And If I Do

Chapter One

April 3rd, 1922

Long Island, New York

Some things never changed. Rose found herself in the lounge room of her home, leaned against the silk brocade arm of one of the couches. The shiny black phone was cocked between her shoulder and ear and she held the receiver in her lap, covering the table with boxes of Cuban cigars in the wires of the telephone. Her face was exasperated, her shoulders slumped, as her mother's pestering voice came through on the other end.

"… I just don't see why you wouldn't go," Ruth was saying. From her side, a tinging noise could be heard. Most likely her second husband, Edward, practicing his golf swing from the veranda of their Pittsburgh home. "There will be many other people, some we haven't spoken to in nearly ten years. They will be wondering about us if we don't go, Rose."

"So, let them wonder," Rose shrugged, flinging the receiver onto the tea table. She crossed an arm over her chest, tucking it beneath the arm that held the phone. "I don't much care to speak to those people. I don't mind if they don't know what's going on in my life."

"Well, I do," More tinging; ice cubes rattling in the iced tea that came customary in a rich southern man's home. "They will want to talk about you, anyhow. You were very young ten years ago."

"I'll think about it," Rose told her, glancing towards the clock above the fireplace mantle. It was a quarter to five. "I must go. I have some errands to take care of."

"Have the maids wash those quilts in the front parlor room," Ruth said, somewhat passively. Her voice was airy, as if she was stretching out in a rocking chair from a long day of work. "I shall arrive to stay on the eighth."

Rose ground her teeth together and closed her eyes. For a moment, she held the phone away from her ear so she could sigh loudly without her mother hearing. Her fingernails dug into the gleaming cherry red fabric beneath her. Even after ten years, Ruth DeWitt Bukater-Daugan had yet to slow down nor had she lost the somewhat irritating spark of prim and properness that followed her incessantly. Rose had had hope that perhaps her mother could change. Or see things differently. But she never had. The relief of escaping the Titanic with her daughter and the family's money-rope of freedom had done nothing to change her or make her think any other way. She had been fortunate, so she observed, but Rose wasn't sure the woman even knew how to feel fortunate.

"Just because you're going doesn't mean I am," Rose said, shaking her head. "I don't know what I'll be doing on that day… it's a Friday, after all."

"What could you possibly be doing?" Her mother sounded irritated but Rose couldn't be bothered. "You have plenty of help over there. You better not be doing all the grocery shopping yourself again. Or wandering through those dreadful flea markets, they're disgusting, I've told you before."

Momentarily, Rose considered bashing the phone over the sharp edge of the tea table. She could already see it shattering to pieces, rendering her mother unable to call her. Rose imagined what the world would be like if her mother simply ceased to exist. She explored the fantasy often, especially in the night time, when she found herself alone, buried beneath the protective bubble of her quilts. But Rose shook all of that away. "I have affairs of my own, too."

"For Heaven's sake, you can be so difficult," Ruth sighed, shaking her ice cubes around again. "Such a prude with your time, as if you couldn't spare a week for your own mother. What's changed?"

"A lot," Rose herself held her sigh inward. She curled the telephone wire around her finger, watching the clock inch closer to five. "I'm telling you, I'll think about it. But I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you. I must be going now, anyway."

"Such attitude and manners," Ruth sighed through the phone. "If you were here right now, I'd have your mouth washed out with soap."

"Yes, mother, of course," Rose nodded, hearing the front door open and the echo of welcomes from the staff come up the hallway. "Do phone with your travel plans. Send my regards to Edward, as well." Only a haughty scoff came through the phone, as if Ruth could see Rose's face, displaying not even an ounce of warmth or care for Edward Daugen, the southern man who rode the wave of the tobacco cash crop straight into her mother's boundless wake. Carefully, Rose lowered the phone onto the receiver, gripping it tightly. She let out a sigh, listening to the commotion from the hallway. The evening times were when she got her alone time. She typically would curl up with a book or a journal in the furtherest corners of the house. But now, her mother had spoiled that time for her, and ruined her mood for the rest of the week. She sat there with her eyes trained down, cradling the phone against her. The muted thuds of shoes came down the hallway and the clearing of a throat had her slowly raising her eyes. There in the hallway stood her husband in his crisp black coat. It had been a windy day on the coast and his brown wispy hair fell across his forehead. He was grinning, his olive skin gleaming in the evening time. He came into the lounge room, shrugging from his coat and rolling his sleeves up his arms.

