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Courage to Douse the Hurt Below (Chapter 1)

Italian leather shoes stepped off the curb, splashing the shallow puddle of water forming in the dip where concrete met tarmac. A cane the color of ebony tapped in time with the right leg covered by a black pant suit. The bronze handle, ornately decorated for a normal cane, was gripped by firm hand and lightly calloused fingers to keep the metal from slipping in the onslaught of rain. Every other step, the hand would briefly bear weight while a charcoal gray shirt cuff slipped farther away before sliding down to graze the wrist as the cane swung back and then forward again. The suit jacket itself, an expensive, pinstriped thing, had become drenched as the man took his time seeking shelter from the storm.

Rain pelted down, striking his head and soaking the only thing out of place from the rest of his immaculate attire: dark brown hair that touched the base of his neck. Now, amidst the torrential downpour, it clung and dripped against his skin. The man blinked away water from deceptively warm, soft brown eyes. The grim set to the thin lips pressed firmly together revealed a harder nature than the false sincerity beneath his lashes. High cheekbones protrude so that it seemed the man flirted with gaunt.

His most striking feature, perhaps, was the long, sharp nose that seemed ready and eager to participate in any sneer his lips might endeavor. Now, and rather comically, the rain dripped off the end and pelted toward the ground.

He crossed the street, passing by another man who toted an umbrella, and his height became apparent. While by no means dwarfish, the man could not boast great stature, bordering the short side of average as he did. With each strike of the cane, however, each step he took in his expensive clothes and an expression rivaling the storm passing around him, one wouldn’t notice the lack of height for long. He carried himself too well with his shoulders back and growl at the ready in the back of his throat.

Even in a city unfamiliar with his name, people shied away from him, something dark rolling off him in waves.

He didn’t feel particularly intimidating, however, as he stepped up onto the curb on the other side of the street. Miserable might have been a more accurate description as he hunched against the deluge. Wet clothes sticking to his skin and water racing form his hair down his back created an uncomfortable situation. All those years in Scotland, amidst rainy days and ever cloudy skies, he’d learned, apparently, nothing.

As he plodded along, each step splashing on the sidewalk, he wondered at the root of his true discomfort. His son was at home alone. He had never been particularly subject to homesickness, but he had also never left his child alone for such an extended period of time. Gone were the days where he could up and leave on a business trip for a week with no repercussions.

Those days were those days, buried deep beneath sixteen years.

He missed his son and coming home to an empty refrigerator ravaged by a teenager’s monstrous appetite. Baeden could put a black hole to shame with the amount of food he consumed.

Here, meeting with an old acquaintance, he found he’d grown accustomed to having someone expect him to be better, kinder even. Someone who saw a sliver of light in this darkness he’d created for himself.

Bae’s very existence curtailed a good deal of his more devious and vengeful nature at his hometown. With no one to stop him a scant four hours away, he felt both liberated and disgusted with himself.

Easier, yes, to skirt the disapproving looks and disappointed words. The knowledge of having done them and knowing what the response would have been, well that tugged at a string he’d long forgotten existed.

The sound of thunder rolling across the sky chasing the flash of electricity aching to touch the ground, shook him from his thoughts. Squinting through the drops falling over his eyes, he spotted a second-hand shop with an overhang. Perhaps, if he maintained some luck, they would have an umbrella he could purchase. He gripped the cane tighter and made a bee line to the shop.

Behind a column, a woman rummaged in her purse. Chestnut hair hid her face like a curtain. For a brief moment, he was on his guard, defense up and hackles raised. He settled down when she muttered a short complaint followed by a soft curse.

He ignored her and entered the store, his hand nearly slipping on the sleek metal his wet hand strove to grip. The air conditioning hit him full blast. It instantly reacted with the wet suit he wore, chilling his skin relentlessly. Shivering, he swiped his hair back and peered around the store for an umbrella.

He took a step farther in, still not seeing an umbrella in any corner. Not caring to wander the aisles in search of one, he walked over to an attendant, shoes squeaking against the hard tile.

The employee was a young man leaning on the counter reading a magazine. He glanced up and gave a half smile and a nod for a greeting.

“How can I help you?”

“I need an umbrella,” he declared, diving straight to the point. The young man gave him a once over, eyeing the drenched, expensive and ruined suit.

“Just behind the clothes rack, dude.”

A chime rang out as the door opened and admitted the woman from the street. Ignoring her, the man limped to the clothes rack and found a single, burgundy umbrella. Reaching for it, he heard the slap of trainers against the ground, coming towards him in great haste. Quickly wrapping his fingers around it, he half readied himself for an attack.

“Oh, no, is that the last one?” a distinctly female Australian accent asked from behind him. Rounding to face her, a neat move that almost sent him sprawling from the wet floor he stood on, he offered it.

