This chapter takes place in the MIDDLE of the story. In other words, a whole lot happens in between chapter one (Discovery) and this chapter. I'm going to go back and fill it in, I just wanted to know if people liked this.

By now, Charlotte has left home and gone to Paris. She is working in a café where she meets - no surprise here - Rose Calvert. Rose is 35 now, married, and a mother of two. This chapter takes place right after Rose has told Charlotte that her maiden name was Dawson.

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FOUND AND LOST: March 24th, 1930

Dawson. Had I really heard Rose correctly? The name reverberated over and over in my head, echoing incessantly. Dawson. Dawson. Dawson. My father's name, and now, Rose's too. Was it only a coincidence? My mind told me that it was; after all, it wasn't that uncommon a name. There were probably hundreds of Dawsons out there. Yet despite my rationalizations, I couldn't stop wondering, what if? What if Rose knows my father? What if they're related?

"Charlotte!" called Rose. "You haven't spoken for almost a minute, and you've been completely staring into space. Is everything all right?"

Uneasy, I laughed. "I'm sorry, Rose. I was just thinking, that's all." Ask her, Char. You have to ask. How could you not? Ask her, Charlotte. "Rose, I really hate to be so intrusive, but by any chance, I mean, you probably wouldn't, but if any way, if you did . . ."

"Just say it, Charlotte!" she interrupted. "What is it?"

"You said your name used to be Rose Dawson."

"Yes," she said. "And?"

"Do you know a man named Jack Dawson?"

Her blue eyes expanded to the size of saucers. I could literally see that sadness pouring into them, that look I had seen on previous occasions. What did that pain have to do with Jack Dawson? Her crimson mouth dropped open a short ways, and she raised her grief-filled eyes to stare at me.

"Yes, Charlotte, I once knew a man named Jack Dawson. A very, very long time ago." She paused as if she were reminiscing about something, then chucked softly to herself at a memory. She looked at me again. "Do you know a Jack Dawson, Charlotte?"

"Well, in a way," I said. "I doubt we're thinking of the same person thought. It's a rather common . . ." I trailed off as an idea popped into my mind. The portrait! It was in my purse. It was old, but surely Rose would be able to tell if it was the man she knew!

"Hold on one moment, Rose!" I cried, racing to the back of the restaurant where my purse was kept. I quickly grabbed the picture and ran back to her table, thrusting the still-folded paper into her hands. "Is this him?" I asked, watching as she carefully, fearfully, unfolded it.

Rose stayed relatively calm. "Oh God," she whispered. "Jack."

"This is him?" I inquired excitedly. "This is the person you know?!"

"Yes," she said softly. "This is Jack. Jack!" She smiled sadly. "Charlotte, where on earth did you get this?"

"This man is my father, Rose."

She looked hard at me. I was startled by her words. "Of course he is! Oh God, Charlotte, how could I have missed it? The eyes, the smile. The first time I saw you Charlotte, it was like being in a dream. I told myself it couldn't be. Yet you reminded me so much of him." She looked at me in awe. "You're Jack's daughter."

"I guess I am," I told her. "You see, I never met my father. I never knew that the man who raised me wasn't my real father. Last November, however, on my birthday, that man, that man who I thought was my father, gave me a letter from my mother. She died when I was twelve. Anyway, the letter said that my real father - that's Jack - live in Paris last my mother knew. She met him here, but she returned to the states before she even knew she was pregnant. She never saw or heard from my father again. That's all I know about him. That and the fact that he was a wonderful artist. All I have of him is this self-portrait he gave my mother before she left. I came here, to Paris, to find him. It was all dead ends- until now. Rose, are you related to him? Do you know where he is? Do you have a city, an address anything?"

Her face sank. "Charlotte, I don't know how to say this. Jack died almost eighteen years ago."

"No," I whispered. "No, no, no, no, no" Every cell in my body hurt with indescribable force. You never even knew him, Charlotte. How can you grieve for someone who never even knew, someone who did know you either? Still, my heart felt like a boulder inside my chest; my insides felt ragged and raw. And then it hit me: I was an orphan. Parentless. First my mother and now my father. Both of them, gone.

"He's dead? Are you sure?" I was in shock. Anger rushed through my veins. I had come all the way to Paris to find my father. I had left everything I had ever known. I hadn't found him, but today, it had seemed like finally, my luck was about to change. Now, he was dead. I would never see him. My father. Never. Dead.

"I was there," stated Rose simply, calmly. "I was there, Charlotte."

"How did it happen, Rose?" I asked, trying to act composed. Stay calm, Charlotte. Like you did when Mummy died. Don't cry, Charlotte. Please don't cry.

Rose took a deep breath, and smiled at me. The sadness in her eyes had been replaced with bravery. "I tell you Charlotte. But before I tell you how he died, I need to tell you how he lived. He was an amazing man, your father. I loved him, god, how I loved him." She sighed, and smiled courageously. "Can you take your break now, Charlotte? It's time for you to know who your father was."