Chapter 8
Oddities
Rumple has graciously attended to a drunken Belle and learned about her past history with a series of unsatisfactory boyfriends. He prepares himself for an event where he is to solicit money for the local arts programs from a rich heiress.
Solicitations
Sarah Fisher was quite the beauty if you liked cool Nordic blondes. Rumple was intrigued by her beauty, but was more fascinated by her knowledge of art. She had let him know that she had several pieces from his own efforts which had already graciously acquired value. She played like a violin, at first smooth with but a single tone, but then an overlay of nuance, and Rumple knew this was a complex woman.
"Well, you know what they say about paintings not really becoming valuable until the artist dies," he told her.
"Of course. But I was taught to buy what I liked, so that whether it gains in value or not, I will still have enjoyment from the item. It's a principle that has never failed me," she told him. "In this singular instance, I can tell you how very much I've enjoyed meeting the artist."
Rumple smiled back at the woman. She was an older woman, close to his own age. She was beautiful, rich, intelligent. But when he compared her to a certain warm brunette, she seemed very cold.
But why was he comparing her to a warm brunette?
He cut to the chase. "You know, I'm supposed to be exercising my dubious charms on you to get a generous endowment for our local arts program."
She gave him a smile. "I know. Tell me, Mr. Stiltskin, just how far are you prepared to go charming me to get that money?"
He looked her over. "I wouldn't mind spending some . . . time with you," he admitted. She was interesting.
"But I'm not your type," she summarized.
He winced, "Even though you're very beautiful. No, you're not my type."
"Don't feel bad. You're not my type either," she told him.
"What is your type, if I may be so curious?" he asked. Should he be introducing her to Corie?
She sighed. "I don't know. I've never met anyone who interested me. You come close, for sure – I think I would be amused by your energy and your obvious genius."
"Well, I am energetic and a genius, that's all true," he agreed casually.
"Aunt Sarah, Aunt Sarah," a pretty girl with red hair came up and began speaking breathlessly. "The best thing ever. Oh, I'm sorry, you were talking with . . . I don't know you . . . I'm Anna, so nice to meet you." The girl interrupted herself, then continued, "Aunt Sarah, Elsa and I wanted to out on the town. Is it too late? You know she won't take me into a bar, but they have all these bands performing all around and there are some really cute boys and I really thought it would be fun but I know I needed to get your permission and I probably need to borrow some money and we'll be back before eleven, even though it's a school night you know I don't need much sleep and I promise to go right to bed when we get back and I won't grouse in the morning when you get me up."
Rumple watched with some level of amazement, curious as to how the girl managed to breath while she talked. He looked over at Sarah, who reached down into her purse to pull out some cash.
"Anna, be back before eleven. Don't be kissing any boy you've just met. And listen to your sister," Sarah told her handing her the money. After the girl had darted off, Sarah turned back to Rumple. "My youngest niece."
"Are they changing her medication?" Rumple asked.
Sarah gave him a weak smile. "She is rather impetuous. Heart of gold, very trusting, loyal."
Rumple chose not to comment that he'd once had a dog with those qualities.
Sarah took a drink of her white wine. "I think we were talking about you being a genius," she began again.
"Yeah, I've been told." He was looking Sarah over. "I could be interested in doing your portrait." She would be a challenge to paint, to capture the heart of the ice.
Sarah considered. "I think I'll leave the donation and skip the portrait."
"Should my feelings be hurt?"
"Not at all. If I were ever going to have my portrait done, it would be you. I'm just not interested in having my portrait painted," she said kindly.
"Well, if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me. It would be amazing," he promised. He would have done her all in white with diamonds and silver, maybe just a touch of pale blue. She would have looked like the Queen of Winter.
One of the Best Things
He returned early to the apartment, reasonably sober. He felt good, the mission had been accomplished. He hadn't gotten the commission but wtf. He wasn't precisely sure he wanted to do any more commissioned portraits anyway.
