Santa Monica 1922

Cal's shoes made a satisfying clomp against the freshly swept sidewalk. He walked quickly, hands in his pocket, hat pushed back to reveal the smile playing about his lips. The smells of popcorn, sugar, and salt water mingled in the air. He breathed deeply and let his eyes roam across the crowd that was already forming on the pier. According to his watch it was only three in the afternoon, and yet couples were already strolling hand-in-hand, oblivious to everything but the other's eyes. Children ran about in search of a few more pennies for another game. It wasn't enough to simply say most of the people here belonged to a different social group. The pier was its own world, and it was unlike anything he had ever experienced. But that was an understatement; it wasn't just the pier that was its own world. There were dozens of worlds in Santa Monica alone, never mind in the rest of Los Angeles. It was fascinating, in a way, to wonder what it would have been like to be born here, or, if he was feeling particularly adventurous, to just have been born to a typical middle-class family. What would growing up as a member of the bourgeoise have changed about him? If nothing else, it would have given him a definite set of goals to strive for.

Cal's smile wavered. He turned his gaze away from the crowd. No, instead, he was born at the very top of American society. The only thing higher than his family, with its fortune dating only as far back as 1872 although his grandfather had steadfastly claimed otherwise until everyone finally began to believe him, was those few remaining scraps of nobility and what passed for royalty these days. Russia didn't even have a royal family anymore. The few survivors of the Revolution were scattered, clinging to their former dignity, while the Imperial family had been shot in a basement, though of course, there were those who told other stories. The world was changing right under his feet, and only a blind man wouldn't be able to see what was coming. Soon the American aristocracy he loved so dearly wouldn't even exist. It would be replaced by hordes of tasteless nouveau riche. So perhaps, he mused, turning the last corner, it was best he had gotten out when he had. Better to disappear quietly to parts unknown then to suffer the humiliation of being usurped—though, he had to admit, he hadn't left with that end in mind.

His knocked was answered by a brisk, "It's unlocked." He paused before stepping inside and smoothed his hair. It was still jet black, only now it fell a little more freely beneath his hat. He straightened his tie and ran a thumb over the buttons on his vest. He knew they were all buttoned perfectly, but it was reassuring to check just the same.

"I thought you'd never get here," Rose said over her shoulder. She carried a stack of unframed paintings in her arms. "Fine greeting," he said, ignoring the slight roll of her eyes. "Do you want help with those?"

"Oh no, I'm fine. I'm just taking them into the bedroom. You can help me carry the bookcase out here, though," she called.

"What are you going to do with them in there?"

"What do you mean?" she asked. "Hang them up, of course."

"Well, yes, I assumed that, but don't you think you have enough paintings in here?" He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his middle. "If you aren't careful you won't be able to find your way out." She ignored him. "Doesn't it make it difficult to sleep in here?" he continued. "That, for instance," he said, nodding at a Picasso piece "It can't possibly induce pleasant dreams."

"My dreams are perfect. You never did understand Picasso," Rose said absently, leaning a painting against the wall opposite the bed. "But then again," she added, stepping back to view the result, "You never did have much taste in art."

"I have taste. This just isn't what I would call 'art.'"

"And what would you call art? Renaissance paintings?"

"Well, now that you mention it, I'd certainly prefer a few Da Vinci's to the scribblings of Picasso. The man paints like a drunk child having a nightmare."

Rose laughed. "You really were born at the wrong time, weren't you? First it's penniless artists destroying the craft and all these naughty books getting published about noblewomen having affairs with Yorkshire peasants, then it's the War killing all the empires, then it's the Nineteenth Amendment—" She studied his face. "Your world has just been crumbling since the day you were born, hasn't it?"

Cal couldn't help but wonder if hearing the words "penniless artist" spoken aloud had the same effect on her as it did on him. He pulled his gaze away from hers. It couldn't possibly; something would give her away if it did, he told himself. "I wouldn't go that far," he said lightly. "Things were going very well in the 90s."

"You know, they say the 20s will be like that," she said. "An endless round of parties and quests for more clothes."

Cal laughed shortly. "The 20s are already boring me. The art and literature are getting worse, and so are the clothes."

"Do you mean to say," Rose's eyebrow arched, "You don't enjoy the sight of women going about in short skirts?" She pulled the last few books from the bookcase. "I wouldn't have named you, of all people, as an upholder of common morality," she said dryly.

