"What do you think?" Jack asked, holding up the frying pan for her inspection.
"They certainly look like eggs," Rose replied brightly.
"Well, that's better than what you said yesterday. Let's hope they taste like eggs too."
The kitchen was already starting to look as though it belonged to them. It was their second week at the hotel. They had replaced the plain curtains with light green ones. The table now had a lace cloth over it, which was actually just a large piece of lace Rose found in a sale bin. There was a stack of cookbooks, all bought secondhand, on the counter. One recipe at a time, they were learning to cook. Or so they hoped. Thus far, their efforts had been less than stellar, but nothing compared to the utter failure of their first dinner.
Jack slowly took a bite of his eggs. He was surprised—and delighted—to find they not only tasted like scrambled eggs, but they also tasted good. Rose ate happily. "I think we're making some progress," she said. "Well, you are at least."
"You made the toast," he reminded her.
"And we all know what a challenging task that is," she joked.
"Did you see it when I made it that last time?"
"Yes, I suppose it is challenging," she said. She took a sip of milk. Even that tasted better. Maybe it was just being in a smaller city, or maybe she was beginning to appreciate milk. Before, it was something she rarely drank, but Jack seemed to love it. It made sense, she reasoned. It was such a wholesome drink. Nourishing. Why wouldn't he love it?
Jack looked over at her. She was so deep in thought her brows were knitted. "Whatcha thinkin about?" he asked.
"Nothing really. What are we doing today?"
Her avoidance of the question worried him a little. She seemed sine; with each passing day she seemed better and better, but he knew what had happened was still weighing on her mind. They hadn't talked about it again, and he was reluctant to bring it up. He didn't want to risk reopening the wound. But could such an experience ever really be left behind? He still felt guilty over surviving the sinking. Sometimes he woke up, suddenly, cold and sure he was back there. He would hold Rose against him and listen to her breathing. It soothed him, but he never made it back to sleep.
"I've gotta fix some loose shingles, up on the roof," he said.
"Do you want any help?"
"I should be able to handle it."
"Are you sure?" she asked. "It sounds difficult."
"I've been on roofs before," he said confidently. "There's nothing to it."
"Do you think I could come along anyway?"
"You'd want to?" he said. "Sure, if you like. I won't turn down help," he added with a grin.
"Aren't I supposed to be helping?" she reminded him.
"That's true. They're paying you less," he reminded her apologetically. "You don't have to go climbing the building."
"I shouldn't complain," she said with a shrug. "At least they offered me something. With my history, I'm surprised to get anything at all, and so far no-one's chased me." She tried to make it into a joke, but the words fell flat. Jack studied his hands. "I'm sorry," she said. "I—"
"No, I get it. What you're trying to do," he said.
"I thought it might help—make it less—weaken it."
"Does it?" he asked.
"A little," she replied. "I'm trying to leave it back there, but it won't stay." She played with her ring nervously. Had she said too much? The last thing she wanted as for him to think she wasn't alright. If he knew about the sudden bursts of fear or the way the memory came upon her sometimes, out of nowhere, he would worry. He'd hold her even tighter, and his guilt would worsen. It would consume them both. They would never be happy again. How could they be? No, she told herself. The best thing was to keep quiet. It was the best thing for both of them. She ignored the voice that tried to remind her keeping quiet had only made things worse before.
…..
Rose clung to the ladder for a moment before stepping onto the roof. It was slanted in places and flat in others. Jack reached for her hand. "You alright?" he asked.
She nodded. "I'm fine. It's funny, hanging off the ship didn't make me this nervous."
"Probably the water. And you had something to hold on to."
"And I didn't intend to walk away from it," she said. She moved across the roof, finding her balance. "You had to show up and spoil my plans."
"I always did have trouble minding my own business," he said with a grin.
"How do we do this?"
"See where the shingles are loose?" he asked. "We just nail them back down."
"That's all?"
