May 1912
A thousand knives stabbing him all over his body.
Jack Dawson remembered the feeling, and didn't appreciate it a bit. Stretching uncomfortably underneath the cool sheets wrapped around his aching body, he forced his eyes open, taking in the view with cautious disorientation. He was in hospital, alive. Grand place, full of clean floors and big beds, velvet curtained windows. Not in his price range, ever, so it was a handout. That was a start.
Rose.
Christ.
Jerking upright, he struggled against the restraints, ignoring the nurse barreling his way. "Where is she?"
The blonde, calm, young, fresh, only pushed him back down, pulling the sheet up. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. Now, you're going to have to stay here."
"Who's asking?" Okay, maybe he was being rude to the lady, but this high class hospital setup reeked of Hockley. And he didn't exactly trust the bastard who'd tried to kill both he and Rose. Him more than once. "And where am I? I can't feel my legs. Why're you tying me down?"
"It's in your own best interest. You shouldn't be up and about yet, you suffered excruciating degrees of hypothermia. You've been given sedatives to numb the feeling in your legs, you wouldn't have slept decently otherwise. It'll wear off soon." The blond met his gaze, unruffled. "One question at a time."
"Did Hockley hire you?"
"I was hired to nurse you back to health and keep you safe from Hockley."
"By Rose Dewitt Bukater?" Maybe, just maybe, she had survived, and he could contact her, and this nightmare could end right.
Briefly, the smile flickered , sympathy pooling in the brown eyes. "Mr. Dawson, I've kept some recent papers handy for this event. Perhaps I should leave you alone to read them. You can read?"
"I'm not ignorant. Don't outdo yourself with thoughtfulness, you might as well stay." Pride stinging, he took the papers she handed him, flexing his bandaged hands as the restraints loosened.
"No, I don't suppose you are, and I won't." Nodding slightly, she stepped back quietly, watching..
Brows knitting quizzically, he unrolled the sheath of newsprint. All kinds, anywhere from tabloid to society pages, and the face of Rose Dewitt Bukater splashed across all of them. The late Rose Dewitt Bukater. "This isn't possible. She was on a piece of wood. I tried to keep her out of the water. Look, whoever rescued me, didn't they see her?"
"According to the White Star Line, you were alone by that driftwood, Jack, and no Rose Dewitt Bukater gave her name as a survivor."
"They must be covering it up, then, for reputation, or something, it figures. What about Rose Dawson?" The idea was crazy, but he was desperate. "Look, maybe she used another name, she didn't exactly want to go back to her family."
"All names on the list are accounted for. Rose isn't one of the faces to go with them. I'm sorry." Perching on the edge of the bed, the still nameless nurse met his gaze.
"Are you?" He threw the papers aside, staring up at the ceiling in frustration. "You didn't know her."
"I'm told that you and this Rose met on the Titanic. It was a three day voyage. Do you really suppose you knew her very well either?"
Jack didn't have an answer to that. Of course he'd thought he knew Rose...but really, three days was only enough to scratch the surface. Still, it was three days he knew he'd be haunted by the rest of his life. Balling up the papers, he sighed. "Hockley."
"Caledon Hockley has requested that I leave you with his address and contact information. He seems to be expecting your rightful ire. Perhaps you should go talk to him. He doesn't strike me as a man who is hiding anything, seems fairly grief-stricken, in his own way, of course."
"Maybe." Rubbing his forehead, he straightened. "So he hired you, Miss..."
"Marguerite. Call me Molly."
Winter 1930
Molly Dawson recognized a crack in domestic harmony when she saw one.
Stepping into the modest bungalow she and her bohemian of a husband shared, the petite blonde sighed, dropping the sack of groceries she carried in the foyer. Jack sat in the ragged old armchair he preferred, fliers scattered all over his lap, brows drawn up in his best imitation of moody annoyance. Unfortunately, he wasn't terrifically good at looking mean. "Okay, Dawson, what's the problem?"
He eyed her. "I found fliers from a local theater group."
"There are a few around."
"Rose DAWSON Calvert is featured."