Cal's head spun from the implications of her remark. "Common morality and personal morality," he said, choosing his words carefully, "are not the same thing." He grasped on end of the bookcase as she grasped the other. Together, they carried it down the hall and into the front room. "No," she said. "I suppose in your case they're not." Her blue-green eyes were hard but inscrutable. Was she accusing him? Or was she seeing how he would react? And in either case, why? After three years, weren't they beyond that?

"So," he said brightly, "Why the sudden need to move the furniture around?"

Her eyes softened. "Oh, I just felt like changing things," she replied. She grabbed a handful of books and began arranging them on the top shelf. "I've lived here for five years, and I just realized this morning I've had everything in exactly the same place the whole time. I couldn't take it anymore. It was either this or leave, though, I'm not sure I won't," she added, more to herself than to him.

He kept his voice level. "Leave? And go where?"

"I don't know," she said with a shrug. "Anywhere. I've never seen the mountains on this side of the country. Maybe I'll go there." A new light came into her eyes. "Maybe I'll go to Mexico. It's supposed to be beautiful there, or maybe Canada."

"Canada is an icy wasteland, and Mexico is no place for a woman. You'd do better to find a more populated destination that carries less of a chance of being murdered."

Her mouth thinned slightly. "I think I could handle things, and when did you become so concerned about what I do?" Before he could answer she added, "It doesn't matter anyway. If I went I would have to give up the apartment and find a place to store my things or get rid of them."

"Give up the apartment? Why?"

"Well, who knows how long I'd be gone. I don't have the money to pay the rent in advance indefinitely, and what if I decide not to come back? It would just be a waste." She dropped into the chair next to the window. Curls that had escaped the knot at the base of her neck framed her face. Cal watched her from his chair across the room. Her feet were bare. She wore no make-up. The man's shirt and pants she wore hung loosely on her frame, obscuring the curve of her waist and swell of her breasts. She had always been fair, but there was a new paleness in her cheeks. The hollows beneath her eyes were dark, as though from not sleeping. Her hands, resting idly on the chair arms, were thinner than the last time he saw her, just a few days before.

She isn't eating enough, he decided. Or sleeping enough. Asking would be a waste of time. She would just brush off the question with a shrug and change of subject or a sarcastic retort about his own health. He was too busy with his thoughts to notice her eyes on him. "Are you still having the dreams?" she asked quietly.

"What?" He quickly recovered himself. "Oh, the war dreams. No, I haven't been having them as often lately."

She tilted her head to the side. "What other dreams are you having?"

"Well, aside from the usual ones about you, none," he said jokingly. She rolled her eyes. "You don't dream about me," she said. "And if you do, I'll thank you to stop. I know enough about what goes on in your head."

….

Jack squinted against the evening sun as he stepped off the train. The voices around him mingled together, their greetings and good-byes mixing into one soothing hum. The air was filled with the smell of coal, horses, and the sweat of the crowd. It wasn't a particularly pleasant smell as far as most people were concerned, but Jack had always liked it. Every train station he had ever been to smelled the same; it was one constant in a life full of changes. He walked slowly through the crowd, taking in everything. Later, before he fell asleep, he would try to draw the images he remembered best.

A cool breeze blew his hair back. He shifted the weight of his bag from one shoulder to the other and slipped his free hand into his pocket. Although he walked with the easy stride of someone who knows where he's going but doesn't carry when he arrives, the truth was he had no idea where he was going. It had been twelve years since he left Santa Monica, and he doubted if the few people he'd made friends with back then still remembered him—if they were even still around. On the bright side, despite his somewhat bedraggled appearance, this time he had more than $2.50 to his name. Carefully folded at the bottom of his bag was $200 in cash, the payment for the last painting he sold before leaving San Francisco. He hadn't intended to come back to Los Angeles, let alone Santa Monica, but when he stepped up to the ticket counter he discovered there was only one more train leaving that day. Without a second thought he decided it was a sign.

His stomach suddenly gave a loud growl, bringing him back to the tasks at hand. It would be dark before he knew it, and finding a room for the night would be easier while the sun was still up. After that he would let himself think about dinner.

….