He found Belle where she had dozed off in the living area. She had been knitting or crocheting – well, doing something with yarn and some type of metal implement and he found her curled up on his cushy sofa.
He wasn't sure what to do. She was still fully clothed and lying in an awkward position. If he let her sleep as she was, she could likely wake up with a crick in her neck.
He sat down across from her. Damn, but she was beautiful. He knew he had told everyone that she was his maid and he wasn't humping the help, but . . . . He shook himself. Not gonna happen. She certainly wouldn't want to crawl into bed with his aged nads and he certainly didn't want to take advantage of his position as her employer.
He leaned forward and gently, gently laid her head down on the sofa using one of the cushions as a pillow. He removed her little clogs marveling at her petite feet. He laid a blanket on top of her. He took one last moment to brush the hair out of her eyes and then went on back into his studio.
He glanced back at the sleeping girl. He looked at his sketch pad. Oh, come on, that would be creepy, he chastised himself. Drawing a sleeping woman was worse than just watching someone sleep. He bit his lip and took his materials back out with him to the living room.
In the dim light, he drew what he saw, what he felt, what he heard and tasted. It was a muted picture in shades of blue and grey with a glowing figure in the center – all honey and roses with delicate bell-like chiming sounds. A beautiful woman, looking almost fairy-like with luminescent skin. Her hair fell in ringlets around her face.
He stepped away when he was finished to look at the work in toto.
It was likely the best thing he had ever done. He signed it and dated it. He carried back into this studio and file it away.
Then he went onto bed.
Waking
Belle woke up in a unfamiliar setting. She didn't recognize the furniture that lay about her and it took her a moment to realize that she had fallen asleep in the living room. But . . . she was confused. She remembered getting irritated with herself struggling to figure out the new Fox Paws pattern – the stacked increases were driving her crazy. She found her knitting had been set aside onto the table. Her shoes had been removed and she had been covered up.
Oh my goodness! She sat up. She'd fallen asleep in his living room. Oh lord! She hoped he hadn't brought anyone in last night. That would have been awkward.
And what had happened to her shoes? Had she kicked them off in the night? And where had the cover come from?
She realized that Mr. Stiltskin must have taken care of her.
How embarrassing.
She got up and tiptoed to his room to check on him.
No sock on the doorknob.
She hoped he was sleeping alone.
He wasn't there.
Well, that was a letdown.
Had he come in and gone back out again? She stretched, found her shoes and slipped them back on. She got up and pattered in toward the kitchen.
He was there, reading the paper and eating breakfast. "Well, good morning sleepyhead," he greeted her friendly.
"Mornin'," she said to him, wondering what he was doing up so early. Maybe he hadn't been to bed yet.
"I got home at a reasonable hour last night, was also reasonably sober and was able to get up at a reasonable hour." He anticipated her questions. He then pulled a face. "Not sure I'm liking this. However do you manage it every morning?" he asked.
"Strength of character," she replied shortly.
He sat back. "Why is it that morning people always feel so morally superior to everyone else?" he asked her.
"Because we are," she told him, while she began to fix herself some breakfast. "We get more done before you get up than you get done all day."
"Oh," he replied thoughtfully. "I don't know about that." He was sketching again.
"Well, look at yourself. You got up early this morning. What all have you got done?" she asked him.
"I fixed breakfast. I solved the puzzle page. I made a sketch of you," he told her.
"Really? Another one? Can I see it?" she came over and looked at his pencil drawing.
He'd drawn her looking down at a bowl while stirring something. She looked focused and intent on the simple chore.
"I think I'll call it something like The Mindful Cook," he told her.
"It's beautiful. You always manage to make me look so beautiful even when I know I'm a mess," she told him. "How was your evening?" she asked, changing the subject, remembering that he'd gone out fundraising the night before.
"Met a beautiful blonde. Had a marginal supper. Vaguely propositioned her. Definitely got turned down. Offered to do her portrait. Got turned down. Ask her for money. She bit. Got the money and came back home early and found you just soddened out on my sofa."
