Chapter 12
Avoid the Sticky
Belle's father has a long recovery process ahead of him. When Belle reveals to Rumple that his mother has offered to pay for an upscale facility in exchange for contact with him, Rumple agrees to meet with his mother. The luncheon is uneventful except for an agreement to meet every six weeks for lunch; however, Rumple is not left disposed favorably toward his ruthless mother. At a Girls' Night Out, Mary Margaret has revealed that she is to be married.
It wasn't unexpected, but the girls universally screamed and jumped up and down. Belle rejoiced too. She was genuinely happy for her friend.
"So how did he propose?" asked Ruby, getting everyone sitting back down in their booth.
"Oh, he talked with my dad first and did the whole restaurant, diamond ring in a glass of champagne thing. He went down on one knee and promised me his undying love and devotion and . . . oh, it was wonderful. Everything I'd ever dreamed of."
"That was the proposal you've dreamed of?" Emma asked obviously this was not the proposal she had dreamed of.
"Well, yeah. What do you dream of?" Mary Margaret asked.
"Oh, nothing really." Emma hesitated. "Well, maybe like we're on a roller coaster and he leans over and whispers in my ear, right as we're about to go over the steepest hill, 'Do you want to marry me?' And then we drop down, so I can't answer the question right away. And as we came up on the straight away, I can begin shouting, 'yes, yes, yes!'"
"All right," Mary Margaret replied neutrally. "What's your dream wedding like?"
"Justice of the Peace, City Hall. I'm just not into anything I might have to wear pantyhose for," Emma replied. "I suppose you want the white dress, walking down the aisle, somebody playing the harp . . ."
Mary Margaret interrupted her and pulled out a little notebook. "A harp player! I hadn't thought of that. That would be perfect. I'll have to see if I can find one."
The other three women looked at each other and smiled. They knew that Mary Margaret was going to be wholly focused on this wedding for the foreseeable future.
Emma asked Ruby, "How about you? Do you have a dream proposal, dream wedding?
"I used to figure the guy would roll over in the bed and swat me on my butt and say something like, 'Hon, what say we go for it?'" Ruby began. "But, well, being around Archie – I think he might go more for the formal proposal shtick – maybe on a little boat ride with fireworks in the background."
"But you're not ready to settle down, are you?" Belle asked. When Ruby didn't answer right away, Belle sat up and repeated herself, "Are you?"
"I don't know," Ruby answered slowly. "It has been different with Archie. He's really a lot of fun and, well, he has the same influence on me that you do, Belle. He makes me stop and think before I act, which has been good. And I . . . I think I've been good for him. He's shy and I get him to act just a little outrageously. We're good for each other. I'll have to see if I feel like this in a month, but right now, well, it feels really, really . . . right."
"So, you'd do the whole wedding chapel thing?" Mary Margaret asked Ruby.
"Well, I think I could handle the formal proposal, but then I'd insist we catch a flight out to Vegas and get married in the Hunka Hunka Burning Love Chapel and then, in my fantasies, I'd win a million dollars playing slot machines afterwards," Ruby continued.
"Sweet," Emma agreed. The three turned to Belle.
"Your turn," Ruby said to her.
"Oh, I've never. . . I . . . well . . . oh, it's silly."
"Oh please, now we have got to know," Ruby continued to press.
"All right," Belle reluctantly agreed to share. "I've always had this fantasy that I'm somewhere and it's night and it's cold and I'm riding in a carriage wrapped in a blanket and even though it's starting to snow, I'm staying all warm and toasty because of the blanket and, of course, the guy. And he brings out the little blue Tiffany box and proposes and then we get married on the top of the Empire State building."
The other three women sat still for a moment.
"That's actually kinda nice," Emma told her.
"Well, it won't happen," Belle shut it off. "I investigated the whole Empire State Building wedding option and, apparently, they only allow fourteen couples every year . . . on Valentine's Day . . . to be married there. And the couples are chosen by lottery. So, that part will never happen. And I can't imagine I'll ever be in a carriage somewhere when it's snowing. And, less likely, I will never be getting any ring from Tiffany's."
