Summary: Gold arrives for dinner at the Frenches. Contempt is on the menu.
A/N: I know it's been way too long since I gave you all a chapter, so HAPPY FRIDAY. I've been having withdrawal from writing this story.
He is all lines and sharp angles
I am soft curves and extra padding
But it doesn't matter so much
When he's holding my hand
Intertwined and all jumbled up,
Or when he's kissing me
Closed eyes and only nerves
Igniting
How strange to think the knife
Could learn to love the butter
- Georgia Marginson-Swart
Gold rang the Frenches doorbell and clenched his cane, grinding the brass tip into the concrete. Cold beads of sweat trickled down the back of his neck and the edges of his vision began to blur. He sniffed the eucalyptus leaves in the bouquet he was holding, an attempt to open his lungs and ward off an anxiety attack. Don't panic now, Gold. Dinner with Belle's parents was your damn idea.
Blowing air roughly through his nose, he reminded himself why he was here.
For Belle.
Earlier, he had stopped at Emma and Neal's house on his way, under the guise of needing a wine recommendation. His daughter-in-law had narrowed her ice blue eyes and pushed him toward the living room sofa.
Wincing, he sank onto the couch like a recalcitrant teenager, preparing for the lecture.
Henry popped out an earbud and looked up from his Kindle. "Where's grandpa going?"
"Grandpa has dinner with Belle and her parents at their house," Emma explained.
"Can I come? I'm awful hungry and I haven't seen Miss Belle in daaaays." Henry patted his stomach, which growled on command. "What's to eat?"
Gold had shot Emma a hopeful look. Maybe she would let him bring Henry along. Even Edith French wouldn't draw blood in front of an innocent child, would she?
Don't be such a coward.
"We saw Belle at the park yesterday, remember?" Emma shook her head. "And no, you can't go to dinner."
"How come?"
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Because Grandpa has to face this dragon on his own."
Henry wrinkled his nose. "Is this like when Grandpa went to war?"
Gold covered a snort. The child was too perceptive for a five-year-old. "Eh, something like that."
Henry nodded as if making a decision, then abandoned his game and trotted off.
Emma put her hands on her hips. "You have a thousand bottles in your wine cellar. We have a six-pack of beer in the fridge. You're not here to ask me the difference between claret and cabernet and we both know it, so what's this all about?" She squinted at the six bottles he'd set on the coffee table.
He shrugged, unable to explain why a simple meal with Belle's parents seemed so much harder than other challenges he'd faced. At the moment, crouching in a bunker with bullets whizzing by his ears seemed preferable to what was ahead. "Do I need an excuse to visit with my family?"
"Of course not." Emma tapped the bottle of Gewürztraminer. ""Belle likes this one. You're on your own for the rest."
She slung an arm around his shoulders and steered him toward the front door. "Remember, Dad, you're there for Belle. To show her what it means to have her in your life. She needs you to be strong. Besides, wasn't this family dinner your idea?"
He nodded, shaking off the sense of impending doom and straightening his spine. "Yeah."
"Look, don't let Edith rile you. She's just as worried as you are. Maybe even more. Look her in the eye and stand your ground!" Emma squeezed his shoulders vigorously, then thwacked him between the shoulder blades.
Gold yelped and rubbed his back. "That's your sage advice? 'Stand your ground?'"
"Exactly. The Frenches don't have to love you, they just have to not hate your guts." She crossed her arms and leveled him with a look, then nodded toward his car. "Now be the gentleman we both know you are and move your ass. You're gonna be late."
"And to think this is where I come for encouragement." Gold smirked at his daughter-in-law and tucked the wine under his arm. He started down the walkway back to his car.
"Wait!"
Henry.
Gold turned around, and his grandson thrust a plastic sword at him. "Here you go, Grandpa."
"Ugh!" Gold pretended to parry, then stumbled back, feigning a mortal wound. He threw up his hands. "I surrender!"
"No." Henry rolled his eyes. "You're supposed to take it."
"Me? Why?"
"To slay the dragon!" The child grinned. "It's super strong, so even if she breathes fire you'll be safe. But can you clean off the dragon guts and bring it back when you're through? It's my favorite."
xoxo
Gold swayed on his feet, scowling at the flowers and wine he had brought.
