Dear Dad,
We're moving again. Mom says we're going to stay put for a while, but she says that every time. It's okay though. We've been to some pretty cool places. This time we're going to Maine, which I can't say I'm looking forward to. Boston was so cool, and I was going to ask Mom if I could join a hockey team. Maybe they'll have a good youth league wherever we're going. Either way, I'm going to watch every Bruins game I can on TV, since I can't see them in person anymore. I know you're not a sports guy, but Mom is.
Thanks for the map of Malaysia you sent with the last letter, by the way. I've added it to my scrap book with the others. Do you think you could send me one of South Africa if this letter reaches you in time? The coast line is only okay, but I'd love to add it to my collection.
Well, Mom's nearly finished with her phone call. She's been talking for over a half hour, but it looks like she's done. I'll write to you as soon as we get to Burgess/Burbank/wherever.
Love,
Henry
P.S. Mom's birthday just passed. Maybe you could send her some flowers?
Henry was writing again, Emma noticed as she slid a couple of quarters into the payphone. He had his favorite stationary set propped on the dashboard and a crisp piece of paper spread over the book in his lap. No doubt he was penning a letter to his Dad. He often did that on long car trips.
Emma sucked in a guilty breath through her teeth and dialed in the all too familiar number. With the phone tucked tightly between her shoulder and ear, she had both hands free to fiddle with Google maps. She only had three rings to trace a path to Storybrooke (15.7 miles east of her current location) before a husky, British-accented voice picked up.
"Robert Reilly, private investigator. How may I help you?"
"Hey Robert," she mocked gently as she turned her eyes to her son. "How's New York?"
"Skip the pleasantries, Emma," he laughed gruffly. "You suck at small talk."
She offered a hearty eye roll towards the heavens, realizing a moment later that he couldn't actually see it. "So Neal's out on the streets?"
Something shuffled in the background on the other end of the phone call. Papers, probably, if she remembered the perpetual mess cluttering Robert's desk.
"Apparently the Manhattan D.A. hated whoever he snitched on, enough that the ankle bracelet is gone. For now, at least. Neal's too much of a… rebel, to behave for long. Either way, he ditched that girlfriend of his, Tonya something, for a set of wheels and prepaid phone."
"It's Tamara," she corrected quietly, her brow furrowed as she watched Henry scratch furiously at his letter with the novelty pen he got from their last trip to Georgia. "They've been off and on again for years."
"Who cares? Knowing Neal, he's looking for you. You're his favorite toy."
A toy. Something to be played with and shelved once it lost its luster.
Shifting the phone from one shoulder to the other, Emma shook off her bad mood and turned back to her iPhone, scrolling through reviews of Storybrooke's restaurant scene. Decent burger joint (Granny's), but two fantastic donut shops and one gourmet bakery, specializing in vegan and organic shit.
"What should I do then?" she practically whined into the receiver.
"What you always do. Draw out lots of cash from your bank account, cut up your credit card and switch to a prepaid phone. Stop traveling as soon as you can. He's better at finding you when you're moving."
Emma went silent for a second or two, mulling over Robert's advice. Her eyes brushed back to Henry. The letter had been folded and stuffed into an envelope, and as soon as he finished writing the address (which he knew by heart), all he'd need was a stamp.
"Okay," she mumbled. "Okay."
"Now that's my girl. Take care of your boy."
My boy, she thought with a smile before remembering her manners.
"You do the same. And Robin? Say hi to Roland for me."
Robin. Not Robert. Robert was just a pseudonym to cover a seedy past.
A chair creaked over the call after a slight chuckle sounded her way, probably over the use of his real name, but they were close enough to cut the bullshit.
"He liked the book you sent him for his birthday."
That must've been his way of saying goodbye, because after that the call went dead. Robin protected his son just as fiercely as she protected hers. But the worst thing he ever did was giving out a false name. Walking back to the car, where Henry was licking a stamp, she knew that the things she did to save Henry from heartache were far worse than handing out a faulty business card.
"Wanna cupcake?" her son inquired politely as she slipped into the Bug. He pulled out the only Tupperware container she owned, now brown and sticky with frosting.
Slipping her key in the ignition, she grinned and poked his side. "What about bear claws?"
"I'm hungry now."
Most times she would've chuckled at his honesty, but as she turned the key, the Bug's engine gave a sputtering whine before buzzing to life. Underneath the noisy whir, she heard one of her belts flapping.
"Come on, baby. Don't give up on me now," she pleaded, bouncing up and down in her seat as she tapped the gas pedal, the brake pedal, hell, the floorboards if it helped. "You can't leave me."
