A.N. I posted this chapter last Thursday, but an error message came up and (even though it appeared on the site) I was never notified that it had been posted and I don't think anyone was notified of the posting (I have not been getting postings for other people's work) - any who - I'm trying again. -twyla

The End of Days

Chapter 20

After Granny resolves an altercation with her shotgun diplomacy, the police arrive and a fire is discovered. Everyone is safe but the (insured) party room is a loss. Belle notes that Malcolm Stiltskin and Corby Black, Rumple's parents, leave the celebration together. Rumple contemplates proposing to Belle and has taken to carrying an engagement ring in his pocket but can't quite bring himself to propose. On the big Opening Night for the play, Belle gets a call that her father has had another heart attack and she is able to be with him when he passes quietly. Her friends take her back to the apartment and later, Rumple arrives unexpectedly.

There was a fresh flood of tears and Belle just collapsed into him. He held her up for a very long moment. Slowly he was able to maneuver her back to the bedroom. He got her talking about the circumstances of her father's death and slowly steered into some of her most pleasant memories of her father. She talked and talked and he just listened and held onto her. She cried sometimes and laughed a couple of times.

"You're the best boyfriend ever, you know that," she told him sleepily. It was about two in the morning.

"Well, I've got the best girlfriend, so it's easy," he told her.

She snuggled against him and he felt that she had drifted off. He eased himself away from her and gently removed her shoes and socks and her topmost little dress, leaving her in her undergarments and frilly slip. He then undressed himself, removing his shoes and socks, then taking off and hanging up his pricey tuxedo jacket and the pants. He took off his silk dress shirt and laid it on the back of a chair. Before joining Belle on the bed, he rummaged in the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket. Yes, there was a small blue box inside the jacket. He glanced at Belle, wanting to make sure she was asleep. He opened the box to look over the brilliant diamond and sapphire engagement ring. He'd worked with the jeweler to design the Art Deco ring – something as sweet and as unique as the woman he wanted to wear it.

He had finally decided, had planned, after the play's opening, to give it to her, to ask her to marry him. But now, well now, was certainly not the right time. He closed the box and put it back in his jacket pocket.

Texts

Belle woke up and realized several things. It was mid-morning the next day and she had been hearing an odd sound now over and over and over throughout the night. It was Rumple's cell phone, notifying him of texts coming in.

She stretched and then nestled back up against the man's warm body. He always smelled so nice to her and she knew that it wasn't from any particular soap or cologne – it was just how he smelt, spicy and something else, distinctly his own. It felt . . . comfortable.

"Uhhh," he moaned and turned into her, pulling her up against him, her back to his chest. "Damn, you smell good," he told her.

"So do you," she had to tell him. She smiled for a moment, but then, she remembered, she remembered what had happened.

Her father had died.

And the man she loved had left something very important to come home to comfort her.

"Your phone has been dinging all night," she told him, relishing the feel of his face, stubble and all, rubbing up against her neck.

"Shit, I meant to turn the damn thing off."

"Shall we see what all the messages are about?" she asked him.

"They can wait." She turned and saw his eyes, still a little sleepy, but dark and smouldering.

"Okay," she told him and turned herself around to face him. He wasn't sure, she could tell he wasn't sure whether or not she wanted him – at this moment – like this - but she moved into him, kissing him, running her hands down his arms. She whispered, "Yes. Please."

It was a slow, gentle love-making. He spent much of his time kissing her, telling her how beautiful she was, how much, oh, how much he loved her. This was so different from their frantic coupling in the hallway at Thanksgiving. This was a joining of desires, of minds, and feelings. This was for comfort, to let her know she had a place with him, could come to him for understanding. He had placed her under himself knowing that she favored this position and lifted her legs so that his penetration was complete and so, so satisfying for the both of them. Their eyes were locked and he watched her when she clasped him and, when her pupils dilated to fill the clear blue of her eyes, he allowed himself to release.

He rolled off of her and they lay together for a while, just holding on to each other.

"Thank you," she told him. "I think, I really needed just what you gave me. I needed to know . . . I wasn't alone."

"Not now. Not ever," he promised her.

Belle smiled at him and reached for his phone. "Come on here. You've got to be dying to find out the reviews." She handed him the phone.

He sighed. "Mixed feelings. Let me see." And he switched it on and began to scroll down.

He began reading pieces of the comments to Belle. "The best play on Broadway." "Stiltskin has not lost his touch." "The Sorcerer is back." "A must-see for the music, if nothing else." "Mesmerizing, fascinating and engrossing - extraordinary music." "Funny, sad and up-lifting."

He finished scanning the comments. "Sounds like people liked it." He put the phone aside.