"But it's still a pretty nice fantasy," Ruby told her.
Going Nowhere
It was only after, when she got home that the malaise set in. Belle had managed in the quiet of the morning with no problems. She'd called and checked on her father and then she focused on the routine chores, the laundry and the general sprucing up, but once these mind-numbing tasks were completed, the depression hit. She ended up on the sofa watching an old movie.
When Rumple roused, he found her sitting in front of the big television set with a carton of ice cream for company. She was watching Casablanca and was crying. Her hair was in disarray and her nose was red. Her skin was blotchy and she was sniffing.
He called the one person he knew with a lot of experience with women.
"Jefferson?" he whispered from the kitchen, keeping an eye on his maid.
"What up?"
"It's Miss French," he began.
"She okay?"
"I don't think so. She's sitting on the sofa watching an old movie and eating ice cream out of the carton."
There was a brief silence. "All right. Now, this is important. What kind of ice cream is it?"
"How the hell should I know?! The kind that comes in a carton."
"Look to see if you can see what color it is," Jefferson patiently explained.
Rumple peered out and looked as well as he could. "It's something white. I can't quite see what it is."
"That's not good," Jefferson told him. "Women eat chocolate when it's something short-lived, like menstrual cramps or they find out an ex-boyfriend is getting married. White ice cream is usually reserved for something more serious." Jefferson hesitated. "Listen, is she putting anything into the ice cream?"
Rumple again stood and watched her a couple of moments. "Yeah, she's dropping something from a box into it and something . . . it looks like caramel topping."
"Two things, huh? You said she was watching a movie?"
"Yeah, it's something in black and white," Rumple told him.
"A black and white? Shit man, this is serious. You're going to need to take action. You could just try to get her high but seeing that it's Belle . . . well, she probably won't go for that. The other thing, and this is harder, get her to wash her face, change her clothes and take her out for a meal. Try to get her talking. And this is very important – don't try to fix her problems. Just listen and reflect back to her whatever she says. Look sorry and look interested."
"I think I can do that," Rumple told him.
"And, this is most important, really, really important. Don't end up in the sack with her. Do not. Do not. Do not. Women will start to come on to a man when they are this vulnerable, but you'd be taking the worst kind of advantage if you take her up on her offer. And she'll end up hating you. Be all flattered and promise her another time, but don't give in."
Rumple sighed. So much to remember. "All right then," he thanked his friend and hung up. He took a breath and went on out to the living room.
"Are you all right?" Why did he even ask that? Of course, she wasn't all right. It was the middle of the afternoon. She was watching an old black and white movie on television and was eating ice cream directly from the carton.
And she was crying.
And she looked like crap.
She shook her head and a fresh batch of tears seeped out of her.
He sat down next to her.
"Is your dad okay?" he had to ask.
She nodded.
"Did something else happen?" he asked. He was feeling very much out of his element confronted with the distraught young woman.
She nodded her head. She then dropped something he didn't quite recognize into the ice cream and topped it off by squirting the lot with caramel topping.
He hesitated. "Do you want to talk about it?"
She shook her head. No. She sniffed. She took a big bite of the ice cream.
He nodded and sat back next to her.
After a moment, she held out the gallon carton of ice cream and her spoon in his direction. "Wan' sum?" she asked.
He gave her a weak smile, "No, thanks," he told her. "What are you eating?" He was still puzzling over the something she had dropped into the carton.
"Dulce de leche ice cream with caramel topping and cracker jacks."
"Nice," he responded neutrally.
She took in a mouthful, sniffed and more tears seeped out of her eyes.
He didn't say anything but simply sat on the sofa next to her. It was after Ingrid Bergman had walked into the café and had Dooley Wilson play As Time Goes By, that Belle began to talk.
"Everybody's moving on except me," she told him.
"Really?" he said as softly as he could.
"Emma's got a steady boyfriend," she stopped and gulped, "And Mary Margaret's getting maaaarrrrrried! And even Ruby, Ruby might be settling down."
"Oooooh," he said with some sudden insight.