"I'm so sorry. I was binge watching some old quirky Brit show about this smart but lazy constable working in a small Scottish town and I got engrossed."
He shrugged. "It happens – just glad I didn't bring anyone back here."
"So, there is a woman out there who doesn't want to jump your bones," she observed sipping on her own coffee.
"Don't often meet those," he admitted. "Kinda refreshing actually."
The phone rang. As always, Belle answered, "Mr. Stiltskin's residence."
It was a man, a young man, if Belle was any judge of voices.
The voice said, "Hey, it's Neal."
Belle mouthed, "Neal" to Rumple who rushed to grab the phone from her.
"Hello," Belle heard him. "I'm fine." . . . "Great . . . well, that's wonderful." . . . "I'd love to meet you for lunch." . . . "A young woman?" . . . . "Sure, that will work." Then he hung up. He stood quietly for a moment.
Belle had sat down to her fried egg with onions, peppers, and mushrooms.
"Miss French," he began. "Anytime, Neal calls, no matter what I'm doing, no matter who I'm with, time of day, whatever, I will take the call."
"Yes sir," she told him.
He stood a moment, still very quiet. "He's my son."
Ohhh.
"Of course, sir," she said.
"He wants to have lunch with me day after tomorrow, at 1:00, at the Early Girl Eatery," Rumple added and watched as Belle stopped eating to dutifully add the appointment to the calendar.
Rumple stood a moment watching her eat. He seemed unsettled. "Would you . . . perhaps . . . like to come with me? I'm going to take a drive up to the mountains, probably go along the Blue Ridge Parkway. I'll pull off somewhere that looks nice, maybe along Graveyard Ridge . . . or somewhere. I'll take some pictures with my camera, maybe do some sketches, even some pastel work. Oh," he stopped and shook his head. "It'll be boring. You wouldn't be interested."
Belle considered. "I don't know. It sounds more interesting that cleaning out your closets. I could take my knitting and my reading. I wouldn't want to interfere with your work."
"Really?" he did seem genuinely surprised that she might want to accompany him.
"Well, I might like to see you work. I mean, I've been the subject of some of your drawings but I've never seen you work on anything else."
"It's boring," he promised her.
"I doubt that," she told him shyly.
He had to smile at her.
"Maybe I should pack a picnic?" she asked him as he began to gather his materials.
"That might be nice," he called back. So, Belle gathered some sandwiches together and juice for them to drink along with a blanket and some other odds and ends. She was ready at the same time he was.
It was a beautiful day. She sat in his fancy car as he expertly motored through town to connect with the Parkway.
"What kind of car is this?" she asked him.
"You like it?" he asked.
"What's not to like? It's breezy and sleek."
"They've revived one of the plays I helped write a couple of years ago and I got this with the residuals. It's a Spider."
"I've heard of those," Belle told him slowly. "This is a really expensive car."
"I bought it because I liked the color," he told her.
"Is that right? Can I drive it?" she asked him.
"No," he told her.
"Why not?"
He didn't answer right away.
"Why not?" she asked him again.
"I don't let anyone drive my car," he finally answered.
Belle narrowed her eyes. "It's because you think I'm clumsy, isn't it?"
"Why would I think that?"
"Well, I tend to bump into things and drop stuff and I trip over dust bunnies."
"Only because half the time you're walking and reading at the same time," he tempered her description of herself.
"Well, yeah, there's that."
"But I really don't let anyone drive my car," he repeated.
They drove along the Blue Ridge, sometimes pulling over on the overlooks. Some time in the afternoon, they stopped at one of the overlooks with a picnic table and Belle set things up for them. He took out his sketch book and began drawing her.
"You draw all the time," she told him
"Ah yeah," he agreed. "I can't stop it, can't help myself. I'm trying to get at something, something underneath what people see, the inner person, the soul if you will."
