It took five hours for the jury to come to a decision. Rose tightened her grip on Jack's hand as they filed back into the courtroom. Her stomach was tied up in knots. She didn't believe they would actually find Cal guilty of anything, but even so she couldn't help being anxious.

Jack was feeling something similar. He kept telling himself it would all work out the way it was supposed to, but it wasn't exactly a comforting thought. Mostly, he just wanted to be out of there. He wanted to forget about the entire mess and everything involved, concentrate on the rest of his life with Rose. They both held their breath as the foreman stood up to call out the verdict. "We the jury," he said, "find the defendant guilty of assault."

Cal stared at him. What had just happened? That was not what was supposed to be said. He looked over at his father who appeared to be just as confused as he was. "We finally agreed that although we believe the defendant is not guilty of the attempted murder charge, we do think he should be held accountable for his actions—no matter what their motivation," the foreman explained.

The judge nodded. "Alright—" He went on to say more, but neither Jack nor Rose heard him. They were too stunned.

"Did he really say that?" Rose asked.

"Yeah, I think he did," Jack said.

"I never thought—"

"Me either."

They sat in silence, watching but not really seeing what was going on in front of them.

"Jack," Rose said, "Could we go?"

"You don't want to hear what's going to happen to him?"

Rose shook her head. "It's not important. I heard all I needed to hear."

No-one noticed them leave. They didn't say it, but they both knew a part of their lives had ended forever.

8 Months Later
April 1913

They'd left New York that very night. They went back to Savannah, intent on collecting their few belongings before heading back out again. Deciding they preferred to make their own schedule, they bought an inexpensive car—before realizing neither of them knew how to drive it. They spent three days figuring it out, and by the time they left Rose was shaping up to be the better driver. Jack made an arrangement so he could send his paintings back to Maxwell, who would handle getting them sold and shown. At first he worried the small amount of success he'd had would begin to fade once he and Rose disappeared from sight, but it just fueled the fire. He'd gone from being a brilliant new artist to a brilliant new artist with mystique.

They wandered through the back roads—dirt paths, more like—and small towns of the South for a while. As winter took hold, they began heading West. They spent Christmas in Tempe, Arizona, each secretly happy to be safely away from the cold.

Time flew by—as relatively uneventful happiness tends to do—until before they knew it April had come around again. They'd finally made it out to Santa Monica and were staying in a small bungalow on the beach. They'd agreed it was best to take some time off and settle in for a while. Jack painted the beachgoers—and anything else he happened to see while Rose scribbled furiously into a notebook. He often wondered what she was writing, but she never showed him. He told himself she would when she was ready.

And so early on the morning of April 14th they lay in bed, listening to the dull roar of the ocean and seagull calls, each all too aware of what day it was. "Jack?" Rose said, looking over at him. His eyes were closed. "Are you awake?" She touched his shoulder.

"Yeah." He opened his eyes. "I was kind of trying not to be."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I've been awake for a long time."

"Me too. Do you know what day it is?"

Jack nodded. "I know. I can't sleep for thinking about it."

"I can't believe it's been a whole year," Rose said incredulously.

"Me either. It almost seems like it was just yesterday."

"Do you ever think about it?" Rose asked, turning over onto her side.

"Sometimes…I'll see or hear something and it's almost like I'm still there."

"I dream about it."

"I do that too."

They looked at each other silently for a moment, not sure what else to say. The air had grown heavy around them. Rose wanted to tell him about the times she woke up terrified, her heart racing and sure he was dead, only to realize she was curled up in his arms. What she didn't know was that she didn't have to tell him. He already knew. He did it too.

The rest of the day passed quickly. They didn't talk about Titanic again. Jack painted in the afternoon and Rose wrote. After dinner Jack headed back outside, hoping to capture the sunset. He was deeply engrossed in his painting when he heard a quiet, "Hello, Jack." He turned around to see a smiling Rose. Her hair was pulled back from her face but a few curls had managed to escape.

"Wha—"

"I changed my mind."

Jack smiled. I knew this seemed familiar, he thought. "I don't know how to make you fly this time," he said.

Rose stepped forward and turned him around so he was facing the sunset. "You always make me fly," she whispered into his ear. Her arms snaked around his middle. "Come Josephine, my flying machine," she sang. Jack reached down and took her hands. Spreading their arms out he sang the rest, "Going up she goes, up she goes." He laced his fingers through hers. Turning his head to face her he bent in to kiss her.

