes later because the hard pleather and cheap foam stuffing messes with my back. So much for a sleep schedule; it’s nighttime already and I can’t sleep at all with that seat-induced kink in my neck. I guess I will have time to sleep in Roaring Heights, maybe buy an extra pillow to cushion my neck kink.
And then it hits me. Eileen.
The name recurred a few times beyond that. Eileen, she was a lawyer. Annette once had to play that role for dad, and what other identity did she use than that of one Eileen Stone? She even gave a twisted version of that speech to me, but granted, I wasn't the potential Eileen.
How could I have forgotten about those times? Was Annette in her will? Entrusted with a marble griffin, of all things? Or, was Eileen her own past shame? That seems like the most likely scenario. Her regrets had to go somewhere, channeled through a sockpuppet. And I think more...that maybe was her griffin. It was her parting gift to us, so we could figure this past of hers out for ourselves.
If grandpa Franco gave that to my dad, maybe he had something to tell me about Eileen. Annette, who is Eileen. It sounds more convincing the more I repeat it.
All I see outside are trees, often indicative of a dead spot. The conductor fiddles with his smartphone over in one of the seats at the end of the car.
“Are we in the dead spot yet?” I ask.
“Nah. Not for another half an hour. Not like you’ll disturb anyone with a call!” His voice resonates through the very-empty train car.
“Thanks.” I take out my phone, scrolling to the bottom of the contacts list and one “Wormwood.”
Of course that’s grandpa Franco's nickname; to my dad, anyways. They had a strange work-relationship. I didn't, and I just called him Franco like a normal person. And if I'm remembering this right, he’s in a different time zone. He's waking up late in the morning to his wife cooking him breakfast (I’d be surprised if any of us immortals learned to cook). He was never much of a night owl.
Word Count for this chapter:
1,942Word Count so far:
38,078Revised on 3-1-2015. Yay for drunk Annette.
