"'Cause all of me
Loves all of you
Love your curves and all your edges
All your perfect imperfections
Give your all to me
I'll give my all to you
You're my end and my beginning
Even when I lose I'm winning
'Cause I give you all of me
And you give me all of you."
All of Me – John Legend

Thank the Lord it wasn't bathing suit weather.

Belle French scowled down at the beach from the boardwalk, cradling a container of pasta salad. She was running late for Henry's birthday clambake, and if there was one thing Belle hated, it was making an entrance. People looking at her, watching her, judging her.

Slinging her bowl under one arm, she smoothed her free hand over her Kelly green sundress and peeked down anxiously at her red sandals. She'd already double-checked her lipstick in the car mirror. Stalling, Belle. You're already late, remember?

At least she could feel confident in her potluck offering—she was a pitiful cook, but Marco? His pasta creations would make angels sing.

In spite of being hurried—and a flushed face and the sweat that poured down her back to settle into her ample folds—she had to admit that the lush beauty of the September afternoon was perfect for a celebration.

The early evening sky was a brilliant blue, and the slight sharpness of the breeze heralded autumn's imminent arrival. A family of dolphins hurtled through the waves, water glistening on their sleek backs. Carried along by the pungent, tangy air, the aroma of sizzling seafood wafted in her direction. Her traitorous stomach growled, ruining her pleasure in the moment. Should have eaten before you came, Belle.

Standing overlong in the buffet line wouldn't help her reputation.

Look at them all down there, she thought, watching guests cluster around the hors d'oeuvres table and settle into lounge chairs to munch on chips and clam dip under a large, striped tent. Everyone was smiling, chatting, eating.

Belonging.

Henry's parents glowed with pride, catching the birthday boy's infectious grins, while his young friends pranced up and down the beach, hooting and hollering as they launched kites into the coastal wind.

It was as though she'd crashed into a Norman Rockwell painting. All that was missing were the bathing-suited beauties kicking their feet in the tide.

Even Sean, her former fiancé, was one of them. Beer in hand, he leaned down to whisper into the delicate shell of her replacement's ear. Ashley Boyd—leggy and blonde and beautiful by anyone's standards—screeched a laugh at whatever moronic thing Sean had said, and Belle cringed when he joined in with his own trademark guffaw.

Then they glanced back toward the boardwalk, turning their laughing eyes in her direction.

Belle froze. Had she been the punch line, the reason for their laughter? Heat flooded her cheeks, and she huddled deeper inside her cardigan and clutched the pasta bowl like a shield.

How on earth had she allowed Marco to convince her that this was a good idea?

"I don't want to go to the clambake," she announced.

"Bella, please." Marco sniffled and set a platter heaping with linguine and vodka clam sauce on the marble counter. "It will be good for you to see your friends."

Marco Strusievici was chef and owner of an Italian restaurant, but his home kitchen was where he and Belle talked and explored new recipes. As far as cooking was concerned, she wasn't suitable for much more than boiling water and jotting down notes for Marco, but she was an excellent taste-tester.

"You won't be there." Belle pouted, ignoring the steaming plate of goodness, and passed him the box of tissues at her elbow. Didn't he know? He was her friend. Her only friend, and she relied on him as a pass for situations exactly like this one. She rallied hopefully: "Wouldn't you rather I stay here, keep you company? Heat up some of your homemade stracciatella?"

"I can manage a small cold on my own," he said, wagging a wooden spoon at her. "A young bee needs young flowers. Don't waste away microwaving soup and brewing tea for an old-timer like me, cara mia. Go out! Spend time with people your own age."

"People my age are shallow," Belle said, fishing two forks out of the silverware drawer. Only children and old people looked past appearances. The outer package, no matter how large, didn't matter—they saw the heart within. Belle brushed a kiss across his whiskered cheek, warm with fever. "Besides, I like spending time with you."

"You know I love you like a daughter, Bella, and that's why I want to see you experience a full life," he said. "But if you won't go for yourself, do it for little Henry."

Henry. There was no denying her weakness for the precocious five-year-old.

"Miss Belle, you have the softest lap. Can I cuddle with you and read a story?" he'd ask, bringing his chosen book to her special rocking chair in the children's section.

"Yes, of course, Henry. I would love that," she'd say. And it was true. Belle would drop anything to read to Henry—read Winnie the Pooh countless times—no matter what else was happening in the library.

The child would climb into her lap and recline against her belly, tucking his thumb into his mouth with a soft sigh. "Read," he'd say, removing his chubby thumb long enough to blurt the order.

"Fine," Belle told Marco. "I'll go on one condition: you go back to bed. You look peaked."

"Deal," he said, punctuating the word with a sneeze.

"But bribing the fat girl with a vat of linguine?" Belle shook a teasing finger at him. "That's a low blow."

"You're beautiful," Marco admonished, shaking his head. "Perfect just the way you are. That's why I call you Bella. And the sooner you accept how special you are, the sooner everyone else will realize it, too."