Rose took that as her cue to put the phone away. "Welcome home, Cal." She extended the box of Cuban cigars out towards him and he grinned as he placed a pre-cut cigar into his mouth, reaching for the matchbook on the table. As he puffed his cigar to life, plumes of smoke gathering around him, he nodded his head towards Rose.

"Who was that on the phone?"

"Oh," Rose seemed displeased to have been even asked. "It was my mother."

"Hm," He crossed towards the french doors, sending them open and soaking up the salty air. "What did she want?"

"There's an event in New York City she wants me to attend," Rose looked to the large painting above the fireplace. It was of wheat fields. It was rather boring in her opinion, but Cal had insisted it was high class. What did he know about art, anyway? It was all too monotone in her opinion, lacking heart and depth. Even the fluffy clouds in the sky failed to make her feel anything. "I don't much intend on going… but she'd like to stay with us next week."

"An event?" He looked over his shoulder, his hazy smoke lazily drifting past him. "What kind of event?"

Rose hugged herself, seating herself on an ottoman in front of the fire. She didn't want to say the words. They evoked an emotion from her that was sorely misplaced. Even with the words on the tip of her tongue, she found herself being thrust underwater, unable to catch her breath despite those around her insisting it would be easy. She felt horribly cold from the idea. She wished to place it all into a box, sealed shut, and stowed away in the eternity of the universe. She was silent for a few beats while her husband smoked his cigar, coming down from his busy day at the office. Just beyond the open doors, a somewhat frigid and humid air wafted towards them. April was so muggy, far too cold to swim, and the beach beyond the hedges of their private backyard was empty.

"It's a memorial event," Rose said slowly. "For… the Titanic."

Cal's face twitched for just a moment before he was able to smother it, plastering himself with the steely look he had accomplished by the time he was fourteen. He was quiet for a few beats, tapping the ash into the hedges just outside the doors. Rose could only begin to guess what was on his mind. In the aftermath of the disaster, it had been rocky waters. When they returned to Philadelphia, every day was filled with only bouts of shouting and utter tormented depression. Nathan didn't think Cal should have gone through with the wedding. After all, he reminded everyone at a family dinner, Rose had been tainted by another man. Rose had hoped maybe it was the end of the line. Some nights she wondered if she'd be thrown out. Part of that thought was exciting, yet extremely tantalizing. She had no true skills. And not a dime in her coin purse actually belonged to her. But the idea of being turned out towards the sunset had been enchanting. Somehow, however, through Cal's anguished drinking, he decided he wanted to marry Rose after all. And in somewhat of a truce, they agreed to lay the past to rest. Rose had to admit, it brought a sense of respect to her perspective of Cal. After they wedded and had a honeymoon abroad in Canada (with not a steam liner to be seen), Rose could even believe she had seen the light to her foolishness. And in the years since the Titanic, she locked all those memories away and simply tried to convince herself that she was stressed or bored with her lifestyle at that time. She wanted to confidently say that things between her and that boy never would have worked out anyway. She was, perhaps, just being a rebellious teen, flourishing in the moment of rushing hormones aboard a spectacle of life itself.

Though she wanted to believe that, there were far more days where she didn't. Rose was convinced she'd never stop thinking about that boy.

"Maybe it would be good for you to go," Cal finally said. Rose tore her eyes away from the fire. "Showing face is important. The Hockley's are still relevant ten years later. The Astor's certainly can't say that." Rose was quiet, not even sure what to say. She was hopeful Cal wanted to forget as much as she did, but nothing stopped the gossip mill nor brought a halt to the business world. "You could take the children with you. When is the last time they got out to do something fun?"