Rose sighed as the door clicked shut behind Cal. She pushed her curls away from her face and began collecting the dinner dishes. She had a perfectly fine table in the kitchen, but every time Cal came to dinner they ended up sitting on the floor around the coffee table. It was rather ironic considering the types of dinners they started out having together. A yawn escaped as she poured the remains of the coffee down the sink. It was wasteful, but so was saving it for the next morning only to decide not to drink it. She only kept the coffee for him; if it had been up to her they would have just drank milk or water, but even in his new state Cal rejected beverages like that. If he could not drink champagne with his dinner then he would settle for coffee, which he secretly preferred.

These dinners were exhausting, though Rose couldn't say why exactly. Cal had a tendency to linger long after the last bite had been eaten, rationing his coffee into ever smaller sips, as if the thought of leaving were just too much for him. Spending most of the afternoon, for he always arrived well before dinner time, and the entire evening with him left her craving solitude. Their conversations rarely ventured beyond sarcastic jabs and cultural or current event discussions. Keeping their emotions at bay was what left Rose exhausted, guarding herself against any statements which might lead to something best left untouched. They hadn't discussed the past since right after his arrival, and even then details had been avoided.

"I'll help you," Rose said.

"I don't want your pity," Cal replied, a scowl in his voice.

"What you want doesn't really matter anymore," she shot back. "You need my help whether you like it or not. That is, unless you prefer your father's solution—"

"No!" Cal avoided her eyes. "No," he said, quietly this time. "I think you may be onto something."

She smiled. "Let's discuss terms."

She slipped out of her dress and let it fall to the floor. Yawning again, she quickly removed the pins from her hair. It fell down her back, longer than ever. There really was no need to keep spending so much time with him. His father hadn't spoken to him in at least a year, so there was no danger there anymore. All their business communication was done through secretaries and letters. Rose justified it to herself by saying he still needed one friend who wasn't waiting to profit off him, but she knew that wasn't really the reason. As shameful as it was, she kept spending time with him because she enjoyed being around him. He didn't need her anymore. He had just as much money as he had ever had, if not more. He was involved in a half dozen projects in L.A. in addition to his share of the Hockley family businesses. He hadn't yet joined the elite society of L.A., but, she reminded herself, that was no excuse. It was his choice to remain on the periphery of things, and she was—What exactly was she doing?

Rose sighed and pulled the blanket over her. "I don't know what I'm doing."

…

Cal whistled softly. The tune matched his pace. He smiled to himself as the evening played back over in his head. Rose had been lovely despite the tiredness around her eyes. What she needs, he thought, really is a change of scenery. She's right about that, but she'll go about it all wrong if left to arrange things herself. Of course, she would never accept a gift like that from him, not under any circumstances. There wasn't a way to simply offer her a trip to wherever she chose as a mere friend. A gesture like that would require a more permanent bond, but the days of such a bond existing between them were long over.

But did they have to be? Cal stopped at the corner and waited for the light to change. It wasn't a completely absurd idea. They were good friends. They could talk intelligently to one another, a trait which he had once thought would never be desirable in a relationship with a woman, and he wanted her. It was at that moment that Cal finally admitted it to himself. His attraction to Rose hadn't faded away, buried under friendship. It had just changed. Suddenly he was overcome by the force of his desire for her. He didn't notice the other man walk up beside him. "It could work," he murmured.

Jack glanced at him, intrigued. His eyes widened. It couldn't be, and yet, he was already sure, it was. The hair was a little looser, but it was the same. The eyes were the same. The build was the same. The clothes were obviously expensive, but even without them the air of importance was enough to make Cal recognizable in rags. Jack didn't know whether to turn his head and pretend not to see him or to make his presence known. It was a toss-up between avoiding a scene and enjoying a scene. He was saved the need to make a decision by the light changing. Cal briskly crossed the street, staring straight ahead, as if he were looking at something beyond his surroundings. Jack just stood there, momentarily unsure where he was going and why he was going there.

…..

"I've missed you," Rose whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair away from his eyes. Jack kissed her hand. "I know," he said. Her skin tingled under his touch. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer. "Where were you?" she asked. He wound her curls around his fingers. "Don't worry about that," he said. "I'm here now."

Brrriiinnnggg

Rose shot up. She grabbed the alarm clock and twisted its knob to Off. With a groan she flopped back onto the pillows. Sunlight streamed through the window next to her bed. It was already a beautiful day; even with the window closed she could hear birds singing. And yet all she wanted to do was pull the blanket over her head and go back to sleep. She lay still, concentrating all her energy on hearing Jack's voice again, but it was a wasted effort. In her dreams she could still hear him perfectly, but when she was awake all she could manage was a few words. The sound of him saying her name, all the ways he'd said it, was the easiest to recall.