"And I'm left behind working as a maid," she told him, sobbing into her ice cream. "I'm never going to finish school. I'm never gonna get married. I'm going to be that loser friend who never amounts to anything. I'm going to be cleaning your toilets when I'm forty."
"Oh, Miss French," he told her. She was suddenly leaning onto him, sobbing into his shoulder. He found himself patting her while trying to avoid the sticky. "It's going to be all right."
"No, it's not!" she protested. "Look at my track record. A closet homosexual, a guy who's really in love with someone else, a fellow who's probably a lying, cheating abuser, a serial dater and the nice guys I dated, I got one date with them and they all went on to somebody else."
He wasn't up to identifying each of her former beaus, but fortunately he was spared making any comment.
"And now I'm spending my days and nights cleaning up after . . . " she looked up at him, "yooouu." And a fresh batch of tears started.
He continued to pat her. "You're feeling that you'll never meet the right guy, fall in love, get married, have children?"
She shook her head. She was nearly lying on him. His arm was around her and he doing his best to comfort her.
"It's hard, I know." He told her. "I'm a good deal older than you and I'm still wondering when I'll meet that special someone."
"But you've been married. And you've had all these hook-ups with these glamourous women," she said.
"Well, I admit there have been several times when I thought I'd met Miss Right . . ." he paused. "But it turned out that she was just Miss Right Now."
"Why can't I find a nice guy?" she said sullenly into his shirt. "I just want some man who'll respect me and who won't cheat on me. Oh yeah, he should have a job. That's real important."
"Ohhh," he said smiling down at her. "I can see what your problem is."
She pulled back and looked directly into his eyes. "What is it?" she asked her eyes widening.
"You've set the bar higher than pond scum," he answered, dead seriously.
She looked at him a moment and her lips twitched. "I don't believe that."
"Oh, it's true. Men, we always fail the expectations of our women. We're going to disappoint you. We don't mean to, well, most of us, well, some of us. But, it happens. Now," he put his hands on her shoulders. "Rather than allow you to induce a diabetic coma, I think I have an alternative. I've got a friend who should be able to hook us up."
Belle shook her head and pulled a face, "I don't want drugs."
"Oh . . . oh . . . of course not. You wouldn't want drugs. No, no, no, of course not. I . . . I wasn't offering drugs." Plan B then. "I. . . I was thinking maybe we could go out and get supper somewhere. You got some other dresses when Regina worked with you?"
She nodded and sniffed. "There was a pretty blue one, but it was kinda slutty. Regina had picked it out."
He drew back, "Regina picked it out. Well, that sounds like just the thing. Why don't you put that dress on . . . and some nice heels . . . and wash your face . . . and, maybe a little mascara and lipstick and . . . I'll get us reservations at Curate. We'll go out and have a good time."
"Your reputation won't be damaged by being seen with plain Miss French?" she asked him, wiping the remaining tears from her face.
"No, never," he promised. She got up and went on back to her room. He heard water running and soon enough she came out wearing the slutty blue dress.
He sucked in air. It was a slutty blue dress all right – tight, sparkly, quite revealing. She wore it well. She'd managed to run a comb through her hair and had stuck the unruly curls onto the top of her head so they fell in delightful abandonment around her face. She'd cleaned up and, he knew it was for him, she'd put on the mascara and some raspberry lipstick she'd been given when she'd been made up for Cora's soiree. She'd found some black heels – He hadn't been aware she was able to walk in heels, much less owned a pair.
"Well?" she asked, with one last sniff.
"Bellisima," he told her. "You look great. Come on, we'll get a nice meal and give you some time off and we'll talk about your future."
He offered Belle his arm and the two descended the stairs and walked on up to the little restaurant on Broadway.
"They know me here and I was able to get us a nice table," Rumple told her.
They were escorted to a small table in the back of the restaurant and placed their orders for several different kinds of tapas. Rumple also ordered a bottle of red wine to go with their meal.
"You're embarrassing me," Belle told him softly. Why was he being so nice to her? Did he just feel that sorry for her?
"Why? What am I doing?" he asked.
"Staring at me. Maybe I'm losing it, but I feel like everyone is staring at me."
"They are. You look amazing," he told her.
