Chapter 47

Love is harmony, even in discord.

Gold is dreaming. He knows it's a dream even as he's moving through it, but it feels real just the same. He's dreaming that he's standing in knee-deep snow and peering through the front window of the pink house. Outside, where he is, it's dark and wet and growing colder by the minute; inside, firelight and candles illuminate and warm his dining room, where Josiah, Fran, Bae, Belle, Emma and Henry are gathered round a table groaning under a feast. The aromas of fresh-baked bread, honey-glazed ham, sweet potatoes, escalloped potatoes, carrots, peas and cherry pie rise up from the table, curl and carry across the foyer to leak out from the edges of the door. He hears Henry's voice relating a joke, then the adults' voices rewarding him with laughter.

"Wonder what's keeping Pop?" Bae muses, and Emma gives her husband's shoulder a shove. "I told you none of the stores are open but you just had to have whipped cream for your pie. I should've sent you out."

"Now, now, kids, you know he doesn't mind," Belle says. "He probably borrowed from the neighbors."

"Can you imagine that?" Bae chuckles. "You open your door on Christmas Eve expecting a little round guy in red, but instead it's the Dark One in Armani and he's asking to borrow a tub of whipped cream."

Gold takes this as his cue, swinging the front door open and as he triumphantly raises the tub of Cool Whip for all to see and admire, his family cheers.

It's a small dream, light-years away from those he used to have in the heady early days of his power, but it's what Gold wants these days. Even the Cool Whip.

Which, strangely, is beginning to smell like bacon. His nose twitching, he sits up, his hair falling into his eyes, his eyes bleary, but his nose, forever young, detects bacon frying, coffee perking, cinnamon rolls baking, and he'll bet dollars to donuts there's a platter of bagels and bear claws in the center of the kitchen table. He opens the bedroom door and patters barefoot into the hallway toward the bathroom, and sounds of female and male voices laughing rise from the first floor. They're here, as they often are, Emma and Henry and Bae, though they didn't knock as loudly as usual, apparently, because they only woke Belle. Formerly such a light sleeper, Gold sleeps soundly these days. His legal status hangs in the balance, but in truth, he has nothing to worry about, because everything he wants is already downstairs having breakfast.

Bae and Fran are unemployed still. Fran at least has an unemployment check and some Social Security for her father, but since he quit his previous job, Bae has only his savings to carry him through.

One evening, Fran and Gold are talking about an idea she has for a home- and office-delivery of customized gourmet meals, using fresh ingredients that fit customers' dietary needs. She mentions the ambitions of other locals who, like herself, have talent but no money to start their own small businesses, and that night the nonprofit Treadle Microloans is born. With Gold's business acumen and Bae's people skills, within the first year, the little charity pays its own way and launches five new small businesses with loans of $10,000 at an interest rate of 2% to cover administrative costs. The first business funded by Treadle is Fran's Fresh and Fast, which delivers gourmet meals to homes and businesses. None of these people will ever get rich, but the loans enable them to start making a comfortable living for themselves.

Sharp and perceptive, Bae has a 90% accuracy rate in his decisions about which businesses to fund. Gold leaves it to Bae to select the nonprofit's board, including Ruby, whose connections in Storybrooke run broad and deep, and Archie, who brings public trust and careful planning to the enterprise. Bae also brings in Jefferson, whose years of studying Storybrooke have given him a marketing savvy and a knack for predicting local trends. Jefferson's too flighty to be involved in the mundane minutiae of running a nonprofit, so he pops in and out as he likes while Bae takes care of the rest.

After an initial training period for Bae in business operations, Gold backs off a bit, taking over the bookkeeping and legal work, so that Treadle can rise or fall under Bae's guidance. Mostly it rises, and with it, Bae's stock in Storybrooke and his pride.

Cassidy and Gold have made dreams come true, the five beneficiaries tell their neighbors. Gold's dream has come true too. As a young father, he dared plan for the day he and Bae would work side by side, producing fine cloth. They are, in a sense, spinners together now, spinning people's dreams into reality.

Gold is sitting on the edge of the bed, just thinking. He's just returned from court, and after that, a trip to the Dark Star Pharmacy. The package he bought there is tucked away in the nightstand. It's that package he's thinking of.

The laundry basket riding on her hip, Belle enters the bedroom. "Hi, honey. Did you win?" She begins to place the clean laundry in the dresser.