She seemed as surprised as himself. Blinking at the dark red in his hand, he wondered when he’d made the decision to let her have it. Certainly not in his nature, by all normality he should be well on his way to the cashier and then out the door. He hadn’t even seen the face of the woman he was offering the umbrella to. He’d turned to quickly and then promptly stared at the object in confusion and disbelief.

“No, you take it. You got here first and honestly, your suit looks too nice to get any more wet,” she declined with a smile and a wave of her hand.

He looked at her then while still trying to remove the shocked expression from his face.

The first thing he saw was her navy-blue sweatshirt, baggy and well worn. The single pocket frayed at the edges and two bleach stains, just small drops, could be seen on the cuffs of her sleeves. Paint, more colors than just white, could be found splattering first one side and then the other as tiny dots of imperfection.

Chestnut hair hung in equal parts flat and frizzed, wet and oddly dry. It pleased him, something he realized a fraction later after the observation, that she stood a good five inches shorter. After a day of being surrounded by American giants, it was refreshing.

Just a quick glance at her lips, slightly chapped, and her nose, pink at the tip, did nothing to make him understand why he would give her the umbrella. When he locked eyes with her, he found a reason.

Never mind that they were red rimmed with a light bruise colored tint beneath both as if she hadn’t slept in a while. Those eyes were the clearest blue he’d ever seen. His tailor back in Scotland had once held up a tie of a similar color, one that had become a favorite, and named it cerulean.

This woman held that color in her eyes.

He also realized he’d been silent a beat too long. Blinking, he said the first word that popped into her head that related to her words.

“Ruined.”

“Pardon?” her brow furrowed and he realized that just the one word alone didn’t get his point across.

“The suit,” he began, “it’s already ruined.” He gave a half shrug. “It won’t really matter if you take the umbrella or not.”

She smiled again as if he’d said something kind. “Really, it’s alright. My hotel is just down the block and I have a hood.”

The woman flipped the hood over her hair to prove her point. The material was thoroughly soaked. A small smile at her gesture tugged at the corner of his lips before his mind latched onto what she had just said.

“Are you at the Marriot?”

She started, eyeing him up and down as if he’d just said something suspicious. Honestly, he would have done the same thing.

“I am.”

Pursing his lips in satisfaction, he retracted the hand proffering the umbrella and admitted, “I am staying there as well.”

The suspicion, or was it apprehension, dissipated from her expression and her body language.

“Perhaps,” he said tentatively, suddenly unable to look her in the eyes. “we might share the umbrella?”

She tucked a lock of errant hair behind her ear and shyly nodded. “I would like that, thank you.”

Then she beamed at him, as if he were some white knight rescuing her from distress.

As they wound their way back to the cashier, she pulled out of her purse a wallet where she began fumbling for money.

“Please, it’s not necessary,” he said, forestalling her. “Not to sound utterly pretentious, but have you seen this suit?” he gestured to the sodden, expensive, cloth. “Believe me when I say this is hardly the item that will break the proverbial camel’s back.”

The woman raised an eyebrow at him before slipping the wallet back into her hand bag at the sight of his even stare. “I don’t particularly believe there is a way to say that without sounding pretentious.”

Laying both umbrella and cash on the counter, he shrugged again, the wet suit sticking to his shoulders uncomfortably. “At the price of this suit, I don’t know that I particularly have to care.”

The cashier scanned the item and counted out the change while the woman, yet again, smiled at him.

“So, wealthy enough you don’t care about sounding pretentious, but not so rich you don’t mind being rude.”

Waving off the receipt, he took the umbrella in hand and pointed it to the door. “Depends,” he mused, “what wealth equates to lack of manners?”

The woman held the door open for him as he limped out and paused under the overhang. She seemed to be taking the question seriously, taking a moment before answering, “I think a billionaire could get away with it, but I am under the impression that manners shouldn’t be tied to money.”

Flicking open the red umbrella, he held it in his left hand, between himself and the woman and jerked his head toward the sidewalk. She walked close to him, matching his uneven gait with slow, sure steps. The rain beat a steady tattoo on the umbrella the moment they exited from under the overhang.

“Well, then, I’m not entitled to rudeness.”

Briefly, she was silent. Long enough, however, that he turned his head to study her. She’d cocked her head slightly and was analyzing him. She had that look about her, no guile, just curiosity. He almost pitied her. He was a hard man to read.

“Oh, but you’re close, aren’t you?”

Perhaps not.

“What makes you think that?”

“You mean aside from your expensive suit?” she retorted with a smile that crinkled her eyes.

“It’s not as if I’m wearing a Rolex.”