"Oh, not HER. Do old flames never stay dead?" Truthfully, she wasn't a bit surprised, had run across the fliers herself. She'd been expecting a swift run-in with the past.
"Don't be snide, Molly. You lied to me."
"I told you that all names on the survivor list were accounted for."
"But certain names weren't on the list. Mine. That means that not everyone who survived was listed."
"You weren't a registered passenger, Jack. A stowaway, for all purposes. How would that've looked to the families of the legitimate passengers, their people dying while stowaways lived?"
Ignoring the sarcasm, he plowed on. "And if Rose had changed her name, a name not registered, it wouldn't have been included either."
"Perhaps."
"Is that your answer to everything?"
"Listen, Dawson." Leaning over, she met his gaze angrily. "I kept you safe when you weren't terribly keen about keeping yourself safe. Had you tried going after this divine Rose of yours, Hockley's benevolence would have very quickly turned ugly. You needed the medical care and he was the one paying for it."
"You didn't know me, for God's sake!"
"Oh, so now you have to be the other half of a three day love affair to give a damn?"
"Molly..."
"Jack, I've spent the better part of twenty years wiping up your messes. I wheeled you around when you couldn't walk on those frost-bitten legs of yours, I convinced doctors not to amputate, I pulled you out of depressions, I followed you into war and when you lost the dexterity of those artists fingers of yours I pulled you out of more depression. I've sacrificed a lot. And despite it all, there's always a thin glass wall I can't climb, the Rose wall. I never knew the woman, but I've really come to dislike her, and envy her."
"At least you're honest." He muttered, running the said fingers through his shaggy hair.
She sighed, sitting down. "Okay, Dawson. I know I'll live to regret it, but...why don't you go to this performance of your Rose's?"
"You think that's a good idea?" He glanced up, expression more vulnerable than she'd ever seen it.
"No, not really." Blunt honesty, always worked. "But I doubt either of us could live with ourselves otherwise. I still might not be able to live with myself, but if you'll sleep easy, I guess one out of two isn't all that bad."
He stood, brushing her forehead with his lips as he headed for the door. "Molly, you're something else."
"Yeah, just not the hoity-toity Rose Dewitt Bukater kind of something else you're still head over heels for."
The slamming door swallowed his answer.
~
Hours later Jack Dawson wasn't so sure it was a good idea. He wasn't the theater type. Come to think of it, he didn't even look like the theater type, the backstage guard's dubious look and reluctant step aside had confirmed it. And he had no idea what he was planning to do. Sweep Rose Dawson Calvert into his arms and kiss her senseless, after yelling himself hoarse? No, probably not a good idea, Molly wouldn't like it a bit, and Calvert probably wouldn't appreciate the sentiment either. Whoever Calvert was. No telling what the lady herself would think.
Rubbing a thumb on the bridge of his nose, the artist turned entrepreneur leaned against a wall, peering at the sign on the door in front of him, gripping the flowers in his other hand tight enough to send pains through the still unhealed extremity.
"You looking for somebody?"
Starting, he glanced across the hall as another dressing room door swung open, revealing an older brunette. "Is Rose De..uh, Calvert in there?"
"She oughta be, pulling off that makeup. Probably tired as a raced colt, though, I'd tread lightly. and..." A smile cracked the painted lips. "Her husband usually drops in a couple of hours from now to take her home. You'd better carry a stopwatch."
"Very funny. You remind me of my wife."
"Lucky you."
Grinning at the typical response, he knocked on the door lightly, watching as the brunette retreated. Finally, after a minute, the artfully decorated door opened, and very familiar, only faintly aged eyes stared out, widening.
"Rose..."
The actress within released the door, stepping back, lips parting. "You look...I'm sorry, do I know you?"
"Rose." Oh, God. He stepped tentatively across the threshold. "I...I know it's a shock. It's me."
They stared in silence for a moment, before he finally held out the flowers, smiling awkwardly. "Not roses, I'm afraid."
With something between a gasp and a sob, she barreled into his arms, and whatever thin control he held vanished. For the first time in nearly two decades, Jack Dawson cried.