He braced himself against the green siding of the Frenches split-level house, taking deep breaths. Dinner with Belle's parents had seemed like such a smart, civilized idea, but now the taste of panic coated his tongue. The wine. He'd forgotten to put it in the gift bag. Quickly he made the switch, removing it from the paper sack and dumping it in the wine bag. He crumpled the sack in his fist, and flung it into the bushes as the door opened. There stood Edith French, looking prim in a tailored navy suit.
"Good evening." He inclined his head and offered his most benign smile, then tipped the flowers toward her. "Thank you for inviting me to your home."
"Mr. Gold." Her answering nod was stiff. She eyed his painstakingly-chosen cluster of peonies, roses, and hydrangea, then took a small step back, her mouth twitching. "I'm allergic to flowers."
"I see." He lowered the bouquet and tried again, this time whisking the wine out of the bag.
The brackets around her mouth deepened. "And we don't drink."
"Ah. My apologies." He choked the neck of the bottle and ground his back teeth. Getting through this dinner was going to require all his patience.
"I drink," offered a familiar, lilting voice. "And I love flowers."
Belle. His heart flooded with happiness when she appeared, edging Edith out of the doorway.
All at once, the glut of tension in his stomach melted away. Seeing her was all he needed to be at ease. Belle calmed him in a way no one else ever had, and somehow he knew whatever struggles came their way, they would handle them together.
"Good evening, sir." She accepted the bouquet, then curtsied.
"My lady." He bowed, then simply stared. A lace dress the color of wine accentuated her luscious curves, its scalloped, plunging neckline molding to her breasts, while the delicate fabric swished around her thighs. "You're stunning."
"Do you like it?" She dipped her head with a coy smile, then peeked up at him through her lashes. "It's new."
Mrs. French cleared her throat.
"I'll keep these flowers in my room, Edith." Belle grabbed his hand and pulled him into the house. "The table's all set for dinner; I'm taking Gold on a tour."
She grasped his fingers and squeezed, then led him toward the staircase. He slowed down and gave her a questioning look. "I thought we were going on a tour."
"We are. Starting upstairs."
Her lithe fingers danced along the bannister and she tugged on his hand. Helpless to resist, he followed, admiring the gentle sway of her hips as she led him up the stairs and down a sparse hallway.
She threw open a door to a bright and colorful room festooned with pillows and fabrics, and ushered him inside. He looked around with pleasure, taking in the modest-sized space draped with blue and cream and accented with bits of sunny yellow. In the brief moments he spent in the Frenches' foyer, he had observed a sparse, cold residence. Hard furniture with straight lines, a dearth of personal effects. There weren't even any photos dotting the mantel.
Belle's room was a complete contrast.
Knick knacks decorated the surfaces of shabby chic furniture. It was clean yet cluttered, bursting with books, photos of exotic destinations, decorating magazines, and whimsy. There were candles, dried flowers, and colorful ceramic bowls, all artfully arranged on every available surface.
"Just sit anywhere," she said lightly, then grabbed a mason jar and dashed into the hallway. There were two choices of seating: a dainty, bright yellow kitchen chair draped with clothes, or a large canopy bed. In a moment Belle was back, the jar now filled with water, and he sat down on the edge of the bed and let his cane slip to the floor.
"You're very relaxed tonight," he said, admiring her aplomb as she arranged the flowers in the jar. She was in her element here, as she was in the library, her movements certain and focused.
"I've been drinking," she whispered loudly, with a sly smile and a wink. She lifted a bottle of peach schnapps from the bureau and took a large swig. "Sorry about Edith. I was hoping to get to the door first, but she beat me there." She held out the bottle. "Want some?"
"Sure." He smiled and took a small sip of the bright, cloying orange liqueur. "Not bad."
"My favorite." She giggled and took another large drink. The door closed with a soft thud and he heard the sound of a lock click. Belle moved forward, coming to stand between his thighs. Her hands grazed his chest and she pushed him down on the bed, then followed. He groaned when she straddled him, one rounded hip on either side of his. She rose above him, settling her pert bottom across his thighs. The glimpse into her lush cleavage made his skin prickle with desire, and she fanned his face with her warm, peach-scented breath. "Do you want to kiss me?"