She choked back tears. "I'm losing him."

But wouldn't it be better to let the memories fade? To remember the story but keep only the most vivid impressions of it? How else would she ever move on? It's what he would have wanted, but then again, hadn't she done what he asked? Wasn't she living the life she wanted?

"I've given up," Rose said, shocked to hear the words said aloud. "I haven't done anything I meant to."

…

"What do you mean—" Cal's grip on the phone receiver tightened. "Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, I understand. Of course." He took a quick, deep breath. "Perhaps we could arrange another way—Of course not!" he cried. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, slowly this time. "I do understand," he said evenly. "It's just that—Right. Yes, I see. No, that won't be a problem. Fine. Call my secretary when you have the details." With a frustrated groan he slammed the receiver into the cradle. A sharp pain filled the space behind his eyes. He dropped his head into his hands.

"Sir—"

"Not now, Stevens."

"I'm sorry to bother you, but—"

Cal's voice hardened. "I said not now, Stevens. I have a splitting headache. Whatever it is can wait."

"I really don't think it can." Stevens, a slim, impeccably dressed man answered calmly. His grey eyes took in Cal's slumped shoulders and tense jaw. He hadn't seen him this upset in months, but he pressed on all the same. "The workers at the 14th street facility are threatening to strike again."

Cal swore under his breath. "Not that again," he said. "Don't tell me they're still not satisfied." He ran a hand through his hair. "What more do they want? I gave them everything they asked for last time. Wasn't that enough?"

"Well, sir," Steven said, "it appears not."

Cal shot him a withering look. "This is no time for jokes." He stood up. "My family will be here next week."

"Family?"

"Yes, Stevens, my family. You shouldn't look so shocked. I do have one."

"I know that," Stevens said, forcing his long face into impassivity. "They've never come out here before, have they?" Cal shook his head. "This is the first time. My father's secretary just called to give me the good news." He picked up a glass from the bar opposite his desk. "This is just what I need," he said drily. "This insurrection will spread throughout the company if we don't figure out how to stop it today, and my father will be here to see it." Cal uncorked a bottle of brandy and poured a generous drink. "Stevens?"

"Sir?"

"Why is there no ice?"

"I don't know. Perhaps because it's not yet noon, and I hadn't thought it necessary to restock the bar yet?"

Cal stared at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. Stevens eyed him curiously. "Sir, are you quite alright?" he asked. Cal nodded, still chuckling. He took a sip of the warm brandy and grimaced at the taste. "I apologize," he said. I seem to have gotten a little hysterical." He set the glass aside. "Have they said what they want?"

"They want paid time off."

"What the hell for?" Cal exclaimed.

"To give them time to travel and enjoy a bit of leisure," Stevens replied. "It seems many of them have decided they would like to enjoy some of the, ah, privileges which the moneyed classes enjoy with such regularity."

"Well, they won't get it," Cal said. "What kind of absurd demand is that? Pay them to do nothing? I'll be damned if I do."

"With all due respect, sir, I'm not sure you can simply—"

"Stevens, I can do whatever I choose," Cal said coldly. His dark eyes held a quiet intensity. "I won't have things dictated to me by a mob of unwashed illiterates. They didn't come up with these ideas on their own. Someone has been stirring up trouble, and we're going to find out who."

"And then what?" Stevens asked. Without giving Cal time to answer he continued, "Let's say we do find the core agitators, what can we do with them? It isn't illegal to organize workers, nor is it illegal to strike. If they, and I'm certain they are, Communists, well that isn't illegal either—"

"Yet," Cal muttered.

Stevens went on as though he didn't hear him. "There aren't many options open to you," he said. "Labor agitators and Communists may not be highly favored by the general public, but as far as your lower level employees are concerned, anything we do to these men will just make them into martyrs."

Cal turned to face the window. The street below was full of the usual mid-afternoon traffic—delivery boys, taxis, office girls hurrying back from late lunches—but Cal saw none of it. His head was filled with images of burning warehouses and broken glass. His cheeks burned at the memory of the meeting that resolved the strike two years before, at his humiliation as one by one he gave in to their demands. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "We aren't giving them what they want again," he said quietly.

"If you'll remember, last time—"

"I don't care what happened last time. We'll find another way, Stevens. Do you understand?"