She conceded the point with a tilt of her head before giving her explanation. “It’s the way you carry yourself. Self-assured, a little entitled, a little cautious. Your hair is a touch long for an everyday business man, so that means you make enough you don’t care what people think because you’ve already established yourself. You know you have money and you aren’t afraid to let people know it, but experience has made you cautious because you have a lot to lose.”

He listened to her short analysis and raised his eyebrows in mild surprise at the accuracy.

“Close,” he admitted. “And you come to this conclusion utilizing what skills? Detective perhaps? Psychologist?”

“Artist,” she stated, avoiding a puddle as she spoke.

“Not starving, I see,” he jested awkwardly and by some miracle, it worked. She chuckled and spread her arms slightly.

“No, but I certainly have been trying to ignore my shabby sweatshirt with all this money talk.”

A pang of regret, a distinctly foreign feeling, struck him. He shifted his grip on the umbrella before stating, “I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable.”

“No!” she cried, shaking her head adamantly. “Not at all. I have a perfectly valid excuse to wear this.”

“Because it’s comfortable?” he hazarded a guess, knowing that even were he wrong, the likelihood of her using that excuse was high. The Scotsman tried to digest the fact that this conversation was even happening – amicably at that. He didn’t even know her name and she seemed to have no problem conversing with him about how clearly wealthy he appeared.

Perhaps the rain had washed away the usual aura of unwelcome he generally presented. Maybe she was just to blind to see how terrible he really was, how little he actually cared for other the feelings of others. This woman, with the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, saw much less than he’d previously thought. He couldn’t seem to tear himself away, to shut her up with a well-placed word, however. Somehow, his attention clung to her every word without explanation.

“Partially. I’m traveling. This is my lucky sweatshirt.” She pointed with a grin at the shabby thing she wore and he needed no closer inspection to see how well loved it was.

“Lucky?” he asked skeptically, giving it another once over before maneuvering around a puddle, briefly stepping out into the rain to keep the umbrella over her head.

“Absolutely!” the woman pronounced, smile never leaving her face. “Something good or exciting always happens when I wear this sweatshirt when I travel.”

He’d never believed in superstition. Luck was simple circumstance and much more likely to be created by oneself than the ‘fates’.

“You don’t believe in luck, do you,” she accused. Instead of replying, he gave a one shouldered shrug.

“Well, believe what you like, but I’m telling you this sweatshirt has done me nothing but good.”

The storm commandeered the conversation then. A crackle of thunder rolled out across the sky, chasing a flash of lightning they couldn’t see. The woman started, lost in her own thoughts and jumping at the suddenness of it.

“Where are you traveling from?” he asked, curiosity in line with the foreign desire to fill in the silence. He’d never particularly felt the need to keep a conversation going. When people felt awkward, he was more likely to get what he wanted from them. Here and now, what he wanted was to keep this woman comfortable – at ease.

It seemed to work at first, first words remaining vague but honest. “I’m just coming in from Paris.”

He noticed the hotel approaching fast. Since stepping out into the rain just fifteen minutes ago, he felt happier, more aware since meeting this woman. Now that he felt settled, he didn’t want this distraction to leave. She’d just said she’d visited Paris. Something to say shouldn’t require this much searching.

The Marriot loomed closer and still his tongue remained tied in some knot too complex for his tired mind.

By the time he thought of asking her about the Louvre, she was an artist after all, the revolving door was before him and the red umbrella no longer necessary.

She kindly waited as he took a moment to close their shared protection and shake it out before entering the building.

Together, they stood just inside, neither quite meeting the other’s eye. The torrent outside became a distant thrum of sound, a muted patter of water repeatedly pouring down on the building that now served as shelter from the storm.

“Well, she said finally, folding her arms and shivering at the sudden blast of air conditioning ever present in the summer heat. “Thank you for sharing your umbrella.”

Ducking his head in a shy manner he hadn’t done since he was a teenager in Glasgow, he replied, “You are quite welcome.”

The woman stuck her hands into the center pocket of her lucky sweatshirt, swung away as if to go, half turned back, saying, “It was nice meeting you,” then pivoted and began to walk away.

Those words reminded him of the most crucial part of any meeting. He’d never been struck so at the thought of forgetting an introduction, but hurried after her, touching her arm with a solitary finger while the umbrella bumped against her leg in his haste.

“Wait!”

She faced him again in an instant, her bright eyes crinkling at the sight of him.

“Yes?”

His confidence faltered for a moment before his tongue finally loosened and he managed in an uncharacteristically faltering manner, “You know, one of the most important parts in meeting someone is getting their name.”

Switching his cane to his left hand, he stuck out his right and for the first time in twenty years, he didn’t only give his last name. “Torquil Gold.”

The woman smiled as she took his hand, hers enveloped in his warm one. “I’m Belle, Belle French.”