The words went straight to his groin. "Always," he whispered on a strangled sigh.
Cupping his cheeks with both hands, she flicked out her tongue to lick at the seam of his lips. With a moan, he parted for her. Usually he was the one to initiate physical affection, but tonight, Gold relished Belle's boldness. As her hips sunk into his, she slid her tongue in slowly, warmth and sensation spreading through his veins like remarkable whiskey. They'd kissed dozens of times since they started dating, but Belle's mouth was always new, bright, and exciting. Tonight she tasted of ripe fruit and honey. He wondered if the rest of her skin was as sweet as her mouth, and then he couldn't think at all as she leaned over him, pressing him deeper into the pillows. Warm lips smoothed down his jawline, nibbling and lapping at his throat.
He reached up, gathering her lushness against him, all deep curves, persimmon-smooth skin, and silken heat. His hands wandered up the rough-smooth lace of her dress, dipping into the curve of her waist before sliding higher until the edge of his palms reached the soft, plump undersides of her breasts. Of their own accord, his hands cupped the swell of flesh, grasping and kneading, and his thumbs grazed over her stiff nipples, eliciting a soft whimper from her throat. Her small sounds and sweet, tender curves struck him like lightning, and heat permeated his body, chasing away the stress and concern from earlier; he was surrounded by Belle, all her warmth and sweetness enveloping him. Giving into his need, he canted his hips, her voluptuous friction arousing him beyond reason.
There was a crash, then an expletive floated through the floor vent.
"Oh!" Belle's mouth broke from his, and he lay there panting with fractured breaths. Lying in Belle's bed, dazzled by her fragrance, was a dangerous place to be.
He watched in dizzy fascination as her cleavage flooded with color, eyes pure blue and drowsy. She giggled and their gazes locked, a singular sharing of souls known only to lovers. Belle moved slightly, her hips rolling forward, and he knew she could feel his desire. His temptress eased off his body to curve against his side, her curls tickling his chin. "My parents are downstairs. My room is right above the kitchen."
Like two children who had been caught snatching cookies, they laughed, nervous, breathy sounds punctuated by the angry clatter of pots and pans.
His breathing returning to normal, he propped himself up on one elbow. "Do you think they heard us?" He was ecstatic to do anything Belle wanted, but he didn't want to be a complete ass under her parents' roof.
"I don't care." She shook her head, her long curls dancing around her shoulders. "I'm a grown-up person and I can make out with my hot boyfriend whenever I want." She reached for the schnapps again.
"Sweetheart." He stilled her hand, massaging her wrist with his thumb. "Easy on that stuff, ok? I don't want you to have a headache later."
"Ok."
She nuzzled his neck and he collapsed against the bed, then slid his arm under her pillow, his hand bumping into something hard. His fingers seized a book, and he slid it out from under his head. Belle's journal. He passed it to her like a hot potato. "Ooops. Sorry."
She kissed his nose, then flipped through the pages like an accordion, a paper-scented breeze hitting his flushed cheeks. "Some of it's about you," she confided in a wide-eyed whisper. "Wanna see?"
"Are you sure you want me to read it?" he asked, still averting his eyes from the open book. He hadn't forgotten her embarrassment when he'd accidentally perused her journal during their breakfast in the library.
Besides, he wasn't certain he wanted to look. Belle was always hinting she found him attractive, but he didn't share her view. His nose was large and crooked, his eyes hooded and too small for his face. Not to mention his limp. He was nothing compared to the ravishing beauty cuddled against him, a woman who was not only physically stunning, but one who had the kindest, purest heart of anyone he'd ever met.
She bit her lower lip, then licked it. "I'm sure."
He scanned the page, then tugged at his collar. Reading her private thoughts and being this close to her ignited the fire in his belly once more, her smoldering gaze pinning him to the bed. When he read the words "delicious, tight backside," he closed the book. "I didn't realize you were such a colorful writer, Miss French," he teased.
"When the subject matter is as fascinating and delightful as you are, I can be quite creative."
"You, ah, wrote about my hair." He raked a self-conscious hand through his cropped locks.