Stevens nodded. "Yes."

"Good." Cal swept past him. "And my father doesn't hear of this," he added. "The last thing I need is him trying to run things over my shoulder." He slipped into his jacket. "Especially when I have something more important to worry about."

…..

With a weary sigh Rose pulled the last pin from her hair and shook it loose. Her curls fell over her shoulders easily, as though they too were glad the day was nearly over. Quickly, she turned off the lights and locked the door behind her. She smiled as she set off, stretching her stiff legs with each step. The sun was still high in the sky, but the day's heat was finally beginning to dissipate. Of course, she reminded herself, anything was better than the stifling office. The windows on the first floor, where she and the other women worked, remained closed all day, and by noon the air was thick.

Rose threw her head back as a cool wind began to blow. She spread her arms, heedless of the curious glances she received, and just stood there with her eyes closed. For a moment she could almost feel Jack's hands on hers, almost feel the caress of his fingertips. "Rose?" She gasped, startled out of the memory. Cal eyed her with thinly veiled concern mixed with amusement. "What were you doing?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said quickly. "Just enjoying the fresh air. What are you doing here?" she added, her voice rising slightly.

"I came to ask you to dinner," he said.

"Oh," she said sheepishly. "Of course."

He watched her expectantly. "Did you think I had something else in mind?"

"No," she replied, carefully studying his features. It was as if she were seeing him anew. "I just wasn't expecting to see you today. Isn't this the evening you dine with the Mintons?"

"Ordinarily, yes," Cal said. "But if I keep appearing there it will just encourage Daphne."

"And we can't have that," Rose said drily. His mouth thinned. "I'm not interested in her. There's no point in giving her false hope."

"And her vulgar, nouveau riche family has nothing to do with your disinterest?"

"Nothing at all," Cal said. "Now, are we having dinner or not?"

"Oh fine. I am hungry, and it was a terrible day," she said as Cal swept her toward a waiting car. "At the very least I won't have to walk home." Her flippant tone masked the avalanche of emotions within her. Was he the answer? Were his bumbling attempts to change supposed to mean something more to her than they did? Rose couldn't deny he was an attractive man, but since the end of their engagement the thought of having him as a lover had never occurred to her. It was just as well; the idea had never appealed to her. And yet she suddenly found herself stealing glances at his hands.

….

Every time she ate in public Rose felt as though she were back at a high society dinner where everyone was watching her every move, even if, like that night, she were eating in a cheap diner. She had only been momentarily surprised by Cal's choice. Of course he would pick a place like this; it was all part of his attempts to distance himself from the past. As she watched him over the rim of her water glass she wondered why he kept trying to make himself into something he was never meant to be. His eyes darted around the room, as if waiting to be spotted by someone he knew. He eyed the food suspiciously before eating it and tried to examine his glass for spots without her noticing.

"We didn't have to come here," she said.

"It's fine," he said, distracted by what he thought was a stain on the table but was actually just part of the wood grains. "It's different."

"Yes, if by 'different' you mean painfully uncomfortable."

He looked up. "Are you uncomfortable?"

"No, but you are."

"I am not. Why would you say that?"

"Cal, you tense up every time a new person walks in," she said.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have insisted we go out for dinner. I thought if we came here it would be less awkward."

"For whom?"

"Well, you," he admitted. Rose stared at him, unsure how to respond. "Because if we went to any of the places I frequent not only would you not blend in at all—"

She wasn't sure where the urge came from, but suddenly she heard herself speaking. "I think that's about enough explaining," she said coolly.

"Rose, don't get angry. You know I didn't mean—"

"No, I know what you meant. I look poor, and you can't risk being seen with me by people who know you."

"Damn it, Rose, that's not—"

"I am poor," she said, her voice quiet but angry. "And that's just fine with me. In fact, I wouldn't have it any other way." Her chair squeaked as she pushed it back. He stood up as she did. "Rose—"

"Good night," she spat, turning on her heel and walking away.

Cal threw his napkin down. "Damn it, Rose," he called, hurrying after her. By the time he got outside she was halfway down the street. At the sound of his voice she increased her pace, but she had to stop when she reached the corner. "Let me explain," he said. "What I meant is, I know you aren't part of that world anymore. I know you don't want to be." She pretended not to hear him. He touched her arm. "Rose."

