***IMPORTANT*** PLEASE NOTE: THIS IS NOT THE FINAL CHAPTER. THERE WILL STILL BE AN EPILOGUE POSTED WITHIN THE NEXT COUPLE OF DAYS. BELIEVE ME, I WILL LET YOU KNOW WHEN THE STORY IS OVER!!!!

Author's Note: That out of the way, I don't think I have any real notes for this chapter. Might seem kind of short, though. Oh yeah-- is Aprodite (the ancient goddess) Greek or Roman? I said Greek, but I'm not sure, so don't have a hissyfit over that one if I'm wrong. lol And sorry it took me so frigging long to get it out. . . we have WAY too much schoolwork. I'm telling you. They just don't cut us any slack. Anyvays. . . thanks to all my reviewers! YOU GUYS ROCK!!! Please keep it up, and enjoy!!

THIRTEEN

The first thing I noticed was that I was practically drowning in warmth; I shifted slightly and realized that I was in a large, comfortable bed, under layers of blankets. Wait a second. . . My eyes snapped open and I sat bolt upright. I immediately winced; my abs became sore again at the sudden movement, and my hand flew to my cheek, where a small patch of gauze was stuck. My clothes were completely dry, as was my hair. My limbs buzzed slightly with the last traces of exhaustion, and my eyes widened as I looked around the room.

The ceiling was fifteen feet high at least; the bed was a mahogany four-poster canopy against the wall of the large room. Sunlight streamed in through the windows. The carpet was thick and multi-colored; a desk, dresser, and armchair were about the room. There were two doors, both of them closed., and I slowly slid out from beneath the covers of the bed, looking almost suspiciously around. I made my way to one of the doors, trying desperately to remember what had happened after I'd seen Lightoller, but nothing was coming to mind. Perhaps I'd fainted? God, I hope not.

I pulled the door open and saw that it led to an almost picturesque bathroom; the other door opened into a short hallway; I turned right down it and emerged into a large and magnificent parlor area. A woman was there, her garb that of a maid, and she was brushing a duster over the coffee table. "Excuse me," I said, feeling more than somewhat awkward.

She looked up, and then away. "Let me go fetch the missus." she murmured, dropped quickly into a curtsy, and hurried away. I stood there, taking in the expensive decor and ornate ceiling. My index finger automatically went to my thumb, but I discovered with a spasm of panic that Thomas' ring was no longer there. I remembered then that I'd traded it for a pistol to take my own life. My God, I thought, swallowing hard. What was I thinking?

A woman whisked into the room; she looked about mid-thirties, dark hair elegantly pinned up on her head, features friendly and pretty. She wore an afternoon dress of light plum and approached easily, used to years in her corset, hand outstretched to shake mine. "Miss Stevenson," she said, smiling a little. "I'm Sylvia Lightoller-- Charles' wife."

"Nice to meet you, ma'am," I told her. "Hey, where am I?"

"You're at the Waldorf Hotel in New York City."

I blanched. "The Waldorf?"

"It's where my husband and I are staying for the Inquiry." she told me patiently. "He's down there now, meeting with Senator Smith and the whole lot of them."

I blinked, trying to take this all in. At least I wasn't dead. Finally I came up with, "The Inquiry?"

"The United States and Britain both have demanded inquiries to be held to question the surviving officers and more prominent crewmen and passengers of the Titanic."

"Oh." I said dully. "Listen, I have questions--"

"As does Charles." she returned, not unkindly. "You can understand that."

"Yeah." Suddenly I felt absolutely, utterly ashamed. Lightoller had caught me about to kill myself. About to shoot myself in the head, for the love of Peter. God knows what he must think of me.

"Hungry?" Mrs. Lightoller asked me gently.

My stomach growled. "Yes."

"Well then, why don't you get showered up-- there's clean clothes for you in there-- and when you come out, I'll have something ready to eat."

The thought that I was actually going to get real sustenance was nearly overwhelming. "Thank you," I said gratefully. "Really. I appreciate it."

"You're quite welcome," she assured me with a kind smile. "Go on."