"Yes, when I met you it was long." She stroked a finger down his clipped sideburn. "I remember thinking at Henry's birthday bonfire that you looked…good. Different but good. And I wondered why you decided on such a change."
"I did it because I wanted to look younger." He looked down at the rumpled bedspread. "Fresh, and like someone you might want to go out with sometime."
"You cut your hair for me?"
He nodded, still without looking at her, feeling like an ancient fool.
Belle pealed with laughter, mirth sparking in her cerulean eyes.
His mouth fell open, afraid he had said too much. God, I sound like such a creeper. Belle noticed his chagrin, and laid a comforting hand on one of his. Her other came to his chin, fingers pressing the dimple there, as she pulled his gaze to hers.
"No one has ever done anything like that for me. Changed themselves to try to please me. But you don't have to do anything to make me notice you. Erskine, I love your long hair. I love your short hair. You look wonderful either way. To me, there's not a more handsome man anywhere. And not only because of the way you look. I want you – all of you – your hair, your mind, your smile, your sense of humor, your hands…" she circled the pad of flesh on his palm just below his thumb and grinned. "I really love your hands."
She stopped and closed her eyes for a moment. Patiently he waited, his heart pounding with expectation. When her eyes opened, they were blazing with intensity, a rich, blue fire, and he held his breath.
"I love you."
xoxo
Belle clasped Gold's hand, accepting his support as they descended the stairs to dinner. She admired his profile as they entered the dining room together, his aquiline nose, his strong jaw. The more time she spent with him, the more comfortable and desirable she felt. As formal as he was in his suits, silk ties, and cufflinks studded with gemstones, everything about him put her at ease.
For some odd reason, Erskine had been delighted at the prospect of being invited to dinner. He said he wanted to know her parents better, but wasn't that just the sort of thing good boyfriends said?
Still, she felt confident and happy when he held out her chair at the table, inviting her to sit, and took his place next to her.
"Oh!" Her father nodded in approval, then lumbered toward Edith to pull out her chair. "Good idea, Gold."
"Mr. French, good evening." Gold reached out to shake Moe's hand.
Making himself useful, her father opened the wine and poured generous glassfuls for everyone but Edith.
Edith took her seat and beginning to serve the way she always did, doling out meager portions of food, like a soup kitchen running low on rations. She wasn't happy unless she was measuring every gram down to the final grain of rice.
As the bread basket went by, Belle glanced down at her rounded tummy, the fresh, yeasty scent of baguette a subtle chiding that she didn't need to eat at all. Edith met her eyes, giving an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Belle didn't think it was possible for someone else's neurosis to actually make a person fat, but Edith's measured stare made her feel like she'd put on ten pounds just by sitting down. She let the basket pass without taking a roll.
"What were you two doing upstairs so long?" Edith dropped the serving fork and it clattered against the edge of a platter.
"Looking at books." Belle lied blithely, eyes on her silverware.
"Dirty books."
"What?" Belle choked on a sip of wine.
"There is lipstick on your collar, Mr. Gold." Edith raised a judgmental eyebrow as she fanned small portions of pork tenderloin, salad, and slivers of the potato pie—Belle's one contribution to the meal—across each dinner plate. Marco had taught her to make the combination of potatoes mashed with eggs, butter, milk, and prosciutto.
Gold looked up at Edith, surprised at the elder French woman's lack of tact. He levelled his gaze at her, not once flinching under her stare. He was a grandfather, for God's sake—kissing his girlfriend was no cause for shame.
"So there is," he countered, his gaze steady, as he reached under the table to seek and squeeze Belle's hand.
Relief flooded Belle's chest, along with the realization that Gold wasn't susceptible to Edith's guilt trips wrapped in hostility. They had done nothing wrong, although the memory of his caresses did feel deliciously sinful. She sent him a grateful look.
"I'm not sure what this potato concoction is. Belle made it and she won't tell me what's in it." Edith poked at her potatoes with a knife as though they might rear up and bite her.
"Sformato di patate," Belle enunciated in Italian. "Potato pie."
"It looks delicious." Gold glared at Edith, and Belle gulped as the tension in the dining room escalated.