"Cal, I took them to the boardwalk just last week. They're at swim lessons right now, I'm sure they're exhausted."

Together, the couple had two children. Six year old Everett, or Rhett as he was called by his parents, was the apple of Cal and Nathan's eyes. He was the spitting image of the patriarch with his dark hair and eyes and olive complexion. Cal had large hopes for that young boy, though Rose's idea of parenting was much different. She wanted to nurture her children and help them develop their own interests. But Cal would never hear of his son becoming an engineer or a carpenter or even a football star. No, Rhett was destined for Wall Street. He was the moment he was born as Cal had declared upon being told it was a boy. Their second child was a four year old daughter whom Rose lovingly named Fern. Fern looked very much like her father, as well, with her chestnut brown locks. They curled at the end, however, showing a little bit of Rose. But her eyes were dark, too. She was obviously less important to her father, who Rose assumed would passively pay for a home economics college for her, while he dreamed of Ivy League's for Rhett. Rose spent every moment with her children that she could. But as the lady of the house, other things were expected of her, and inevitably, her children were swept away by nannies. There had been many battles over Rose's desire to be with her children, but she had, so far, only won the role of the wet nurse when they were babies.

"They're young," Cal passively waved his hand. "They'll go anywhere you tell them. I say that you go."

"But why?" Rose stood now. She craved her own cigarette and crossed towards the writing desk where she had laid her silver case down. "Who will be there I could possibly need to talk to?"

"How many times must I tell you that life is all about making connections?" Cal wearily looked across the room as Rose struck her lighter, inhaling deeply on her cigarette. "Don't you care about my business? We should be working hard to make it prosperous. For Rhett, you know."

Rose lowered her cigarette and pursed her lips. "Yes, I know."

"Do you think Ruth is going to remember the actual ship itself?" Cal chuckled lowly, watching the seagulls glance off the coastline. "No, her husband has a business himself. These are matters of economy more so than remembering. None of us want to remember, Rose."

Come Josephine, in my flying machine…

Goosebumps puckered over Rose's skin and hurriedly, she took a drag of her cigarette to squash the upended feelings. "Maybe so…" She uttered as she exhaled a plume of smoke.

Cal snubbed his cigar out in the ash tray on the tea table, glancing to Rose who poised herself in the corner by the wall length windows. It was overcast outside and the light sheered through the curtains over her shoulders, illuminating her porcelain skin. Her red curls fell around her shoulders like a wild fire in a forest. The couple was silent in that moment, laying to rest all the anguished and tortured thoughts that had chased them for a decade. They could see it in each others eyes, yet neither of them chose to speak. In the next beat, echoes were coming from the hallway again. They heard the boisterous voice of their British nurse, Miss Mansfield, directing the children towards the lounge room. And suddenly, two dark haired children had appeared, wearing their silk robes from swim practice.

"Momma!" Fern cried out, racing across the room and wrapping her arms around Rose's legs. Rhett was much quieter, more of an observer, and crossed to greet his father with a handshake. Rose reached down, running her hands through Fern's tangled wet hair. In that moment, Rose wished so much for Fern, as she had wished for herself ten years ago. She snubbed her cigarette out prematurely and gathered Fern into her arms.

"Come on, you two. Let's take a bath before supper," Rose didn't even look over her shoulder as she hauled Fern out of the room with Rhett on her heels.

/

That night, Rose seated herself on the balcony of their bedroom. The milky moonlight spilled over the ocean surface, illuminating the capping waves that rushed towards the shore. The cicadas chirped brightly from the hedges. Rose was a bundle of nerves in that chair. Her wine glass of chardonnay was nearly forgotten beside her as she stared off into those waves, like they were an abyss. Her mother visiting was never a welcomed idea. Though she knew it was terrible as a daughter to admit, Rose wanted nothing to do with Ruth. Though the older woman did adore her grandchildren and marveled at their estate in Long Island every time she came over, Rose couldn't help but be sickened by the idea of her. Years of her childrearing and the after years had left a bad taste in Rose's mouth. She couldn't help but blame Ruth for the way she was, though many nights, Rose lay awake and mostly hated herself.