The Bug had been dying for a while now, but like Rasputin, it just refused to kick the bucket. Sure, she was on her third transmission and who knows what timing belt, but goddamn it, she needed some proof that, once upon a time, Henry's father loved her the way she loved him.
"Sixteen more miles. That's all I'm asking." More bouncing. More pedal tapping. More mumbled prayers to a deity she wasn't sure she believed in.
"Seriously, mom?"
Ugh, here's the windup, she thought to herself. Seriously Mom? This car is older than water. Seriously Mom? We must have enough money for a Toyota. Seriously Mom? It's just a car. And the pitch.
"I fear for my life every time I get in this car. Buy a Ford or something."
"Oh yeah? Just remember, kid. I won't feel the slightest bit bad about grounding you until you turn eighteen. And, trust me, I will still have this car the day I boot your butt to the curb."
"I wanna tell you all a story about a Harper Valley widowed wife," the radio crooned as Emma turned the Bug down the main drag of Storybrooke. Seven miles away from town, any and all Top 20 or pop music stations kicked out, leaving her with nothing but singer-songwriter hits and the groovy sounds of the 60s and 70s. "Who had a teenage daughter who attended Harper Valley Junior High."
It made sense… sort of. The town looked like it was stuck in a time warp.
"In my art class, we saw some pictures by Norman Rockefeller," Henry wisecracked, all eyes as he peered around Main Street. "He must've come here for inspiration."
"Norman Rockwell, kid," Emma countered, one brow arched as she took in the sights. "And I'm pretty sure he would've found this place just a touch too wholesome."
All up and down the street, everything was painted (probably back in 1923) and laid by hand – lovingly, from the looks of it. To be honest, as she regarded the brick and mortar construction, the white-picket fences and brass doorknobs, she couldn't help but find it charming. Sweet. Like something from a childhood she never got to experience.
"There's Granny's!" Henry quickly cut in as he tapped his finger at the glass, pointing at a chalkboard sandwich board declaring that, indeed, the one-story building with branching ivy on the awning, was Granny's diner. And, hey, beef stroganoff was the soup of the day, and if you bought a slice of Marionberry pie, you'd get a free carafe of Columbian coffee.
"Oh man, kid. If I wasn't hungry, I'm starving now."
Henry grinned smugly as she parallel parked the Bug – expertly, thank you very much – a block past the restaurant. His seat belt flew as Emma wrestled with the parking brake (goddamn it, stick, you better fucking budge), and quicker than she could scold him, he was out of the car and stretching his coltish limbs, door still open. If she'd had a new car, she'd ask him if she was heating the whole town, but, you know… old car. No a/c or heater besides an open window and blanket in the back.
"It smells so clean here," Emma began as she got to her long legs. She butted her hip against the door, the solid thud nothing compared to the practically perfect street. "Like, pine trees or springwater or-"
Henry, sensing some really bad poetry, promptly butted in. "Deodorant. It totally smells like men's deodorant."
"Uh... Sure?"
Arm in arm, both doors closed without bothering to lock them (like anyone wanted to steal a bright yellow VW), they strolled down Main Street. Birds serenaded them as they made their way to Granny's, which was nice, considering no one else gave them the time of day. No one they passed said hello, although a middle-aged gentleman with curly, red hair doffed his hat at her and directed his equally well-behaved Dalmatian to the other side of the street.
"Burgers and fries for my munchkin?" Emma teased while lightly jabbing her elbow into Henry's side. He rolled his eyes, something he'd picked up from her over the years.
"Yeah, and a glass of water for the Wicked Witch of the West."
Wicked Witch?
Oh yeah.
He meant her.
"Smart aleck," she needled grumpily, leading him onto the restaurant's patio. Only one person had a table there, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed sheriff in a shoulder holster, hastily scribbling on a legal notepad, his eyes puffy and dark circled. Well, she hoped he was a sheriff. With those colors, he could've been partial to scary, Aryan ideals for all she knew. Her hand fluttered over her hip as Henry held open the door for her, wishing her gun would materialize. Alas, her application for a concealed handgun had been denied. Eight times in a row.
"Only when you call me a munchkin. At least I'm not the scarecrow."
A hearty chuckle was the only response he got, and she let him interpret that however he wanted as she cast a bothered glance over her shoulder. From this angle, she caught a flash of light flickering on the blonde's belt. A copper star on black leather. Definitely a cop.
When the door closed, the picturesque, Norman Rockwell façade disappeared, with a hard slash of red lipstick and tattooed booty shorts.
"Welcome to Granny's. Go ahead and sit down wherever you like," a rather Amazonian waitress tossed out at them as she swaggered past, her long, thin arms loaded down with plates and trays. "I'll be by with menus in a sec."