The water that cascaded over me was so hot that the bathroom filled with steam in minutes. It felt wonderful not to be cold and shivering, to get the grit and sweat and rainwater out of my hair, to wash away the past couple of days. I found that the change of clothes she left me was almost exactly like I'd been wearing-- a pair of dark pants and an Oxford shirt. Though the shirt was too large, I was fine with that-- it made it all the more comfortable.

When I stepped into the parlor again, the maid directed me into the dining area, where a large plate stacked with hotcakes sat. A tray of butter and a boat of syrup were near it. There was a small plate of fruit as well, and a small bowl of oatmeal. "Geez Louise." I said to Sylvia as she entered the room, smiling at the look of wonder on my face. "I can't eat all this."

"Just eat what you can." she told me. "Do you want tea, coffee, water, or orange juice?"

"Just water," I said. "Thanks." I carefully seated myself at the table and then slathered the hotcakes with butter and syrup before digging in. I ate slowly, to savor the taste and to make sure everything wouldn't come up later. I cannot tell you how wonderful it felt just to eat real food again, especially food that was this damn good. I worked my way through three hotcakes, a half the oatmeal, half of an orange, and a glass of water before I finally had had enough.

Sylvia informed me that her husband would be back by noon; when I asked her for the time, she told me that it was nearly ten thirty. I retreated to my large room, pulled a large, thick blanket from the bed, wrapped myself in it, and settled myself in the window seat, watching the traffic move on the street far below. From this point, I could see all the way to the docks, though it was distant. It was almost calming to see the ocean again.

Almost.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

Three sharp knocks issued from the large whitewashed door to my room, and I called, "It's open."

The door creaked; I turned toward it to see Charles Lightoller with his hand on the knob. He looked almost odd in regular clothes and not his dark officer's uniform, but the sight was slightly comforting. "May I come in?" he asked me quietly.

I sat up a little straighter, and swallowed. "Sure." He walked slowly over to the window seat and lowered himself onto it, about four feet across from me. For a moment we were silent. I shifted, wrapping my arms around my shins. I said, "How did the inquiry go?"

He ran a hand through his hair, so that it fell forward a bit, and looked out the window. "They're persnickety about details, and it can get fairly irritating, but other than that. . ." he trailed off, and didn't pick up again.

The silence was long and awkward. I knew that the next thing he'd say would be about my suicide attempt, and I felt unbelievably worthless. As though I'd let him down in some way.

Lightoller let out a long breath through his nose, still staring at something out the window. "Why did you do it, Carrie?" he murmured finally.

I couldn't look at him, and I stared at the intricate designs on the blanket. "It. . . God, Lightoller, I was just sick of living. I was practically delusional with hunger, plus my clothes were soaked through, and--"

"Do you have any family members at all in this part of the country?"

"I don't have any family members in any part of the country." I told him, meeting his concerned and worried stare.

Lightoller let out a long breath. "Carrie, did Andrews truly leave you nothing? No money, nothing to do that might give you a little hope?"

"Well," I said, my voice just as quiet. "He did sort of. . . he gave me the blueprints for his next ship and told me to become master shipbuilder if I could. And if I couldn't, he told me to send it to his uncle in Belfast."

Lightoller stared at me for a moment. Then he said, "Understand that I mean no offense, Carrie, but what made him think that you'd be so capable of building it?"

"I worked at a shipbuilding company for three years." I told him. "And Thomas and I spent a lot of time going over his blueprints. He and I both figured that if I got back to work at that company then I'd eventually be able to get into a position to work on it."

Lightoller looked wounded. "Didn't you even try?"

"That's the thing," I told him, growing slightly defensive. "I did try. Only they kicked me out because I looked like shit on a stick." I immediately fell silent when I realized how absolutely rude I'd been. "Lights. . . I'm sorry. I just. . ." I was shaking. ". . . put yourself in my place. No family, no friends, your whole world just pulled out from under you. Nowhere to go, nothing to do, not one thing to hope for." My eyes stung as they followed the blanket pattern.

For a moment he just stared at me, features softened by quite a bit. "And you don't consider me or Mr. Lowe or Pitman or any of them to be your friends?"