Torquil Gold didn’t know it then, but something had changed forever.

~~~***~~~

Every morning began the same way for Gold. His eyes flew open and he bolted upright, eyes desperately roving the room, pupils blown wide in fear. His chest heaved as he sucked gulping breaths before flopping back and laying for a minute and a half.

The images his mind conjured during the restless nights tore him from what little peace he managed during the day. The nightmares took various forms. He had no trouble falling asleep, but the distorted memories his sub-conscience provided him with startled him into wakefulness much earlier than he would have liked.

If sleep was for the blameless, then he deserved none.

Showering, allowing the tension to dissipate as he took his time, Gold finger combed his hair back as he buttoned the white dress shirt all the way to the top. He didn’t know why he’d brought it with him. Most of the shirts he owned reflected the persona he’d created for himself: dark and foreboding.

Instead of picking out a gray tie neatly folded in his suitcase, his hand strayed to the right of it and chose a paisley color he’d brought on a whim. Tying the knot around his neck, he moved to stand in front of a mirror, fingers flipping the silk around itself until it settled comfortably against his throat.

The action of dressing was his own small way of taking the power back he’d lost while he’d slept. This suit was armor. From the threads that served as chainmail to the vest he considered a breastplate, when he smoothed out non-existent creases he felt prepared to face the world.

He couldn’t be harmed in his armor. Not by the past.

After one last glance in the mirror, he scooped up his cane, new umbrella, and wallet and exited the suite. He had one last meeting that day before he could return home to his son. Before he faced the old colleague, he needed to unwind. Relax.

Ringing for the lift after limping down the hall, he stared at the red umbrella in his hand. Absently, Gold wondered if he’d ever see the woman again.

Belle French. There was something about her that he couldn’t put his finger on, but she intrigued him. Her simple, straightforward views were refreshing.

Her company had been… He exhaled slowly and put her out of his mind. The likelihood of ever seeing her again was little to none.

The lift arrived and with a quiet bing, the doors opened. Inside, stood the very woman he’d been thinking about.

Her mouth shaped a surprised ‘O’ before slipping into a smile and moving to the right to admit him. She still wore the sweatshirt, its frayed edges and bleach stains unforgettable.

“Mr. Gold, what a pleasant surprise!”

He wondered at her use of formality when he clearly recalled giving her his first name; a phenomenon he couldn’t explain but surprisingly didn’t regret.

“Miss French,” he said stepping into the elevator.

“You are up very early,” she observed, rocking on her heels.

“As are you.”

Belle smiled at him. “I have a reason,” she stated, motioning to a previously missed suitcase beside her.

Gold blinked in surprise. He knew she would be traveling, but the fact still shocked him. A pang of something momentarily struck him before he shook it off and said, “Any place in particular? Back to Australia?”

“Nope!” she refuted, popping her ‘p’. “I’m off to Scotland.”

That caught him off guard. Gold raised his eyebrows. “Really?” his tone conveyed his surprise, but none of the odd mix of nostalgia and repulsion that usually slipped out.

A bubbling laugh fell from her lips. “No, I’m not. It’s on my list, though.”

Something akin to relief that she wouldn’t be able to find anything out about him this far from his disastrous past washed over him.

“If you aren’t going back home and you aren’t going to Scotland, where are you off to?’

Belle cocked her head and gripped the handle of her suitcase a little harder. “Right now? I’m off to a coffee shop before going to visit my father.”

He didn’t particularly blame her for sidestepping his question. In fact, he rather admired her for it. She answered his question, just not in the way he’d hoped. Gold couldn’t explain why he wanted to know where she was going, but it felt as if there were a tiny strand, no thicker than a spider’s thread, that connected them.

Nodding at her admittance, Gold stared at the numbers ticking away as they lowered to the first floor. It was odd, this desire to keep seeing her, this desire to know her better and not let go. A complete stranger and he still wanted to stay by her.

The lift let out another soft bing to announce their arrival before sliding open. Belle walked out first, her suitcase bumping over the threshold with a little clatter. He followed after her, cane tapping against the hard, tiled floor.

A glance out at the windows showed him a glimmer of light as the sun continued its ascent behind dark clouds still dropping rain.

She was still walking away, wheels rolling over the floor and footsteps silent as she moved towards the door.

Suddenly, as he watched her stride away, chestnut hair falling into the hood of her lucky sweatshirt, he couldn’t stay where he was.

“Miss French!” he called, hurrying after her, almost momentarily forgetting to use his cane.

She turned, blue eyes wide and waiting with a smile that seemed to linger at the corners of her mouth.

“Could you, perhaps, use an umbrella to stave off the rain?” Gold almost faltered half way through, courage nearly failing him.

He expected her to turn away in disgust, or at least to politely refuse him. Instead, she asked, “Are you hungry?”

“I am.”

“Are you going my way?”