"That's all. But see here, where some've blown off?" He pointed to a blank patch. "We have to put new ones down."
"That doesn't sound so hard."
"It's not, really," he said. "Being comfortable up here is probably the hardest part. And it's boring."
"How could anything this dangerous be boring?" she asked.
Soon, Rose was able to move around the rooftop with ease, though. Jack gave her a hammer and box of nails, and they each worked on a different area. At first, the hammer was heavy and awkward in her hands. She hesitated when she brought it down on the nail and nearly smashed her fingers instead. This happened a few times before she gained the confidence to hit the nail square on the head. Jack worked faster, but she didn't let it bother her. Of course he knew what he was doing. She couldn't expect to be good at this, could she? It sounded right, but she was still annoyed by how slowly she went.
They finished one half of the roof before lunch. As they were climbing down Richard came outside. "Hello," he said cheerfully, waving. "Settling in just fine, I see."
"Doing our best," Jack said. "We should have the other half of the roof finished today."
"Fine. That's just fine," Richard said. "You don't know how glad I am that it's getting done."
"It seemed like a good place to start," Jack said. "We didn't really see any other big projects that needed doing." Rose liked the way he kept saying we, as if she were an equal part of things. It made her want to be even more involved than she already was.
"No, right now it's mostly just general maintenance," Richard replied. "Like we discussed. But the grounds do need some looking after."
"We were gonna start on that tomorrow," Jack said.
"That sound fine," Richard said. "We've got a rather large party coming next month, so we have to start getting things in order now. I'm afraid the usual appearance won't do."
"What's wrong with it?" Rose asked. "This is a lovely place."
Richard smiled. "Thank you, Mrs. Dawson. I think so too, but these people are accustomed to the very best of everything. It'll take a lot to impress them, I'm afraid."
"We'll manage it," Rose said.
….
Richard's words stayed with her for the rest of the day. She didn't know why, but they reminded her of Cal. That was silly, though. He would never come there. She doubted he even knew where St. Joseph was, unless he had some kind of business concern there, but he couldn't come himself if he did. No doubt, it would be too minor to receive his full attention. Stop looking for reasons to be worry, she told herself.
"We did well today, didn't we?" she said.
"We sure did," Jack replied cheerfully. "Especially you."
"I didn't do so much," she said. "I might have slowed you down, actually."
"No. I couldn'ta done as much today by myself. You helped, Rose, really." He laid his hands on her shoulders. "You did great. You figured out how to hammer a nail faster than any First Class girl I've ever known. I'm proud of you."
"Is that a skill you've taught many of us?"
"Maybe," he said, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Usually, I show them how to use an axe, but you already figure that out on your own."
"Fortunately for your hands," she said.
"And you," he said jokingly. They were gazing into each other's eyes now. "I get the feeling you like them."
"I do," she said softly. His hands slipped down to her waist. When they kissed it was tender with just a hint of urgency. Rose let him pull her closer; she put her hands on the back of his neck. It was perfect, just the way kissing him always was, but then something changed. She couldn't explain it. She pulled away, suddenly struggling to breathe.
"Rose, what's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing. I—Shouldn't we start dinner?" She managed to keep her voice steady, but he saw the fear in her eyes. It wasn't there long. She knew how to hide it. But it had been there, and that's what mattered. Jack wanted to ask why, where did it come from, but he wasn't sure she'd answer. He hated the way it kept happening. Is it me? he wondered. Had he done something to remind her? Or would she remember when they got close, no matter what?
"Sure," he said.
….
They didn't sleep that night. Jack lay against her back, his arm around her. She pressed his hand over his. But they didn't sleep, and they didn't speak.
…
"Good," Jack said. "Now, just press the dirt down all around it."
"Like that?" Rose said.
"Yeah, exactly." He smiled encouragingly. "You know how to plant things now."
"Let's wait and see if they live first."
"They'll live," he said.
"How can you tell?" she asked. They looked like ordinary plants to her, small maybe, but still ordinary.
