Chapter 40
They drop in at La Tandoor rather than cope with the crowd at Granny's. The restaurant isn't open yet, but Gold need only rap on the door to the apartment above it, where the owner/chef lives: Gold is a silent partner in this business. "Belle and I are in desperate need of a decent cappuccino," he says, politely apologetic.
"Of course. Good morning, Belle. And if it's not too much of an imposition, I'd greatly appreciate your opinion of my new chocolate croissant recipe." Chef Francoise Baguette leads them to the restaurant's back door and takes them into the kitchen. "Your palate never fails me, Mr. Gold."
"Mmm, it smells so wonderful here," Belle comments as Francoise settles them in tall chairs at the worktable.
As she bustles about, preparing the coffee and a "little gnosh" and signing for a delivery of live lobsters, Francoise asks them, "Were you at that horrid display this morning?"
"Regina's exile? Yes."
"Dreadful," Francoise shudders. "The whole thing, dreadful. Surely there's a more civilized way of punishing offenders." She pauses as she's slicing cantaloupe, sets her knife down and drops her voice. "Mr. Gold. . . there's a rumor that the same will be done to you."
Gold raises an eyebrow and exchanges a surprised glance with Belle as Francoise continues, "If it comes to pass—if they put you on trial—I want you to know, I'll testify for you."
"You would–Ms. Baguette, that would be. . . both very generous and very ill advised. I have many enemies, and your business depends upon the goodwill of the community."
Francoise picks up her knife and hacks away at the cantaloupe. "I don't care. I mean, I do; my family depends on the living we make here. But I'd still be flipping burgers if you hadn't fronted me the money for this building. You're a bastard, no question about that, but your dealings with me have been honorable—"
"And as profitable for me as for you," Gold points out.
"Well, I don't suppose anything I'd do would make much difference, but I just wanted you to know, I'll stand for you."
"Thank you, Ms. Baguette." Gold sips his cappuccino to hide his smile. Beneath the table, Belle's knee nudges his and Belle smirks at him.
While Belle gives the house a thorough dusting in preparation for its closure, Gold runs errands. His first is to the shop, which Dove is preparing for a grand reopening. "Josiah, Belle and I will be leaving for New York tomorrow."
Josiah continues to polish a silver tea set as they talk. "I know. You and her have been talking about it for weeks."
Gold cocks his head. "You understood what we were saying?"
"I was a bird, but I wasn't deaf," Josiah shrugs. "Don't worry, Mr. G., I'll collect the rent and keep the shop going and check your house from time to time."
"Thank you. There's something else. . . ." He fiddles with the strings on a banjo that's waiting to be priced, then sucks in a breath. "I'm going to propose to Belle tonight."
"Oh." Josiah doesn't look up from the teapot.
"Josiah, you're my friend. I don't mean to hurt you—"
"No, it's okay." He sets down his polish rag. "I talked about this with Archie, months ago. I knew it was coming; it's right. You and her are right together. I had a great marriage with a great lady, but it's like she. . . like she passed away, you know? Belle—she's not my Bindy. They're different people. They don't even look the same, not to me. I can't explain it. When I look at Belle, I don't see my wife any more. I see yours."
"I'm sorry."
"I'm not." Josiah looks at Gold steadily. "You shouldn't be. Belle deserves to have what Bindy and I had, and I can see she has that with you. So I'm happy for her and you. I'm okay." He stands and offers his hand. "Congratulations, Rumplestiltskin."
Gold needs to buy flowers and there's only one place to do it.
He could place an order online, but there's something else he needs to do too. Personally, he doesn't care what Moe French thinks of him, but he does care what Moe French thinks of Belle, because no child should have to deal with her father's rejection. Gold stands outside Game of Thorns, his hand on the door handle, planning what he will say: some solemn words of wisdom about what will be lost when a father doesn't respect his child enough to listen to the child. Gold jerks the door open and the shopkeeper's bell jangles angrily.
Moe's at the cash register. Gods. Gold had forgotten how tall the man is, and how heavy. Built like a Packers linebacker, not a florist. Gold summons his magic and experiences a moment of panic when the power doesn't come. Maybe he should leave, come back later with Josiah behind him. Moe's probably got twenty pounds on Jo, but Jo's a good three inches taller.
"You." Moe comes out from behind the counter.
Caught, Gold hefts his cane: if he strikes first and fast. . . .
"What are you doing here, you son of a bitch?"
"Perhaps you'll be so kind as to inform me which of my many offenses has earned me that appellation."
"We were happy. She had a good marriage, a husband who was kind to her, a son-in-law I could be proud of. I was going to have a grand-" Moe's voice starts as a hiss but ends as a gulped sob. "Grandchild. You took that away from all of us."
"That marriage wasn't real. The baby wasn't real." Setting his cane down firmly on the tiles as he walks, so that the tapping speaks of a confidence he doesn't actually have, Gold brings himself with striking distance. The closer he gets to Moe, the taller the man seems to grow. "But what was real, in the Enchanted Forest as well as here, were our feelings for each other. For thirty years I've loved Belle, and she's loved me. However shaky the start of our relationship was, we came to know each other, respect each other, care for each other, and finally, love each other. And it's our intention to continue to take care of each other for the rest of our lives."