Gold smiled back at her, the simple question giving him an opening to come along instead of just handing over the umbrella.

“I am.”

“Come along then. I got wet enough yesterday,” she said with a wink and beckoned him to follow along with a wave of her hand. The moment they exited the revolving door, he hurried to open the umbrella and hold it over her head even though they were yet under the overhang.

She stepped close, keeping her suitcase on her left so as not to hold it between them. The rain had overwhelmed and washed away whatever scent she’d worn before, but now, so close, there was something distinctly floral about her. It wafted from her hair and invaded his senses.

“Do you come here often?” she asked as they stepped off, his feet leading him toward a coffee shop he knew opened early.

Gold had been ready to try and impress her, intimidate her, test her reactions with some pithy comment or sarcastic reply, but when his mouth opened, the truth came out.

“Not as frequently anymore. I dislike being away from my son.”

It didn’t repulse her. Instead, the answer elicited another smile as she asked, “What’s his name?”

With that question, Gold stepped into the shoes of the proud father. “Baeden,” he answered with a growing grin of his own. “He’s sixteen, just about to start driving. He’s very excited to start. He’s on the younger side of his grade and all his friends have already begun learning.”

“I’d guess he’s a little jealous of them?” Belle prompted him to keep going and he needed no further invitation. For the entirety of their walk to the coffee shop with the rain pattering on the umbrella overhead and light filtering through the full, gray clouds, Gold talked about his son. The hobbies and habits, interests and dislikes, humorous anecdotes and crazy thoughts Bae had come up with, all got mentioned briefly with Belle smiling and laughing at all the right parts, encouraging him to continue.

When they’d arrived, Gold had almost bewilderedly glanced around, wondering how he’d gotten there so quickly and appalled at how he’d rambled on. Opening the door for her then fumbling with umbrella to close it before entering himself, he made to apologize.

“Don’t! I loved hearing about your son. It is great to hear how much you care about him. Besides, it was very entertaining. Bae sounds like quite the handful. His mom must be having a blast with him right now.”

The mention of Bae’s mother had always had a sucking effect on Gold. It sapped the color out of the world and the happiness from his soul. It brought anger and resentment in spades. Even now he could feel the familiar burn of distaste simmering in his stomach.

Before he could say anything though, Belle slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes widening in distress. “I am so sorry! That was thoughtless of me. I should never have said anything. It is none of my business.”

Strange how the anger slipped away when he made no effort to cling to it like he normally did. The cloud that had passed over him breezed away as he shook his head.

“It’s alright. It happened a while back; in the past now.”

She eyed him with that scrutinizing stare of hers that seemed to read his mind before nodding. “Right, then I invoke the stranger’s right to A.T.A this conversation and start a new one,” she declared.

Gold blinked at her. “What?”

“A.T.A.,” she repeated. “Awkward Topic Avoidance.”

“I don’t think that’s a thing.”

Belle shrugged. “Who’s to say it can’t be? All you have to do is take the first letter of your first name, think of five topics that begin with it and pick one to talk about.”

The concept startled a laugh out of him. Grinning, Belle touched his arm to get his attention again, saying, “No, really. Your first name begins with a T. You could say, Tolstoy, Trips, Tea, Ties, or Taxes.”

Each choice egged on this foreign laughter on. “I understand ties, but taxes?” he managed between chuckles.

She’d begun laughing with him and motioned at his suit. “You have to know something about taxes.”

“I can’t imagine you’d actually want to talk about taxes,” Gold said dryly, the laughter finally ebbing.

Belle shuddered and shook her head. “You’re right. I regret ever bringing that up as a topic. You’ll talk circles around me.”

“Neither do I wish to bore you on tie choice.”

Pointing at the tie carefully knotted at his throat, Belle said, “I like that one.”

It must have been the early hour preventing his mind from locating rationality and fact in the statement, but the words created a warm sensation in his stomach. He also realized that her little game had been quite effective. Any thoughts of Bae’s mother had vanished under the oddly charming conversation he had.

“I begin to see the validity this A.T.A,” Gold said, voicing his thoughts on the matter.

Belle beamed as she stepped up to the counter to order. “Works like a charm on those who aren’t aware of it.”

She turned to the bleary-eyed barista and ordered a small cup of coffee. When asked if that was all, she raised her eyebrows at Gold. “Want anything? My treat.”

It was another moment of strange conflict within Gold. Every instinct he had cultivated relating to business told him to just accept it and allow her to walk out with a loss. On the other hand, he desperately desired to impress this woman gazing innocently up at him with cerulean eyes.

Opening his mouth to protest that he had plenty of money and would gladly pay for her breakfast as well as his own, a reproaching glare replaced her lovely smile.

“Unless you are about to say that you aren’t hungry or are about to order, don’t you dare say a word of protest, Mr. Gold. I am well aware you could pay for this meal a hundred times and not even blink, but this is my gesture, so don’t bother.”