Oh, my God. This was the reason I always tried to keep from blurting. My face burned. "I never. . ."

"And do you remember what I told you on the Carpathia?"

It was then that Lightoller's words came flooding back to me. He'd told me that if I needed food or shelter I could look to him for it. I'd completely forgotten about it. "I. . . I forgot." my voice was hoarse; tears fell out of my eyes from the shame. I may as well have kicked him in the shin for trying to help. "I'm sorry. . . I'm sorry. . . I just. . ."

He scooted closer and laid a gentle hand on my shoulder, eyes staring intently into my own. "Forgive me. I'm not trying to make this hard on you. But I don't think you thought about what you were doing before you tried to do it."

I swallowed hard, brushing tears away with my knuckles. "Neither do I."

Softly, he said, "Why did you not follow through? With the-- the suicide, I mean?"

I met his patient, worried eyes. "When I was up there I asked Thomas to send someone to stop me if there was a reason why I shouldn't kill myself." My hands were shaking. "And then you came. If that's not an answer, then I don't know what the hell is."

Silence filled the room; I waited for him to say something. At last he murmured, "Perhaps there really is a reason. . . would you be willing to try Garrison and Wheeler again?"

I blinked. "Yes, of course, but I already mailed the plans."

Lightoller tried to suppress his disappointment. "When did you take them to the post office?"

"Last night," I told him, my eyes finally clearing, wondering what he was getting at.

He pulled a heavy pocket watch from his vest, and let the lid click open. Pushing it back into his pocket, he said, "The mail isn't picked up until three o'clock. If we go now, we can get it in time."

"Lights--" I stared at him, aghast. "What're you trying to do? If they threw me out once--"

"You said that they did so because you looked like-- like 'shit on a stick', was it? Well, if we get you some fresh clothes, I'm sure you'll be just fine. I'll give you a hand, even. Certainly they'd obey the order of a second officer."

"Yes, but--"

He was on his feet, and looked down at me. "Did you want to get those blueprints back or not?"

Did I? Did I want to give it another go, to really try to do this, to build Thomas' ship for him?

"Hell, yes," I said, throwing the blanket aside. "You bet I want to."

"Good. Let's go now, then."

"Now?" I said, incredulous. "My hair's still damp from the shower and look at what I'm wearing--"

"You didn't seem to worry about it for the past few days. Come on." and Lightoller was already heading for the door; I hurried to catch up with him.

"Charles, where--" Sylvia began when she saw us heading for the front door.

"We'll be back in an hour." he promised her, and grabbed his hat from a hook by the door. "We're picking up something at the post office."

"Ah." she smiled slightly. "See you later, then."

Lightoller ushered me out the door; we strode quickly to the elevator. "Oh, yes," he said, suddenly fishing around in the other pocket of his vest again as we walked. "I meant to give you this."

I stopped in my tracks, stared wide-eyed at the small gold item that emerged from his pocket. Hardly daring to breathe, hard pounding, I managed, "Is that. . ."

"It is." he held his hand out; my fingers shook as I took Thomas' ring from him. "I saw where you'd gotten the revolver and knew that the ring was the only thing you could have traded for it, so I took the weapon back to the shop."

I put it over my thumb, and felt as though I were welcoming back an old friend. I looked up at Lightoller, feeling gratitude that went beyond words. "Lights--"

"Hush." he said as the elevator arrived. "It's alright. It's what any decent friend would do."

I smiled, and suddenly I felt better than I had in quite a long time.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

I practically stormed through the front doors of Garrison and Wheeler. That is, I stormed as much as the corset and dress would allow me. Lightoller was on my right, Lowe on my left, as we made our way up the floor to the desk. The blueprints had been smoothed out, and were now in a fairly neat roll under my arm. The same man sat behind it as the one who'd called security on me the other day.

My heels sank into the thick carpet, muffling their usual click-click-click noise. "I feel like goddam royalty." I muttered under my breath.

