A/N: Something a little bit different, short and sweet, just two parts. AU Storybrooke from a prompt: "It rained the day of the funeral, as it should." Hope you all enjoy, and feel free to R&R if you'd like!
This day had been long coming. There was no denying it, she thought as she stood with her black umbrella shielding her from the onslaught of raindrops the size of pebbles. It always seemed to rain at funerals, she thought sadly.
Looking at the front of the Church, Isabelle froze at the bottom step. If she climbed up, it became real. She just had to stand for a minute, suspended from this place as she stared at the foreboding façade. The past six months flooded her memory in full force, an all encompassing blow to her senses.
Issy had seen the change sooner than anyone else had. She knew him far too well to be fooled. It had all started with the bags under his eyes and the slope of his shoulders. Then, there the afternoons off from the flower shop and he started to shed weight, slowly at first. There were other signs, tired eyes, lack of appetite.
"How are you feeling, Dad?" She'd asked every morning as she set out breakfast.
The reply was always the same, "Never better, darling." Then he'd press a kiss to her temple, squeeze her shoulder, and sit down at the table, waiting for her to join him. They pretended nothing was going on, and then go about the day, facing it without her help or support from the other.
She made his favorite dinners more and more often, meat and potatoes, the heartiest stuff she could manage, and at first, it was like nothing changed. But, as the weeks wore on, he started to pick at it like a bird –green up to his eyes, despite the way he smiled and reassured her it was delicious. Issy always had a mostly full plate to clear off before he trudged to bed, the once proud man crooked with pain.
One early morning, she woke up to find him standing in the bathroom over the sink, once powerful hands gripping the porcelain round, his head hanging down. She sucked in a sharp breath, seeing his graying hair all over the sink and his electric razor sitting in the part of the sink usually reserved for soap. "Dad?" she asked tentatively, leaning against the door frame.
He turned his face slowly; she could see the forced smile on his face, and Issy's heart clenched. "Did I wake you up, Issy? I'm sorry."
Issy put her hand to her chest and shook her head. "No, no. I was going to make breakfast." She didn't want to distress him, he already looked distressed. "Do you need help cleaning up?"
Her dad shook his head, pushing himself up straight, avoiding eye contact. "No, no. It's fine. You go make breakfast," he smiled at her, but it was hollow. Issy returned the expression.
She started to walk away, but stopped, leaning back and looking through the doorway again. "By the way, Dad," she waited until she had his attention from scooping bits of hair out of the sink, "I like the new look. Very handsome," she assured him, and no response was necessary. The subtle shake in his shoulders told her it was time to walk away, and she silently moved away from the door way, hearing a harsh, broken sob ring in the echoing bathroom.
Issy's heart broke. He didn't want to tell her, and Issy didn't want to push him – it was no situation either wished to deal with. She decided she'd make the best breakfasts he ever had every morning from now on.
When they sat in the flower shop, they'd reminisce about how he taught her all about the different rose hybrids and how to properly monitor the nutrition in soil. Part of her thought he was testing her, making sure she knew, and she did, she was a good student. It put him at ease, somewhat, and Isabelle would do anything to give him peace of mind, including waxing on days past with nostalgic smiles and glimmering eyes.
"Do you remember," she mused on one such afternoon as she worked on a flower arrangement meant to be sent to Ruby – all red, white and powerful, strangely enough from Dr. Hopper. Issy was a florist though, not an analysis, and she couldn't figure out most people in town – this flower arrangement wasn't going to start her speculation, "the summer we spent almost every sunset on the beach, Dad?"
Seated behind the counter, head propped on his hand, Moe looked like he might fall asleep. His dull eyes seemed to return with a burst of light though, and his lips quirked into a smile, "It took you so long to get the hang of that kite," he started to laugh. Isabelle's grin faltered though, when he began to hack.
She bit her lip and shook her head. "You were very patient with me," she doted, plucking out one of the tulips and replacing it with a sprig of baby's breath, "even though you wanted to destroy the kite after three days." It was like it happened yesterday, he cursed at the kite every time the line got caught, and every night they left, he would swear he was going to get a new one the next day. They never did.
Seeing him smile made her heart swell, and Issy wrinkled her nose at him, "Well, I would have just thrown the thing away if you didn't give me that tantrum face" he grinned, truly teasing her for what felt like the first time in ages.