"Hmm? Oh, yes. If you can call it that. She was awarded the child support we asked for, but a divorce never feels like winning."

"Even for one as amicable as Jo's and mine." She lays his freshly folded boxers into his underwear drawer, a task both intimate and impersonal at the same time. He remembers the first time he came upon Belinda Dove folding his underwear, how embarrassing it felt, and yet how rightfully homey, and now it's a weekly occurrence, as common and as private as when she massages his aching ankle or he brushes the tangles from her hair. Service. It's something families give each other, sometimes out of affection, sometimes out of duty, sometimes gladly, sometimes in annoyance at the inconvenience or the repetition. Love is the magnetism that brings a family together but service to one another is the glue that seals the bond. The more work he does with struggling families, the more he realizes that love isn't enough.

"Promise me something, Rumple." Belle bumps his underwear drawer with her hip, closing it, then tackles his sock drawer. "Promise me if we ever get a divorce, it'll be only after we've talked everything out and there's just no other way."

Momentarily alarmed, he can think of nothing else to say but "No. Belle, no, no divorce. We'll always talk, and we'll keep talking until we've worked out whatever's bothering us. I promise."

"I promise too." She sets the basket on a footstool and sits down beside him. "Something's bothering you right now, isn't it?"

"I've just been thinking about something that, amid all the other plans, we haven't talked about. And we should." He opens the drawer to show her what he bought.

"Oh, yes. Yes, we should." She ponders, then takes his hand. "Whatever we decide, it won't change what's between us, will it? I'm yours forever, even if we don't agree about this. So if your answer is no, I'll accept it and I promise you, I'll love you just the same."

A hesitant smile twitches at his mouth. "'If your answer is no'–does that mean your answer is yes?"

Belle nods. "I do. I kept the maternity clothes, the books, What to Expect When You're Expecting, the teething ring and rattle and empty journal. I couldn't let them go."

"For the same reason I didn't repaint the yellow room." He's grinning outright now–and blushing. At his age, blushing.

Now she blushes. "I guess there's no need for those, then." She closes the nightstand drawer.

"Well, let's not rush things. I did promise to take you around the world. After that, Mr. Clark will lose one of his best customers."

"We'll make up for it in midnight runs for pickles and ice cream."

He rests his head against hers. "I promise to keep the freezer well stocked."

'So, one year and two months from now, I can take those maternity clothes out of storage?"

"I'm an old man, Belle. I can't promise I'm still capable, but I'll definitely do my best."

"Your best has always been fantastic." She gives him a saucy wink. "Just one more question: how many?"

"We mustn't get overly ambitious: In this world's terms, I'll be fifty-four or thereabouts when the first one is born. I'd like to push them in the pram, not the other way round."

"Two then." Belle pats his belly. "And no more Beef Wellington or crème brûlée. We'll clean up those arteries so you can push your great-grandbabies' prams."

"Can I still have pizza with the guys? You know we have to have pizza on game nights. It's a guy thing."

She leans against him, laughing. "On that first day in the Dark Castle, if a Seer had told me the day would come when I'd be talking to the Dark One about making babies and eating pizza, I'd have asked her what she'd been adding into her ale."

"Pizza is a powerful magic, dearie, never doubt it. Especially with anchovies."

While the bride-to-be and Ruby and Emma go gown shopping, the menfolk enjoy a fishing weekend. "This might be your last trip out here, huh?" Henry asks as Gold brings the Caddy up to the cabin.

"That's all right." Gold pops the trunk open so Josiah and Bae can reach the fishing poles. "It won't be our last fishing trip. There are plenty of rivers and lakes in Maine. But yeah, I'll miss this place. I trust you'll look after it for me, keep it in the family." He gives his grandson a wink. "Check your email, Henry."

The boy scrolls through his phone to find a message to "goldsgrandson at gmail dot com" from "henrysgrandpa." It's their own special communication system for those times when Henry needs to talk about things he can't talk to Mom or Dad about. Let's face it, Charming is cool and fun and all, but grandfathers aren't supposed to be those things; they're supposed to be too old to be in touch with the times, so old that they can remember their own childish mistakes. David thinks and acts more like an uncle, whereas Gold looks the grandpa part, right down to his cane. Sometimes only a grandparent can understand what a kid's thinking and not get bent out of shape about it, hence the secret message system. "This looks all lawyer-y." Henry struggles to figure the document out.