"Oh, no—" French's hammy fists ball up, but he doesn't raise them yet. "No! I'm not going to let you say it!"
"Sir Maurice." Gold draws himself up to his full height; he needs every fraction of an inch to hold his own against the man whose meat-cleaver fists hover just an arm's length away from Gold's nose, which is beginning to itch in anticipation of oncoming pain. "Sir. I love your daughter with all my heart and all my soul. Everything I have and everything I am, I would gladly give to her, if she agrees to take it. I will care for her, protect her, listen to her counsel and be guided by her as long as life and the gods allow. I'm not asking your approval. Belle is quite capable of making up her own mind. But because you are her father, I owe you the courtesy of informing you of my intention to propose to her tonight, and—"
"No! I won't hear it! You took her from me then, turned her against me, and you're doing it again."
Gold understands now. It's not Moe's hatred for Rumplestiltskin that led him to hang up on Belle repeatedly, that's kept his door locked to her when she tried to visit after the curse broke. Well, perhaps it's partly that—daring to raise his eyes to this mottled-faced man, Gold sees no indication of a softening of the disgust Moe feels for both the imp and the pawnbroker. But mostly, it's an overwhelming sense of loss: Moe thinks he's already lost a grandchild to death, and now fears he will lose his daughter to a spiteful marriage.
"Sir Maurice, I'm sure you've heard the talk. This town is full of it. It's true I created the curse that brought us here. I did so, believing that Belle was dead—that you'd caused her death. I found out recently that wasn't the case, and I'm sorry that I took the word of someone I knew better than to trust, and I treated you according to a lie. It wasn't me who created the scenario that put Belle in a fake marriage; believe me, I'm the selfish bastard you think I am, and if I'd known Belle was alive, I would have moved heaven and earth to keep her with me. But the curse is broken now; we are—changed. I am changed. I try to remind myself of that, every waking minute. But one thing that hasn't changed: I created the curse so I could find my son, so I could tell him that I love him and I'm sorry. What you're feeling, I get it; the fear that your life has spiraled out of control and your child is lost to you forever. But she's not lost; she lives in a pink house at the edge of town, and she's waiting for you there. She wants you to be part of our wedding. She wants you to be part of our life. And believe me, there's no way I'd prevent a father from reuniting with his child. I don't know when or where we'll marry; I don't know where we'll live, after we find my son; but whenever and wherever it is, you're welcome. That's all I came to say."
Moe gapes at him; Gold has no idea what the man is feeling or thinking. Gold waits a long moment, in case, but Moe's still staring, face still mottled: anger? Shame? Gold turns around to walk out, but in the corner of his eye, he spots a bouquet, and that reminds him of his other mission, so he turns back around. "Mr. French, I need to buy some flowers."
Moe's mouth twists but the shopkeeper in him responds, moving behind the counter. "To—propose with?"
Gold nods. "Red roses."
Moe runs his hands uselessly along the countertop. "She's always been partial to red roses."
"Good thing for us, she doesn't mind the thorns."
Moe blinks rapidly, pretending to study the contents of his display case. "She used to say the rose wouldn't be as exciting without the thorns. I had a fresh delivery this morning. How many do you want?"
"Thirty-one."
"Odd number."
"Yes. Will you sell them to me?"
"No."
Gold's taken aback as Moe leaves the counter, starts to walk into the workroom. Scowling, Gold proceeds to the exit, causes the shopkeeper's bell to jingle as he opens the door to leave, but French calls to him from the back of the shop, "Wait there."
Gold closes the door and waits.
Several minutes later, French returns with a huge bundle of long-stemmed red roses, wrapped in gold paper, tied with a white bow. Their fragrance and their beauty, both strong and fragile at the same time, overshadow everything else in the shop. French starts to hand the bundle to Gold, but it requires two arms to carry, and the cane catches the florist's eye. "You've got your car with you? I'll carry them out."
Unlocking the passenger door, Gold says, "She'll love them."
"Yeah." French lays the roses onto the passenger seat with as much care as he'd take if he were buckling in an infant. "Hey. Do you know if Belle has any lunch plans?"
Gold closes the door gently. "She doesn't."
"Mind if I—"
"I hadn't planned on going home until late this afternoon. I'm sure she'd enjoy having a lunch companion."
Moe nods at the flowers. "Maybe I could get her out of the house for the rest of the day. Give you a chance to sneak those inside."
"Yeah." Gold doesn't dare say anything more. Détente, like the pedal of rose, is a fragile thing; too much hot air will damage it.
He has a half-dozen more errands to run before he's collected all the items he needs for tonight. He takes them to the shop and hides them away; though he expects Belle will be too occupied this afternoon to visit the shop, he won't take a chance on someone else dropping in and starting a rumor about his suspicious purchases. Dove helps carry the bounty in, then he splits his submarine sandwich in two, sharing half, as Gold puts the kettle on and brings out the box of dominoes.