Eyes glued to the waitress's butt, since it was displayed so proudly despite being kind of scrawny, Emma nodded once and walked Henry in the opposite direction. The brunette with the red streak trailing from her temple screamed sex just a little too loudly, and today was not the day to give Henry 'the Talk.'
"Like you need a menu. All you ever order are bacon and blue cheese burgers with garlic parmesan fries." The look Henry gave as she sat down was best described as pointed, those warm, brown eyes narrowed like a hawk. He folded his freckled hands on the table and thinned his mouth into a disappointed frown. For sure, he expected her to fuss with the wait staff until the manager came out. Really, it had only happened two or three times in the last six months.
"If it's on the menu, sure." Emma tried not to wither under Henry's stare as she wiggled out of her brown leather coat, but damn, that was one sharp-eyed glare.
"Then why do you argue for it when it's not?"
"Hmph." But point taken, really. "Then why don't you order for me?"
"Or maybe," Sex-on-legs-in-an-apron cut in with a menu in each hand. "I could read tell you the specials, make some recommendations if those don't work, and get you both a drink."
They both looked up at the same time, and, oh thank you Jesus, Henry didn't look the slightest bit interested in Ms. Perky Tits as he took his menu. Without that crisis to worry about, Emma was much more willing to smile, offering a slight grin as she plucked the joint's carte du jour.
Following an order of mozzarella sticks, one coke and one unsweet, cranberry iced tea, Ruby - if that was her real name – stalked off towards the bar, all heels and boobs and manners just on the tolerable side of bad. What with calling them damn tourists and complaining about her stupid grandmother's 'no sex with customers' rule.
Her mouth hadn't improved by the time she got back.
"We can do the bacon, but not the blue cheese. And unless you want your garlic parmesan fries with a side of spit, I suggest you either order them plain or get a side salad."
She took a bacon cheeseburger with American cheese and good old-fashioned French Fries. Henry ordered chicken fingers without looking at the menu, because every Americana restaurant had chicken fingers. Anything to get the scary waitress away from them.
"Do we have a birthday over here?" Ruby called as she walked over to an overenthusiastic table of twelve. "Because I'm sick of birthdays!"
"Huh." Emma looked back at Henry, cocking a brow at the single syllable and getting a shrug in response.
"It's not too different from Boston after all."
The rest of the meal came and went amiably. Henry liked the decor - the splashes of red scattered through the grey forest motif; the fries had been cooked in beef fat so they were the best things to ever grace her taste buds. And Marionberries? Turns out they were just a special kind of blackberry. Even with that slight disappointment, both she and Henry had a blast. Nothing beat watching Ruby get gradually more annoyed as the forty-five minutes they spent there passed.
"I'll take two nothings for table seven!" she cried out at one point when a teenage couple in a corner booth asked for more time.
Man, what a bitch. The only time she perked up was when a black-haired Twiggy in a lavender twinset breezed in, with all the elegance of Grace Kelly and the high, rounded cheekbones of Katharine Hepburn.
"Jesus," Ruby groaned as the pixie hoisted herself into a bar stool. She crossed her ankles, smiled demurely and propped her chin in her open palm. Apparently she was used to Ruby's antics. "Today sucks, please tell me you want something simple."
The waif responded by arching both brows towards her hairline.
"Right," Ruby sighed. The sound was practically orgasmic compared to the caustic tone everyone else enjoyed. "Hot chocolate with cinnamon and a maple-bacon apple fritter. Thank God you're predictable."
In the right light, with a couple of filters thrown in, the way Ruby's lips twisted might've resembled a smile. On anyone else, it qualified as a grimace.
People watching had always been one of her favorite past times, but when Henry came alone, it turned into a survival mechanism. Emma was a helicopter mother, and anyone in the room was an enemy Blackhawk. But it afforded her a superhero power, sans tights and a cape.
No one could lie to her. All she needed was a lingering once-over to know their quirks, to know the ticks and twitches that signaled a lie. So she knew that Ruby's bad attitude came from an eight-hour shift with the questionable support of spiked stilettos, that the sheriff outside probably took breaks as often as J.D. Salinger wrote, and that the women with the pixie-cut had more patience than all of the saints combined. Most definitely, Ruby appreciated her for it.
And when she turned in her seat, back to Henry, she caught sight of the sheriff staring longingly through the window at Ms. Pixie Cut. Emma knew that their back story couldn't have been pretty, otherwise they would've been in here together. But, at least for him, whatever memories he had were full of love. He looked at her like he'd been living in a cave, and she was the sun and moon and stars.
