Chapter Sixteen

June 1st, 1912
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

It had been an utterly exhausting day at work for Cal. But ultimately, the hard work and all the anxious fidgeting had paid off. The Hockley Stocks and Business Corporation was advancing to the next stages of a nationwide presence for all banking, investment, and stock needs. Cal knew there was still a long road of work ahead of him as they made their preparations for new office spaces and navigated the laws between the states in an effort to maximize profit.

Nathan had gone out to celebrate with some friends over German craft beer and steaks. Cal had been extended an invitation but had declined. His social battery was drained and he craved to have a drink on his own, in silence. Cal returned home as the sun bled in oranges and sherberts across the sky. To his surprise, Ruth and Rose still were not back from their venue-hunt. Cal headed straight to the most familiar room in the house. The lounge room. It was the comforting spot he could always find a box of cigars and a few bottles of liquor.

"Mr. Hockley, welcome home," A maid curtesied as he crossed the front foyer. "Shall I fetch your smoking jacket?"

"No, thank you," Cal shook his head, continuing down the hall. "I wish to be alone." He tugged at his bowtie, unwinding it from its stifling grip around his neck. It bobbed against his light blue dress shirt as his shoes thudded against the carpet, heading towards his quiet room. He shut the door behind him and briskly crossed towards the bar. He dropped three ice cubes into a tumbler, watching with earnest as he poured his golden brown whiskey into the crystal glass.

Slowly, Cal eased himself down into a leather chair and sighed, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. He took his first satisfying sip of whiskey and tilted his head back, closing his eyes. He could only hope Rose had had a good day, but he dreaded that he already knew the answer to that thought. Their interaction earlier that afternoon had replayed through his mind over and over again. The duration he had spoke during the meeting at the office, his mind had been entirely out of that conference room. He couldn't shake the fact that despite two months later, it still felt like Rose was giving him a cold shoulder as chilly as the Atlantic waters. So badly, Cal pleaded for a breakthrough.

Cal took another sip of whiskey, licking his lips. He relished in the warm trail it left down his throat, making his whole belly grow fuzzy. He wished he was a man more capable with his words. One that wasn't so weighed down by the ooey-gooey mud of feelings. Cal wished none of those things affected him as they did. He liked to think of himself invincible, but it was clear he had made a slight miscalculation. How could Cal convey to Rose how he really felt? How could he make it sound genuine? He was worried he was simply making a fool himself, like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. Cal had overcome greater challenges, he tried to convince himself. He would get through to Rose. He simply had to be more creative.

Down the hall, he heard the muted sounds of doors opening, help staff greeting people, and the thud of shoes to the ground. His little recharge on his own was over. Cal sighed, quickly downing more of his drink. The door to the lounge room opened and with it, a loud disturbing voice carried through as well.

"I know dinner is due in just half an hour, but we would still like tea!" Ruth called over her shoulder. She entered the room, though Cal didn't formally greet her. He only looked to her, bracing himself for a barrage of complaints about the simplicities of life. Rose came in behind her mother, however, which Cal was not unexpecting. She usually skipped on any types of social hours in the house. Upon seeing Rose, with her fiery curls contained in a bun, and her long green silk dress, Cal came to his feet, setting his drink down.

"Sweetpea," He crossed towards her, simply brushing past Ruth. Cal wrapped his arms around Rose's waist, giving her back a gentle rub. Rose didn't react to his embrace. She only allowed him to take her into his arms. He eased back, carressing a curl from the frame of her face. "I trust you had a good day? Please, sit down. I'm sure the tea will arrive promptly."

The two women seated themselves in the plush leather furniture surrounding the dark coffee table. Cal fixed himself another whiskey on the rocks. They were both quiet, Cal noted, as he poured his drink with his back to them. He knew the wedding plans were probably in a dire state; crumbled, charred, and obliterated. Cal seated himself again just as the maids delivered the ornate tea set complete with sugar cubes and creamer. The three sat in a silence that was only accompanied by the clatter of tea saucers and shifting ice cubes. It was as nerve wracking as the business endeavors Cal had taken on in the past years. He glanced, rather longingly, towards the quiet Rose. She held her tea cup in her slender hands, taking a few sips and simply staring out the windows.

