Jack pushed the sleeves of his shirt up past his elbows, getting ready to check the damage on this lady's car. He had been in an angry mood all day and just wanted to go lie down in his empty bed and see Rose in his dreams. He guffawed sardonically at what his younger self would think of him. He had not "made today count." In fact, he hadn't really made any day count for at least a few months.

He was 42 years old and he was still pining for a woman he had known when he was 20. But his dreams were the only part of his day that mattered anymore. And in his dreams, he and Rose never aged. Jack tried to imagine what she would look like if she were with him today. She would be 39. Unless, of course, she would have had a birthday since April. Jack didn't even know her birthday. He yearned for the life that they could have had, growing old together. He thought of his own graying and thinning hair, but Jack imagined that her hair would stay as bright red as it had been the day he met her.

Jack felt like the car in front of him was almost a mirror. It had been trustworthy for thousands of miles, but was now old. After driving back and forth across the country, it had come home to Detroit, to its birthplace, to die. Jack apathetically moved some tools around under the hood. He was about to give up and pronounce the car dead, when a head of long red hair flashed through his memory. She would have not wanted him to be so apathetic. Sighing, Jack opened up the hood once more to see that the car had been well taken care of over its many years.

It looked like the truck was actually healthy. The brakes were as sharp as on a new car, the gas line was intact, and the engine was clean. Jack couldn't figure out why it wouldn't start. Maybe cars, too, could have broken hearts.

He thought of his own heart which had been long dead. Maybe he needed a jump start. Smiling, for the first time in a while, Jack realized he could probably try that on the car. It may be silly—giving the car a jump start to fix its broken heart—but for some reason that he couldn't comprehend, Jack really wanted to fix this woman's truck. As he headed back into the shop to find the jumper cables, he wondered if his idea might actually work.

--

Rose was angry. It was already dusk and she didn't have a hotel for the night. Everywhere in Detroit seemed to be booked or well out of her price range. Usually in this situation, Rose would spent the night in the cab of her truck, but it was at the mechanic. She cursed her rotten luck.

Now she was walking back to the mechanic shop, trying to see when her car would be finished. Earlier, she had been told that one of the slower men was on duty tonight. And his name was Jack, no less.

"Ah, hello Mrs. Dawson. Were you able to find a hotel for the night?" said the man working in the front of the shop as the door swung closed behind her.

Rose glared up at him. "No, sir. So I was hoping my car would be available."

"It shouldn't be too long," he said as Rose heard a door behind her open. "In fact, here comes Jack now. He looks about finished."

Rose was about to turn around, but she wanted to be sure she warned the mechanic not to overcharge her.

"And I should let you know that my husband will look at the car as soon as I get home. He'll know exactly what you did and how much it was worth," she said adamantly, staring the man down.

"Yes, of course," said the mechanic. "This was the husband who liked the White Sox growing up?"

"Yes, him."

Rose heard the door behind her swing closed again, Jack the mechanic must have just come in to pick something up. "So can you tell if my car will be ready?"

"Yeah, he just came in to get a jumper cable. It should only be a minute."

Rose couldn't believe she had gone through this entire ordeal just to have some smug mechanic give her car a jump start.

--

Jack pulled to door to the auto repair shop open. For the first time in quite a while, he was happy about fixing a car. However, the sight in front of the counter made him stop in his tracks. He had only seen hair that shockingly red once before. It had been long and curly. He closed his eyes and remembered how soft it had been to his touch. Hair that color only existed anymore in his dreams.

He knew it wasn't Rose standing at the counter. He had thought women were Rose before and it had ultimately crushed him. He knew firmly that she was dead. This woman's hair was short and straight, but the color still hit him hard.

Rose was the one who owned the old, heartbroken truck.

As Jack realized what his brain had just thought, he blinked. He had subconsciously named the woman with red hair Rose. It was not her name—even if it were, he would call her something else. How about Helen? That was a nice name for her.

Jack walked over to pick up the jumper cables and heard Helen speak.

"And I should let you know that my husband will look at the car as soon as I get home. He'll know exactly what you did and how much it was worth."

Jack laughed. That was the oldest trick in the book. He was actually offended that she would think he would purposely overcharge her because she was a woman. But he realized that she had never met him, so she had no reason to trust him.

He picked up the cables and started to head out the door when he heard the young man speak again.

"This was the husband who liked the White Sox growing up?"

So she had mentioned a husband before? Maybe Rose actually did have a husband.

"Helen," Jack scolded himself under his breath. He didn't know why his heart told him to name this woman Rose, but he listened to his head, who named her Helen. She was none of his concern. All he knew about her was that she was married, had red hair, and was having car trouble. Trying to remind himself that her name was Helen, Jack went out to fix Rose's car.

--

Rose was furious that all her car needed was a jump start. Now she would have to pay all sorts of mechanic fees. At least she could walk outside and make sure she was there when her car was ready.

She glanced around the dark parking lot until she saw a tall man bustling between her truck and another car. The hoods of both were open. She watched for a moment as he ran a hand through his hair. Jack used to do that. But she didn't want to be reminded of him yet again. Rose wasn't sure if, without any freezing water, this night could get any worse.

As if to prove her wrong, a fat raindrop hit her squarely on the back of her hand. The cashier's prediction of a storm had been right. Rose groaned and started to walk over and see if her truck was finished.

The mechanic still had his head under the hood of her truck when she approached. She cleared her throat to announce her presence, but he simply finished working.

"Rose...uh, Helen...er, sorry ma'am. Your truck should be fixed now," he said, a bit mumbled, from underneath the hood of the car.

Rose really wondered why this mechanic was guessing at her name—and why he had guessed right the first time. "No, you were right the first time. It's Rose."

Before she could find out why he had guessed at her name instead of asking, the cashier came running out to where she and the mechanic were standing.