"Holy crap, did you hear what that lady ordered?" Henry asked with so much wonder, distracting her from her perusal. She was strongly reminded of Easter baskets and Christmas morning. "We need to order one of those. No, three. One for you, one for me, and one for me again."
Shaking her head at Henry's slightly manic grin, Emma flagged down a waitress and ordered two hot chocolates and six of those maple-bacon apple fritters. One for him, one for her, and four for the idea mulling in the back of her mind.
"How about we spend the night here?" she asked while quickly glancing out the window. The sheriff was on his feet now, tucking his legal pad into a scuffed messenger bag. The hand fiddling with the buckles had a wedding band on it. Very telling. "This place is attached to a bed and breakfast, and if I get back in the Bug right now, I might drive us off a cliff."
Henry's eyes were glued on the bar, on the steaming cup of cocoa and glistening doughnut placed in front of Ms. Pixie Cut. Just looking at them was a religious experience for Henry. "Yeah, sure," he muttered as Ruby abandoned Ms. Pixie Cut.
"We have a few rooms available, including a suite," she declared brusquely once she returned, two cups of cinnamon perfection in her hand. Any good will Ms. Pixie Cut imparted to the waitress was clearly forgotten. "I can get someone to check you in once you're done eating. Don't expect towels until six though. The dryer's on the fritz again, so they're hanging from a clothesline."
"That'd be great." Emma would've added more, but a curvy blonde in a too-tight uniform had their doughnuts in hand, and she needed to surrender them before things got ugly. The closer the fritters got, the heavier the scent of gooey, syrupy heaven grew, with a delectable chaser of candied bacon.
Ruby snatched the plates from the blonde, who threw her hands up in the air and stomped over the door.
"In the morning," she bit out, "to save us all some time, just order the 'Mary Margaret'. And do not ask for substitutions."
Both she and Henry nodded quickly, hopefully in an appeasing manner, because Ruby's lip was curling, and her wolf-teeth were very white and very, very sharp.
Mary Margaret.
So that was the pixie cut's name.
"Goddamn it," Ruby mumbled as another huge party rolled in, this time composed entirely of senior citizens. One of whom was carrying a large pastry box wrapped in a pink bow.
"I am so sick of birthdays."
She had to admit, the suite was nice, especially at $75 a night. One master bedroom, a brand new sofa bed, and a claw-foot bathtub made for one hell of a hotel. She could've done without the wallpaper, but at least it wasn't roses or squirrels or something equally insipid. And when she opened the bedside table, she found Paul Mitchell toiletries instead of a Gideon Bible. Like Ruby warned, there weren't any towels.
"First dibs on a shower when they get here!" Henry called out as he ran from window to window, judging which room had a better view. Ha, that was cute, the way he thought he had a choice in where he slept.
"Sure thing kid. The bellhop says this place has a tankless water heater, so take all the time you need," she answered back as she changed out her leather coat for a comfy Florida State sweater. She didn't care for the team much, but the swag came free when she busted the University of Florida lacrosse team for jumping bail on jacked up marijuana charges.
While Henry poked around, mostly to satisfy his curiosity, Emma plopped down into an armchair by the window, propping her feet on a matching ottoman. She pulled out her phone and with the help of the 'locate me' function, brought up some info on the sleepy little town.
Two kindergartens, both NAICI accredited. One combined elementary and middle school with ample magnet classes, and a high school that offered nearly thirty dual-credit classes. Not to mention a 99% graduation rate.
Three more finger swipes to the elementary school's faculty page, and then one more to the fourth grade section pulled up two faces. One Mrs. Esther Parker, a stern-faced woman with some very prominent frown lines and the tightest frown Emma had ever seen, and a Ms. Mary Margaret Blanchard. So that's why she was so patient. Ruby was nothing compared to a room full of ten-year-olds. Emma had her hands full with only one. Both Mrs. Parker and Ms. Blanchard had some of the highest scoring students in the state, though the children in the photo of Ms. Blanchard's class practically glowed with happiness.
Henry glowed when he was happy.
The idea that took root in the restaurant bloomed into an insistent hope, and as she tapped her fingernails against her teeth, Henry banging around the kitchenette behind her, she couldn't find a reason not to be hopeful. There was a lot to be said about a good school system, about a town without a Walmart. Yeah, there might not be work, but she could freelance around the state, out of Bangor and Portland. Henry was already a latchkey kid. Surely there was a babysitter or nanny who could take over when she needed to stake out a perp overnight.
"I looked through a brochure in the lobby," Henry cut in, knocking her from her reverie and her feet from the stool, only to pull them back into his lap. Emma smiled and dropped the phone to her lap as he thumped his fingers against her arches. "And it says this town's movie theater was constructed in the thirties. It has private booths and everything."