She stood before him with the same finger that had pointed at his tie now nearly prodding at his chest. Her other hand pulled out her wallet and while still glaring at him, slipped out her debit card and handed it over to the barista.

“Now what do you want?” Even in the short while he’d known her, it already felt wrong to hear her irritable. She should be happy, keep that lovely smile on her face to brighten those blue, blue eyes. Instead, here she stood in indignant glory and it truly was rather glorious.

“Um, Ma’am?” the barista inserted hesitantly, limply holding the debit card. “We don’t accept cards. Cash only.”

Belle started. Her hand lowered as her head whipped around to face the barista. “Seriously?”

The girl behind the counter gave a sympathetic shrug. “Sorry.” She handed back the card with a half-smile.

For a brief moment, Gold thought Belle was about to snap at her, but she took a breath and nodded. As she replaced the card, she raised her eyebrows at him.

“Well, what do you want?”

Maybe the early hour was still addling his mind, but he felt like he should have been more irritated with her. He hadn’t been spoken back to in such a way for years. Yet, here he stood, watching this woman he’d met not twelve hours earlier fumbling for cash in her purse and instead of taking her reproach personally, he let it go.

He shook off the strange feeling, reveling in the idea that this trip could end on a much higher note than he could have ever believed. Gold also realized that she’d been rummaging for change for a while.

A smile began to form on his lips as he observed, “I’m beginning to think you don’t have any cash on you.”

Her expression went from irritated to sheepish. She replaced her wallet in her purse and couldn’t seem to meet his eyes.

“I am very sorry. I have a total of two dollars and some spare Australian change. I am not trying to back out of paying, I promise. I-”

Gold held up his hand, laughing away her words. “Please, allow me.”

He pulled out the wallet from his chest pocket and handed over a twenty. “I’ll have a cup of coffee and a bagel.”

Raising an eyebrow at the flustered woman, he asked, “Would you like something to eat?”

Just as she denied any hunger, her stomach growled.

“Care to try again?” he said, smirk building quickly.

She rolled her eyes at him. “I don’t want to make you spend more money on me. First the umbrella, now this?”

Gold replaced his wallet before taking a better grip on his cane. “It’s no trouble, really. Get what you want.”

Studying him, Belle seemed to make her decision as she bit her lip and nodded. “Okay, yeah, I’ll have what he’s having.”

“Two coffees and two bagels?” The barista questioned, flicking her tired gaze between the two.

“Correct,” Gold said as he gestured toward a table for them to sit at. He received the change before following Belle and sitting across from her. The confidence he’d just observed seemed to have waned as she fiddled with her hands.

“I really am sorry.”

“Please don’t be. I have plenty to spend and now a story to tell.”

She eyed him with those blue eyes of hers before nodding as if she’d seen something she’d liked.

“Alright then, if you’re sure.”

Gold leaned back in his chair, her words drawing a smile from him. “I am.”

“Then tell me something about yourself. You aren’t from Portland, but I don’t think you are visiting from Scotland either.”

It struck him yet again like the lightening crashing in the sky, how observant she really was.

“Is my accent no’ thick enough?” he asked, intentionally roughening his brogue as he spoke the words.

The act drew a giggle from her. “Not entirely. You just seem very familiar with the area.”

“And I don’t live in Portland because I’m staying in a hotel,” Gold finished for her, nodding approvingly.

She smiled at the barista who’d arrived with their coffee and their bagels and Gold came to the conclusion that she smiled at everyone even if they didn’t do much to earn it.

He watched as she slathered cream cheese on her bagel with a plastic knife before taking a sip of his own coffee.

Again, it struck him at how strangely calm and at ease he felt in the presence of a stranger. Yet, she didn’t seem like a stranger. She made him feel relaxed, open even. The feeling didn’t last long, however. His phone vibrated in his jacket pocket as coarse an interruption as a jolt of electricity.

“Excuse me just a moment,” Gold pardoned himself as he took out the phone and glanced at the screen. Only years of hiding his feelings kept him from grimacing at the sight of the caller ID.

“Gold,” he answered gruffly after pressing the answer button.

“Hey, it’s me, Jefferson,” replied the scratchy voice on the line.

Tempted as Gold was to make a snarky comment about caller ID, he glanced warily at Miss French nibbling happily away at her bagel. Clean slates were hard to come by. Even harder to find were interesting clean slates.

“What is it? We already met,” Gold said, settling for a calm, if a bit irate tone considering the hour and the interruption.

“Yeah, I know, but you told me to let you know if anything ever came up.”

 “Aye, and?”

 “Something’s coming to Maine. Fairly sure all the way to your town, but something’s on its way.”

 Gold digested this with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Specifics?”