Oh, she so wanted to believe him. But she knew she wasn't all glamorous like Milah or even Zelena. She was just Belle.
But it was the nicest, easily the most expensive, supper Belle had ever partaken of. Plate after plate of food, followed by dessert, all with the occasional glass of fine wine. She was enjoying herself and feeling less sorry for herself.
"Going out with you is much better than wallowing in a carton of ice cream," she told him well into the evening.
"High praise, indeed," he replied. Something had caught his eye. "Damnation," he swore under his breath. "I didn't think that scum would still be in town." Anger crossed his face. "Belle, I apologize in advance, but I'm afraid your picture may end up on some websites and in some less savory publications."
"What do you mean?" she looked around.
"Someone's been taking pictures of us while we've been eating and enjoying ourselves," Rumple stood. "And there he is." He was looking a red-faced, pudgy man who was loitering near the bathroom. He got up and propelled the man over to Belle.
"Meet Smee, my least favorite free-lance reporter," Rumple remarked to the Belle.
"Hey, I wasn't following you or anything," the man replied. "I was just in here and saw you with this woman I didn't recognize. You two dating?"
"We're having a private dinner, Smee. You're not invited."
"Oh, come on. This is the finest piece I've ever seen you with. She's the one who was with you at Mill's big shindig, isn't she? Who is she?" Smee was ogling Belle who was beginning to feel very exposed and uncomfortable.
"My dining companion." Rumple stood. "Now, are you going to leave or do I need to call the manager . . . or the police . . . or an ambulance?"
"I'll leave. I'll leave," the man scampered out.
Rumple sat back down. "Shit!" He rubbed his face. "I never meant this to happen."
"What's happened?" Belle asked.
"There are a couple of less - professional – news, maybe I should say quasi-new organizations who keep tabs on me. When I moved away from New York, I thought I had moved away from them, but they followed me. They started back with me when I had the little affair with Cora Mills. It was something that some segments of the population seemed to have some interest in. Why I don't know. Famous artist and his affairs or some such. They would sometimes follow me around and get pictures of me. They especially seem to like to get pictures of me when I'm out with a woman. Zelena thrived on it but . . . well, I never wanted it, any of it."
"So, what will happen?" Belle asked.
"They usually get things out on their twitter accounts. They have a number of people who follow them. Sometimes, but I'm hoping this won't happen, things will get picked up by reputable news organizations and you can open your search engine and find a picture of yourself looking back at you."
"Oh dear,"
"Oh dear, is right, Miss French. They will be speculating on exactly who you are and what our relationship is and assuming the worst, well, assuming that we're . . . that we're lovers."
"Oh dear," Belle repeated herself.
Rumple sighed, "Let's finish up our meal as best we can and forget about this bit of ugliness."
Belle agreed and helped him finish off the bottle of wine. He paid and escorted her back to his apartment. Belle stood a moment in the front hall of his place.
He looked her over and alarmed that she wasn't saying anything, he spoke, "You all right?"
"I'm fine. Thank you so much for taking care of me today," she spoke shyly. "I know I was an absolute mess earlier but now I feel . . . . I feel fine."
"You look fantastic,' he told her. She had never looked more beautiful to him, never more desirable.
And Jefferson's voice, his warning about not coming on to her, not sleeping with her was drowned out in the symphony of violins and cellos, singing, rising jubilantly, celebrating, rejoicing.
They stood facing each other in the darkened hall. If she would only lift her head they would be within an inch of their lips touching. He would just have to bend down a little . . .
She lifted her head.
He bent down.
Their lips touched.
A.N. I remain amazed that anyone reads anything I've written. Honestly – I have so much stuff in notebooks under my bed that will never see the light of day for . . . oh, so many reasons . . . . When I push one of the fledglings out of the nest, it does make me happy that others read (and especially comment on) what I have written (and such nice things these people say). Thx to Wondermorena (who gave me a great idea I'm going to do my best to incorporate), Grace5231973, Erik'sTrueAngel, jewel415 and arynwy for their very kind comments on Chapter 11.
NEXT: Things fall apart (a bit). Regina makes a discovery. Neal talks with Belle.