CHAPTER ONE
Belle peeled back one eye lid and then the other. Sunbeams angled past her lacey curtains and flooded her room, glaring in her tightened face.
A moan escaped from her parted lips as she stretched her arms and legs as far as her body would allow. She slumped back against her well-worn mattress and burrowed her face into her warm pillow. The tantalizing scent of chocolate chip pancakes wafted from the downstairs kitchen, all the way up to her bedroom. Tickling her nostrils, her nose twitched.
Today was her birthday. Her thirtieth.
She had spent last night watching one of her favorite movies, "13 Going on 30," however this time the romantic comedy didn't cheer her up. In fact, it made her feel worse. It reminded her of her own failures in life. That she, too, was not Thirty, Flirty and Thriving.
Belle wriggled onto her back and sighed.
She was thirty, still living at home with her father; she had no husband, she didn't even have a boyfriend. There were no prospects either. Forget children! She was boring. Even her flannel pajamas were boring.
At least she had her job at the library.
But that's it. That's all I have. My job. Belle rubbed her left eye with her closed fist.
There was a thud on the stairs, followed by the clomping of heavy feet.
Papa.
Seconds later, Papa barreled into her room, bearing a tray. Three chocolate chip pancakes were neatly piled onto a plate. Milk and juice were off to the side and there was a fresh white rose in a tiny vase off to the side.
Belle scooted into a sitting position. This was their tradition; when one had a birthday, the other fixed breakfast in bed.
Papa was beaming, unaware of her crestfallen expression. "Rise and shine!" Settling the tray on her lap, he planted a kiss on her brow. "Happy Birthday, pumpkin!"
Belle blinked back the tears, but it was no use. They soon began to fall.
"What? Belle?" Papa asked, finally taking notice. He dragged the computer chair over to the side of her bed.
Swiping at her cheeks, she hated herself for succumbing to her emotions. Especially at her age. "I'm sorry, Papa. Thank you. They look delicious." She managed a wobbly smile.
"C'mon, talk to me." Her father frowned. "If you wait for me to guess, you know it'll be a long wait."
That was true. Sweet and loving as her father was, he wasn't the most observant soul. When she was twelve and she mentioned that the other girls in class wore MUDD Jeans, which had been a hint that she wanted a pair, he thought she meant that her classmates came to school dirty. His solution was to buy extra laundry detergent for her to give to her filthy classmates. That way no one was doing without and their parents need not be ashamed. When she began to develop and she told him that she was "developing," he thought she meant that the teachers at school were teaching the students how to develop film.
Needless to say, Moe was out of touch with society.
"Papa, I'm thirty. I should be married with children." Belle couldn't bear it. She considered herself a modern woman, despite the fact that she lived at home. She ought to be content with herself first before marrying or starting a family. But the majority of women her age had someone to love. She, on the other hand, never had that. "I want a husband with children. I need to do something to make that happen, or else I'll be living here when I'm thirty-five and then forty." She cringed at how harsh she had sounded. "I'm sorry, Papa."
The last thing she wanted to do was to hurt his feelings, or for him to feel like she was abandoning him. Since her mother died when she was ten, it had just been the two of them. That was one of the reasons Belle had stayed at home for so long.
"Well," Papa harrumphed. "It's about damn time."
"What?"
"I never wanted to push; these things have to happen in their own time. But sometimes you need to give life a hand."
Belle sniffed. Stop it, don't cry. You're just feeling vulnerable. Keep it together. Poor Papa, she had written him off as oblivious to her plight, but he had noticed.
"Thank you, Papa. I need to change myself, because this isn't working." She explained, signaling towards her closet. "I need a makeover."
She didn't dress badly, per se. Her clothes were more bland than anything. Long skirts, cardigans, flat shoes, high collars…Muted, oatmeal tones. And makeup, she never wore makeup. Somehow, without knowing it, she had developed into the cliché, spinster librarian. It didn't help that she was short and flat chested.
No wonder I'm alone. One time Keith Nottingham called her a Plain Jane, and she had started to babble about how that phrase was coined in 1912 and how urban legend was that it originally referred to "Jane Eyre," by Charlotte Bronte. He stared at her like she had lobsters crawling out of her ears.
"If that's what you want, I'll support you." Papa lifted and dropped his massive shoulders. "Though, I have to admit, I like you as you as you are now. And any man worth his salt would too. Now, eat your breakfast before it grows cold."
He stood and placed another kiss on her brow before ambling from the room.