Issy laughed brightly, wrinkling her nose at him. "Tantrum face? I have never thrown a tantrum in my life," she giggled, stepping back from the vase to examine the work she already did, screwing her face in concentration. Something didn't seem right…
Her father raised his eyebrows at her, running his hand over the smooth expanse of his rounded head before tugging his hat back on. "You'd like think that, wouldn't you?" he smirked, leaning against the counter, looking at her like she was the most precious thing on the planet. "I was just lucky your mother stamped most of them out before…" As soon as the words left his mouth, they were both quiet. The air in the flower shop became heavy. It hit too close; even if he never told her, they both knew: both of her parents would die from different flavors of the same poison.
She started taking over more of the functions of the shop. All of the watering, pruning, making orders, taking orders, opening, and closing – it was on a rare occasion that he manned the register, and most of the time he didn't show up at all. His excuse was always "I'm just going for a walk." He couldn't even climb the stairs without getting short of breath. Issy forced smiles and helped him out, pretending she didn't see him getting in their beat up truck and head down the street toward the hospital.
Pretending used to be so easy, but once it wasn't about playtime and girlhood fantasies, every smile she sent her father's way seemed connected to her tear ducts, but she refused to cry. He was a fighter – they were fighters, and they could get through it. Maybe that was just another fantasy to play at, but she clung to it desperately all the same.
On an afternoon when her father went for his 'walk,' a stranger long unseen in Game of Thorns entered the shop. She was watering the lilies, some of her favorites amongst the stock when she heard the door swing open and then the ominous tap… tap… on the linoleum floor. "Miss French," her name rolled off his tongue and Issy turned, surprise etched one her face. His countenance was cool, and he gripped the handle of his cane with gloved hands, "I hope this is not a bad time."
She forced herself to stand tall and smooth her dirty hands on the gardening smock she always wore in the shop. "No, not at all," her voice was rough as gravel, hitched in her throat, but she cleared it with a cough, and licked her lips: she had to do this. "Can I help you, Mr. Gold?"
He stood stock still for a moment and Issy felt very exposed, the over-sized green watering can's weight making her hands and arms shake – at least that's what she told herself. When he started to speak again, he moved further into the shop, closer to her and her throat hitched. "Is your father in today?"
The way he asked informed her that he was very much aware of the fact her father was not indeed in the shop that day, but she bit her tongue, hoping that pleasantries would make him leave her in peace much faster. More flies with honey, and all that. "No – he went for a walk this afternoon." The euphemism was pathetic, but she hadn't spoken the words to anyone, not even to herself, and didn't imagine she would start with Mr. Gold.
"Of course," the words mulled in his mouth, the way one might imagine the cement does in a tumbler, and his fingers flexed around the gold handle of the cane. She felt a shiver down her spine, not entirely sure why, and he turned his gaze on her. She felt stricken by his gaze, so piercing, and Issy felt like she shrank under the intensity of it, looking like a child playing with her watering can, rather than the functioning owner of the business. "Do you know when he will return?"
Issy spoke before she even registered what she was saying. "I can handle it, Mr. Gold." Her voice didn't even shake as she said it, surprising not only herself, but obviously the man across from her in the very empty shop by the expression on his face.
"Alright," he said tentatively, and squared his shoulders. She found herself following the gentle roll back and over the tailored shoulder of his suit, and she gulped. This was business; she had no time to think ridiculous thoughts. "I came to collect the loan payment." Her eyes widened, unsure of what loan he was speaking of – there were so many piling up, and he sighed, "Two-hundred fifty, dearie."
Another tingle traveled down her spine, the way he said 'dearie' it was like lightening. Something ticked in the back of her mind, like it was familiar. She placed the watering can on the ground and moved to the register. "Just a second," she licked her lips and punched in the code for the drawer. She already knew what was going to greet her.
He inclined his head, nodding patiently, and Issy watched the draw pop out with a clang. It was everything in the store, all she had access to without getting in the account, and that was woefully empty – she knew that much. There was barely one hundred dollars in it, and she gulped, looking up. The look on Mr. Gold's face was not one of surprise – or amusement. "There's only… $115 here, Mr. Gold."
"Well, that will not do, Miss French." His voice was hard and unrelenting. Issy gulped, taking the money out of the drawer with a deep breath. "I'll be needing something to make up for the difference."