A thousand knives stabbing him all over his body.
Jack Dawson remembered the feeling, and didn't appreciate it a bit. Stretching uncomfortably underneath the cool sheets wrapped around his aching body, he forced his eyes open, taking in the view with cautious disorientation. He was in hospital, alive. Grand place, full of clean floors and big beds, velvet curtained windows. Not in his price range, ever, so it was a handout. That was a start.
Rose.
Christ.
Jerking upright, he struggled against the restraints, ignoring the nurse barreling his way. "Where is she?"
The blonde, calm, young, fresh, only pushed him back down, pulling the sheet up. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. Now, you're going to have to stay here."
"Who's asking?" Okay, maybe he was being rude to the lady, but this high class hospital setup reeked of Hockley. And he didn't exactly trust the bastard who'd tried to kill both he and Rose. Him more than once. "And where am I? I can't feel my legs. Why're you tying me down?"
"It's in your own best interest. You shouldn't be up and about yet, you suffered excruciating degrees of hypothermia. You've been given sedatives to numb the feeling in your legs, you wouldn't have slept decently otherwise. It'll wear off soon." The blond met his gaze, unruffled. "One question at a time."
"Did Hockley hire you?"
"I was hired to nurse you back to health and keep you safe from Hockley."
"By Rose Dewitt Bukater?" Maybe, just maybe, she had survived, and he could contact her, and this nightmare could end right.
Briefly, the smile flickered , sympathy pooling in the brown eyes. "Mr. Dawson, I've kept some recent papers handy for this event. Perhaps I should leave you alone to read them. You can read?"
"I'm not ignorant. Don't outdo yourself with thoughtfulness, you might as well stay." Pride stinging, he took the papers she handed him, flexing his bandaged hands as the restraints loosened.
"No, I don't suppose you are, and I won't." Nodding slightly, she stepped back quietly, watching..
Brows knitting quizzically, he unrolled the sheath of newsprint. All kinds, anywhere from tabloid to society pages, and the face of Rose Dewitt Bukater splashed across all of them. The late Rose Dewitt Bukater. "This isn't possible. She was on a piece of wood. I tried to keep her out of the water. Look, whoever rescued me, didn't they see her?"
"According to the White Star Line, you were alone by that driftwood, Jack, and no Rose Dewitt Bukater gave her name as a survivor."
"They must be covering it up, then, for reputation, or something, it figures. What about Rose Dawson?" The idea was crazy, but he was desperate. "Look, maybe she used another name, she didn't exactly want to go back to her family."
"All names on the list are accounted for. Rose isn't one of the faces to go with them. I'm sorry." Perching on the edge of the bed, the still nameless nurse met his gaze.
"Are you?" He threw the papers aside, staring up at the ceiling in frustration. "You didn't know her."
"I'm told that you and this Rose met on the Titanic. It was a three day voyage. Do you really suppose you knew her very well either?"
Jack didn't have an answer to that. Of course he'd thought he knew Rose...but really, three days was only enough to scratch the surface. Still, it was three days he knew he'd be haunted by the rest of his life. Balling up the papers, he sighed. "Hockley."
"Caledon Hockley has requested that I leave you with his address and contact information. He seems to be expecting your rightful ire. Perhaps you should go talk to him. He doesn't strike me as a man who is hiding anything, seems fairly grief-stricken, in his own way, of course."
"Maybe." Rubbing his forehead, he straightened. "So he hired you, Miss..."
"Marguerite. Call me Molly."
Winter 1930
Molly Dawson recognized a crack in domestic harmony when she saw one.
Stepping into the modest bungalow she and her bohemian of a husband shared, the petite blonde sighed, dropping the sack of groceries she carried in the foyer. Jack sat in the ragged old armchair he preferred, fliers scattered all over his lap, brows drawn up in his best imitation of moody annoyance. Unfortunately, he wasn't terrifically good at looking mean. "Okay, Dawson, what's the problem?"
He eyed her. "I found fliers from a local theater group."
"There are a few around."
"Rose DAWSON Calvert is featured."