Belle cut her pancakes and shoveled forkful after forkful into her mouth. Bits of chocolate exploded on her tongue and that helped. Her father was sweet, but he had told her she was pretty when she had acne dotting her face and when she lisped because she wore a retainer.
No she needed a makeover, in the worst way, and fast, before it was too late and she ended up alone for the rest of her life.
#
Gold hated collecting the rent. The steps he had to climb and the pivoting he did, did a number on his weak ankle, which put him in a beastly mood by the end of the day. But it was worth it, because occasionally it offered him a quick glimpse at the florist's daughter. He used to have his associate Dove collect the rent, but ever since he encountered Belle French minding the counter one day, while her father was in back, he closed up his pawnshop and made it a priority to collect the rent himself. Even though it entailed calling upon each of his renters.
Every, single, pain in the ass renter. He grimaced for a brief moment.
Belle was intelligent; she knew all sorts of odd facts. On a particularly chilly day one summer, she joked that they might "be having another year without a summer." Evidentially in 1816 there was a volcanic eruption that interfered with the weather and the world was cast into a belated winter. Whenever she talked of a new book she was reading, her whole face brightened and her eyes glittered. She was beautiful, naturally so. Her wide open face, guileless eyes, and pink lips was softened by a brunette mane that shrouded her head. Then there was the fact that she was always courteous to him. The people of Storybrooke avoided him like the plague. They wanted to rent his properties and make deals with him, however they were always astonished when he came to collect.
Not Belle, though…she was different. Special. He liked her.
He lingered outside The Game of Thorns and calling upon the small amount of courage he had within him, he entered the building. A tiny bell serenaded him.
Moe French was behind the counter, on the phone with a customer. His spirit plummeted. Belle wasn't there today.
Gold couldn't get over the differences between father and daughter. Moe was a large, overweight and bumbling. Not an ugly man, but he looked nothing like his daughter. Or rather his daughter looked nothing like him. Gold supposed that Belle resembled her mother. Small, with baby doll features, large blue depths that seemed to peer straight into his soul.
He waited, watching as Moe held up a finger.
The florist was taking down an order. "Well, I have some pinkish vases. She likes mauve? Um…" He raised his head and surveyed the room. "Well…"
Gold took pity on him and used the end of his cane to point to a particular vase on a stand a few feet off. Since Belle wasn't present, he was eager to leave as soon as possible. "This is mauve, Mr. French." He whispered.
Moe nodded his thanks and continued with his phone conversation. "Thanks. Yes, we have mauve. Wonderful. I will have it ready by this evening. You're welcome. Goodbye." He hung up the phone and when he completed his invoice, he wrote out a check, then handed it to Gold. "You know your colors, huh?" the man said off-handedly.
"I suppose." Gold shrugged, folded the check and slipped it into his breast pocket. "Isn't that one of the fundamentals learned in one's childhood?"
"You dress really nice too." Moe was scrutinizing him through slitted eyes, his round face puckered in contemplation. "The suits are designer, right?"
Gold took a step back. "What is your point?"
"Just that, you're a snazzy dresser."
Gold stiffened. Moe was laughing at him. He accustomed used to it. No one quite understood why he preferred three-pieced-suits; silk ties, two hundred dollar loafers. He had heard his share of jokes about his choice of clothes. That he was a businessman and wanted to look the part should have been obvious. Somehow the rest of Storybrooke couldn't grasp that. Of course the suits served as an armor, to protect him from those who sought out his vulnerabilities.
"I did work in theater, once upon a time." Gold closed his eyes for a second and shook his head, knowing that by the end of the day, that piece of information would be spread to the four corners of Storybrooke. "Is that all?"
"Right. Sorry." Moe's mouth widened into a grin. "Have a nice day."
Gold didn't respond and strode outside. The noon-day sun was high, powerful, and made the town of Storybrooke bloat from the heat. Sweat beaded along his hairline; his crop of shaggy hair was plastered to the back of his neck. Many times he considered chopping it off. But his hair had always been his trademark, and it hid his oddly shaped ears.
That was strange. Gold reflected on his recent conversation with Moe French. The man never commented on his appearance before. And why he had mentioned his past work in the theater was ridiculous. He never told anyone that.
Jefferson Madden was approaching from the opposite end of the sidewalk. They met midway through.
"I finished the order and can bring it by later this evening, if that's convenient." Jefferson said.