Dove doesn't ask if he's nervous, nor does he ask how Gold will propose. He takes it for granted, the proposal's just a formality. Instead, he talks about a 1934 Plymouth he's helping Mike Marine restore. Gold just smiles and lays down a tile.
Emma phones, first to report that the dwarfs encountered no difficulty yesterday with the boundary, and that Regina phoned Henry last night to give him her address in Teaneck. The first visit will take place after school lets out in June.
"Hey, Gold? I got a call about you today. Someone saw you go into Game of Thorns and come out with a boatload of flowers. Anything I should know about?"
"No lawbreaking took place, I assure you, sheriff."
"Always good to hear. I also heard you went into La Tandoor and came out with a bottle of champagne."
"No lawbreaking there, either. I'm an owner."
"Yeah, I know. Not suspecting you of anything—except maybe a romantic evening with a lady friend. From the size of that bouquet, I'd say a really big romantic evening."
"Suspect all you want, Sheriff. I'll confess nothing."
"Until she says yes."
"At which time, you may expect some 'disturbing the peace' complaints from my neighbors as I shout the news from my rooftop."
Emma chuckles. "Good luck, Gold. Hey, if she does say yes, I mean, won't you want a little privacy in New York?"
"One moment, Ms. Swan." She hears his phone being set down, footsteps and the tapping of his cane receding, then several minutes later, returning. "Check your email, Emma."
The phone against her shoulder, Emma flicks her fingers across the keyboard of her desktop. In a minute she's mumbling, "Yeah, got it, opening your message." In another minute she's reading the forwarded message aloud: "'Dear Mr. Gold, Thank you for your reservation of two Superior Courtyard King Rooms for Friday evening through Sunday. We hope you and your guests will enjoy your stay at the Mark.' Yada yada yada. . . ." In another minute she's gasping. "'Black-and-white marble sheathed bathrooms evoke Art Deco glamour. . . furnishings of ebony, sycamore and nickel. . . fine Italian linens and bedding. . . marble bath with deep-soaking tub—' Ohhhh. . Gold, this is too much. . . "
"We also have dinner reservations at Le Bernardin."
"Gold, this is—you know me: jeans and boots. I don't have the right clothes for a place like that."
"'Business professional' is the preferred attire. The skirt and blazer you wore at court are appropriate." He gives her the last little push: "Besides, they serve cinnamon ice cream."
"I'll think about it."
"Of course, if you and Bae would really prefer a more casual place, I hear there are a great many pizza parlors in Soho. Whatever makes the two of you comfortable, that will make Belle and me happy."
"Oh, gee, what if Neal and I don't get along? You're taking an awful lot for granted."
"On faith, Emma. Yes, I'm taking an awful lot on faith, but what else do we have in this world? Seven a.m., Emma. We'll pick you and Henry up." He clicks off before she can argue.
With the house silent, Gold moves about preparing the dining room: china, crystal, silver, candles. Warming in the oven is trout almandine and rice; chilling in ice, a bottle of Dom Perignon White Gold. Gold's wearing his tux. At seven-fifteen, he sets Rachmaninov's Symphony No. 2 on the stereo, turns off the electric lights and lights the candles. At seven-thirty, he's standing in the foyer, thirty-one long-stemmed red roses in his arms, one for each year he's known her and loved her.
At seven-thirty-five, she opens the front door. Knock, and it shall be opened to you.
She's dusty and tired, he can see that, and she's in jeans and a Boston U sweat-shirt, and maybe the smart thing would be to let her shower and go to bed. But sometimes the smart thing isn't the right thing. Her expression changes from weariness to surprise to amazement as her eyes run over him, the roses, the dining table, the candles, then back to him.
He bows as he offers her the roses. "If you'll have them?" When she holds out her arms, he lays the flowers in them carefully. He has a whole elegant speech planned that includes kneeling—he's been practicing getting up and down with his cane—but he finds himself blurting, "If you'll have me?"
Her lower lip trembles but she doesn't say anything and he panics. "No? Or is it too soon? Belle, please say something."
She lowers her face into the roses and her shoulders start to shake.
"Belle?"
"Rumple." Her voice is muffled. "Are you asking me to marry you?"
A relieved laugh breaks from his chest. "Yes! Yes, that's what I meant. Did you think it was something else? Yes!" Now he remembers to drop to his knees. "Belle Marie French—Milady Belle—would you do me the vast honor of consenting to become my wife?"
She's laughing too, though her face is wet. "Yes! Yes!"
He takes the roses from her arms and sets them on the dining table. As she waits, puzzled, he digs the jewelry box from his pants pocket, and as her smile expands, he slides the ring onto her finger. They both choose to ignore the grime under her nails.
"It's perfect." And it is: the diamond reflects the candlelight; the ring almost appears to be enchanted. "Rumple, I'm so happy."
"I'll do my best to make sure you stay that way." He clambers to his feet, bends her back in his arms, kissing her for all he's worth.