Due to their differing heights and difference in position, it was a bit more awkward this time around. Rose giggled. "I should have thought this through more." Jack shushed her.

Eventually they went back inside. "I'm sorry about making you miss that sunset," Rose said.

"Somehow I think it'll come around again," Jack grinned. "And I like your idea for how to spend that time better than mine."

"Maybe you'll like my next idea," Rose said, kissing him.

Jack pulled her closer. "I'm liking it so far."

"Oh no." Rose pulled away.

"No?" Jack was confused.

"No," Rose said again. "Not yet."

Jack watched her disappear into the bedroom, his curiosity—among other things—aroused.

"Mr. Dawson," she said haughtily, stepping into the doorway, clad in only a green satin robe and her pearls.

"Yes?" Jack answered, eager to play along with whatever game she had devised.

"I believe there's something you can do for me."

"Oh is there?" Rose held out her hand. In her palm lay a dime. "I see," he added. He stepped forward and took the dime.

"Come along," Rose commanded, leading him into the bedroom. She had already set up his supplies. There was an easel and canvas and paint, as well as his sketch paper and pencils.

"Do I choose?" he asked.

She nodded. "I want you to do this the way you like best." She took a step back and let the robe fall to the floor. Jack felt his knees weaken. Seeing her body affected him the same way every time.

"Lie down on the bed," he said quietly.

Rose smiled. "Are you sure it's a bed this time?"

"Oh, I'm sure."

The force of his look made Rose shiver slightly. She knew what was behind it—and she liked it. She lay down as he picked up a pencil and piece of paper. He sat down in a chair across from her.

"Okay," he said and proceeded to pose her.

Sometime later Rose said teasingly, "You're not blushing this time. Could it be that I have become as boring as a landscape?"

"I've never thought about a landscape what I'm thinking about you right now," Jack said.

This time Rose blushed. "And what would that be?" she asked.

"Oh no, I'm not telling. You'll just have to wait and see."

It seemed to Rose that an eternity passed before he looked up from the paper and said, "Finished." She sighed in relief. She didn't think she could have taken his eyes on her for another second without giving up the whole thing and going over to him. Was it this bad last time? she thought.

"Was that a sigh?" he asked, laying the drawing aside. "That sounded almost relieved." He stood over her. "This was your idea, you know."

"Well, I have a new idea," Rose said. She reached up and ran a hand along his thigh.

Jack shuddered. "So do I." He fell onto the bed beside her. She grabbed him, pulling him onto her as his mouth found hers. It felt like his hands were touching every inch of her body. Rose groaned and wrapped her legs around his hips.

"I'm overdressed, don't you think?" he gasped between kisses.

"Then do something about it," Rose ordered. "Quickly."

…

Three days later Rose woke up to find Jack gone. His shoes were missing but his art supplies were still there. She knew what he wasn't doing, but that still left a million other things he could be doing. Puzzled, Rose got out of bed and went about her normal morning routine. She showered and dressed and fixed herself breakfast. As she finished up her cup of coffee, she heard the sound of Jack's key in the lock. A moment later he walked into the kitchen, a grin on his face.

"There's my girl," he said, kissing her hair.

"Where were you?" she asked.

"Taking care of some things." He sat down and began buttering a slice of toast.

"What?" Rose hoped she didn't sound paranoid or like she didn't trust him.

"You'll see," he assured her. "Tonight all will be revealed."

Rose leaned back in her chair. They were going into their second year together and she still wasn't any good at figuring out his surprises. Nor was she any more adept at anticipating them.

What could it be? she wondered. And then it hit her. "I have something I need to take care of today too," she said.

"Really?"

"Uh-huh. But you can't know about it yet."

Mostly because I don't know what it'll be yet, she thought. How could she have forgotten? Well, you remember now, that's all that matters. After breakfast Rose left. She wandered the streets, hoping inspiration would strike her. She had just about given up when suddenly it hit her. The perfect thing.She made it home by mid-afternoon. "Whatcha got?" Jack asked, eying the package in her hands.

"You'll see,"' she said, "When I can see what you did."

"Fair enough." Jack turned his attention back to the book he was reading.

"You're not even a little more curious than that?" Rose baited. She wanted so badly to know what he had been up to.

"Oh I am, but it's not time for mine yet, so…" He shrugged.