"If you're asking if we can see a movie, the answer is yes. And yes, popcorn and nachos for dinner are fine." Henry's grin lit his whole face (giving him that glow), pulping her heart into a squishy pile of love and resignation. Damn it, she just didn't know how to say no to him. She could add a stipulation of her own though.
"As long as we have the cupcakes you made for dessert when we get back."
Interlude: David
David lingered after his lunch break. It was almost one, and he needed to get back to the station if he was going to get his paperwork done before he went on night shift, but he couldn't leave until she came out, until she was safely buckled in her SUV, wood-paneled doors locked with her behind them.
The divorce had been finalized for over a year now. They hadn't spoken in eight months, hadn't seen each other in nine. She still spoke to his mother, still put flowers on his father's grave on her way home from church, but him? She didn't bother with him. That was the way it went, right? Those were the rules of "it's over," and Mary Margaret always followed the rules.
This was their life now. A window or door between them at all times, nothing but memories and the quilts she sewed for him to keep him warm at night. But he needed to know she was safe, that nothing could get to her.
Finishing up with his notes on who punched who the night before at the Rabbit Hole, he put flattened the yellow pad of paper with his hands and shoved it in his bag. The fact that she hadn't bothered to say hello as she went into Granny's tugged at his heart, but Mary Margaret didn't do well with confrontation. Maybe when they were younger, when she still went to the archery range, but not now. Not after he'd messed things up.
Sighing heavily, he peered through the window one last time. She was wiping her hands on a napkin, listening to Ruby bitch about whatever was bugging her at the moment. Diners, the cooks, the tables… everything bugged Ruby. She lived in an eternal state of PMS. Mary dealt with it gracefully, eyes soft and nonthreatening as Ruby growled.
He'd park the cruiser across the street. Mary had parked in front of the animal hospital a few buildings down. If no one parked behind her, he'd be able to watch her.
David couldn't lie to himself. Every time he walked away from her, even if it was just across the street, it got just a little bit harder. It took all his strength from barging up to her and shouting about this shit hole they were in; and while strength was tiring, the weakness of giving in to his needs, and no doubt hurting her, was ten times more exhausting.
In the cruiser, he turned on his laptop and started going through the morning's report. All he had in the office right now was a state trooper, who got there at nine and left at two, but it was better than nothing. Still, considering the station was unmanned from three a.m to nine a.m., the situation was far from ideal. He needed some goddamn sleep, and five or six hours a night just wasn't cutting the mustard anymore. Sure, that's all he got when he was married, but that's because he and Mary Margaret usually made love every night. It helped with the headaches he got at work and knocked him right out.
Those were some good times. Sex morning, noon and night. Then Graham had to go and have a heart attack, leaving him alone to handle an entire town.
Thank God no complaints were filed that morning. Not even a noise complaint – it looked like he was in for a long night of solitaire. Maybe if things kept quiet, he could get that state trooper to stay over the weekend. He hadn't been out to the farm in two weeks, and he just knew that his beloved Andalusian was getting antsy in the fields.
Oh. Oh. There she was, coffee in hand, her flouncy, white skirt ruffled by the slight afternoon breeze. David let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding as Mary Margaret looked down both sides of the road before crossing it. Pinning her purse between her arm and her side, she placed her cup on the roof of her car before scraping her key into the lock. He watched as she stepped into the too-large SUV, chuckling under his breath as the kitten heel on her pumps caught in the running board. Must've been from the divot he'd left there last time he bought a Christmas tree. Mary Margaret gave a few kicks and it was free, and then the door was closed.
She was on her way home. Good.
Or not good, considering it was her home, and not theirs.
But as long as she was safe, it was as good as it could be.
What a response this story has gotten! Lots of traffic, lots of favorite listings and followers, and some really nice reviews! How could I not write more and post quickly?
The main pairing of this story is Captain Swan, but we won't meet him for at least four more chapters. This story is as much about building Emma and Henry's life as it is about Killian, so we need to have mother and son go on a few adventures before throwing in a swashbuckling monkey wrench.
The secondary pairing, as you noticed, is Snowing. They won't get nearly as much screen time as Captain Swan, but to give you an idea of how their love story will be portrayed, I included that interlude at the end. If they aren't your cup of tea, just skip their parts - they won't happen that often. However, I will warn you that even though it didn't happen today, sometimes their interludes will help move the plot forward. David dropped some pretty obvious hints as to what the future holds.
I love how many of you have read, followed and added this story to your favorites, but reviews are the bread and butter that feed my imagination's stomach. Private messages is the crack that pushes out quick posts.