Chapter 2

That was Then

Rumson Stiltskin wakes from a drunken stupor to find that he's hired an effervescent maid who's begun to clean his large loft apartment and has provided him a superior hangover cure.

He has since left for an appointment accompanied by his stylish business manager.

Belle was now alone in the sumptuous apartment.

It had been a taxing day and she sat down trying to relax and regroup. Her life was in disarray and she had been clutching at straws and grasping at threads for way too long. She'd watched her father spiral down after the death of her mother. He'd just seemed to lose interest in everything - everything except drinking. Belle had struggled to manage the household while finishing high school and working a part-time job as a waitress in a diner owned by her best friend's grandmother. She had, through grit and luck, managed to make it through three-years of her four-year library science program at UNC but then her father had had his first heart attack.

She'd had to quit college to take care of him and manage what was left of his florist's business. It was not going well. The shop had deteriorated into a state of genteel shabbiness. She did the best she could – the business end of things was easy for her but she recognized that she did not have the artistic flair needed for the business. Oh, she was able to stuff a box with a dozen roses but putting together a special bouquet for someone's anniversary was not an easy thing for her. Things always came out lopsided and her color combinations, while they worked well in her head, did not always look the most attractive. Her dad had recovered enough that he was beginning to be able to pick back up on a few of these tasks, but things were still not going well.

In fact, things were coming apart.

Yesterday, she had been terrified that they would lose their lease because they could not make rent and, if that happened, their meager income would be gone. She had been concerned that they would be out on the street.

But now her father had brokered this odd deal. And it just might actually work for them. If Stiltskin would come through and pay her, they could have some extra money that they would save from their reduced rent and her salary. She might, maybe, just maybe, be able to save enough to go back to college next term and finish her degree.

Oh, she had been concerned last night when the man had taken her by the elbow and ushered her up to his penthouse, top floor loft apartment in the building he owned. He hadn't spoken she assumed he was too drunk and more focused on keeping upright than communicating. She'd been half concerned that he would try something but he'd simply pushed her into the little backroom and shut her in.

She had ventured out early the next morning and found herself in a dark and deathly silent apartment. She poked around, exploring things. The place was a mess, a tangled, dirty, possibly dangerous, mess. It was piled with trash, artist's tools, half-finished canvases, random paperwork (including bills), clothing that had been dropped, fast-food wrappers (with and without food), half-filled drinking glasses, it went on and on. It looked as if no one had picked up anything to throw it out or put it away in . . . well, forever. She found herself watching where she stepped since she wasn't always able to see floor or carpet beneath her feet.

She checked on her employer and, after knocking and not getting a response, she hesitated. She then entered his bedroom to find the brilliant reprobate passed out on his bathroom floor. She had managed, with considerable effort, to get him to come to enough to get him into his bed, walking under his shoulder to provide him the support the cane usually gave to him. There she had partially undressed him, pulling off his shoes and socks, removing the shirt and the clearly pricey suit pants. She had covered him up with a light blanket and then checked on him off and on until he came to enough for her Cure.

Meanwhile, she had begun the daunting task of beginning to clean the place up. She had tackled the mounds of trash first, then the mountains of laundry. She then began to really clean some surfaces, focusing on the kitchen counter tops and the kitchen floor. Finished with these, she took a deep breath and tackled the fridge. It was full of old take-away containers, most with very questionable food still inside paper or foam packaging. She did find some tired carrots in the crisper why ever had the man bought carrots? Was there some alcoholic cocktail that used carrots as a garnish? There was also some lime juice, tomato juice and hot sauce. And some sad wrinkled potatoes and pitiable dried-out onions were set in a basket nearby. She searched the cupboards and the only other thing to eat she could find were some crackers. There was a lot to drink, but everything was either coffee or some form of alcohol – everything from beer to wine to hard liquor. She shook her head, checked on her charge and scurried downstairs to get her special hangover cure ingredients.

She'd handled drunks before. Her father struggled and some of her boyfriends had been known to indulge, so she wasn't in over her head. She knew they were addicts or wanna-be addicts. She also knew they were liars. They responded best to a firm, loving hand, much like working with a strong-willed two-year-old.

But this man was different, certainly different from her father, who was dealing with depression, and quite different from August The Writer, her last brief boyfriend, who was dealing with being an asshole. This man was brilliant. He was gifted, talented, an extraordinary individual. At the moment, he was known primarily as a painter, but he had worked as a musician when he was younger (with musical scores in no less than three successful Broadway plays), had several bestselling books and somewhere, early on in his life, he'd found the time to garner a law degree.

