Chapter 22
Day Forty-Two.
"When the custody battles die down, I'd like you to represent me," Belle says casually as they're folding the laundry. She smiles her little pursed-mouth smile at him. "Of course, I may have to pay you in installments: I know how expensive your rates are."
"Represent you?" He's caught only half of what she's said: he's distracted by the pair of pink silk panties he's folding. Or attempting to fold. He blushes and sets his awkward attempt aside, reaches into the basket for another garment and what his hand, with a dirty little mind of its own, latches onto this time is a bra. Okay, at least he has some notion of how this can be folded.
"Well, us, really." She's folding his boxers without the least bit of embarrassment, and why not? She's been folding his underwear for years. "Jo and I want to file for divorce."
"Divorce?" he echoes, letting the bra fall into his lap. Hope surges in his chest: is this a step forward for his relationship with Belle?
"We've been talking about it with Archie. We think it would give us a sense of closure. Besides, even though it was a sham marriage, the property we own together is real. A divorce might simplify some matters, you know, financially."
"Yes, it might."
"Would you handle it for us? It should be pretty simple. We've already decided what to do with the house and the cars."
He attempts the bra again. "Yes, I can do that. I'll start the paperwork tomorrow."
"We can have him over for dinner again," Belle dimples. "I bet you don't hear that every day: 'Honey, let's have my husband over for dinner so we can plan our divorce.'"
He chuckles. "No, I suppose not." He brightens as a new thought pops into his imagination. In the old country, of course surnames were unheard of, but here they're part of the landscape. In his mind he tests the sound of the name "Belle Gold." Two strong single syllables. Firm, decisive. Belle Gold. The words create a beautiful, shining image. He clears his throat. "Have you thought about changing your last name?"
She shrugs. "I know it's not really my name, but for convenience sake, I'll go back to French."
Coyly, her bra in his hands, he glances across the laundry at her. "Perhaps someday you'd like to change it again?"
Now she finally blushes. "I think I would. Someday." She rescues her bra from his fumbling hands.
He has a new date to write into his calendar. An uncontested divorce takes 60 days to process in this state.
While Belle's in the shower, Gold grits his teeth and attempts, one more time, to conquer the iPad. He's watched Belle often enough by now to know what to do. He jabs at the power slider, gets the contraption turned on, swipes his finger across the "slide to unlock" control, and suddenly all these little pictures come flying at him, like tiny sigils. He's versed in all the languages of magic: surely he can translate Apple-ese. He stabs at the sigil called Photo Booth and jerks back when a huge eye blinks at him. Hastily he pokes another sigil; now he discovers it's 6 a.m. and 56 degrees in Paris. He breathes a sigh of relief. Finally, something useful he can do with the iPad–that is, if Bae is a Frenchman.
The bed dips and her hair drips on his pajama shirt as Belle sneaks up behind him. She leans against his back, resting her chin on his shoulder. Her arm snakes around his so that she can touch the screen. "Let me show you."
His pride would have him denying the need for instruction, except her breath tickles his ear and she's pressing so close against his back. Her hand rides on top of his as she guides him. "These are called apps. This is a browser. It lets you get to the Internet. All you have to do is touch it; just the lightest touch will turn it on. You see? You don't have to poke it. Just rest your fingertip there, softly, very softly, and it will respond to you instantly."
Her breath flutters his hair. Through his pajama shirt he can feel her warmth, her softness, the slow rise and fall of her chest as she breathes, the vibration as she speaks. "When you're ready for the next step, just give the screen a little flick with the tip of your finger, just the tip, slowly, easily, and it will respond to you. The page will move for you, up or down, any way you like. If you get too forceful or impatient, you see, you'll lose control of it. Slow and gentle. Learn how it responds to your touch before you try to speed things up."
"Uhm, yeah. . . ." He gulps.
"Don't be nervous. You won't hurt it. It responds to a delicate touch, but if you do get carried away and move too fast, you won't break it. You'll just lose your place and have to start over. Go ahead, darling. Run your finger down, like this." She grasps his index finger and strokes it down the screen. Her damp cheek presses against his and as her hand moves his, her cheek rubs against him. Her hair is wet and warm.
"You might be awkward at first, but soon enough you'll learn how to manipulate it with just your fingertips. You're already at an advantage over other men, because of your spinning." She lifts his hand and runs her fingertips across his. "You have such strength in your hands, and yet"–she runs his fingertips across her lips–"your fingers are so sensitive." She releases his hand, but before he can complain, both her arms slide around him and her fingers open the top button on his pajama shirt. "It won't take you long at all to know just how much pressure to exert. . . and when. . . and where." With each pause, another button opens.