"It's astonishing to me that in a few lines you can capture my image – more than my image. You draw my feelings, my intentions. It's slightly creepy, you know that."
He chuckled. "Yeah. My wife, my ex-wife, thought the same way but, of course, at that time, my art work wasn't selling. My music was."
"You aren't writing music anymore?" she asked him.
"All the time, when I have a chance. I always have tunes going through my head. I used to think everyone did and it surprised me when I found out they didn't. But I haven't been inspired with my music in a long time, certainly not like I have been with my painting."
"How are you so talented in both areas? I mean, usually people are painters or artists."
"They are the same thing to me," he tried to help her understand. "Miss French, I see musical notes – they appear to me as colors and shapes, even smells sometimes. And all those colors and shapes, they have sounds to me. I used to think that was how everyone worked, but, early on, when I told some musicians they needed to play the music 'more red,' I realized that they thought I was joking, that they had no idea what I was talking about."
"That has a name," she told him, trying to pull out the information.
"Synesthesia. A number of artists, particularly musicians, and . . . oddly, mathematicians . . . have the diagnosis. I can't explain it, I just know I seem to see the world differently. It made living in New York City . . . difficult . . . too much . . . all the time. It's a remarkable city and I know many people love the place, but . . . I couldn't handle it. Asheville has the right . . . sound and feel for me."
Belle was amazed at the man's abilities. He was genuinely different from others and sometimes his differences had been a burden. "You are truly remarkable," she said quietly.
"I don't always feel that way. And I struggle with . . . with what you would call 'people skills.' I don't always read people correctly and it can get awkward socially. I hurt people's feelings and, usually, sometimes, I don't mean to."
"You poor baby," she said sympathetically.
"I'm not telling you this for sympathy," he told her. "I know I can be difficult to live with. I know I . . . I sometimes engage in some . . . less than healthy behaviors. I am a difficult man to love. I accept these things about myself. I try to do better, but I know from past experience that I will relapse. I drive people away who would be nice to me."
"So, you're telling me all this so that when you behave like a complete . . . jerk, I'll just . . . what? go with it?" she asked
"I guess. I just want you to know that any time I treat you poorly, it's probably not you. It's me."
Belle rubbed her hands together. "That's not good enough. Just because you say you're an jerk, doesn't make it okay for you to act like one."
"Probably not," he agreed. "But just the same, it's who I am."
"Yeah, well, we'll work on it," she understood, but wasn't ready to roll over for the man.
The Next Day
There had been yet another phone call from Miss Black. She had been calling about twice a week since Belle had started working for Rumple. She had answered and let the woman know that Mr. Stiltskin was unavailable. "He's asked you to tell me that, didn't he?" the woman had finally asked her.
"Yes ma'am. He has no interest in speaking with you."
There had been a long silence. "Who . . . who are you?" the woman asked her.
"I'm Belle French. I'm his . . . caretaker," Belle had answered.
"This is going to seem odd, but . . ." the woman was very hesitant. "Would you consider having lunch with me?"
Belle was surprised. "I . . . I . . ."
"I'm not a serial killer or insurance salesman or anything like that," the woman promised her. "I just need to talk with . . . someone." There was a long pause, "please."
What harm could one lunch do? "All right," Belle agreed reluctantly. She could always get up and leave and she was burning to know more about this woman – who was she, what was she to Mr. Stiltskin? "Tomorrow, Rosetta's Kitchen," she suggested.
"One o'clock?"
"All right."
"I'll get a seat. Ask for Miss Black." And the woman hung up.
Belle had not told Mr. Stiltskin about the call or the lunch date and now was feeling guilty about it, like she was cheating on the man or something. She shoved it aside. She really didn't think she was betraying him by having a public lunch with this mysterious Miss Black. And curiosity was consuming her. Why did her employer dislike, hate this woman so?
"And who are you going out with tonight?" he demanded to know.