 He heard a rustle of paper and a muted cough before Jefferson replied, “Just a few. Enough for concrete evidence though.” He paused and could be heard leafing through more pages and muttering a soft curse then returned to the phone saying, “Yeah, yeah, I got it right here. There is some kind of plan in action going on in Australia. Looks like the two factions over there aren’t getting along. One of them is sending someone over to take care of an issue and the other side is doing the same but in a more protective fashion.”

Gold waited briefly for farther information before realizing Jefferson was done. “That’s very vague. You have nothing else?”

“Sorry, Gold. Nothing. If you want to pull some strings on your end, I’m sure a lot more will come up, but I’m guessing you don’t want to go down that particular slippery slope.”

No, he really did not. Gold had decided that particular conclusion the moment he’d walked away from it all. He had a son now and would do anything to keep him safe.

“Are you sure you don’t have anything else? The littlest detail can be helpful.”

There were more noises of curses and rustling paper before a crow of delight emitted from over the phone. “Aha!” Jefferson exclaimed excitedly. “Got one more thing. The something they are taking care involves a person. An old man, to be exact.”

Gold waited for a name, for a description, anything that would help identify this new threat. Jefferson seemed to realize that because in this silence he made a noise that equated a shrug and said, “Sorry, that’s really it this time. I’ll call when I know more.”

And that was it. Gold ended the call with a press of his thumb before slipping the phone back into his pocket. He smiled apologetically at the woman before him who raised her eyebrows at him but didn’t press who had been on the line.

The breath of relief he wanted to let out became saved for his coffee, the slow exhale of air forcing the steam to rise up and around him like a veil before dissipating in the blink of an eye.

He already knew he wanted to keep telling this woman the truth. It felt so far removed from his normal deceit that his heart, where previously heavy and strained, was light. The last thing he wanted to do was admit that the man on the other end of the line had been an old colleague in the organized crime sector in Glasgow.

Gold knew to the root of his bones that admitting he had run with well established, well-run gangs in Scotland, he would never see hide or hair of this creature again.

That was unacceptable.

And undeniably probable.

Belle had taken the call in stride, ignoring it in favor of talking about an art museum in Portland. The conversation turned out to be equal parts stimulating and infuriating. They played a verbal game of cat and mouse. Gold strove to uncover something of her personal life, specifically where she was going, and she dodged him at nearly every turn. Without warning at times, she would spin the topic on its head and go after him, searching with equitable eagerness for information about himself.

Each had met their match, however, as vague answers and graceful avoidance rose to the forefront. The time flew by before Belle regretfully glanced at her watch and said, “I have to get back to the hotel so I can start my drive.”

“Which would be to where again?” asked Gold as he stood.

It was the most ham-handed approach he’d used yet.

Belle shot him an amused smirk. “I’ll let you know when I get there.”

“And how will you do that when you have no idea where I live?” Gold pressed, joking facade in place but all seriousness inside.

Belle cocked her head at him before whipping out a sharpie from a pocket and uncapping it. She grabbed his left hand before it could reach the red umbrella dangling from the chair and turned it palm up.

“You,” she said as he watched her write on his hand with a mixture of horror and fascination, “will just have to call me first if you really want to know.”

She drew the last seven on his hand and waved the sharpie at him with a short laugh. Capping it and sticking it back into her pocket, she reached for her suitcase. By the time she turned back to him, he’d already entered eight of the digits on his phone. When he’d finished the tenth, he pressed the call button and raised his eyebrows at her expectantly.

Her phone trilled from her back pocket and she tugged it out. Inwardly, Gold breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t think that she would give him a fake number, but he’d wanted to be certain.

“What, did you think I’d give you a fake number?” Belle shook her head and began to save him as a contact with defter fingers than he managed.

She completed her task first, shoving the device back where it came from and waited for him expectantly.

Slipping his phone back into his jacket, he nodded at the door.

“Shall we?”

“We shall!” her bubbly excitement seemed a mite over the top, but Gold felt ridiculously pleased as he walked out the door. He held the door open and the sound of rain, did not greet them. All was still gray, however and as he stared out at the city, he could see the faint sprinkle still falling from the sky. The sun strained to peek through the thick gray clouds. Dimmed versions of the strong summer rays lit the city streets.

Belle stepped out first, smiling up at the gray sky as she inhaled deeply. She laughed as droplets fell into her eyes and she scurried under the red umbrella he’d opened

She turned to him, bright cerulean eyes gazing at him as she said, “I love the smell when it rains. It’s always so clean and fresh. I take a deep breath and I feel like the earth sighed and relaxed.”