But he also was known for abysmal personal relationships, including one failed marriage and one well publicized affair with a woman who'd thrown him over for a richer guy. The woods were full of rumors regarding his sexual activities, but doing his laundry had made her question this gossip.

She'd found not the first shred of ladies' apparel – no forgotten t-shirts, bras, undies, socks, no anything. There was absolutely nothing suggesting that any woman had ever stayed the night – no toothbrushes, no Lady Suave deodorant, no feminine products. Maybe, he was one of those men who always stayed over at the woman's apartment. She also considered that he might be a closet gay – but why would an artist in Asheville bother to keep such thing a secret? Gay artists were a dime a dozen. Why would he have not come out by now if he were gay? Besides, she'd caught him looking at her legs when she was on the ladder to get the Kahlua and checking out her ass when she'd bent over to get the clothes out of the dryer.

Pretty sure he wasn't gay.

Even so, she had not found anything suggestive of condom usage when gathering up his trash (and there were no little foil packets in his pockets when she'd gone through them prior to tossing his jeans into the wash) which should have been there if he were sexually active with either gender (unless he was blithely stupid about STDs).

No, she thought, he was just a train wreck when it came to relationships, a lot of reputation for sexual antics, but nothing that backed it up – all hat and no cowboy from what she could tell.

She yawned. It had been a very busy day.

Well, he'd said he'd be late and not to wait up for him, so she went back down to her father's place. She made sure he'd had some supper and helped him to bed. For herself, she gathered up a few necessities and grabbed a shower (she was not going to use Mr. Stiltskin's facilities until she'd had a chance to thoroughly shrub them down). Back upstairs, she settled down on the hard little sofa that was in her bedroom and made a list of things she wanted to do around his apartment tomorrow (she'd need to talk him into funding a grocery trip – there was almost nothing to eat in the place). Yawning again, she settled into sleep, planning on getting up bright and early in the morning.

The Manager

"Who is she?" Regina had asked him before they had hit the street to get to her car.

"Who?"

"Who else? The little 'maid.'" Regina made air bunnies as she said 'maid.'

"She's my maid," he insisted. Responding to Regina's disbelieving look he expanded, "I'm not boinking her. She's probably only . . . what? Sixteen?"

Regina laughed, "Oooh nooo. That girl is very legal. I'd guess in her early twenties. How'd you come by her?"

"Uhhhh, I just . . . her father owed me some money," Gold began.

"Oh shit, he didn't pimp her out to you, did he?" Regina asked.

"No, of course not!" he told her. "I just made a deal to lower his rent if she'd come to work for me," At least I think that's what I did.

"And her duties are . . . ?" Regina pressed him.

"What?! Keeping the place clean! What do you think?"

"I thought perhaps she was required to attend to the needs of the master, all of his needs," Regina was clearly enjoying herself. She sighed, "And for a moment, I thought you had come to your senses and ditched my psychotic sister."

"As far as your crazy sister goes, I promise you, I am being the worst boyfriend I know how. I never call her, I blow off dates, I'm seen in public fondling other women. Hell, I'd fondle you if I didn't think she'd suggest a threesome. I can't imagine why she puts up with me. We're not even having sex. I keep telling her that using my sexual energy interferes with my creative juices."

"And she's buying that?" Regina asked him.

"Ask her. She's still sniffing around. I can't seem to get rid of her."

"I tried to warn you. She's obsessed stalker crazy," Regina cautioned him.

"Well, you were right . . . for once, for a change."

"I've seen this with you before. Listen Rum," Regina got serious, "you know my theory about this. Every time you get stressed out your creativity just dries up. And women seem to be major stressors for you."

"I know you say that, but I don't know if that's really true," he protested.

"Oh yeah. Shall I count the ways? Or more precisely. Shall I count the women – all the stressfulwomen who have been in your life?" she cornered him.

"Oh, good grief! You talk like I have a constant stream of women coming in and out, all taking advantage of my . . . personal services. There have just been . . . uh, what? . . . uh. . . my wife . . . then your mother. . . . and . . . and now your sister."

"Really? I've seen how women throw themselves at you - certainly at least of few of them must have landed on your penis. And don't give me this 'little ole' innocent farm boy' routine. You bat those big brown eyes and women – and men, both fall over themselves. Hell, I think you would have had me if you hadn't thought I might be your daughter," Regina finished up.