Beautiful? She didn't feel beautiful. Staring down at tall, thin, perfect Emma Cassidy laughing in the sand with her throng of tall, thin, perfect girlfriends made her feel like a beached whale, or the elephant in the room, or some other terrible euphemism for things that were large and unwelcome and completely out of place.

Perhaps she'd simply drop off Henry's present on the overflowing gift table and make her excuses. Henry's present. She'd forgotten the large gift bag brimming with books in the car. There's always the library, she reasoned. No better place to give the gift of reading. Maybe she could give the little guy his present next time he came in.

But darling Henry was skipping from guest to guest, that brilliant smile still tattooed across his face, and Belle felt the corners of her own mouth creep upward.

No, she needed to stay. At least put in an appearance. Drawing a deep, cleansing breath and whispering a prayer into the breeze, she stepped off the boardwalk and into the sand.


Emma and Neal Cassidy squatted down in the sand and poked at the steaming seaweed. "Lobster's almost done," Neal said.

Emma nodded. "These clams are popping open, too."

"Babe, who's that?" Neal asked, nudging her.

"Who?" Emma looked up from the clambake pit.

"That lady over there," he inclined his head toward the punchbowl. "Long brown hair, nursing an iced tea, wearing a sweater when it's 75 degrees?"

"You don't know her?" Emma asked, surprised. "That's Belle French. Keeps to herself mostly, but Henry adores her. I haven't talked to her much, but there's something about her…she's engaging. Anyway, she was one of the three people Henry insisted on inviting to the party—Belle, Pongo, and Violet from school." She checked the names off on her fingers and laughed. "The rest of us don't even need to be here."

Neal chuckled. "Belle, huh?"

"Yeah, Henry begs to go to the library every day for her story hour," she said. "Usually, I let your dad take him once or twice a week. Gives me a break and it's good grandpa bonding time."

"Ah, that's why I don't know who she is." Neal scratched his head. "The library. I don't really go there."

Emma's eyes widened. "You've never been to the Storybrooke Community Library."

He shrugged. "I grew up in Boston, remember? Besides, I'm not much of a reader outside the can. Distracts me from looking at you."

"Hilarious. Also gross." She grinned at his mock leer, squeezing his thigh as she leaned over to peck him on the lips. "Honey, it looks like Belle's on her own tonight. I'm gonna ask her to sit with us, ok?"

"Any friend of Henry's." Neal rose, brushing sand off his knees. "Where is Dad, anyway? Finishing a story?"

Emma shook her head. "Finishing a surprise. For Henry. He called to say he's running a bit late. I told him it can wait until after the party, but you know your father."

"Yeah." Neal grinned at her, then cupped his hands around his mouth like a megaphone. "Lobsters are hot, everyone! Come and get it!"


Gold couldn't believe his good fortune.

Henry's presents had been opened, the enormous chocolate cake consumed, and Belle French was seated cross-legged before the bonfire in the waning evening light.

The place beside her was empty.

Cloaked by the darkening sky, he stood in the shadows and looked his fill. The firelight cast a blazing halo around Belle's head, making her even more beautiful than in the daytime, if that were humanly possible. Shadows danced across her creamy skin and the flames painted auburn streaks through her dark curls. His palms itched to feel those fiery locks flowing between his fingers.

Her cobalt eyes stared unseeing into the flames, and he wondered what she was thinking about. Then she lifted her chin and caught his eye—a shy, fleeting glance—and trained her gaze on the fire once more.

Gold's throat felt like it was coated with sand, and he gulped. He moved to rake his hand through his shoulder-length hair, and as his fingers glided over his shorn locks, he remembered. He'd visited the barber earlier this week and asked Anton to give him a crew cut. First short haircut in fifteen years. It'd been time for a change.

Dinner was already underway when he arrived tonight, and he was brought up short by the sight of Belle cracking lobsters with his family. As was typical, most of the partygoers gave Gold a wide berth, but he was always welcome with his son and daughter-in-law. Neal motioned him over to their table, and Gold straddled the picnic bench across from Belle. She was buffered by Emma on one side and Henry on the other, their constant chatter allowing him to lean back and study Belle.

As the others laughed and talked, Gold's brain teemed with questions. Was Belle feeling well? Might she consider meeting him for tea or coffee sometime? And why she had barely eaten a single bite? While others had sucked down the shellfish bounty with gusto, Belle had done little more than nibble on a steamed clam and chase two small red potatoes around her plate.

For months now, he'd been working up the nerve to approach her during one of his library dates with Henry. On occasion she would catch his gaze while reading a tale in her husky, melodic voice—sometimes to a group of kids and sometimes only for Henry. And there he'd stand, transfixed, looking back until she returned her attention to her story and her young charges.

How many times had he strolled up to checkout counter, books in hand, determined to strike up a conversation? But words and courage always failed him, and with Henry at his side to fill the silence, Gold did little more than nod and smile like a bobblehead as he shoved a pile of books at her. He was a master of words; a man who loved a good turn of phrase, but Belle French reduced him to a babbling idiot.

