Disclaimer: All this belongs to James Cameron, and (Yes, I'm saying it
again) his band of merry movie-makers.
**************************************************************************** **
October 15, 1912
Rose was thinking about the baby. All she wanted to do was to keep it, care for it. After all, it was all she had left of him. His blonde hair, always slightly mussed by the wind. Or how he'd taught her to spit. She almost laughed at the memory.
Rose quickly sobered when other memories surfaced. Ones that wrenched her heart almost from her chest. Damn, she missed him. It'd been 6 months and 3 days since she'd lost him: she'd counted every hour.
Suddenly, Rose sat up. What time was it?! She glanced at the cheap clock; 6:59. If she was late for work again, Mr. Andrews swore on his mother's grave she'd be fired. As she wriggled into her uniform, a ugly teal and purple thing, she reflected on how the Mr. Andrews she'd known had been such a gentleman, while the her boss, though he shared the same name, was quite frankly a SOB. She finished dressing and raced out the door in less than a minute.
She bolted down the stairs, slamming open the door, maroon paint splinters hitting the wall. Sprinting down the sidewalk, she had to dart around innocent bystanders, not as easy task when her belly was hindering her every step.
When she arrived at the café, Mr. Andrews was standing at the door, spindly frame leaned against the frame, looking almost innocent. One glance at his pocket watch and suddenly, his hideous face broke out into a exultant, demonic grin. He threw back his head and guffawed.
"One minute too late, Rosie dear. Leave your apron with me, I'll make sure it goes to someone more." he looked her up and down, eyes resting on her stomach. ".qualified."
Rose's bright eyes narrowed, slowly untying her striped apron, and shoved it into his arms, calling Mr. Andrews a couple of well deserved names that she wouldn't have dared said, (Ruth was sure to have had a heart attack, hearing her perfect little Rose talk like that), before striding off in a completely unexplored direction.
She passed a theater, then stopped. The voices of performers rehearsing filled her ears. She need a job, and maybe the theater needed some help backstage. Contemplating this possibility, she waited a moment before striding up the walk. Holding her head high, Rose opened the door and stepped in. Passing brightly decorated scenery and fairies galore, she inquired about the manager.
"He's back there," a young girl gestured to a obscure door in the back, behind an assortment of faux trees.
Rose knocked on the door, almost timid. A booming, theatrical voice invited her in. Opening the door, she saw a rather plump, balding man. Putting on her most confident voice and expression, she introduced herself.
"Hello, my name is Rose Dawson. I was wondering if you needed any help with scenery or something?". The man smiled kindly.
"We always need help backstage. In fact, the next play is going on in less than a month. A Midsummer Night's Dream by William Shakespeare. It should be good. And we're going to need lots of help with scenery." Rose grinned.
"Thank you, sir. When should I start?" she questioned. He studied her, obviously noticing her stomach, but not saying anything.
"Tomorrow, if that's alright with you. And call me Bill. Bill Zwilling. I'm the owner and director of this fine establishment." Bill spread his arms wide as if to incorporate the entire building. He smiled.
"Welcome to the Zwilling Theater!"
****************************************************************************
Jack sat down on his rough wood bench, flipping his worn leather notebook open, and sharpening the tools of his trade. Today was a good day. Rose was here with him.
He glanced over at the finished painting of her, her cerulean eyes watching him, that smile, her smile captured on the canvas. His eyes snap shut, only briefly, to protect him from the desolate look he'd seen last on her face. Re-focusing himself, he smiled back at the painting of his love. He wasn't over her. He would never be over her. But, it was a consolation to have this portrait of her. Jack returned to sharpening. Yup, today was going to be a good one.
A young girl with dark hair and her balding father walked up. One portrait, done. An elderly couple, adorned with spectacles. Two portraits. A young man, dressed in green. Almost three.
"Excuse me, fellow, did you paint that exquisite portrait of the red head?" boomed a portly man, who was wearing an almost-too-tight suit, and was tapping Jack's shoulder incessantly. The man's light coffee colored hair was shaded with silver, and was combed and oiled neatly in a part. He had a large, impressive brown mustache that he kept fiddling with and a slightly red face.
"Uh.yes, sir, yes I did." Jack looked up at the man, slightly confused.
"I'd like to purchase it." The man shoved a couple of banknotes into Jack's hand, shaking it firmly, before waddling over to the portrait and reaching out with a fleshy hand to grab it.
"No!" Jack was up in an instant, shielding his Rose from the unwanted, uninvited visitor. He stared at this intimidating man, who was obviously confused.
"Ah. you'll be wanting my name? My name is R.J. Pendelton, art dealer and connoisseur." He hands Jack a card, before reaching again for the painting.
"I'm sorry, R.J, I can't let you have that one." The man looks surprised at being addressed so informally.
"But, there are a lot more. You can buy those." Jack said hurriedly, hoping not to dissuade Mr. Pendelton from purchasing anything.
R.J. Pendelton lost interest in the Rose portrait fast as he poured over the drawings in Jack's notebook. A young family out for a stroll in the park, a scruffy dog, and less recently, Cora and her father, Tommy and Fabrizio.
"My God," said Mr. Pendelton softly. "You're a genius. Mr. Dawson, I'm willing to offer a hefty sum for these drawings. And I'm sure I'll be back with commissions. You just keep drawing these, and I'll keep paying." Slightly dazed, Jack nodded, exchanging 10 drawings, sans Titanic ones, for a wad of money. As R.J. toddled away, he remembered.