"When will it be?" Rose asked, trying to hide her own curiosity.

"What time is it now?"

Rose checked her watch. "Three."

"You've got about four more hours then."

Around six o'clock Rose's attention was ripped from the book she was reading by the sight of a very well-dressed Jack leaning against the doorframe. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"Waiting for you."

Rose wasn't sure what to say. "Oh," was all that came out.

Jack smiled. Already she was speechless. Mission accomplished. Meanwhile, Rose was rushing to get dressed. She didn't know what he had up his sleeve, but by the look of things she was going to like it. But you like everything he does, she reminded herself.

"Do I have to close my eyes this time?" she asked as they set out.

For a moment Jack considered making her, but in the end he shook his head. "Not this time," he said. "Not unless you want to."

"I think I'd prefer to see where we're going," she replied. "But I wouldn't mind having your hand all the same." Rose was surprised when they ended up on the pier, though, in hindsight she knew she shouldn't have been. "Jack!" she cried. "It's—you—you remembered!"

"Of course I remembered," he laughed. "I said we'd do it."

Rose looked up at him. Love shone in her eyes. "I didn't want to believe you when you said it because then it was just an impossible dream."

"Well, it isn't anymore." He put an arm around her. "It's real—and it always will be."

"Not to spoil the moment, but why did you have us get all dressed up?" she asked.

"To throw you off."

And so they rode the rollercoaster a total of ten times. It took four times for Jack to throw up and another six before Rose finally did. He was beyond relieved when her iron stomach finally gave out.

"You're the one who said we would ride the rollercoaster until we threw up," she reminded him as they walked along the beach, beers in hand.

"I know. I just didn't think you'd hold me to it," Jack laughed.

"So this is what you were doing this morning, huh?"

"Some of it. Not all."

"There's more?" Rose asked incredulously. "What else could there be?"

"Looks like you forgot something after all," he said as they came upon a man with a horse.

Rose gasped as she remembered. "Are we really?"

"Oh yes," he said, taking her hand to help her on. She hesitated before swinging her leg over the side. "Good," he said. "I didn't have to teach you how after all."

"You still might have to."

Jack climbed on behind her. He put the reins in her hands and his hands over hers. "You okay?"

"I've ridden a horse before, Jack. Just not like this."

"Too much?"

"No. Just different is all. But I like it."

They rode down the beach, the light from the full moon shining down on them. Rose couldn't believe she was really doing—had done—everything they'd said they would. Neither could Jack. Even as he'd said it, he'd told himself not to believe it.

Rose sighed happily. "I never thought this would happen," she said.

"Me either."

"This time last year—or well, about a week ago this time last year," she corrected herself, "I didn't expect to have much happiness in life. I didn't even want to stay alive all that much."

Jack kissed her cheek. "I wish you'd never felt that way, but…" he wasn't sure how best to say what came next.

"I'm thankful for it," Rose said, as if she'd read his mind. "If I hadn't, I would never have met you." She turned her head so she could see him. "I love you, Jack."

"I love you, Rose."

"My turn," Rose said when they returned home. She hurried into the bedroom and came back with the package from earlier that day and another one.

"What is this?" Jack asked, taking them.

"Open it!"

Inside the first one he found a leather portfolio with a card. It said: For those drawings you want to keep separate from the rest. He chuckled to himself. He knew exactly what she meant. In the other he found a notebook.

"Isn't this yours?" he asked, confused.

Rose nodded.

"Why are you giving it to me?"

"I want to let you read it," she said slowly.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I've shared so many things with you, and I think it's time I shared this."

"It's the best gift I've ever gotten," Jack said.

….

In July they found themselves back East again. Jack was getting a show at an important gallery in Philadelphia, and as much as Rose dreaded going back there, she was bursting with pride about Jack's accomplishments. He, on the other hand, kept encouraging her to do more with her own gifts. He'd sat down and read her notebook the morning after she gave it to him.

"What do you think?" she had asked nervously.

"I think it's incredible.". It was filled with essays. Essays about human nature, class, love, economic theories—everything. There were beginnings of stories and diary entries—some of those entries Jack hoped no-one else ever got to read. "I think you should keep writing," he'd said. "Seriously."

And she had. She's gotten a new notebook and was working on filling it. She'd continued reading voraciously, and Jack knew it wasn't the most popular thing for a woman to be, but he delighted in her intelligence.