She pushes the iPad off his lap. "Turn around, Rumple."
He can't speak, but he certainly can turn around.
She's not wearing pajamas. Or a nightgown. Or a towel.
He's smiling when he awakens the next day, even after he glances at the clock and realizes he's overslept. Schedule be damned: he'll skip breakfast today so that he doesn't have to disturb his beloved, her head pillowed on his chest, her left hand sprawled across his arm.
A strip of pale skin encircles the third finger of her left hand. He knows that she and Dove took off their wedding rings on the second day after the curse broke; those rings, like many other rings from curse marriages, are on sale in the pawnshop. Gold doubts if any of the rings will ever sell locally; perhaps one day he'll put them up on Ebay.
There is, however, hidden in a locked drawer in his basement, another ring that's waiting to be called into use.
Belle stirs and kisses his chest. Her left hand slides down his body and a chuckle rumbles in her throat.
He'll just have to skip his morning shower too. Then again, they could save fifteen minutes if they showered together. . . .
Day Forty-Six.
This morning as he walks from home to the courthouse, he passes a group of children playing baseball in the park. He pauses to watch. He wonders if Bae plays baseball. He imagines taking Bae to a baseball game and eating hot dogs as they shout rude comments about the umpire's eyesight.
Then again, Bae might be a full-grown man by now. Maybe he'd like to go to a ball game with his old man anyway.
Or maybe he'd like his old man to magically turn back the clock, make him fourteen again. Let them share together all those years they've missed, all those father-son traditions of this world that Gold has learned about through television. He could turn the clock way, way back, make Bae an infant, so that Bae's only memories of a mother would be memories of Belle. They deserve that, don't they?
It would be the best use of magic Rumplestiltskin's ever made. Of course, he'll let Bae choose: if the boy wants to remember Milah, so be it. Gold understands: despite everything Malcolm did and didn't do for him, Rumplestiltskin wants to remember his father, and Bae might feel the same about his birth mother.
But what a great gift it would be, to give Bae Belle as a mother, to give Belle Bae as a son.
Gold walks on, humming to himself.
Day Fifty.
Sometimes Belle comes with Gold to court, especially if there's a young child involved: she's sweet and quiet and small, and those qualities make her unthreatening; she brings picture books and stuffed animals and a pocketful of candies with which to amuse a child in the judge's chambers while the parents hash things out in the scary courtroom. This is one of those days, as the Nesmiths take on the Bilsons; Belle sits on a playmat the judge has purchased just for such occasions and she entertains four-year-old Micky with Matchbox cars and Where the Wild Things Are.
When the Bilsons come to take Micky home, under the watchful eye of a social worker—for Micky's too young to remember his Enchanted Forest parents—Belle is slow to release him. Gold is puzzled at first as he helps Belle rise to her feet, but then Micky throws his arms around Belle's waist to give her a goodbye hug, and Gold gets it. Belle waves as the Bilsons carry Micky away. Gold stares after them. Whatever the judge and the Nesmiths are saying goes right over his head.
With his deep brown eyes and shaggy haircut, Micky could pass for Bae's little brother.
Belle packs up her playthings. "Excuse us, please. We've got another appointment."
She takes her beloved home and prepares him tea, allowing him his silence. And when he stares unseeing into his mug and releases a strangled sound, she takes him in her arms. "Someday, sweetheart. . . ."
She presses her cheek to his chest.
Someday is too far away.
That night, when Belle is sound asleep, Gold slips away from her, soft-foots it downstairs to the study and takes the egg out of his safe. He can feel the magic seeping into his pores already, and why not? It's True Love bottled up in this vial: the most powerful magic in existence, ever.
He encases the vial again, carries the egg with him back upstairs. He'll throw on some clothes and the stained work boots he wore when he painted the nursery. He'll shift the car into neutral and push it out of the garage and down the street, and when he's a block away he can safely start the engine without waking Belle.
He carries a flashlight in the glove compartment. He'll need that: it's a rugged path to the well that sits above the waters leading to Lake Nostros.
He sneaks back into the bedroom. Moonlight pours through the open drapes and pools on his sleeping beloved. Belle is clutching his pillow as a substitute for him. Her eyelids flutter under a dream. He has to set the egg down on his dresser. He's going to have to dress here: he can't carry the clothes, the shoes, the egg and his cane all the same time. As he slides the sweatshirt over his head, he smells the fabric softener Belle's been using.