"Liked it?! Sounds like they loved it!" Belle told him. "Congratulations. And I'm sorry you weren't there."

"It just adds to my aura as a difficult artist," he told her, shrugging it off.

Gathering

Rumple stood by her during the funeral and the gathering of her friends that followed. He was surprised to see his mother in attendance.

"Mother?" he approached her.

"Hello, Son," Miss Black greeted him. "Haven't heard from you in a while. Understand you have another hit Broadway play."

"Seems to be going that way," he told her. "I didn't think attending funerals was your style."

"Belle and I have an . . . understanding," she told him.

He must have looked at her with some confusion because she explained, "Belle keeps me up on what's going on with you. She seems to think that as your mother, I have a legitimate interest in your life."

"She's just being nice," he told her. "She's that way with everyone."

"Well, no one else is that way with me," his mother told him.

"And why do you think that is?" he asked.

"Probably because I'm a stone-cold bitch," she answered. "And I am, but I know there are certain people that are worth cultivating. My relationship with Miss French is quid pro quo. She keeps up her end and I keep my end. Of course, now that her father is dead, I'm not sure what I can offer her."

"Ah, you're here then to feign sympathy because you think she will drop your sorry arse now that you aren't financing her dad's recovery," he surmised.

She didn't answer right away. "Yeah," she admitted finally.

"Mother," he said, considering carefully what he said next. "Belle's not like that. She's genuinely nice. She does what she thinks is the right thing to do, whether or not she will get a pay-off or applause or anything."

Corby was clearly puzzled. "It's difficult being friends with someone like that. They might ask me for a favor . . . well, anytime . . . and I'd be expected to come through – just . . . because we're friends." She shook her head, "Is there any alcohol at this get-together?"

"No, Mother," Rumple explained wearily. "Not here at the church. But we are all coming back to my apartment and planning to get shit-faced there, if you want to stick around for the wake."

Corby nodded. She regarded her son closely. She didn't know him well – she didn't know him hardly at all. He was brilliant, talented and complex – in many ways very much like herself. "I don't suppose I can get away with smoking here either?"

Rumple shook his head.

"Yeah well, death is hard." She looked at her son again, "Still thinking of asking Miss French to marry you?"

He nodded. "Yes, but I have to pick the right time and . . . well, this isn't the right time."

"I guess not," she agreed.

"Are you still sleeping with my father?" he asked her.

"Occasionally," she replied. "He still has a certain charm and he can be amusing at times. And he continues to be very satisfactory as a lover. He's learned stuff since we were together when we were teenagers – so there's stamina and a repertoire. I really hope you inherited those things from him – you're going to need it with a young wife."

Rumple winced. This was not a comfortable conversation for him to have with his mother.

"You probably do need to get around to proposing at some point. There's always the possibility that she's the kind of girl who expects marriage and she'll drop you and move on if you lollygag too long."

"But what if it's too soon or she feels I'm smothering her or . . ."

"Communication," his mother interrupted him. "I've never had it in a relationship, but I understand talking with each other is better than just making suppositions. So she says 'no,' at least, you'll know where things stand. But she could say,'yes.'"

He stood back and looked at his mother. "Another sign of the End of Days. My mother is giving me good advice."

She looked back at him. "You do know that you are my sole heir. If you end up marrying this girl, please have the sense to get an ironclad pre-nup."

"Ah, now, there's my mother again – everything is back to normal. Of course, Mother," he replied. "I'm sure you'd be surprised to find that Belle would be the one to insist on a pre-nup."

Corby shook her head again, obviously struggling to understand Belle French, "So difficult."

Gallery

After the funeral, after the opening of the play, Rumple still found himself going back and forth between New York and Asheville. He hadn't wanted to leave Belle alone but now he was having to prepare for the Gallery Exhibit Regina was putting together. Belle had insisted she was managing, doing as well as could be expected. She had thrown her energies into her school work, knowing that this was what her parents would have wanted.

As the exhibit opening date approached, Rumple was grousing about having to spend more and more time in New York. Belle had promised she would come to New York, but the last few weeks of her course work kept her busy with tests and papers and it just never quite happened - not until Belle's Spring Break at the beginning of April. The exhibit was to open just as her Break started. Belle had a plan and packed a bag, anxious to re-connect with Rumple.

She had gotten a train ticket and her idea was to surprise Rumple. She had called Milah with her plan and Milah, as promised, met her at the station and took her directly to the Gallery. It was in a relatively new gallery in upscale Chelsea on West 22nd Street.

"He did send you a ticket, right?" Milah asked, as they pulled up to the Gallery.

"Ticket?" Belle asked.