"Oh, I . . . I . . . I don't know about that," he nearly sputtered his denial.

"Perhaps. But I know your history. During great chunks of your times with your wife and then with my mother, you didn't produce dick. And with my toxic sister on the scene, you haven't produced anything of note in the past nine months."

He considered. When he'd met Milah, he'd fallen madly in love with her. She was all sultry Spanish guitar and she tasted like Turkish coffee. He was deep into his first career at that time, very young and very hot, having already written two successful Broadway plays, both of them upbeat, modern musicals, and Milah would have been happy if he had stayed on the music-writing career. But he had suddenly tired of New York. He wanted – he needed – something different. There had been conflict with Milah and, even if he had wanted to keep writing music, there were no ideas and he didn't produce anything.

This was not what she had signed on for and she had begun to see others, discreetly at first but then her indiscretions were more flagrant. When he had caught her in flagrante with a particular director (whom he'd always thought was an idiot) the marriage had ended. Following the divorce, he went into a deep funk . . . well, more likely it was a clinical depression. It was only his infant son that kept him going.

He'd moved to North Carolina during that time, hoping to clear his mind and begin fresh. He briefly worked as an attorney, but then, the painting urge hit him and when his day job working for the District Attorney's office began to interfere with his increasingly lucrative hobby, he quit the day job. His third career, as an artist, took off. He quickly became known for his earthy interpretations of idyllic landscapes and nowadays that time in his life was known as his Peasant Period. It had been a period of serious productivity.

Then he'd met Cora and had fallen madly in love again. She was all the smooth saxophone and the taste of spiced rum. He began a series of portraits of her, ranging from the benign to the erotic. It had been worthy of any Renaissance portrait artist and had garnered him an entirely new avenue of commissions. But he struggled to complete anything, his flaming affair with Cora interfering with his work. Only after she had dropped him for a rich industrialist did he begin to paint in earnest again. His work from this period was considered his best - gloomy interpretations of landscapes and deep, sensitive portraits of people. This had been dubbed his Dark Period.

Now he was seeing Zelena – or perhaps he should say, she was seeing him. She was Cora's oldest child, born before his liaison with Cora. She was tall and svelte and gorgeous, but also selfish, vindictive and spiteful. Her notes were loud and sharp, like a off-key coronet and she tasted green. He wasn't sure exactly how he had started seeing her but he was in deep with her now. He almost felt like she had some sort of hold over him – anyone else he would have just dumped and moved on. But Zelena didn't dump – she just ignored his attempts at breaking things off, attributing these efforts to his artistic temperament. He was still being productive, but hardly producing anything inspiring.

Maybe he should call this his Squat Period.

So - maybe Regina had a point – Regina who smelled like apples and sounded like gypsy guitar music. Women were less an inspiration for him and more of a distraction.

He shook himself. How did he get to this moment of introspection? He had been talking about his new maid.

"Whatever," he told Regina exasperated. "She's just the help."

The Next Day

Belle stretched after a refreshing night's sleep and rolled over to check the time. Seven o'clock. Time to get up. She went into the spare bathroom and washed her face and dressed: lightweight leggings with lace cuffs, a lacy tank top, a lacy slip, a pretty little girl style pink flowered dress and a large, serviceable apron made of soft blue linen that covered her while allowing her dress and slip to peek out. She added some ankle socks with lacy trim and some round-toed clogs.

She reviewed her chore list for the day. Bathrooms, groceries and drycleaners, no particular order.

She'd check on her employer first, just to be sure he hadn't passed out in the bathroom again. She peeked into his bedroom. With some relief, she saw he was alone. And he was in the bed, splayed out face down on his bed, still in his dress clothes. She shrugged and went on in, initially to be sure he was still breathing and not lying in his own puke and then to remove the man's shoes and socks. He whimpered and pulled his feet up, curling up on the bed.

"Poor thing. Looks like you'll be needing my hangover cure again," she murmured to herself. She'd have to check in on him throughout the morning.

She went on into the kitchen and began her inventory of groceries on hand. Little in the way of real food amid the booze and the K-cups. She also made a list of cleaning supplies that she would needing. This didn't take long. Going into his bedroom to check on him several times, she also began gathering up his dry cleaning. Nice clothes. Seems to have a preference for Armani. There was also Gucci, Ralph Lauren and Burberry, among other high-end names.

There was also an abundance of torn blue jeans and plain tee-shirt tops.