"I just can," he replied. "They'll be fine."
"Can we do the roses now?"
"Sure."
Here, in the bright day-time, everything was better. It always was. Being outside with Jack, learning to be useful, made Rose feel better than she ever had. Her hands were dirty, and her nails were breaking, but she didn't care. Her mother would have been horrified by the sight of her. She would have been horrified to see Rose on her knees in the dirt, work boots on her feet. Rose smiled to herself. This wasn't sitting around and being decorative. She stole a glance at Jack. The sun brought out the gold in his hair. His eyes were even bluer. His hands were dirty, and dirty was streaked across his face, where he'd tried to wipe away sweat. The heat was already oppressive, and it was barely noon. Jack turned up the water jug, and she watched him drink, admiring his beauty. He caught her eye. "What?" he said, grinning self-consciously.
"Nothing." He offered her the jug, and she took it. The water tasted like his kisses. She was startled by how much she wanted him. In an instant she imagined it, right there, in the soft grass with the scent of flowers all around them. She wouldn't pull away.
Jack touched her arm. "Rose, are you alright?"
"What?" she said distantly. "Oh, I'm fine." It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him her thoughts, but she held back. She had never been ashamed of herself with him, nor was she ashamed of her desires or the things they did together. But this seemed even bolder than everything that had come before.
Jack took in her flushed face. "Maybe we should take a break," he suggested. "Do you feel light-headed?"
"A little," she answered.
They retreated to the cool shade of the trees behind the shed. Rose re-pinned her hair, but sweat made it heavy and uncooperative. Finally, it was off her neck again. Jack filled a bucket with cold water and doused himself with it. He looked at Rose; she nodded. She sighed gratefully as the water poured over her.
"Could you do that again?" she asked. "Please?"
"Sure."
She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Jack sucked in his breath. She was so beautiful. Her fair skin, damp curls struggling to break free, and her wet dress. The next bucket of water only made it worse. He resisted the urge to kiss her. The sun was already drying them. He wondered what it would be like to make love right there, in the sweet smelling grass, with the sun on their skin. Neither one guessed how alike their desires were.
…
"What're we trying tonight?" Jack asked.
Rose flipped through one of the cookbooks. "How about meatloaf?" she suggested. "It doesn't look complicated, and I've never eaten it."
"It's not. My mother used to make it. It's good; you'll like it," he said.
"Did she?" Rose said, intrigued. She hoped he would say more, but he didn't.
They gathered the ingredients and set about putting them together. Rose giggled nervously when it came time to put her hands in the raw meat. "It feels so strange," she said. "It seems dirty, like we shouldn't be doing this."
"Want me to do it?" he offered.
"No, I can. I'm learning to be useful."
They had just put it in the oven when he said, "She didn't really like touching raw meat either. She hated it, really."
"Your mother?"
Jack nodded. "Yeah." He could see her as clearly as if she were there. The carefully pinned up hair. Her small hands. "She was delicate," he said. It was the first time he'd said it' it was the first time he'd really thought about it. After she died, he thought about them little, only allowing the most basic memories through. "I don't know why she married my father," he added.
Rose imagined it was his mother's soft features she saw in his face. It made this woman she would never meet seem more real and approachable. "She loved him," she said.
"He loved her. I know that much."
"But?" she prompted gently.
"Sometimes it was like she wasn't supposed to be there," he said slowly. "I think my father was afraid she'd leave."
"Were you afraid of that?"
"No. I never really thought about it," he said. "Whatever was going on with them, they didn't let it touch me. I didn't see it for a long time."
"You're lucky, Jack. My parents weren't so courteous."
"Was it bad?" he asked.
"Not as bad as it could have been. My mother loved my father," she explained. "God only knows why. He proved he didn't care about either of us in the end. Sometimes," she went on. "I wondered if he lost the money deliberately because he knew he was dying. I wonder if he left us penniless and in debt out of spite."