Jefferson ran his own business; he made and sold hats. Very eccentric hats that the ladies loved. Gold purchased a number of them and sold them in his shop. He thought they were ridiculous, but they were moneymakers. To each their own. Jefferson was a widower, with a daughter to support, so he didn't care what he had to do to provide for her.
"That would work." Gold muttered.
"Something wrong?" Jefferson asked.
"Mr. French was acting, well, peculiar. He sort of complemented me on my attire."
"Oh?" Amusement lit up Jefferson's face. The cleft in his chin deepened. "Well, I must say, you do look nice today."
"Shut up." Gold rolled his eyes and waved him off.
He continued on to his next property, which was a bookstore. Perhaps he'd run into Belle French there. Now if she were to comment on his appearance – not that she ever would- that would be different. That would mean something. But Belle wouldn't. She was unaware of his crush on her and she probably never gave him a second thought.
It was wrong, really, for an old man to be lusting after a young woman. But he couldn't help it. He was weak when it came to her.
#
Belle went past the drugstore and purchased two bags full of makeup and magazines. The second she got home, she ducked into the bathroom. After skimming through the magazines, she found one featuring a model that bore striking similarities to her. Similar complexion and hair coloring…someone she could resemble.
She had to do a 180. She was dull, plain, and boring. Therefore she had to be flashy, exciting, and bold. Flirtatious girls got all of the attention and always found love in the end. No more Miss Nice Belle.
Half an hour later, she looked more like Lady Gaga than Belle French. She used all of the products the way they were supposed to be used: cover stick, liquid foundation, blush, powder, eye brow pencil, false eye lashes, two eye shadows, eye liner, mascara, lipstick, lip liner…All she needed was a red plastic nose and she would be Bozo the Clown. It weighed heavy on her skin, like a mask.
Perhaps it's not so bad. She scrunched her nose at the reflection in the mirror. After all, she never wore makeup before. Of course it would look funny on her.
Belle exited the bathroom and found her father in the kitchen, frying eggs on the stove. "Ta da!" she exclaimed.
Papa swung around and dropped the pan on the burner. "Whoa." He gaped at her.
"I look stupid." Her shoulders fell. "I'm ugly-"
"No, you're not ugly." He advanced to her and brushed his thumb against her cheek. A residue was left on his the pad of his finger. Wiping it on the towel draped over his shoulder, he shook his head. "You just…putting all of that on at once, it's like war paint."
"I tried to copy the model in the magazine." She explained, feeling as though she could cry. This wasn't working; she'd never find someone to love.
"Models aren't real people, pumpkin." Returning to the stove, he put an egg on each of their plates, added slices of toast, and laid the plates on the table. Motioning her to the table, they sat down. "They don't eat and they inject poisons into their skin."
"This was a bad idea." Belle jabbed at her eggs, until she busted the yellow domes in the center.
"No, you just need some help. Someone who knows how to do these things." He held up his index finger. "Gold."
"Gold what?"
"Gold, our landlord." Papa said. He took a bite of his egg, winced, and added more than a pinch of salt. "Keep this under your hat, but I think he's gay."
"So?" Belle swallowed.
She didn't know Gold well. He was their landlord and though quite reserved, he was cordial. Folks whispered, muttering unkind things about him. Apparently he was hard-hearted, cruel, and unmerciful. He never went back on a deal. Gold was known to make grown men cry. With his cool demeanor, sporting his three-pieced suits, he considered himself a cut above the company.
It was a difficult image to reconcile to the man who dropped in at the flower shop once a month and listened to her babble about books and useless facts. Gold was intriguing, a mystery that she'd love to uncover.
He was handsome. Polished, rarely a hair out of place. Except for when a breeze tussled his floof; of course, then his pixie ears were in view. Whenever he flashed her a smile, his gold tooth twinkled, and her stomach knotted.
She never got the impression he was gay though. For some reason, she found it disappointing that he was.
"So, they know these sorts of things. He worked in theater and he knows designers. He could help you with all of this." He pointed the prong of his fork in her direction.
Belle shook her head, protesting, "Papa, I barely know him. Besides, Mr. Gold doesn't freely help anyone." Though Gold had been kind to her, she doubted that he'd go out of his way to help her.
"Tell him that if he helps you, I will owe him a favor. That can be my birthday present to you." Papa smiled, proud of his idea.
"I'll think about it." Belle promised, privately deciding that if anyone were to be indebted to Gold, it would be her. After all, this was her business.
She wished she could think of someone else to go to, but she was terrible at making friends. And she would be embarrassed to approach a stranger.
Gold was it. There was no other option.