"Thank you." he called out weakly.
**************************************************************************** **
October 15, 1912
Rose was thinking about the baby. All she wanted to do was to keep it, care for it. After all, it was all she had left of him. His blonde hair, always slightly mussed by the wind. Or how he'd taught her to spit. She almost laughed at the memory.
Rose quickly sobered when other memories surfaced. Ones that wrenched her heart almost from her chest. Damn, she missed him. It'd been 6 months and 3 days since she'd lost him: she'd counted every hour.
Suddenly, Rose sat up. What time was it?! She glanced at the cheap clock; 6:59. If she was late for work again, Mr. Andrews swore on his mother's grave she'd be fired. As she wriggled into her uniform, a ugly teal and purple thing, she reflected on how the Mr. Andrews she'd known had been such a gentleman, while the her boss, though he shared the same name, was quite frankly a SOB. She finished dressing and raced out the door in less than a minute.
She bolted down the stairs, slamming open the door, maroon paint splinters hitting the wall. Sprinting down the sidewalk, she had to dart around innocent bystanders, not as easy task when her belly was hindering her every step.
When she arrived at the café, Mr. Andrews was standing at the door, spindly frame leaned against the frame, looking almost innocent. One glance at his pocket watch and suddenly, his hideous face broke out into a exultant, demonic grin. He threw back his head and guffawed.
"One minute too late, Rosie dear. Leave your apron with me, I'll make sure it goes to someone more." he looked her up and down, eyes resting on her stomach. ".qualified."
Rose's bright eyes narrowed, slowly untying her striped apron, and shoved it into his arms, calling Mr. Andrews a couple of well deserved names that she wouldn't have dared said, (Ruth was sure to have had a heart attack, hearing her perfect little Rose talk like that), before striding off in a completely unexplored direction.
She passed a theater, then stopped. The voices of performers rehearsing filled her ears. She need a job, and maybe the theater needed some help backstage. Contemplating this possibility, she waited a moment before striding up the walk. Holding her head high, Rose opened the door and stepped in. Passing brightly decorated scenery and fairies galore, she inquired about the manager.
"He's back there," a young girl gestured to a obscure door in the back, behind an assortment of faux trees.
Rose knocked on the door, almost timid. A booming, theatrical voice invited her in. Opening the door, she saw a rather plump, balding man. Putting on her most confident voice and expression, she introduced herself.
"Hello, my name is Rose Dawson. I was wondering if you needed any help with scenery or something?". The man smiled kindly.
"We always need help backstage. In fact, the next play is going on in less than a month. A Midsummer Night's Dream by William Shakespeare. It should be good. And we're going to need lots of help with scenery." Rose grinned.
"Thank you, sir. When should I start?" she questioned. He studied her, obviously noticing her stomach, but not saying anything.
"Tomorrow, if that's alright with you. And call me Bill. Bill Zwilling. I'm the owner and director of this fine establishment." Bill spread his arms wide as if to incorporate the entire building. He smiled.
"Welcome to the Zwilling Theater!"
****************************************************************************
Jack sat down on his rough wood bench, flipping his worn leather notebook open, and sharpening the tools of his trade. Today was a good day. Rose was here with him.
He glanced over at the finished painting of her, her cerulean eyes watching him, that smile, her smile captured on the canvas. His eyes snap shut, only briefly, to protect him from the desolate look he'd seen last on her face. Re-focusing himself, he smiled back at the painting of his love. He wasn't over her. He would never be over her. But, it was a consolation to have this portrait of her. Jack returned to sharpening. Yup, today was going to be a good one.
A young girl with dark hair and her balding father walked up. One portrait, done. An elderly couple, adorned with spectacles. Two portraits. A young man, dressed in green. Almost three.
"Excuse me, fellow, did you paint that exquisite portrait of the red head?" boomed a portly man, who was wearing an almost-too-tight suit, and was tapping Jack's shoulder incessantly. The man's light coffee colored hair was shaded with silver, and was combed and oiled neatly in a part. He had a large, impressive brown mustache that he kept fiddling with and a slightly red face.
"Uh.yes, sir, yes I did." Jack looked up at the man, slightly confused.
"I'd like to purchase it." The man shoved a couple of banknotes into Jack's hand, shaking it firmly, before waddling over to the portrait and reaching out with a fleshy hand to grab it.
"No!" Jack was up in an instant, shielding his Rose from the unwanted, uninvited visitor. He stared at this intimidating man, who was obviously confused.
"Ah. you'll be wanting my name? My name is R.J. Pendelton, art dealer and connoisseur." He hands Jack a card, before reaching again for the painting.
"I'm sorry, R.J, I can't let you have that one." The man looks surprised at being addressed so informally.
"But, there are a lot more. You can buy those." Jack said hurriedly, hoping not to dissuade Mr. Pendelton from purchasing anything.
R.J. Pendelton lost interest in the Rose portrait fast as he poured over the drawings in Jack's notebook. A young family out for a stroll in the park, a scruffy dog, and less recently, Cora and her father, Tommy and Fabrizio.
"My God," said Mr. Pendelton softly. "You're a genius. Mr. Dawson, I'm willing to offer a hefty sum for these drawings. And I'm sure I'll be back with commissions. You just keep drawing these, and I'll keep paying." Slightly dazed, Jack nodded, exchanging 10 drawings, sans Titanic ones, for a wad of money. As R.J. toddled away, he remembered.
"Thank you." he called out weakly.