She took another deep breath and Gold turned his head to take a small whiff for himself. It smelled nice, he supposed. Searching for poetry in the little things had never been his forte, but as he sniffed, he felt a calm settle over him. It drew a smile to his lips like he had no choice in the matter. When he glanced at Belle, ready to suggest that they move on, she was watching him with a soft, unreadable expression.

“Wait a moment,” she requested, fishing her phone out of her back pocket. She fiddled with it for just a moment before switching it to the other hand and stretching out her arm.

“Smile!”

Bae had done this often enough when he was a child and had discovered a camera on the phone. Gold had never though he looked any good in a picture, but he smiled nonetheless.

After the shot, she checked the photo and wrinkled her nose. “As an artist, I’m going to have to protest not using the umbrella as a backdrop.” She pressed lightly on the rod and he allowed it to move. She extended her arm again and scooched closer to him. Huffing a laugh, Gold looked at her, studying her for just a moment.

He took in her dainty nose that no longer tinged pink with cold. Blue eyes crinkled as she smiled for the camera and chestnut hair tumbled down around the hood of her sweatshirt that before seemed so unkept now just fit.

He vaguely heard her order a smile again, so he looked back at the camera with the fake simulation of a grin that everyone uses in front of a lens. When she checked the photo again, her reaction was starkly different. Her expression turned soft and her shoulders dropped into a relaxed position.

“This a keeper,” she chirped, after giving the slightest shake to her head and stuffed the phone back into her pocket before he could ask to see it.

Looping her arm through his, she said quietly, “I love rainy days because they always make me appreciate the sun just a little more.” She wrinkled her nose before commenting, “When the sun does finally come out.” She stuck out a hand from under the umbrella’s rim and he could see the glint of liquid on her skin where the water plunked and dropped on her.

Gold swallowed his surprise at the feel of her fingers pressing against his arm, the touch suitably distracting from the odd moment before. Hesitantly, he began to walk. Keenly aware of the cane he used on his right, he tried to lessen the limp while still keeping it noticeable. He was all too conscience of his left arm bearing both the umbrella and the light pressure of Belle’s hand. Breathing in deeply, he strove to put it aside and enjoy the morning walk.

They meandered back to the hotel, taking their time and neither rushing the other. Strangely, the silence seemed easy and comfortable. It almost felt right after all their probing and searching in the coffee shop.

No matter how slowly Gold kept his pace, all too soon the sign for the Marriott crept closer. When they’d arrived at the front of the revolving doors much like they had the previous night, when all had been a pouring deluge of rain and crashing thunder, Gold felt a strange, sinking feeling of loss.

“The parking garage is just across the way,” Belle said quietly, her arm still linked through his and her cerulean eyes flicking to the building on the other side of the street.

“So it is,” Gold replied, his voice equally hushed in the morning silence.

“You should know I’m terrible at goodbyes.”

Another quiet statement she made with her arm still looped through his. He heard the ring of honesty in the words, but he shook his head, refusing her unspoken farewell. He’d been left too many times before without so much as an adieu.

“Say it anyway,” he said and wondered if she could hear the plea in his voice. He heard it as clear as he could hear the patter of rain against the umbrella.

A flash of something crossed her face before it was chased away with a brilliant smile. “I’ll see you later!”

“Say it properly,” Gold ordered with all seriousness and sincerity, laughter stolen away by this goodbye.

Her face softened and she nodded. “Goodbye, Mr. Torquil Gold.”

Her voice, clear and strong, now almost seemed to waver. With satisfaction, he tucked his cane under his arm so he could have limited use of his right hand. Taking her hand that rested on his arm, he gently removed it and held it for a moment.

“Goodbye, Miss Belle French.”

He wrapped her hand around the curved handle of the umbrella before dropping both his hands and replacing the cane on the ground.

“You make this seem very final, Mr. Gold,” she observed, searching eyes scanning his face. “You have my number; will you call me?”

“I will.”

“Then why does this seem so permanent?”

“I don’t expect I’ll ever see you again,” he answered simply.

“I don’t put much stock in expectations,” she declared beginning to turn away, a mischievous smile on her lips. “I find myself constantly surprised.”

She turned away and crossed the street. The rain settled on his shoulders, a dusting like dew collecting on the fabric.

Belle turned back to him when she’d mounted the side walk with her short suitcase beside her. She gave a little wave before disappearing into the parking garage. Out of sight but not out of mind.

He stayed where he was, the rain drizzling around him. For a moment, he wondered if he would stay until he watched her drive away when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket.

I’ll see you again, Torquil.

A second text came and it was the picture of the two of them smiling at the camera. It took some fiddling and a brief curse, but Gold managed to save the photo as her contact picture – the only one that had one besides Bae.

As he opened up his jacket, feeling the fibers beginning to dampen with the falling moisture, the phone alerted him with another text.

It’s Killian. – J

Gold cursed.