Her father, at least, seemed blissfully unaware of the contretemps as he forked large bites of everything on his plate. For a few minutes there was only the scrape of utensils against dishes as they ate in deafening silence, Belle and Gold both picking at their food while Edith sawed each bite into tiny pieces. Occasionally she allowed a bit of food to pass her lips, then chewed for long moments, her mouth twisted.
"Remember when Sean used to come for dinner and bring those health bars?" Edith speared a morsel of potato and gave it a nasty look.
Her father guffawed. "The rabbit food? Those things weren't fit for gerbils," Moe muttered, shoveling another large bite of potatoes laced with prosciutto into his mouth.
Belle stifled a laugh behind a mouthful of dry pork. There was a certain satisfaction in hearing her father's true feelings on her former fiancé. She wanted to remind Edith that she had been the one to dump Sean, but there was no point.
Gold interrupted the strained silence that followed.
"Belle, this is as good as any restaurant in Florence. Marco will be proud." He smiled broadly, catching her eye over the rim of his wine glass. The sharp, slightly sweet wine was sublime with the rich creamy potatoes, and Belle flushed with pleasure. Her feeble stab at cooking was the starring dish of the party.
Clearly uncomfortable with all the praise directed at Belle's dish, Edith fidgeted, interrupting the pleasant banter.
"Travel much, do you Mr. Gold?" Edith asked, her nose wrinkled like she smelled rotten eggs. "I don't know how or why you would do that, with everything wrong with the world today…" Edith leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed. "It's like people who use cilantro. None of it makes sense."
"Well, I did for a time. I was an international affairs reporter for The Globe," he offered.
"He was more than that," Belle interrupted, the schnapps and wine making her brave. "He won a Pulitzer for his coverage of the first Gulf War."
"Oh, yeah?" Moe nodded his approval. For the first time she could remember, Belle's father put down his fork to pay attention to what she and her guest had to say. "Were you embedded, Gold?"
Gold relaxed as the conversation turned away from the food and into familiar territory. He flexed his fingers. "I was. I was with the Army's Third Infantry division. Tanks."
Moe swiveled toward Gold and Belle, presenting Edith with his meaty shoulder. "See any combat?" Moe took his first sip of wine. "Oh, that's good."
"Thank you, and yes, I did see some," Gold answered, not wanting to get into details, but appreciative of Belle's father's interest in his work. He felt a bit like a teenager impressing his date's father before the prom, and he was amazed to discover it wasn't at all an unpleasant sensation.
"Fiddlesticks!" Edith huffed, rising from her chair and gathering her plate. "Boys and toys." She shook her finger in Gold's direction. "That was a conflict – not a war. They'll give an award to anyone these days."
Belle felt the color drain from her face, her momentary happiness giving way to despair. If the conversation wasn't about Edith, or food, or Edith's food, it was unwelcome.
Gold bristled. "Actually, Mrs. French, many men lost their lives. Children died. Villages burned. It was a war, and it's rather insulting to hear opinions otherwise. And perhaps they do give out many awards these days." He clenched the head of his cane until his knuckles cracked. "Makes it all the more interesting when a person doesn't have one, yes?"
Edith's back straightened, a steel rod through her spine, and she leveled her head and looked down her nose at her guest. Belle felt tears spring to her eyes, and she swallowed hard, fighting to retain her composure.
Gold smiled at Belle, a quick nod to let her know he was okay, that Edith wasn't getting to him. But her eyes were dim and unseeing. She was frozen, her expressive face drawn and shuttered, as though Edith had sucked every ounce of hope and happiness from her soul.
The confidence and grace he'd observed upstairs drained out of her, and as he watched it happen, he became angrier with every passing second.
Anxious for something to do, Belle reached into the bread basket to pull out a roll with trembling fingers.
"Belle." Edith eyed the roll in her hand and shook her head again.
Belle didn't think. She opened her fingers and hurled the dinner roll at Edith's smug face. It bounced off her forehead and landed in the pitcher of water with a plop, bloating and sinking to the bottom of the glass. Bloated and sinking. That was her.
Her stunned gaze collided with her stepmother.
"Excuse me," Belle said, in as dignified a tone as she could muster. Mortified, she rose from the table and left the room on leaden feet.