And so they found themselves wandering through a small art gallery a few days before Jack's show opened. It wasn't the same one he was going to be shown in, and part of him was glad. He loved the success, but really at that moment all he wanted was to enjoy someone else's creation. He and Rose wandered away from each other—he to look at one thing and she at another—when he found himself standing next to a well-dressed, older man.

"Extraordinary, isn't it?" the man asked.

"Yeah," Jack agreed. And soon they found themselves deep in conversation. Rose came over after a few minutes. "You two looked so excited I almost didn't want to come over," she said.

"Oh, this is my wife Rose," Jack said. "Wait, I just realized—we never introduced ourselves."

"I'm Thomas Burnham," the man said, extending his hand.

"Jack Dawson."

"Now, where have I…" A look of recognition crossed his face. "The artist?"

"Yeah," Jack said. "That would be me."

"I must say your work is—" Just then a well-dressed older woman walked up. Jack and Rose stared at her in shock. She stared back at them, equally shocked. "Oh darling, you'll never believe who I just met," Thomas said, gesturing toward Jack and Rose. "Remember that artist I was telling you about?"

Ruth thought she was going to be sick. "Which one?" she asked pleasantly, her real feelings hidden. "You tell me about so many…Oh!" she exclaimed, as if she had just noticed Jack and Rose.

"What is it?" Thomas asked.

"I just didn't expect to see you here," Ruth said, looking straight at them and sounding as if she had never been more excited before in her life.

"Us?" Jack wasn't sure what was going on, but he didn't like it.

"Of course you!" Ruth cried, enveloping him in a hug. Jack looked at Rose, hoping she could tell him what to do. She stared back at him, clueless.

"And you!" Ruth hugged Rose as well.

"I see you already know them," Thomas said.

"Oh yes. This is my daughter, Rose and her husband Jack. Didn't I tell you about them?"

Actually, she hadn't told him very much about her daughter, and at that moment Ruth thanked God she hadn't told him Rose was dead.

"Well, I never!" Thomas beamed. "I can't believe when I mentioned how much I admire Jack's work you never mentioned he was married to your daughter!"

"I'm not much for boasting, you know."

Jack and Rose just stared at her.

"Why don't you two come to dinner with us?" Thomas suggested.

"Oh no, we couldn't," Rose said.

"What do you mean you couldn't? You're family—and more than that, you're family I haven't met yet. Not to mention all the things I want to ask Jack about his work." In spite of everything that was going on, Jack felt good about the compliment.

Ruth opened her mouth to protest, but before she could Thomas was sweeping them all out the door and onto the street. He hailed a taxi and the four of them piled into it before any of them knew what was happening. It was a tense ride, and little was said beyond Jack and Thomas's art talk. Fortunately, they were between Rose and Ruth.

Soon they found themselves settled at a table in a restaurant that only one out of the four of them knew the name of. The other three were too stunned to process much. "So Rose," Thomas said, "how did you and Jack meet?"

Rose hesitated before answering. "We met while traveling."

"Were you there?" he asked, looking at Ruth.

"Yes," she said tensely.

"Oh, she was very supportive of our relationship," Jack said. "Weren't you?"

Ruth glared at him. "Well, some things are just mean to be," she said.

Jack grinned. "I agree. So, how did the two of you meet?"

"That's a long story," Thomas said. "We actually met when we were very young—probably around your ages. I was a friend of a cousin of Ruth's and we met at a party over the holidays. It was love at first sight—on my part at least." He sighed. "Unfortunately, she wouldn't hear of it."

"Why not?" Rose asked, finding herself unexpectedly interested.

"I'm afraid I wasn't quite…financially secure enough for your mother, my dear. Not then at least," he said with a chuckle. Ruth looked as though she might kill the next person who spoke.

"Well, isn't that interesting," Rose said. "I never knew that." She looked pointedly at her mother. "And so you chose my father over him because he had more money?"

"It was more complicated than that," Ruth said. "There were a lot of things to consider."

"I don't care what you considered back then," Thomas said. "I'm just glad I finally got you to marry me now."

"That's nice," Jack said. "It's nice that things worked out so well for you." He shot Ruth a meaningful look. "You know, some mothers would have pressured their daughters into making the same choice they made, but not this one. No, she realized what a mistake that would be, let me tell you."

"Good to see you learned a bit, dear," Thomas said, squeezing Ruth's shoulder.