At ten o'clock he was still sleeping soundly, so she stealthily crept into his bathroom to begin the grimy task of cleaning this room. After surveying the depth of goo, she opted to strip off her top three layers so she was left in her leggings and a skimpy lacy tank top to begin the distasteful task of cleaning his shower and his bathtub. She recognized that she would need to get into the offending areas, climbing into the tub and standing in the shower. She also quickly realized that she could easily splash some of her bleach-infused cleaner on her clothes, so, after a moment of hesitation, she removed her leggings, ending up working in only her panties and the tank top. She finished up the tub and then started on the shower.

She was intent on scrubbing down the shower stall, spraying the area, then scrubbing things down again. She would then turn on the spray to rinse the stall off. Unsatisfied with her first efforts, she began again, soaking herself in the process. She stepped out of the stall after the final rinse and turned around to find herself face to face with . . .

"Mr. Stiltskin!" Abruptly aware of her attire, her near transparent, clinging wet attire, she stood frozen.

"Miss French," he greeted her - unable to look away. Such a pert little figure, little left to the imagination. Who would have suspected to find this treasure under all those layers of clothing? He finally gathered himself together to hand her a towel which she snatched from him and gratefully wrapped around herself.

"I'm . . . I'm sorry, sir. I was . . . uh . . . I was just cleaning your shower stall. It was pretty grimy and I had to get in it and I . . .

"Miss French, I comprehend the situation," he told her.

"I thought you were still asleep and wouldn't be up for a while or I wouldn't have come in . . ."

"I understand," he reassured her.

"I hope I didn't wake you up," she said, her face still flushed with her embarrassment.

"No, my bladder woke me up," he told her.

She stood still a moment before grasping the situation. "Ooooh, of course. I'll just step out and leave you to . . . to take care of things. Sorry sir," she grabbed her clothes, ducked by him and ran out of the room.

Belle ran to the living room to redress herself. How could she face the man again? She'd been all but naked with her dampened panties and wet lace top! She was trembling and thought it likely she had blushed all over her body. She stood a moment waiting for embarrassment to actually kill her, for the ground to open up and swallow her. Maybe she should just gather up her things and leave.

In the bathroom, once he'd relieved himself, Rumple staggered back to his bed with a delightful memory to savor. Not a teenager, her body was too ripe. A very attractive, well put-together young woman. Lovely plump nipples and the lush curves he preferred. Who would have thought there was all that lusciousness underneath all of those clothes?

He certainly hoped she had not skedaddled in mortification. At the moment, seduction was the farthest thing from his mind. No, at the moment, he wanted nothing more from her than some more of her fantastic hangover cure and, he hoped, another head and foot massage.

"Miss French!" he called out wincing against the pain that went like a hot nail through his skull. He nearly vomited.

He didn't hear anything back right away and was gathering his grit to call out again, when, "Yes sir?" And she ducked her head timidly into his bedroom.

"That hangover cure you gave me yesterday. Would you be able to give me a second dose, please?" he asked as nicely as he could.

"Yes . . . yes sir."

It took just a few moments before she was back. He had stripped off his tie, his suit (jacket, vest and pants) and dress shirt dropping them on the floor in a heap. He was down to his undershirt and boxers. She had re-dressed herself, layers and layers and layers of lace and linen – all vanilla and sweet roses, he thought. Now she was carrying the glass of thick red liquid and the familiar slice of honeyed toast. He swilled down 'The Cure' and took three bites out of the toast.

"And if it wouldn't be too much trouble, the little massage you gave me yesterday was marvelous." He was making an effort to be charming.

"Oh, yes sir," she was blushing. "I'll have to get my Tiger Balm. I'll be right back."

And again, she disappeared but soon enough, she returned. She hesitated but climbed on to his bed and kneeling behind him, began working her magic fingers across his forehead and temple.

"This is fantastic, dearie," he complimented her. "It's almost worth getting hammered for."

She continued working along his scalp and down his neck.

"Listen, I've got an appointment coming in at three. Can you get me up, say around two-thirty?"

"Of course, sir," she told him, now working on his shoulders.

"I probably won't be very pleasant about it," he warned her.

"I'll screw myself up to the sticking point, sir," she assured him.

NEXT: Rumple works with a client. Later a friend drop by. Belle fields a couple of phone calls.

Thanks to those reviewers who found the time to read and comment in this busy season: Wondermorena, Grace5231973, Erick'sTrueAngel, jewel415(guest) and

Selasalexa (guest): thank you. The woman was indeed Regina.