Issy looked down to the money in her hand hands, and didn't have to look any further. There was a plain band on her finger, thin gold wires woven together in an intricate, but solid pattern. It had been her mother's. "Could I… give you something until I have the money?" she asked cautiously – it sounded rather like a deal, and if there was one thing she knew, it was navigating a deal with this man was walking on a tightrope.
He raised his eyebrows at her, begging her to continue and Issy put the money down in the tray, fiddling with her ring until it came off. The pale spaces where the thin gold had been blocking the subtle tan on her skin. "I have this," she walked around the counter, holding the ring that once belonged to her mother up, "I'll leave it with you," she gulped, giving over something so precious was so hard, but she needed to do it. She couldn't make her father worry about this too, "until we get the money."
Gold plucked the ring from between her fingers and examined it momentarily. "This is a valuable little trinket, Miss French," he murmured, holding it in the palm of his hand. "Worth more than $250."
Issy nodded knowingly. "Can it give us a couple of months?" Of peace, of rest, without worry… They needed all of these things and more. Issy anticipated it would be the last time in a long time she would not have to worry about her debts.
The corner of his mouth ticked upward, a small shake of his head as he pocketed the gold band. "Dearie, the $250 was for only one of your father's…. substantial loans." He let the words sink in, and Issy's heart dropped, "with all debts combined? This will get you one month."
"Only one month?" she asked, barely believing it. What kind of debt was her father in? Wasn't that something she should know? "Mr. Gold…" her voice trailed off as she wrung her hands together, biting on her lip. "That's nothing."
"Nothing?" he raised his eyebrows. "A month is quite generous for a little gold token like this," he unclenched his hand around the ring, showing it to her again, as though she did not know what it was, and tucked it back in his pocket.
Issy crossed her arm under her chest, rubbing her temple. "My father," she started, "he's not well, Mr. Gold." It was the first time she had actually said it, under circumstances she hadn't expected. She thought maybe she would confide in Mary Margaret, maybe Granny, or even Emma Swan, but Mr. Gold? It seemed impossible. She ran her hand over her face and she heard Mr. Gold shift his weight from his good leg more onto his cane.
"And this concerns me because…?" he didn't understand, he couldn't possibly, and the way he asked that question, as if the answer wasn't blatantly obviously, Issy bristled.
Her hands fell to her sides, fists balled with aggravation. "It's not as though it's just a cold," Isabelle was so serious the space above and behind her eyes actually started to throb. "He's," she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She met his gaze and despite the throb in her head and the grumble of her stomach, she finally admitted it: "He's has a lot to deal with – I don't want this…" she gesticulated between them, "to make him worse."
"That's unfortunate," he said blandly. Issy knew there was no love lost between them, but it did not mean her cheeks didn't flare in anger at his flagrant disregard for her father's situation.
"That's all you have to say? It's unfortunate?" her voice lilted into a higher pitch, trying to reign in her anger and stop herself from punching him. She had to resolve that she would not punch a man who used a cane, even if he deserved it. "We've got medical bills, Mr. Gold, and your loans – our store and personal accounts are empty. I don't have anything else to give you."
He gave her a tight lipped smile, probably lamenting that there was no such thing as debtors' prison anymore, and he looked at her. "You'll inherit his debts, you know."
Issy nodded, knowingly. "I'm aware."
"It's a considerable sum, Miss French, and those medical bills, I'm sure, will not be paying themselves." If he had a knife lodged in her chest, he could not have twisted it farther. She was already six feet under, how much more could she take before they were absolutely ruined? She nodded, silently, in agreement. "How do you intend to get the… capital to manage?"
The question was forward, and Isabelle bit her lip. She had no idea. "Working here," she motioned around the flower shop that could really use a make-over, as sad in appearance as it was financially. "I guess I'll need a second job," she added with a shrug, "I'm not afraid of hard work."
Mr. Gold seemed to examine her more closely at this. He inclined his chin upward and glanced over her, from top to toe – causing Isabelle to stand just a little taller. "I think I've got just the job for you," he was calculated and deliberate. "Come by my shop, tomorrow," and he plucked a single red rose from the display, long stem still untrimmed, and brought it to his nose.
Isabelle regarded him suspiciously, but she couldn't turn down anything at this point. "Alright…" she said slowly, and he nodded at her, turning and placing the rose on the counter before he walked out without another word.
Isabelle did not know what she was doing, but it left her with a strange and unsettled feeling. If it was to give her Papa piece of mind though, she'd take care of everything.