"That's a gift deed, Henry. It transfers the ownership of the cottage and the land you see here to you."

"Man! So I can keep it in the family."

"Right." Gold unlocks the cabin as his guests carry in the fishing gear.

"And the river? Do I own it too?"

"No, that's public property, but a fisherman knows it's his responsibility to take care of the river. No over-fishing, no litter, no cluttering and poisoning the place with resorts and restaurants and so forth."

"So someday I'll pass it on like it is now to my grandkids."

Gold stands on the porch, clutching his keys and staring out at the lake as he thinks about that. Not so long ago, he would have expected to be around when that day came: he could have reasonably expected to see his great-grandkids grow up. Now that he's mortal and walking around in, apparently, the body of a fifty-two-year-old, he must accept the possibility that he won't be on this earth when his and Belle's children graduate college. It's an awful shock and one he'll struggle to accept as reality; after all, he had almost four hundred years to get used to immortality.

Then Bae calls out to Dove, and Gold reminds himself if he hadn't given up the magic that gave him immortality, neither of those two men would be in Gold's life right now—or Belle's or Emma's or Henry's. Any remaining regrets he has about the brevity of his life to come, Gold shakes off; the important thing now is, he has a life worth living.

The men unpack–which for them consists of refrigerating the soda, beer, hamburger and ketchup and dumping the onions, buns and chips on the kitchen table. Their clothes they leave in backpacks; no one here cares if the t-shirts get wrinkled. Gold is wearing his paint-stained jeans and a Partick Thistle FC jersey, its red and yellow stripes so loud as to be jolting to Gold's refined sensibilities, but that's the point. Henry's gotten used to seeing his grandpa "out of uniform" as they've tramped in the woods in search of medicinal plants; the change in clothes is kind of a signal between them that Gold is in "family mode," all matters of business cast aside. The Storybrooke woods are another place Gold will miss, if Snow rules against him.

They sleep out under the stars, lying in sleeping bags and telling stories until Henry falls asleep, and then the men fall quiet to allow the boy his rest. Gold stares across the campfire at Bae, who's lying on his back with his arms folded under his head. Bae's staring at nothing. When he was a child, Bae would daydream like this, then draw what he'd dreamed. Distracted by real life, he seldom daydreams or draws these days, but he's brought his sketchbook this weekend.

Gold wonders what Bae is thinking. So different in temperament and ambitions they are, sometimes each finds the other impossible to read. They are learning that they have to speak up with each other. It helps sometimes to have Belle as a sounding board: she understands both of them better than they understand themselves.

In the crisp morning they take a boat out and chat about sports as they wait for a bite. Nobody cares that the trout aren't interested; none of them will admit it, but they don't want to clean fish anyway. This weekend is about laziness, storytelling–ghosts, not pirates and witches–and making a memory. "Dad! Do you remember that nine-pounder you hooked that time at the river?" "Yeah, Henry, and you fell in a patch of poison ivy. Good thing Dove brought a first-aid kit." "That was a great weekend, Dad. I haven't been out there in two or three years. We should take Davy out there this weekend." "We should. Too bad your grandpa can't go." "We'll bring him back a trout. That was a great weekend." "A great weekend, Henry."

It is.

"Hey, that's cheating." Bae snatches the phone from his father's hands, shuts it off and tosses it onto Sister Bernie's bunk bed.

"The tradition says you can't see the bride before the wedding; it doesn't say anything about texting." But Gold crosses to the narrow, dusty window and peers out onto the convent lawn, which Henry mowed yesterday as his wedding gift. "What do guys normally do at this point, anyway?"

Reflecting on his own experience, Dove suggests, "The father-in-law gives the groom a pep talk. You know: 'If you break my little girl's heart, I'll break your face.'"

"Mo's with Belle," Gold says. "Dodged that bullet."

"Here, let me fix your tie." Bae nudges his father around to adjust the silver tie. "I don't think my dad needs that particular pep talk, Josiah. There's not a soul in town who doesn't know how Pop feels about Belle, and that includes Pongo."

"That reminds me: did your dad tell you about his roof-climbing stunt, the night Belle accepted his proposal?" Dove snickers.