Memories of all the little changes she's made, both as Belle and as Belinda, in his life over the years flood over him with that scent. She's brought music and dance and laughter and tears like he's never known; he wouldn't give up a single moment of their life together, not for all the gold in all the realms, not for immortality, not even for magic.
But if he had to—though he doesn't think he will have to—he'd give up his future with her for Bae.
He finishes dressing and tucks his shoes and his egg under his left arm, gathers his cane and makes his way in the dark back downstairs. He manages to open the front door without its usual squeaking, and then he's on the porch, stuffing his feet into his shoes, then he's on the lawn, his jeans cuffs collecting dew from the grass, and then he's in the garage, sliding the door up, and then he's in the Cadillac, behind the steering wheel.
He slips the key in the ignition and shifts the gears into neutral. He's sliding back out of the car, ready to push it into the street, when he catches sight of his own eyes in the rearview mirror. Instead of an excited gleam, there's a sadness in them, and underneath the sadness, an anger.
He stares at his reflection a long time. Then he sighs a shuddering sigh and shifts the gears back to park.
It can't be Belle or Bae. He can't live with himself if he has to make that choice. It has to be Belle and Bae.
He removes the key from the ignition and returns to the house.
Day Fifty-Three.
They awaken to a pounding on the front door. "If that's an aluminum siding salesman again, you have my permission to kick him to the curb." Belle pulls the covers over her head.
He drags himself up, yanks on his pajama bottoms and hobbles to the window. Through bleary eyes he peers down at the driveway, where a yellow Bug is parked. "It's Emma," he grunts. "If she's come to mooch breakfast—" and then he catches his breath. "It's Emma."
Belle shoots up out of bed and fumbles for her robe. "It's Emma! Oh, gods, Rumple, do you think—"
He grabs his cane and hurries down the stairs.
The sheriff holds a brown envelope in one hand and a cardboard tray carrying Styrofoam cups in the other. In her teeth she carries a paper bag from Granny's. As soon as he opens the door, she sets these items on the dining table. "I brought breakfast." She looks Gold up and down, then pats his bare chest. "Not too bad for a three-hundred-year-old dude. You work out?"
"What brings you here at this ungodly hour of—" Right on cue, the grandfather clock chimes eight times. Then Gold drops the cranky act and reaches for the envelope. "Is this—Emma, did you find him?"
"No, sorry, I didn't mean to get you stirred up. It's good, but not that good."
"Oh." He doesn't open the envelope yet, but he doesn't release it, either.
"Maybe you ought to put some clothes on." She eyes his bare feet and chest again. "Not that it's not a nice view, but. . . ." She picks up the cardboard tray. "I'll go in and get breakfast on the table."
"Oh," he repeats, deflated. He gives her back the envelope. "Yeah. Make yourself at home, Emma."
He passes Belle on the stairs. "We have time to get dressed," he informs her.
She slumps against the wall. "Oh." She turns around and follows him back to the bedroom.
When they gather in the kitchen ten minutes later, freshly scrubbed and fully dressed, Gold and Belle find cups of coffee and a plate of bagels waiting. "Sorry, no lox," Emma apologizes. "Granny didn't even know what lox are. But she threw in a tub of cream cheese, so it's not a total loss."
"Thank you, Emma, that's nice," Belle seats herself as Gold fetches milk and sugar for the coffee. "What do you have there?" She peers at the envelope. "From Boston."
"The age progressions." Emma plops a blob of cream cheese on her bagel and licks her knife. "I haven't opened them yet."
"We should eat first," Belle suggests. "We don't want to make a mess of the pictures."
"Now, remember, the artist didn't have much to go on, just that sketch and the photos of you," Emma cautions Gold. "But it should help."
"It'll be fascinating to see what he might look like now," Belle says. "Even though we don't know what age he might be." She and Emma continue to chat over bagels, but Gold has fallen silent. He picks at his bagel and stares at the envelope.
Finally the women finish breakfast and the three of them move to the living room, where they sit side by side on the couch, Emma in the middle. She slices the envelope open with her fingernail and withdraws a folder. Laying it on the coffee table, she spreads the contents out—and sucks in a deep breath. When she exhales, a string of cuss words comes out with the breath.
"What is it?" Belle asks.
"You know something," Gold surmises. "Tell us."
"It's just that, in these later pictures, he looks a lot like someone I used to know." Emma squints at one of the drawings. "A lot. Right down to the killer grin."
"Who, Emma?" Gold demands.
"A coincidence; it's got to be," Emma mutters. "One hell of a coincidence." There's hurt beneath the perplexity in her eyes as she looks from Belle to Gold. "He—Baelfire—here, in his thirties—he looks just like Henry's father."