"Yeah, there was an enormous amount of interest in this showing, especially after Jurgen was such a success, so the Gallery sold First Night Tickets for the showing. If you don't have a ticket, you might not be able to get in."

Belle was stumped. She didn't have a ticket. Rumple didn't even know she was going to be there. Ever the optimist, she replied to Milah, "Well, I guess, I hope, that he has phone on him and can get me in."

Milah wasn't so sure. "He's a bit careless with his cell. Listen, Belle, if you can't get in, call Uber and get a ride to my place. You can stay with Killian and me until we can get in touch with Rumple." Milah was sporting a new gold ring on her left hand.

"Thanks."

"And Belle . . ." Milah began. "I . . . I think I need to thank you for encouraging Rumple with Killian's play. If he hadn't stepped in, it would have been a disaster, I just know it."

"Oh, I didn't do or say much. He was already thinking about getting back into his music."

"No. I know Rumple. I was married to him. He's moody and capricious and he can be downright difficult. There's a lot he starts that he doesn't finish and he hates New York City. But somehow, you've gotten him to finish things and even to stay here for a little while, while it's best for his career. And it is you, no matter what you think, what you say, it's you. You've changed him, for the better. If nothing else, the man is no longer drinking himself into an early grave. Thank you. You've made it possible for me to have the life I wanted."

"Well . . ." Belle was embarrassed. "I just did what I thought was the right thing to do."

"I'll get your luggage up to his apartment. I know the concierge in his hotel," Milah told her as a final remark as she dropped Belle off in front of the Gallery.

Belle watched Milah drive off. She felt a cold wind hit her as she stood on the street, and hugged her thin coat to herself – it hadn't been this cold in Asheville when she'd left. Another gust hit her - quite a bit chilly for April, she thought. She turned back to the Gallery. It seemed large, like the city itself, really large. The buildings were large, the sounds were large, even the smells were large. Not a synesthesic herself, she had some small sense of what Rumple must feel in this place – it was overwhelming. She hoped that she would find Rumple, and soon. She approached the Gallery. There was a very long line of people waiting.

Oh dear. She was definitely going to have some problems getting in. She didn't think telling the doorman that she was a friend of the artist would get her very far.

She stood for a moment, debating what to do when she heard someone call her name, "Belle?"

She turned. She didn't know the person. Another person came up, "Oh my God, it's Belle."

"It is you, isn't it?" yet another person asked her.

"Everybody, it's Belle! The woman in the paintings! My God, you're even more gorgeous in person."

"What are you doing here?"

Belle looked at all the people. Everyone was staring at her, staring at her like they knew her. She swallowed. "I was hoping to get in and see Ru . . . Mr. Stiltskin. But he didn't know I was coming and I don't have a ticket," she explained.

"Oh, you shouldn't have to have a ticket, my dear," a woman told her. "You should be the guest of honor."

And Belle found herself ushered to the head of the line where everyone introduced her to the ticket-taker who looked at her closely.

"You are the woman that's in those paintings, aren't you?" he asked her.

"I guess. I know he did a lot of pictures of me and his manager was going to have them put on exhibit."

"Hold on a second," the ticket-taker said and then spoke through a walkie-talkie. It took a moment and then he nodded, "Sure, you can come on through."

Belle turned and smiled at the crowd of people who had helped her. "You all are so nice. Thank you."

Belle, dressed in her blue round-toed shoes with their little bows and her fluffy pink and blue-flowered dress slowly entered the room of glittering people. She was clearly not dressed appropriately for this crowd – all the men wore tuxedos and the women were in tight-fitting sparkling gowns.

Yet the crowd parted for her and a murmur began to build as she timidly made her way into the room.

Oh, my, there was Young Woman with a Book and The Mindful Cook and there was one of her sleeping – she didn't remember that one. All of these, many of the pictures, were already marked Sold.

People were beginning to point to her, much like those people outside.

A man stepped forth. "Would you mind? I just bought this painting and would love to get a picture of you standing next to it."

Belle nodded and stood next to portrait – the first one he had painted when she'd agreed to be a model for him.

She got pulled aside several more times as she made her way through the crowd. She was astonished at the number of paintings, drawings, sketches and what have you, he had completed of her. And people wanted her picture, even her signature, by their purchases.

She was a bit surprised - stunned. She had known that the pictures were of her but she'd had no idea – there were so many of them.

As she moved on through the room, she spotted him. He was standing dressed in jeans and long-sleeved tee with his back to her, but she'd recognize that fantastic rear end anywhere. She approached him. He was engaged in conversation with a gorgeous woman – Belle thought she recognized the woman, wasn't she an actress?