She jumped. She had been lost, ruminating over her luncheon decision while she was getting ready for her evening date. She had dressed demurely in her usual style but with a little more elegance, a beautiful dark mauve crocheted dress that draped over a delicate cotton underdress. She wore white stockings and her usual black clogs. But she had put on makeup, mascara and lipstick and, he thought, a little cheek color.
"Oh. . . uh. . . . just someone," she hedged when answering and he immediately knew that something was up.
"Who?"
She became defensive. "You are not my father. I don't have to vet my dates to you," she told him.
He knew she was up to something. "Yeah, but you'd tell me straight out if you didn't think I wouldn't approve. Now who are you going out with?"
"It . . . it's no one. Just a nice guy I met."
He waited.
"He's a perfectly delightful man."
He waited.
"I'll have a good time and he'll get me right back here before midnight, I'm sure."
He waited.
"It's Jefferson," she finally caved.
"Ah," he didn't say anything else. He was not happy about this. Jefferson was a great friend, but not the kind of friend who would be there to bail you out of jail. No, Jefferson was the kind of friend who would be there sitting right next to you in the cell saying, "Damn, what a ride!"
And while generally Rumple could give a rat's ass about who Jefferson dated, he knew he had a (well-deserved) reputation for being a tom cat. He didn't trust him with his little Belle.
His little Belle.
Belle was still talking, "Listen, I know the guy has probably rolled up more towels and put them against more doors . . . and I've heard that he has this reputation and all, but he's so charming . . . well, I just couldn't keep saying no and I'm sure we'll just have a fun, little time and keep everything casual and . . . "
"I'm sure it will just be a fun, little time," he said dryly, repeating her words.
Belle seemed to relax. She had thought he would have objected more strenuously. He seemed . . . well, almost all right with her going out with Jefferson.
Jefferson was late, not too late, but late nonetheless. Belle, who seemed a bit nervous, had opted to go back to the bathroom for one last primping and wasn't in the living room when the doorbell rang.
Rumple answered it. Jefferson looked surprised. "Oh," he said. "I didn't realize . . ."
"What? It is my apartment," Rumple said, stepping aside to let his friend in.
"Yeah, but . . . uh . . . I'm here to pick up Belle," Jefferson explained. "We have a date."
"I know you do," Rumple said softly. "Before she comes back out, I'm guessing I don't have to tell you that . . . well, she's kinda important to me - precious you might say."
"Ah ha! So, you do have feelings for her," Jefferson was gleeful.
"I do, I admit it. Do you know how difficult it is to get really good help? Look at this place! Plus, she keeps my calendar and makes the best damn hangover cure I've ever had. You bet I have feelings for her. And I would take it very, very personally if anything happened that upset Miss French. I'm sure I can depend on your discretion and rely on you to take good care of her."
Belle came out and beamed at Jefferson.
Jefferson glanced at her, then glanced at Rumple.
"Like she was your baby sister," he promised and held out his hand to Belle.
Left alone, Rumple sat on his sofa. He tried to watch television. He rummaged through the fridge and then called up an order of Indian food. He ate the Indian food. He channel-surfed. He got up and inventoried his brushes. He cruised Netflix. He went back into the studio and rifled around, pulling out his most recent sketches and pastels – most of them were of Belle or were street scenes from Asheville. Then he went back to cable television and looked at On Demand. He went back into the studio again and again began sorting through his pictures.
It was interesting. The street scenes were different from earlier works. They seemed to have some element of brightness, of light. And as for those pictures of Belle – there were quite a few of them.
And they were the best things he'd ever done.
He bundled them up and put them into one of the many drawers in one of the studio's flat file cabinets.
As always, an ever grateful shout-out to those of you who are following, favoriting and, especially, to those of you who took your time to send me a review: arynwy, Grace5231972, Wondermorena, Erik'sTrueAngel and jewel415.
NEXT: Belle has an interesting date. Both Belle and Rumple get to their lunch dates. Rumple asks Belle for a favor.