Ruth cleared her throat, gingerly tapping her spoon to the rim of her cup. "Is there something you would like to say, Rose?" Cal arched his eyebrows, his eyes darting between the women. It was hard to guage Ruth and Rose. Cal found himself endlessly lost in the twisted and complex relationship between the unique mother and daughter dynamic.

Rose's eyes looked to her mother from over her tea cup. Slowly, she lowered it, swallowing the tea roughly down her throat. The young woman was still for a few moments. Though she was pleased to know she still had three months to reconcile with the life she was forced to grapple with, the date was still impending; looming on her calendar like a countdown to doomsday. It was inevitable, Rose told herself. Who was she to believe she'd never have to face the flames?

Rose finally nodded slowly, looking between Ruth and Cal. Her mind returned to the room at that moment and she carefully set her tea cup and saucer on the coffee table, folding her hands into her lap. She pursed her lips, worried her voice would fail her in the next moment. To her surprise, however, it came out clear and evenly; the exact opposite of how she felt on the inside.

"We've... found a new church for the wedding," Rose told Cal, mustering her courage up to look him in the eyes. When she did meet those dark brown eyes, she realized there was nothing to fear. "And we've booked a date."

"Well," Cal drew his shoulders back, lowering his drink. "That's wonderful, sweetpea. What shall the new special date be?"

"September 1st."

"Three months from now?"

"Obviously it was not our first pick," Ruth waved her hand dismissively. "We took for granted the timimg of our original booking. Nonetheless, we have time to prepare. Rose will need a new dress. And I don't think you should wear a red tie anymore, Mr Hockley. Rather... gold, perhaps? Seems more fitting for the autumn wedding we are now preparing for."

"Yes, yes," Cal nodded. "Whatever you wish. Simply tell me what to do."

Rose looked to Cal in that moment, with the evening light of pinks and oranges drenching him. He still said things that surprised her. She couldn't quite comprehend that her life had been utterly turned upside down. She couldn't help but think her mind was playing tricks on her, purposely deceiving her in a form of self-sabotage. He noticed her staring and they held eye contact with each other. Rose had three months, just twelve weeks, to come to terms with the stranger she was marrying.

...

June 4th, 1912
New York City, New York

The thick blanket of gray clouds had consumed New York City's skies again, leaving a dul overcast for the day. A light drizzle came down. The foliage and trees surrounding the house were still as the static rain fell, plaguing everything in a layer of moisture. Despite the rather dreary weather, Dr. Phillip and Jack held their session outside, at the iron wrought table now covered by an umbrella. A cigarette dangled between Jack's lips as his eyes stared at his portfolio on the table. Phillip had requested he bring it to the meeting. He withdrew the cigarette from his mouth, gingerly tapping the ash off the end. He distracted himself by watching the ribbon of smoke drift into the drizzle.

"You've been awfully quiet, Jack," Phillip finally said, absent mindedly tapping his pen to his stenopad. "I thought we had been making great progress. I felt like we could talk about anything. Has something changed, Jack?"

The young man could almost sigh at the question. He was growing tired of constantly being asked what he was thinking. He was running out of words to explain how he was feeling. Jack felt like he was running in endless circles. He admired his cigarette for a moment, listening to the rain fall against the grass. He then looked across the table at the patiently awaiting Phillip.

"Nothing's changed," Jack said evenly. "At least... not to my knowledge."

"Really now?" Phillip arched his eyebrows. "May I offer an outsider's perspective?" Jack pursed his lips, giving the doctor a curt nod. "I noticed things have changed since I looked through your portfolio."

Jack let out a huff and fell against the back of his chair. The mist of the rain brushed against his neck, causing goosebumps to pucker across his skin. Jack slowly ran his tongue along the front of his teeth. Again his eyes fell to the portfolio. His knee began to bob under the table.

"I'm not an artist, Jack," Dr. Phillip said once it became clear Jack would remain silent. "I couldn't even draw a decent stick figure for you. But I understand that for many people, art is therapeutic in a way. You draw to get the hurt out. You put it onto pages so it doesn't stay all wound up inside your mind. And I understand that can make your art very personal for you. You must understand, from my point of view. As your therapist, I thought we were working through the trauma of losing a close friend. But I'm worried you haven't told me everything."

