Chapter 53
Bell's Corners has found a path to growth without overly rapid expansion. The City Council honors their deal with Apple by making it industry-exclusive: no other computer/electronics companies will be offered a retreat plan. But non-competing industries and professional societies are: within the next year, retreat packages that include think tanks, campouts, hiking, landscape painting lessons, woodcrafts, historical tours, nature education, horseback riding, archery, boating, swimming, snowmobiling and canoe building are constructed and tailored to the requesting buyers' goals. Within five years, groups as diverse as the Songwriters Guild of North America, the Maine Bar Association (Gold made a few calls to set that up), the American Advertising Federation, the Art Directors Club of Pennsylvania, and Disney keep the retreat–limited to fifty individuals, so as not to overtax the lakes and the woods–going year round. Fran becomes the chef for the retreats, offering organic gourmet meals prepared and served by her staff of five high-school students, who are getting class credit for the culinary arts; Eb Bell comes out of retirement to run the hospitality end with a staff of six, most of them high-schoolers learning the hospitality trade.
They call the program Creativity Camp and the motto is "Thinking is easier with a fishing pole in your hand."
The highway hotel adds a few rooms. Under Belle's guidance, a one-room public library opens next door to City Hall, above the bait and tackle (which has hired three full-timers). Josiah closes the Storybrooke pawnshop and opens Gold Dove Antiques next door to Persie's Place; it becomes a weekenders' tourist destination, and the diner starts a Saturday high tea for the antiquers. It complements the Friday Fish Fry Persie's offers the fishermen.
And Old Man Gold, who never does earn his crazy title from the local kids, gets absorbed into the formation of the medical clinic, for soon after Doc arrives, so do a good many of the women of Storybrooke. Having lost their beloved OB/GYN, they drive into BC (as they now call Bell's Corners) for their appointments, and they make a day of it, with high tea and shopping at Ashley's Closet for maternity and infant wear (for who knows more about maternity wear than the woman who wore it for twenty-eight years).
Gold's part in the med center is twofold: he helps raise money for it (his Old Time Ice Cream Social is the kickoff for the annual campaign–the "ice cream" part makes the "social" bearable in his view). And he's a supplier for those doctors who wish to incorporate herbalism into their practice. He likes that work best: it gives him an excuse to putter in his garden or tramp in the woods, while Blue joins him once a month to offer training to the docs.
Every once in a while, he's asked to take a custody or child support case. To clear his head after one of those battles, he likes to take an adoption case pro bono.
He chats sometimes by Skype with Master Won-Que from the Bailin Zen Monastery. Sometimes the master leads Gold through a meditation; sometimes they just talk about everything concerning anything. Won-Que remains firm in his counsel to Gold: the monk believes that Gold is denying a central part of his nature and until he reclaims it, he cannot be at peace with himself. Gold usually argues back: he's got family, friends, purpose, health and happiness. What more can there be?
"You look at your damaged ankle and you see failure. If you could, you would cut away the ankle to cut away the damage." Won-Que explains. "Likewise, you look at the hidden power within your nature and you call it evil; you would cut it out if you could. You can't remove it, so you hide from it. You live a half-life. Seek to uncover all that you are so that you can stand whole. When you can see yourself in entirety, you will be in harmony with your nature."
Gold wonders how much the monk knows about him. The "m" word never passes between them, however, and Gold's not about to raise the subject. Anyway, it's a moot point now: magic may be a part of his nature, but it's not a part of this world; he couldn't reach it even if he wanted to.
And he certainly doesn't want to go through that hell again.
"I'm spending more time here than in Storybrooke," Blue says. She's on her knees in Gold's garden, poking holes in the soil with a stick as he follows along behind, dropping in seeds that his shaman friend sent him. He intends to cross these plants with a native, and if he's right, he'll have a safe, natural cure for migraines.
"Attendance at our school has dropped by twenty percent," Blue continues. "Attendance at church services is down by fifteen percent. People are moving out of Storybrooke. We nuns don't have enough to do."
Gold hides a smile.
"Anyway, we were thinking, if we had a small parcel of land to move to, we'd like to relocate the convent here."
"There is work to be done here," he says amiably. "The convent is a sound, attractive structure. It ought not stand empty. It could be moved."
"You've done some successful fundraising for the clinic. Just wondering if you might be inclined to do the same for us." She's gnawing her lip.
A bubble of laughter emits from his chest. "The eternal defenders of light are asking their mortal enemy to help them rebuild their clientele."