But at that moment, Rose felt so utterly different. Ten years, she told herself. She couldn't believe it. Ten years since she had last heard his voice or felt his rigid hands against her skin. Rose didn't want to admit she still thought about it. Anyone in her social circle would be absolutely flabbergasted. They could never understand how a man with nothing could present to her everything that she wanted. Not even Rose herself was able to explain the affect of him. She squeezed her eyes shut in the humid night, wrapping her fingers tensely around the stem of her wine glass. Don't say his name. Don't think it, she told herself, as if the name itself opened Pandora's Box. Rose so desperately wanted to forget but a small part of her… well, it didn't. It never wanted to wash over the memories of his hot breath against her skin. It never wanted to forget the way he kissed her in the steam or the way he made love to her in such a display of emotion that her love life would never see again. There was a part of Rose who still craved that part of her life. How she wished she could toss it all out the window and be with him. But she couldn't. They just weren't meant to be.

And her heart drooped as she reached for her wine. It stung her throat as it slid down. Luckily, the maids had brought her a full chilled bottle and she glanced to it as if it were her life force. She looked about the balcony at the dark wood of the chairs with their fluffy pillows that were accented in stripes of pales and nudes. They were all rage in modern fashion. Cal had purchased them. But Rose didn't want to be in fashion. She wanted to be out of the times, exuberant, and living life to it's fullest. But as she sat there, sipping her chilled chardonnay, she couldn't help but feel as if she failed. In those fleeting forty-eight hors with that boy, he taught her everything she thought she needed to know. He showed her a part of life that was unable to be captured in her lifetime. But she longed for what she couldn't have and for that, she longed for him. But still, between the bitter taste of her wine and her held-back salty tears, Rose could not think his name. She couldn't undo all the strings in her heart that she had carefully weaved together, miraculously put back in one to beat for Cal, when in reality, it beat the for heat of her life, one of which she would never rekindle.

The porch door opened suddenly, revealing Cal in his silk smoking jacket, holding a cool glass of brandy. He looked out towards the ocean, as if he had never seen it before. It seemed time and time again, Cal liked to marvel at where he was in life. Rose could see it in his dark eyes. The feeling of being apt, the feeling of being in charge. Cal thrived with those feelings while Rose only floundered in self-doubt and hate. He would never know, however, as the young woman had trained herself as she been tutored through her years of makeshift school. She had been perfected for Cal and that's all he seemed to take solace in now. He thought it was charming that she was quiet and relenting. Most days, Rose had to refuse the urge to lift a golf club to the man's head while he slumbered. But she knew that was wrong. Cal was much different than who he was in 1912. That snark of a man, the man who saw the world as his own personal oyster, had grown into a successful man, one who seemed more confident in his skin. Since 1912, he hadn't lifted a hand to her. Raised his voice, yes. But never had Rose felt again a sharp slap across her cheek. Only an incessant burn in her heart.

"Long Island is so nice when there aren't any tourists making a muck on the beach," Cal lowered himself in a lounge chair, kicking his feet up on the stone railing. He nursed his brandy slowly, relishing in the relaxing evening. Rose rubbed her arms, somewhat chilly. "Your mother is coming on Saturday?" He looked to her. Rose would have much rather chatted about the hedge-fund investors he had told them about at supper. Rose stalled by drinking her wine.

"Yes, her heart is set on showing her face at this event."

"So should yours," Cal replied. "You're not Rose DeWitt Bukater anymore. You're Rose Hockley. You have a lot to showcase from the past decade. We have a beautiful home in Long Island. Our son is already showing promise of being a genius. My business is booming. Anyone who whispered behind their palms about us won't have anything to say when you appear. In fact, you should buy a new dress for the occasion. I'll leave money with Miss Mansfield."

Every reason he listed, however, only felt like one more nail in Rose's coffin.