Jack lowered his eyes. Distantly, he could hear violins ringing in his ear. The low rumble of polite chatter; women talking behind gloved hands. Men trotting about in luxurious tuxedos, drenched in confidence and too much cologne. But all of that melted away as he saw Rose standing at the top of the grand staircase. The golden evening light shed through the glass dome above her, accentuating her in their rays like she was a goddess to behold. His heart beat rapidly in his chest as he recalled her pink and black lace dress. Her long elbow length gloves. She looked so sophsticated, so perfect. She was royalty, all on her own. But Jack knew she was meerly playing dress up, hidden behind the facades of large jewels.

Phillip reached across the table, drawing the portfolio open in front of Jack to the first page. The moment he had first laid eyes on Rose. Slowly, Jack looked at the drawing, smelling the salty ocean air and hearing the mist breakaway from the ship. For a moment, he forgot he was surrounded by dreadful weather in the heart of urban New York City. He could almost believe he was back at sea again.

"Your work is absolutely exquisite, Jack," Phillip shook his head, turning to the next page. It was of Rose wrapped in a blanket, just moments after being caught in a rather precarious situation by some deckmates. Even when stunned and blindsided, she looked absolutely beautiful. "You have a tremendous gift. You see people... and you can put them on paper. I feel like I almost know her just by looking at her. Who is she, Jack? Why is she the only subject of your art?"

Jack lifted his eyes to Phillip, slowly licking his lips. "It's not somethin' you want to get into. Trust me. I couldn't even begin to explain any of this to you," Jack promptly shut the portfolio, taking a drag of his cigarette to offset his growing nerves.

"I get it. It's hard to talk about. We don't have to go into the gnitty-gritty details, Jack. Just the simple facts. Like... what's her name? You can say it for me, right?"

Jack sighed, falling back in his seat again. Carelessly, he flicked his cigarette into the dewey grass and hunched his shoulders, looking tensely to Phillip. "Rose."

"Rose, hm?" Phillip grinned, jotting this down. "What a suiting name. Who was she to you?"

Jack cast his eyes down to the table, watching droplets of rain topple from the edges of the umbrella above. "I don't know. She was just... special."

"Tell me about her," Phillip said. "What was she like? Where did you two meet? What did she do to make herself so special to you?"

Jack felt his heart rate spike at the barrage of questions. Every memory with her was flashing through his mind like the floodgates had been unleashed. There she was, trembling, as she dangled off the back of the Titanic. The next moment, she was drawing her shoulders back, attempting to spit like a man with all she had. Another beat and she was lifting her glass of champagne, toasting him with eyes that oozed affection. Jack bit down on his lip.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Jack, I understand your hesitance. These things hurt. But-"

"I told you," Jack stood up abruptly now, surprising the doctor. "I don't want to talk about her." In the next moment, Jack had grabbed his portfolio, hurling it out into the damp yard. He then turned on the balls of his feet, fleeing from the situation as quickly as he could.

...

June 7th, 1912
New York City, New York

Jack hadn't felt the same in three days. He hadn't been inspired to draw. Even if he had been, he had never gone back for his portfolio and didn't care to scour the yard for it. Every waking moment of his life was spent consumed in thoughts of Rose. And he felt he failed her miserably by his inability to procure ways to talk about her. It was as if he couldn't speak to anyone about Rose DeWitt Bukator. She was his toxic yet sweet secret to keep, burrowing away deep in his heart, causing him to bleed. He felt like he had made several steps backwards. Jack couldn't help but feel like a fool. Who was he kidding, pretending he was actually getting over what happened in the dark Atlantic Ocean?

What am I doing with myself? What am I doing here? Jack rolled onto his back, staring at his ceiling. The rain pounded against his window as the day waned on. Jack couldn't find it in himself to get out of bed and walk around. He didn't want to see anyone or talk to anyone. He simply wanted to hide away in the shadows of his hurt so he could be alone with Rose. What is it about you that's absolutely intoxicating but at the same time... entirely without description? You were so different, so special. And yet I've got no words to even describe what you were like. There's no words that do justice the person you were, Rose. I feel like I've gotta tell someone, but who? Everyone who would understand is gone. And I've never been the one to trust my secrets in fleeting strangers. That's what was so different about you...