"Yeah. We are. Except it's been a long time since we thought of you are the Dark One."
"Dearie, I'm going to surprise you. I'm going to say yes, because I don't think of myself as the Dark One either."
The Golds are just a little nervous as they seat themselves in monogram chairs across from Doc's faux Louis XIV desk. On the walls in Doc's office are photos of every baby he's delivered in this world: if a potential patient were to go by these photos, they'd figure Miner was a newcomer to obstetrics, but every woman in Storybrooke knows not to count those first twenty-eight years of his career, when the curse prevented conceptions and births (and deaths). In the five years since, Doc's delivered twenty babies, with maximum dependence on nature and minimal medical interference. The Golds are determined to increase that record to twenty-one.
Doc's office bustles. He has a staff of four full-timers, including a nurse practitioner. Once a week a lactation consultant and a certified childbirth educator come in from Bangor and work out of an office that they split in a time-share kind of arrangement with a podiatrist and a pediatrician. Patients from a fifty-mile radius come in for a range of health-care needs.
Doc is directly responsible for a third of Bell's Corners' population boom—not because of the babies he's delivered, but because of the patients who've followed him from Storybrooke, women who trust him not only with their own health but with their unborn babies'. Gold envies that level of trust, just a little. The patients especially favor his naturopathic approach, his gentle manner and his consideration for their comfort and privacy. They can talk to him frankly about any medical topic, from vaginal warts to STDs, and he will provide them all the information at his disposal, without judging the circumstances that led to their conditions. When demand for his services overloads his capacity, he brings in a newly minted OB/GYN from New York.
Doctors from Storybrooke Hospital wander in and out of the clinic all the time, consulting with their colleagues and taking training in herbalism from Blue and Gold. Some of those doctors don't wander back: gradually, Storybrooke, whose economy can no longer support as many medics, loses half of them to other towns, including Bell's Corners. Sometimes Gold takes a nasty satisfaction in Storybrooke's erosion, even though Dove or Emma or Belle reminds him he still has friends there who are adversely affected. When he feels guilty for gloating, he drops his old friends an email—and sometimes he attaches photos of the lake, or the clinic, or the expanded elementary school, or the park that's under construction, or the wilderness trail that Apple recently donated. "Always room for more" is how he likes to end these missives.
But now, he has a different sort of population expansion on his mind. No one would guess from looking at him that he's nervous: he's had so many years' practice in schooling his expression. Belle, however, is tapping her foot. He resists the temptation to seize that foot, tear off the shoe and plant kisses along her instep. . . .
"Belle, Rumple, let me start by putting your minds to rest: there is no medical reason why you haven't gotten pregnant yet." Doc pauses to allow them to release pent-up breath. "For healthy couples who are trying to conceive, the odds are, over the course of a year, almost 90% they'll succeed. Now, for most men, age is a factor, particularly for men over 50, but you hardly fit into the 'most men' category, Rumple. There's no way we can guess what effect all those years of magic may have had on your current longevity. All bets are out the window with you. But there's nothing in your health profile that indicates your chances of conceiving are any lower than any other man's. And Belle, if I could pick an ideal candidate for a successful, full-term pregnancy, you'd be our poster girl."
"So if it's not in our health, is it in the way we're. . .practicing?" Belle asks. "Frequency can't be the problem." She blushes.
"It could be in your timing. Belle, let me introduce you to your new daily companion: it's called a basal thermometer. . . ."
Belle whips out her Surface and begins to take notes. Gold listens, but his attention wanders to that array of photos on Doc's walls. Number twenty-one, he's sure of it. That spot on the western wall, which the mid-morning sun lights up, that's where his baby's photo will go. In a gold frame.
Gold's finishing his dressing (jeans and a sweatshirt for the time being; tonight he'll climb into a suit). As always, he looks into the mirror over the sink as he shaves, but when he scrapes away the last patch of shaving cream, he doesn't immediately wash his face and walk away, as he always has before. Instead, he looks directly into his own eyes. He can't remember the last time he ever did that. Probably never. He's always avoided eye contact with his mirror image. Not today, though. He looks directly into his own eyes and smiles.
Tonight he and Belle have an important dinner to attend: a rehearsal dinner. Tomorrow Josiah and Fran will tie the knot.