She stiffened; panic surged through her. This wasn't right. This wasn't supposed to be happening. It was all too much; it was too soon. Everything had been wrong since his sudden appearance; he wasn't supposed to be there. He took a step back. She crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "Take me home, please?" He nodded. "Whatever you want."

Rose felt his eyes on her, felt the weight of his unasked questions. She slumped against the seat, exhausted. What is wrong with me? Have I gone insane? It's just Cal. Her heart skipped a beat. That was the problem. She stole a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. I should love him; shouldn't I? The breeze from the open window blew her hair away from her face, bringing with it the scent of saltwater. A dull ache filled the pit of her stomach as Jack's smile flashed before her eyes. But I love him.

Cal rubbed the middle of his forehead. The pain behind his eyes was back and spreading. All he'd wanted was an evening with Rose, nothing complicated, just a few hours of looking at her and talking to her. If anyone could make him forget the stress of the day, she could, but now he would be up all night.

…

The walk to her door was silent. "I hope you don't mind, but I'd rather you didn't come in. I'd like to just go to bed," Rose said. As she turned to go inside, he reached out and took her hand. "Rose, there's something I want to tell you."

Rose kept her face impassive. "I think that may not be a good idea," she said.

"No, it probably isn't, but I'm going to tell you anyway," Cal said. He looked down into her eyes. Rose held her breath. His eyes were bright and warm, but they didn't fill the world. His gaze didn't reach to her knees. "I love you," he said. His words hit her like a punch in the stomach. It wasn't supposed to be like this; it wasn't supposed to be with him. "I have to go inside," she said quickly. "I'm sorry. I'll see you tomorrow." Stunned, he watched her go.

…

Jack drained the last few drops of beer from his glass and set it down with a satisfying click. Ted watched him with interest. "You don't feel anything, do you?" he asked, moving to refill the glass. "I'll feel that one," Jack said, waving his friend's hand away. He leaned back in his chair. "So, this is what you do now?"

"Some of the time," Ted replied. "This—" He gestured to the crowded bar. "Is how I pay for what I really do."

"And that is?"

"I'm a labor organizer. I get unions going, educate the workers, do what I can to make strikes successful."

"I never pictured you doing that," Jack said. "When I met you—"

"I was a different person," Ted interrupted. "That was a long time ago, Jack, and you're one to talk. What happened to seeing the world on pennies a day?"

Jack laughed. "What can I say? All it takes is one person to like your work, and then—" He snapped his fingers. "You're sleeping in a real bed every night and waking up without flea bites."

"So what brings you back here, then? Sounds like you were doing just fine in San Francisco."

"I was, but it was time to move on. I'd been there two years. I never meant to stay that long. I came out here to see about leaving America again, go to India this time, maybe." He studied the pile of peanut shells on the table. "Just wanted to come back here first," he said, softly this time.

"Who is she?"

Jack's head shot up. "What?"

"The woman," Ted said. "Who is she?"

"There isn't a woman," Jack said, rolling his eyes. "Everything isn't about that."

"Fine. Whatever you want." Ted leaned forward. "Listen, while you're here, why don't you think about joining me? It wouldn't have to be for long. Leave whenever you want. But I could use a man like you on this new project." Jack began to protest, but Ted ignored him. "Jack, you're good at getting people to listen to you. You make everyone feel like they're your best friend, and that's exactly the kind of man I need if I'm going to help these people win."

Jack cracked open another peanut. "Win what?"

…

Cal slammed the phone down with a muttered curse. Before he could remove his hand, it rang again. "What?" he snapped into the receiver.

"Sir, there's a Miss Dawson here to see you," a crisp, female voice answered.

Cal's shoulders began to slump a little less. "Send her in."

He stood up as the door opened. Rose walked quickly, her eyes solemn. "I'm sorry about last night," she said.

"It's alright. Sit down," he said, gesturing to the empty chair opposite his desk. She shook her head. "No, I don't intend to be here that long." She took a deep, steadying breath. "I spent the night thinking about this—about us—and I realized a few things." Cal's heart quickened. "Yes?" he said levelly.

"I don't know how I feel about you," she said slowly. His eyes dimmed. It was hardly the declaration he hoped for. "But I feel something," she explained. "I just can't think about it yet." She moved toward him. "There's something I need you to do for me before I can, something I need to know, and I'm trusting you to be honest about what you find out."

"What is it?"

"Find out what happened to Jack."