"Oh, not HER. Do old flames never stay dead?" Truthfully, she wasn't a bit surprised, had run across the fliers herself. She'd been expecting a swift run-in with the past.
"Don't be snide, Molly. You lied to me."
"I told you that all names on the survivor list were accounted for."
"But certain names weren't on the list. Mine. That means that not everyone who survived was listed."
"You weren't a registered passenger, Jack. A stowaway, for all purposes. How would that've looked to the families of the legitimate passengers, their people dying while stowaways lived?"
Ignoring the sarcasm, he plowed on. "And if Rose had changed her name, a name not registered, it wouldn't have been included either."
"Perhaps."
"Is that your answer to everything?"
"Listen, Dawson." Leaning over, she met his gaze angrily. "I kept you safe when you weren't terribly keen about keeping yourself safe. Had you tried going after this divine Rose of yours, Hockley's benevolence would have very quickly turned ugly. You needed the medical care and he was the one paying for it."
"You didn't know me, for God's sake!"
"Oh, so now you have to be the other half of a three day love affair to give a damn?"
"Molly..."
"Jack, I've spent the better part of twenty years wiping up your messes. I wheeled you around when you couldn't walk on those frost-bitten legs of yours, I convinced doctors not to amputate, I pulled you out of depressions, I followed you into war and when you lost the dexterity of those artists fingers of yours I pulled you out of more depression. I've sacrificed a lot. And despite it all, there's always a thin glass wall I can't climb, the Rose wall. I never knew the woman, but I've really come to dislike her, and envy her."
"At least you're honest." He muttered, running the said fingers through his shaggy hair.
She sighed, sitting down. "Okay, Dawson. I know I'll live to regret it, but...why don't you go to this performance of your Rose's?"
"You think that's a good idea?" He glanced up, expression more vulnerable than she'd ever seen it.
"No, not really." Blunt honesty, always worked. "But I doubt either of us could live with ourselves otherwise. I still might not be able to live with myself, but if you'll sleep easy, I guess one out of two isn't all that bad."
He stood, brushing her forehead with his lips as he headed for the door. "Molly, you're something else."
"Yeah, just not the hoity-toity Rose Dewitt Bukater kind of something else you're still head over heels for."
The slamming door swallowed his answer.
~
Hours later Jack Dawson wasn't so sure it was a good idea. He wasn't the theater type. Come to think of it, he didn't even look like the theater type, the backstage guard's dubious look and reluctant step aside had confirmed it. And he had no idea what he was planning to do. Sweep Rose Dawson Calvert into his arms and kiss her senseless, after yelling himself hoarse? No, probably not a good idea, Molly wouldn't like it a bit, and Calvert probably wouldn't appreciate the sentiment either. Whoever Calvert was. No telling what the lady herself would think.
Rubbing a thumb on the bridge of his nose, the artist turned entrepreneur leaned against a wall, peering at the sign on the door in front of him, gripping the flowers in his other hand tight enough to send pains through the still unhealed extremity.
"You looking for somebody?"
Starting, he glanced across the hall as another dressing room door swung open, revealing an older brunette. "Is Rose De..uh, Calvert in there?"
"She oughta be, pulling off that makeup. Probably tired as a raced colt, though, I'd tread lightly. and..." A smile cracked the painted lips. "Her husband usually drops in a couple of hours from now to take her home. You'd better carry a stopwatch."
"Very funny. You remind me of my wife."
"Lucky you."
Grinning at the typical response, he knocked on the door lightly, watching as the brunette retreated. Finally, after a minute, the artfully decorated door opened, and very familiar, only faintly aged eyes stared out, widening.
"Rose..."
The actress within released the door, stepping back, lips parting. "You look...I'm sorry, do I know you?"
"Rose." Oh, God. He stepped tentatively across the threshold. "I...I know it's a shock. It's me."
They stared in silence for a moment, before he finally held out the flowers, smiling awkwardly. "Not roses, I'm afraid."
With something between a gasp and a sob, she barreled into his arms, and whatever thin control he held vanished. For the first time in nearly two decades, Jack Dawson cried.