But it's going to be a busy day, so he reaches for his comb—and still looking into the mirror, he fumbles and the comb plops into the toilet. With a groan, he fishes it out with the scrub brush and dumps it into the trash can. He'll pick up a new comb when he gets the chance; for the time being, he borrows Belle's hairbrush. She isn't fussy about sharing such things. After he's tamed his flyaway mane, he replaces the hairbrush on the counter and tackles his toothbrush next.
Something flashes in the corner of his eye. He clenches the toothbrush between his teeth and glances down. What he sees makes him gape—and his toothbrush nearly falls into the toilet. He's able to rescue it in mid-fall; still, he gapes. Belle's hairbrush is glowing. Red, green, blue, yellow and violet lights dance across the bristles, twirl like figure skaters performing scratch spins. He drops his toothbrush in its cup and leans forward for a closer look at the hairbrush. It's the strands of hair, the auburn and the gray-brown hair, dancing above the bristles and throwing off rainbows, strands twining around each other, hers and his. He watches in amazement, and in the corner of his memory he hears an imp's soft giggle.
He holds his hand above the hairbrush. He feels heat rising, his skin tingling, his pores opening to receive energy, to receive power. He sucks in a breath. He's too fascinated with the display to think about what's happening or what he should or shouldn't do about it.
"Rumple!" Belle crashes in from the bedroom. When she reaches him, she's thrumming with excitement and she's thrusting a plastic tube under his nose. "Rumple! It's time!" She yanks at his shirt. "My temperature's peaked."
He drags his attention away from the hairbrush. There's a more urgent task at hand: yanking off his shirt, he follows Belle back to bed. Somewhere in the universe, a baby is waiting for its parents to call it into the world.
Master Po: "All life is sacred. Thus the joining together of man and woman is always honored. Apart there is no life. But from such union, life may proceed."
Josiah bounces from foot to foot, not because he's nervous, but because his new dress shoes pinch. "I warned you," Gold growls. "Now hold still while I tie your tie."
"It was just too weird not to," Dove protests. "How many guys in this world can say they own a pair of shoes made by the Loch Ness monster?"
"Not you. You do and people will call you Old Man Dove, that crazy git that lives on the hill."
"Still, it's the principle of the thing."
Gold exchanges a glance with Bae and shrugs. Bae changes the subject, "Are you nervous, Josiah?"
"Are you kiddin'? In an hour I'll be married to the sweetest gal in the state. And the best cook. Thanks for the honeymoon, Mr. G."
Gold is sending them to the Indy 500. During the two weeks they'll be gone, he will run the antique shop. He's kind of looking forward to it. It's in his comfort zone.
Bernadette raps on the door. "Ready, gentlemen?"
"Been ready for months," Dove tells her. To the strains of "Your Kiss is on My List," Jo and his groomsmen clatter down the backstairs of the church, to the sanctuary, where the minister and the guests wait. Half of Bell's Corners is here; so is a third of Storybrooke. As Gold links arms with Belle and begins the processional, he knows for sure that Fran and Jo didn't invite some of these Storybrookers. The nuns, of course; Ruby and Archie, yeah, and Tom and other FOR supporters, but not Miss Ginger and certainly not Sidney. They came for the food, he speculates. They'd better have brought a gift or they'll get a taste of cane along with the–Belle nudges him. Somehow the woman knows what he's thinking. He's going to have to ask her how. Or develop some acting chops.
He and Bae take their places alongside Dove; Belle and Emma wait on the bride's side. Dove's beaming, his sore feet forgotten; his happiness radiates across the congregation. On her son's arm–for her father is in a nursing home now, too far gone to recognize his daughter–Fran in a simple pale blue dress enters to the strains of "You Make My Dreams Come True" and the congregation stands. Gold's chest swells. He kind of feels responsible for this moment, because he had decided years ago to invest in a restaurant. And all because he had a yen for chocolate croissants. He's going to mention that, the next time Belle deprives him of dessert.
Despite their unusual choice of music, Jo and Fran exchange standard vows and rings, and after a lovely kiss, they're whisked to the pastor's office to sign the license while the guests are directed into the parish hall for the reception, the food catered from Persie's Place, the diner. A lot of dining, a little drinking and a bit of dancing to, exclusively, Hall & Oates (Gold finds it incongruous that "Maneater" and "I Can't Go for That" are included in a wedding celebration, but one can't read too much into Jo's taste in music. Gold has come to that conclusion after Fran, chuckling, informed the Golds that Jo had had the NASCAR theme song playing on his stereo when he proposed. Hall and Oates, she said, was a compromise: she had wanted Neil Diamond; Jo had wanted Conway Twitty.)