A crack of thunder rang out overhead and Jack let out a long, heavy, and empty sigh as he sprawled out across his messy bed, tangled between the quilts. Every day since I've gotten here I've been waiting for the universe to give me a sign. For you, Rose, to throw a signal to me. But there's been nothin' and I'm starting to think the rain every day is my sign to stop looking for the sunshine and happiness. I had my shot and I let it slip right through my fingers, Rose...

A knock on his door had him clenching his jaw. Every day, someone was knocking on his bedroom door. He could never conceal himself behind walls without getting an annoying rap, asking if he wants some food or would like to play a card game. Jack was in no mood and he turned on his side, facing away from the door. His attitude was so sour he decided he would ignore the call for his attention. They would go away eventually, he was convinced. The knocks persisted, however, and he heaved another exasperated sigh, closing his eyes.

I just want to be with you, Rose. You only. You alone. Why can't you be mine?

His bedroom door opened and Jack flew upright in bed, "Hey! You can't just barge-"

It was Dr. Phillip. He had just freshly arrived as he still wore his damp tan trench coat. Droplets of rain fell from the rim of his matching hat. Slowly, he removed his hat from his head, looking to Jack, whose cheeks were a bright red. Jack bit down on his lip and looked away.

"Sorry," Jack muttered, watching the rain come down in sheets outside. "I didn't mean to just... lash out at you like that."

Dr. Phillip smiled, despite the tense situation. He fished into his coat pocket and came to the foot of Jack's bed. Slowly, he eased Jack's black portfolio, unharmed, onto the quilts. "I wanted to return this to you."

Jack's eyes hovered over the book before looking to Phillip. "Thank you."

Phillip stuck his hands in his pockets and paced closer to the window. For a moment, he rocked back and forth on the heels of his feet. He then looked over his shoulder at Jack. "I showed your portfolio to a friend of mine."

Cautiously, Jack reached out and grabbed his portfolio. He thumbed through the pages, finding nothing missing, altered, or ruined. It was a miracle seeing as he had lost his temper and thrown it in the rain. He shrugged. "What, are they an art critic or something?"

Phillip grinned, placing his hands behind his back. "Back in his early days, but it's been quite a while since he's written an exposé on any new and lucrative artists." Phillip turned towards Jack. "His name is Harrison Brown. And he is the Dean of the College of Arts at New York University."

Jack's eyes snapped to Phillip. "What? You showed my portfolio to who?"

"You have a great talent, Jack," Phillip told him. "It would be an utter loss to let that go to waste. And art is obviously very therapeutic to you. It does much more for you than any kind of community house or teamwork exercise could do. You respond greatly to art. I showed it to Mr. Brown and well... he would like to schedule an interview with you. Speak about the terms of an education."

Jack felt his heart pounding in his ears. Clumsily, he staggered from bed, coming to stand in front of Phillip, clutching his portfolio tightly in his hands. "This is crazy. University? Me? You obviously know nothing about me, doctor. I'm not the college-educated type. I was born on a farm in Wisconsin."

"Jack, nobody is born the 'college-educated type', as you say," Phillip chuckled light heartedly, lowering his hands from his air quotes. "You're being given the opportunity, Jack. Take advantage of that. Dozens of aspiring artists would crave to be invited to an interview with the Dean at NYU."

"But... why me?" Jack asked, rather breathless. "I mean... I would just be a waste of space there, Phillip. What would I even do with an art degree?"

Phillip grinned, his face illuminated by a bolt of lightening. "I think we should schedule that interview with Mr. Brown, Jack. My friend is very charismatic. And... there's a lot you could do with a talent as immense as yours. Whaddya say? Can I make the call?"

Jack cast his eyes down for a moment. Endless possibilities ran through his mind. The rush was exhilerating, yet anxiety-inducing all on its own. Finally, he looked back to Phillip, deciding that once again, he needed to trust his gut. "Sure," Jack whispered, nodding. "Schedule the interview."