The woman looked at her and there was that same recognition that Belle had seen from the people outside and those inside the Gallery.

Rumple was still talking animatedly, when the woman smiled at him and gently turned him around. He immediately saw Belle and froze for just a moment.

Then he laughed and came towards her, "Belle, my Belle. I had no idea." And he gathered her up into his arms and kissed her right out in front of everybody. Belle was so wrapped up in the welcome of his kiss that she was deaf and blind to what else was happening around her, but there did seem to be a dull roar growing and a sense of flashing lights all around her.

When he pulled back, she found she had relaxed, nearly collapsing into his arms. There was also the sound of applause coming from the Gallery and Belle realized the guests were clapping for her and Rumple.

"They recognize you," he told her.

"It's strange. People on the street knew who I was," she whispered back to him.

"Yeah, this showing is a big success." He took her back to the side of the room. "I wasn't expecting you. I mean, of course, you're welcome, but . . . why are you here now?"

"Spring Break. I knew you were too busy to get down and I decided I wanted to see you. I wanted to be with you for this opening and I'm sorry I didn't quite make it to be here when the doors opened."

"Perhaps making a dramatic entrance worked out even better. People like meeting the model."

She leaned into him. "You don't have those pictures you did of me . . . the ones I wasn't wearing . . . anything . . . they're not here, are they?" She was looking around a bit nervous that she might see herself in the altogether.

"Oh, my dear, no. That first picture and the one we did together at Christmas are scheduled to be in special places in our bedroom. They're not for prying eyes." Then he added with a wicked grin, "Not until you're eighty and you can impress people with what a babe you were back in the day."

"I'm glad of that. It was all right for me to pose for you, but for anyone else to see it . . ." Belle winced. She looked around, "So this is going . . . okay?" she asked.

"It's very successful. There's a line of people to see the work and I've sold more than half the pictures after just a few hours. Not bad for a living artist. One of the reviewers named this my Belle Epoque, telling me that this is the best work he's seen from me – mature, insightful, and very beautiful. I told him that it wasn't me, it was my model."

Belle blushed, "You make me look sooo much better than I really do," she told him.

Suddenly serious, he corrected her, "No, no, I don't. At best, I'm getting a glancing, fleeting image of what you really look like."

They shared a moment but the crowds around them, the lights, the noises, brought them back.

"Belle, I have to be here a while longer. Would you want to stay or go back to the hotel where I'm staying?" he asked.

"Oh, I'd like to stay with you . . . if . . . if that isn't going to be a problem?" she answered immediately.

"Staying is fine, but I warn you, more of these people are going to want to meet you than me," he told her.

And he was quite correct. Belle quickly found herself surrounded. People who bought any of Rumple's work also wanted her to sign it and most wanted a selfie with her. Photographers hovered around snapping her picture nearly continuously.

Well, Regina had warned her that the showing would put her in the public eye, but she really had had no idea. She felt like the latest toy that had been handed over to the cat. She smiled, she nodded, she posed. It was becoming stressful and she was more than glad when the crowd thinned out and Rumple signaled the event was at an end.

"How do you stand it?" she asked him. "I felt like I was in a fishbowl and the cat was watching me."

"Yeah, it is a bit like that," he agreed. "I handle it because I don't care what any of these people think, but I suspect that's never going to be your attitude. Let's get something to eat. I know some little bistros that are open late. We'll stop at Fat Angels and get a bite."

"Fat Angels?" she asked him.

"Shhh," he told her. "It's not very well known – yet - so I can go there and not be mobbed. They have great coffee and wine and they should be able to feed us."

Belle followed him out into the disturbingly cold night – the temperature had dropped even from what it had been when she'd first arrived. They ended up at a small hole-in-the-wall coffee and wine bar. Rumple greeted Tony, the proprietor, who was pleased to see Rumple and herded them toward a table in the back. It was dark and secluded.

"Someone published that they had seen you here on some Facebook site. My business has tripled," Tony told them.

"Good for you, but that means I probably only have a few more times to come here before it gets too cloying," Rumple told Tony. "And I hate that, I really like your dirty chai."

"One of those for you tonight?" Tony asked.

"Absolutely. Belle, did you want coffee or wine?" he asked her.

"Water?" she suggested.

"No," Rumple cautioned her. "If any photographers see you in a coffee and wine bar drinking water, they'll assume you're pregnant."

A.N. This story is about to wind up, folks (estimating two more chapters to follow). As always continued thanks to those of you who are reading and following, and special thanks to those people who were kind enough to send a review: jewel415, arynwy, Wondermorena, Erik'sTrueAngel, and Grace5231975.

NEXT: Belle discovers New York City and Rumple (finally) makes his move.