Propped up by her elbows, she leaned back on the blanket and closed her eyes. Somehow he knew he was witnessing a rare, unguarded moment and he smiled as she flexed her dimpled ankles and wiggled her toes.

Loathe to disturb her peace, he circled the fire and wiped damp hands on his denim-clad thighs. He'd have been much more comfortable approaching Belle in his Armani pinstripe and one of his silk ties, but no one wears a suit to a clambake and bonfire—that would be preposterous, even for him.

Get a grip, Gold, he told himself, his stomach flipping over as the shoulder of her sweater slipped down, revealing a bit of plump, white flesh.

No. There was no way he would let this opportunity to be almost alone with Belle pass him by. You're a newspaperman, Gold. Talking to people is what you do. You just need a way in.

Sean Herman walked by, kicking a foot full of sand onto Belle's blanket, and her eyes snapped open. Gold grit his teeth as she shrank back. It was the push he needed to take action.

"Good evening, Miss French." He stabbed the ground with his cane and lowered himself to the blanket beside her. He brushed sand off the edge of the fleece. "Having a good time?"

"Hello again, Mr. Gold," she said primly. "Yes, of course. Henry is one of my favorite people."

"How diplomatic," he teased, stretching his bad leg in front of him to rub his knee. "That's code for 'I'm here out of obligation.'"

She opened her mouth, likely to protest, but he held up a hand. "I simply say the things people are thinking."

"Is that what makes you such a good reporter?" Her eyes flashed with a hint of something. Amusement? Annoyance? She'd shown none of that spark at dinner earlier this evening. This response was most unexpected from the quiet librarian.

"Indeed." He coughed. "Speaking of which, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. It's time The Storybrooke Mirror wrote a feature on the library."

Belle's face came to life at the mention of books, and she sent him a brilliant smile that made his heart gallop in his chest.

"Really?" she asked. "That would be amazing! I'm trying to raise money to supplement our Classical Literature section."

Gold returned the smile, enchanted by her excitement.

Lost in discussing her greatest passion, Belle rambled on about her plans for creating a writer's workshop, expanding their collection, and doubling the size of the children's library. She hadn't intended to stay for the bonfire, but Marco was still sick in bed and a night beneath the stars sure beat going home to be grilled by her stepmother, Edith.

So she continued talking.

"… and yeah, I think a story on the library is exactly what we need to build awareness." She drew a deep breath, suddenly aware that Mr. Gold's attention was focused a bit lower than her eyes, and the heat of embarrassment crept up her neck. Already she had bored him with her silly talk of books and library funding.

Nice going, Belle.

"This is fantastic, Bel-, er, Miss French." His warm brown eyes crinkled at the corners. "I must admit, most people don't care for the stories I write about them. That was the fastest I've ever been granted an interview."

"What?" Belle stiffened. When had she agreed to an interview?

"They don't call me the Town Monster for nothing, dearie." Gold's grin was white and wolfish in the darkness. "How about Thursday?"

"Um, sure," she said. As sole reporter and publisher of Storybrooke's only paper, Mr. Gold was infamous for exposing the truth about people. Yet her beloved library had nothing to hide. As long as the interview and the article focused on the library, not the librarian, there was no cause for concern. Right?

A heavy silence settled between them, and Belle stared into the dying fire. Nothing a pint or three of Mint Fudge Ripple couldn't cure. Belle took mental inventory of the freezer contents; she'd throw in some brownies stuffed with cookie dough for good measure. Too nervous to eat in the company of Emma and her family, she'd picked at her dinner, and now her stomach growled angrily in protest.

"I noticed you didn't eat much," Gold said as if reading her thoughts. "Do you not care for shellfish?"

"Oh, I wasn't really hungry," Belle lied. She tugged her sweater tighter around her shoulders.

"Hey, it looks like the party is winding down." He nodded across the fire to where Henry had fallen asleep on Neal's shoulder. Almost everyone else had left already.

"Yes, I should be getting home, too," Belle said, rising to her knees.

"Wait," Gold said, using his cane as leverage to jump to his feet. He stretched out a hand, meeting her eyes with a small smile. Reluctantly, she accepted his assistance, being careful to bear most of her weight. She released his warm palm like it had been branded in the fire, and bent down to shake the sand out of her blanket.

"May I drive you home?" he asked.

"No!" she said, dropping the blanket in surprise. "I mean, no, thank you." Gold moved to pick it up, but she snatched the plaid fleece out of the sand and shook it once more. "I have my car. I don't want to leave it at the beach. I need it to get to work…" Rambling again, Belle.

"All right," he said, glancing at the ground. "I'll see you Thursday at the library, then? For the interview."

"Thursday." She nodded, then turned around and stomped toward the boardwalk. Only four days away.

Belle was all the way to her car and firing up the ignition before she wondered: had Gold's face flashed with disappointment when she turned him down, or had she only imagined it?

###