Gold is able to dance with Belle to four of the slower songs. After a year of tramping the planet, his ankle is strong, but he's still a bit protective of it. He doesn't want to risk an injury that would lay him up; he has a garden to tend, a charitable campaign to nurse, doctors to educate, and for the next two weeks, a shop to run.
Gold's no party animal, but these are his friends, so he stays for the entire event. Besides, Belle is having so much fun, and double besides, Persimmon has provided five kinds of ice cream to complement the chocolate groom's cake and the buttercream wedding cake. When they drive home that night, Belle asks, "Did you have a good time?" And to his surprise, Gold admits he did. "I seem to be having a good time most of the time," he muses, then he becomes thoughtful. "I'm thinking," he says without prodding—he finds it increasingly easy these days to express his emotions to Belle—"how different things could have been, if the three of us hadn't made the conscious decision to preserve our friendship above our pride."
Belle nods. "None of the past two years would have happened. I probably would have left Maine, gone off to Boston and got a job waiting tables. Jo probably would have wandered west and gone to work in a discount tire shop."
"And me, I'd still be wearing a hole in the wooden floor of the pawnshop, glaring every time my door opened—not that it would have, all that often. I might have found Bae on my own, but I doubt if I'd have been the kind of man he'd have welcomed back into his life. I would have tried to bribe or trick him, and he'd have slammed the door in my face. I'd have magic, but I'd have nothing that matters." He pauses. "What I'm saying, Belle, is I owe a lot to you and Josiah. Everything, in fact."
"We owe a lot to you too, darling. The choices you made in dealing with us—so many ways it all could have gone wrong, but you didn't let it. Working for you, I was so tempted, I would have allowed myself to be led into an affair, but you were honorable. When I became pregnant, you could have flown into a rage; you could have thrown me out or tore after Jo, and you certainly could have exposed the whole curse right then and there, to prove that it was you and me who were supposed to be together. But you treated me with as much tenderness as if the baby was yours, and after the curse broke, you would have found a way to make the situation work so Jo could be in Adelena's life. So we owe you, Rumple, and I plan to spend the rest of our lives remembering that." She leans forward as he suddenly pulls the Caddy to the side of the road. "Rumple? What's wrong?"
He leans his forehead against the steering wheel. And then he remembers he has Belle to lean on, so he seeks her shoulder and her arms. He's crying, aware how close he came to a life that was nearly identical to the one he lived in the Dark Castle, how easily one bad decision would have led him away from all that he has now, back to darkness, loneliness, fear of people, fear of his own emotions. "I planned everything to the smallest detail so that I could get Bae back. What I didn't plan on, but what you did for me anyway, was the most important part: I needed to change. You saved me."
"No, love, you saved yourself. What you have now, you never would have appreciated, if you hadn't changed. You would have driven us all away. But you welcomed me and Bae and your friends in, you fought yourself to keep us. You earned us, and I'm so glad you gave us all the chance to be in your life. It breaks my heart to think of the love I would have missed out on, if you hadn't."
It's almost a full half-hour before Gold and Belle have collected themselves sufficiently to continue the drive home. Much later, when Belle is sound asleep, he stares at the ceiling and reflects on the strange phenomenon he witnessed when he borrowed Belle's hairbrush. He will tell her about it tomorrow; he doesn't withhold such important information from her any more. He knows what he witnessed. His skin still tingles just thinking about it, and a hunger fires his blood. He knows if he were to sneak back into the woods of Storybrooke, to the well that connects this world's waters to Lake Nostros, he could drop that hairbrush into the well and in an instant, change the world again. He could be the great sorcerer again.
He licks his lips as he imagines the things he could do for his wife and his children, if he had magic again. He sneers as he imagines transporting himself into Storybrooke City Hall, interrupting some high-level meeting between City Council and the royals, making some clever quip, then disappearing in a puff of smoke. Just to show them who he is, the chances they've taken by messing with him.
He permits himself this small fantasy. And then he kills it. Screw magic; he has everything he wants right now, and all of it earned. When he tells Belle about the strange phenomenon, he'll start by informing her he's not tempted, not much anyway. A man has no need of magic when he's learned how to live.
Master Po: "He who knows how to live need not fear death. He can walk without fear of rhino or tiger. He will not be wounded in battle…. In him the rhino can find no place to thrust his horn, the tiger no place to use his claws, and weapons no place to pierce…. Because a man who knows how to live has no place for death to enter."