"Now, Mr. Dove, don't make me regret giving you that two-week paid vacation," Gold warns. "On second thought, why should I be embarrassed? It's true, I did it, and I'm proud of the fact that Belle accepted me–and that I didn't break my fool neck."

A rap at the bedroom door prevents Dove from sharing the story. Bernie pokes her head in. "It's time, Mr. Gold. By the way, thanks for letting us host. Ceecee and me have never seen a wedding before, except on TV. The roses from Game of Thorns are spectacular. And wait'll you see all food Ms. Baguette brought!"

"Thank you, Sister, for your hospitality." Gold straightens his shoulders. "Ready, gentlemen?"

As the groom and his attendants start down the stairs to the sanctuary, Bernie signals Ceecee, who signals the high school orchestra, and "Marche Troyenne" begins to play. Blue, in a black habit and white veil, meets them at the foot of the stairs and leads Gold though her office and into the sanctuary, where they wait at the altar.

Jo escorts Ruby down the aisle, with Bae and Emma a beat behind. In her floor-length magenta gown, with her hair up in a Greek braid, Emma looks more classic statue than small-town sheriff. A quick glance at his right informs Gold that Bae's thinking the same thing. For the hundredth time, Gold's almost tempted beyond endurance to goad Bae just a little toward taking this same step himself, but he knows better than to interfere in his son's love life. Besides, the strongest persuasion comes from a good example, like this one, as Belle, in a silver chiffon and satin strapless A line, comes down the aisle on her father's arm.

She's holding her head high and smiling without the least hesitation. Between them, there is no doubt. The orchestra plays their song, Tchaikovsky's "Winter Dreams," as Maurice and Belle of Avonlea/Mo and Belinda French of Storybrooke approach the altar.

Mo isn't scowling, gritting his teeth or even frowning. He doesn't look exactly pleased, either, but at least he's come to terms with this new family arrangement. Gold's been working on him. Bae noticed, while in the shop buying flowers for Emma after an argument, that Mo's a Melbourne Victory man, so Gold's had him over for some of those pizza and football afternoons with the guys. Gold discovered that Mo, like himself, had drawn the short stick when it came to popularity; bearing that in mind has helped Gold to find the patience to tolerate Mo's insults. Gold's come to realize, thanks to Josiah, Henry and Bae, that every guy, even Mo, needs an occasional afternoon with guys. Even the Dark One, who lived fifteen generations alone.

The orchestra ceases to play and Blue calls the wedding guests to prayer. It's a bizarre prayer, Gold supposes: it draws on Catholicism, Anglicanism (Mo and Belinda's cures memories had them as regular church-goers in Australia, though neither of them could remember just when or why they left Melbourne for Maine), polytheism (the predominant belief in the Enchanted Forest)–and Gold's even snuck a few words from his fictional Masters in there ("The most important gift of our natures is the reaching out to one another"), as a reminder to himself to protect the man he's evolved into.

After the exchange of vows and rings and kisses, after the blessing of the fairy-nun and congratulations from the family by blood and the family by affection, after toasts and dancing and cakes and wine, Gold and Belle walk out into the twilight. The Caddy has been decorated with tin cans and shaving cream by Grace and Henry, who grin devilishly as they throw rice. As hugs and handshakes are shared, Emma whispers in Gold's ear, "Don't come back into town before your honeymoon's over."

He cocks his head. For privacy's sake–for this is as close as Storybrooke gets to a celebrity wedding–only the wedding party knows that the couple plans to honeymoon for a week in the cabin, after which they plan to return to town and work; their world cruise will wait until Snow has announced her decision and the Golds can arrange their business affairs accordingly.

"Emma?" Gold asks.

"If you need something while you're out there, text me. Otherwise, stay put. Don't come back into town." Her eyes and her mouth have narrowed. "Belle deserves this one worry-free week."

Gold understands now. "I see. Thank you."

Bae has helped Belle into the car; he now stands back, Henry under his arm. "See ya, Pop. Loveya, Mom."

As Gold slides behind the steering wheel, Belle is chuckling. "That kid of ours!"

Gold shifts into drive with a last wave at his son and his grandson and a thoughtful glance at his someday-daughter-in-law. He wonders if she's putting her badge at risk by allowing them to leave. He wonders if she's putting her relationship with her parents at risk. Out of respect for whatever risk she may be taking, he'll heed her advice.

Including the part about giving Belle a worry-free week.