"He was your father," Jack said. "Why would he do that?"
"I was a mistake. Only one child and a girl? That was acceptable." She shook her head. "He never forgave my mother. It's more than possible, Jack."
"I can't believe a father wouldn't do whatever he could for his daughter. I would."
"I know," she said affectionately. She kissed the corner of his mouth. "I love you, Jack."
He brushed the curls away from her face. "I love you, Rose-Petal."
"You can talk about your life then. If you want to," she said. "I'd like to hear about it."
"You would?"
"Well, of course. I want to know everything about you."
"You already do," he said. "Everything that matters."
"I know what a good man you are, how talented you are, but I want to know more about how you got this way. Whenever you're ready to tell me."
"Do you feel guilty for leaving your mother?" he asked.
"I feel guilty for so many things, Jack. I wish things were different and she could have the same life she had before, and I wish there was a way I could have helped that didn't involve marrying Cal or any other man like him. Or that she could find a way to be happy, even without the money. Why do you ask?"
"I dunno. Sometimes, I feel bad about leaving, like I shoulda stayed and kept on with that life."
"Were you happy there?" she said.
"Not enough," he answered. "I would've left eventually. When they died, it was the push I needed. There was no-one to miss me. I was free, as awful as that sounds."
"You miss them very much, don't you?"
"Not so much until I met you," he said. "I wish I could take you back there, let 'em meet you."
"I can't imagine what they would think about me. There's no way your mother would ever consider a girl like me good enough for you."
"Don't say that," he said.
"How could she? I'm not even sure I am all the time," she said. "But I'm trying to be."
Jack put his arms around her. "I don't want you any other way. You know that."
Rose pressed her face against his chest. She breathed in the scent of his shirt; the smell of his freshly washed body was mixed into it. He hugged her, resting his head on her curls. "Don't worry about that," he said. "Don't feel bad about it, alright? If it's not something you want right now, it's not something you want."
"But I do," she whispered.
"Then why—"
"I can't. I want you, but I can't," she explained. "Something happens; it scares me. I can't stop it."
"Is it me?"
"No." She shook her head. "You're wonderful. Through everything, you've been so good to me."
"It's my fault, though."
"I didn't say that. I don't blame you, Jack."
"Rose, you don't have to," he said. "It is, whether we admit it or not. I let that happen to you."
"I didn't tell you what was happening, everything that led up to it. I was so sure I could handle it on my own. It's my fault. I should have—"
"Don't you say that," he said firmly, looking into her eyes. "You said that before, and it's still not true. I don't want to hear you talking like that. I'm supposed to protect you. I shoulda known something was wrong."
"I just want to forget," she said. "It's even worse than the sinking. I felt so guilty about surviving and having you with me; I still do. But this—" Her voice trembled. "I feel so afraid and sick, for no reason. Without warning. It just comes. I want you to touch me, but when you do—it's like a cures, like Cal or someone getting revenge on us, or maybe it's a penance for daring to survive and for thinking we could be happy, when so many others never had a chance."
"That's not what this is," Jack insisted. "We had as much right to survive as anyone else. We didn't cause the ship to hit that iceberg. We just did what we had to do. What anyone woulda done. We didn't keep people away from the boats, and we didn't decide not to have enough. I know how you feel," he continued. "I feel it too. Not all the time, but some nights I can't sleep from it. I can't breathe. But you're there, and that helps."
"I'll get over this," she promised.
"Feel whatever you hafta feel," he said. "I'll be here to go through it with you."
Rose pulled him into a kiss. It was warm and comforting. It soothed the ache in them both. "Will you hold me?" she asked. "And tell me stories? Like you did before?"
"Sure I will."
…
Jack's voice filled the darkness. "I hurt him," he said. "You were asleep, and I went—"
"You don't have to tell me," Rose said.
"It doesn't help. I know that. But—"
"You tried," she said. "The only way you could. That's enough."