"Mrs. Dawson!" he shouted. He stopped for a minute, sending a strange look in the direction of her truck, but then he continued moving toward her.

"What," she asked, a bit exasperated.

"I've been calling around and there is a hotel available in Windsor tonight. The ferry runs late."

Rose paled. No, she was not up for a ferry ride. And what was this strange man thinking, going to all the effort to find her a hotel, especially when it looked like her car actually would be fixed fairly soon.

"Um, no thanks," she said a bit nervously. "It seems the truck will be fixed. I...um...don't need to spend the money." Even talk of boats had always made Rose nervous. She just wanted to get away from the mechanic shop. "Could you please just give it enough of a jump for me to get home? I'll have my husband look at it." Rose would get an auto repair book out of the library if she had to, but the mechanic whose face she couldn't see and the overly friendly cashier who unknowingly talked about the ferry were beginning to make her uncomfortable.

"Try it now," said the mechanic. "And I don't believe you actually have a husband."

Rose was shocked at the mechanic's boldness. Was she that transparent? She opened the car door as the mechanic closed the hood and strolled around behind the truck.

"How can you assume I would lie about that? You don't know me!" She said angrily, slamming the door of the truck as she sat in the driver's seat. She didn't even catch the significance of the words, until she heard a very familiar voice speak from behind her truck.

"What's his name?"

Rose was too frozen by his words to look out of the open window. She was too afraid that he wouldn't really be there. She steeled herself, and glanced in the rearview mirror.

"Jack," she whispered.

--

Jack had just attached the jumper cables to each of the vehicles, when he saw Rose—Helen approaching. He still couldn't force himself to call her anything but Rose. He couldn't even figure out why he had tried to name her. He didn't name any of the other customers whose cars he fixed.

But as she neared, her figure and her manner of holding herself were just too familiar. His imagination gave the woman in front of him long, flowing hair. She looked like Rose. But it was dark and he had been hurt far to badly before. His stubborn mind would not let himself even begin to believe it.

Besides, this woman was married to the White Sox fan.

But she got closer and closer, and Jack's heartbeat began to race. Could it possibly be? He stuck his head under the hood of the truck. He wanted to be sure who was in front of him before she could see his identity.

"Rose...uh, Helen...er, sorry ma'am. Your truck should be fixed now," he managed to get out. Shit! He had called her Rose. He could feel himself starting to get nervous.

"No, you were right the first time. It's Rose," she said gently. Oh God. He gripped the engine tightly to keep himself from going to her. She's married. It hit him so hard. He thought his heart had been lost forever, but he felt like a train had found whatever parts remained, and run over them. He would keep his face hidden. She didn't need to see him.

As Jack's brief glimmer of hope was shattered, he saw the cashier walking out from the shop.

"Mrs. Dawson," he called.

Who the hell was he talking to? Jack must have been thinking of Rose too much that he misheard when the young man called for him. But as he stared to look up, he saw that Rose also looked up. Was she just reacting to his name?

"What?" she asked.

She had answered to Dawson. It was a common name, but he couldn't imagine marrying someone else with her last name. Jack's confidence urged him to realize that she felt the same. She had been using his name all these years. Her name was just about out of his mouth, when the cashier started to speak again.

"I've been calling around and there is a hotel available in Windsor tonight," he offered. Jack couldn't believe that he had done all this extra work for Rose. He was—flirting with her. It made Jack queasy. But not as queasy as his next words.

"The ferry runs late." Jack realized exactly what the cashier had said. The hotel he had found was in Windsor. It was across the river. He still wasn't up to taking the ferry. As is protective instincts started to kick in after years of dormancy, he was angry at the younger man for even suggesting it.

He wanted nothing more than to go and put his arms around Rose as she mumbled out an answer. Now that she was so close and he knew without a doubt that she was alive, his hand felt very empty without hers clutched inside. But he could do nothing but stand there, he didn't want to scare her. She would just have to hear his voice and gently look up.

"Try it now," he said. It was all he could think of to save her from her rambling. But as he closed the hood of the car, his pride in the woman before him grew. He hadn't even registered before that because she had brought in the car, she had learned to drive it. Even he hadn't learned to drive a car. Partly because he had mostly lived in cities so it was unnecessary, but partly because the first time he had ever set foot in a car was when he made love to Rose in the Renault. His job as a mechanic was difficult, but fixing the cars didn't mean he had to drive them.

But he watched Rose walk over to the driver's seat. He had only said three words, so maybe she hadn't recognized his voice. He wished she would look up. He wanted her to see him. But she had already opened the door. He was pretty sure her car would now start, but that was the last thing in the world he wanted. If she didn't look up and her car started, he might never get a chance.

He remembered that she had mumbled something in her discomfort about her husband fixing the car. He wondered if she was thinking about fixing it herself, maybe guided by a book. She was still the same Rose he loved. But she had to look up at him.

Luckily, he knew exactly what would rile Rose up. "And I don't believe you actually have a husband."

He heard the door slam and her voice though the open window. "How can you assume I would lie about that? You don't know me!"

At the familiar words, a single tear fell down Jack's cheek. He loved her so much. And now she was back. He knew her words would hit her too, but to make it faster, he spoke once more as he started running to her truck.

"What's his name?"

He jumped into the back of her pickup and glanced through the window into the rearview mirror. He saw her look up, and for the first time in years, their eyes met.

"Jack," she whispered.

A/N: They finally met! Reactions next chapter, which, unfortunately, may take about a week. I'm sorry in advance. And I scoured the internet to see if jumper cables existed in the 1930's and I couldn't find anything that told me one way or the other. I'm a bit inclined to say they didn't, but it was too good of a metaphor to resist. If any of you are car history buffs, I apologize.