"Belle!" Edith's shrill tones pierced the silent, stuffy air. "Come back here!"
Gold dropped his napkin and pushed back from the table, his cane scraping the hardwood in a discordant squeak. His mind was spinning in vicious circles. All he wanted to do was go after Belle, to drag her out of this mental institution and never let her cross the threshold again.
He would take her out for a real dinner with real food, where they could relax and laugh and enjoy themselves. And drink a bloody glass of wine without censure. Then he would install her at Emma and Neal's house or beg her to move in with him, marry him. Whatever it took to get her the hell away from here.
"Mr. Gold." Edith's frown was severe. "Keep your seat. Let me explain. Please."
He could tell how much the appeal was costing her.
"Fine." He conceded for the moment, lapsing into the frosty tone reserved for the lowlifes he didn't want to interview but had no choice. He snapped open his pocket watch, then looked pointedly at Edith. "This better be good."
xoxo
Belle stood in the hallway outside the dining room, straining to hear their conversation.
A dull headache throbbed in the center of her forehead, the pain sharpening with every passing moment. Maybe the peach schnapps and the wine hadn't been her best idea. She'd thrown Gold down on her bed and seduced him in her parents' house, then she'd embarrassed him by having a tantrum at the table.
She'd told Erskine she loved him, and now he held her heart. Would he leave now, after enduring a main course of flagrant insults served with a side of backhanded compliments? She wouldn't blame him for walking out the door and never looking back. She felt her heart crack inside her chest, the inevitability of disaster looming before her. She clenched her fists, her blunt nails digging into the flesh of her palms.
"Allow me to apologize for Belle." Edith's restrained voice filtered through the wall, and Belle wanted to punch the drywall. "She's…families tend to have these little arguments now and again. She's a passionate, spirited girl. I'm sure you understand. It's nothing to be concerned about."
From the other side of the wall, she rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out at Edith.
"When it comes to Belle, I am in every possible way concerned," Gold replied, the fury in his voice mounting. "I don't know what sort of witchcraft you've employed to keep that glorious creature here under your roof. She's desperate for affection and attention, and I've just spent an interminable hour listening to you cut her—and me—down in every possible way. I'm sick to my stomach, and it's not from the overcooked pork or limp salad."
"Mr. Gold—"
Belle peeked into the dining room in time to see Gold shift toward her father, his tone softening in appeal. "My God, do you even seeher? She is brilliant and beautiful, full of life and light. All she wants to do is please you, to be enough." His voice grew deeper, rougher. "I don't know why she even bothers, but she's too incredible a person not to try."
Dumbstruck, Belle ducked back into the hallway and leaned against the cool wall, wishing she could see the look on Edith and Daddy's faces.
Gold continued, low and lethal, and Belle rose on tiptoe as if to better hear his next words. "If you want to offer apologies, Mrs. French, offer them on behalf of yourself and offer them to your daughter. We're done here."
Belle heard the scrape of a chair, then her eyes widened as Gold stumbled around the corner into the hallway, his face white and his lips twitching, eyes desperate and tear-filled. Wordlessly, she held out her arms to him and he collapsed against her, taking great, shuddering gulps of air.
"Shhh, deep breaths." She held his trembling body as he struggled for oxygen, absorbing his shaking with her own tremors. She rubbed her hands in soothing circles across his back, then smoothed her fingers up and down his arms in gentle strokes. Her voice quavered as she spoke, grounding him, bringing him back to her. "Long breaths from deep down…I've got you, baby."
"I'm sorry," she heard him whisper between broken gasps. He raised his head from her shoulder, and she swiped tears from his pale, cool cheeks. "Belle, I'm so sorry."
Hot tears dripped down her own face unchecked, the salt stinging her mouth. She hadn't known she was crying, but after all the beautiful words he'd said about her, the way he defended her to Edith, how could she help it? "You have nothing to be sorry about, Erskine. You didn't do anything wrong."
"Oh, Belle. My beautiful, brave sweetheart." He framed her face with his hands and kissed her, murmuring endearments against her lips. "How can you be so strong and courageous in the middle of all this madness?"
"Don't you see?" She smiled at him through her tears. "It's because I have you."
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