"Well, you look it." Lowe said, and immediately glowed a fierce red. "Carrie, I didn't mean it like--"

I couldn't help but to smile at him. "I know. Thanks." We reached the desk; I leaned my arms on it, not caring that it probably wasn't proper etiquette. "Hi. I'm here to see Robert Wheeler. Junior."

"D'you have an appointment?" the man said, eyeing Lowe and Lightoller uneasily.

"No." I told him firmly. "We're old friends. He'll want to see me."

I could tell without looking that Lowe and Lightoller were glaring at the man, who buckled and said, "This way." and he turned down the hall to our left; the three of us exchanged satisfied smiles.

Moments later, a heavy oak door was thrown open and a young man looked up from a large desk. My heart twisted; memories came flooding back. This was Robert Wheeler-- one of my closest friends when I'd been here. He'd never been as low as to be a normal worker, seeing as his (now deceased) father was the head of a the company, but he'd still been as active as he could in our little community. He looked a little older now. He'd grown a mustache that matched the dark chestnut color of his hair, and he wore a business suit instead of workpants and a shirt.

He looked up, gray eyes surprised but inquisitive as he surveyed our party. "What's all this?" he asked.

The clerk said, "These people requested that they see you immediately, sir. I apologize, but this woman claims to be one of your old friends, and I felt rather threatened." he added the last part glaring furiously at my companions and I.

Robert's eyes fell on mine; I could tell he didn't recognize me. I cleared my throat, and stepped forward a little. "Hi, Robbie." I said quietly.

For a moment he didn't move a muscle. Then suddenly he was on his feet, chair scraping the floor. "Carrie Stevenson?" he breathed, eyes wide.

A smile grew and spread on my face that he knew me now. "Yeah, it's me."

"Mr. Carpenter," Robert said, fighting out from behind his desk, looking toward the clerk. "You did right to bring them here. Please, bring us all a cup of tea."

Carpenter looked fairly pissed off, but left the room pretty quickly. "Stupid oaf," Robert muttered, rolling his eyes with a smile, but came forward immediately. "Carrie, I hardly recognized you! Where have you been? How have you been?"

"I'm fine, thanks," I told him, holding out my hand for us to shake, but he swept right past the handshake and gave me a friendly hug. When we pulled back, I noticed that Lowe was struggling to hide the fact that he was practically bristling at Robert; I smiled in spit of myself. "Rob, this is Charles Lightoller, and Harold Lowe, they're--"

"My God." he said quietly, even as he shook hands with them. "Not the Lightoller and Lowe of the Titanic?"

"The very same," Lightoller said. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wheeler. We've heard nothing but good things about you."

Robert looked genuinely awed. "I've heard nothing about your spectacular deeds, Misters Lowe and Lightoller. Your courage in the sinking was truly unrivaled."

Lowe looked slightly more pleased, and said a soft, "Thank you, but your friend here has done a lot as well."

"There's time for that later," I said quickly, not feeling about talking about the disaster again. "Robbie, I've come to ask you for a job again. I know I've been away for awhile, but. . . I need to get back into the company. I want to get to a higher position than a mere worker."

"I'm sure that can be arranged." he said without hesitation. "Knowing what a committed worker you were. I'll take it up with my superiors-- maybe we can fit you into one of their programs." For a moment he regarded me. "Why the sudden change?"

"You've heard of Thomas Andrews?" I told him, fidgeting with the ring on my thumb.

"God rest his soul." Robert said quietly. "Yes, of course I've heard of him. We all have here."

I drew the blueprints out from under my arm. "I met him while I was onboard the Titanic. We. . . carried out a relationship. An-- an affair, more than anything, seeing as how it ended so quickly." What I wouldn't have given to feel Thomas' arm around me for support right now. "But he gave me the plans of the next liner he had in mind. He told me that he wanted me to become master-- mistress-- shipbuilder."

Robert was silent, literally awe-struck. "He told you that?"

"He said he didn't care if it took me a couple of months or a couple of decades. He just wanted me to do it. This is the only way I feel I can reach that goal."

Robert looked sincere as I'd ever seen him. "Carrie, anything we can do here to get you into position. . . anything at all. We'll be glad to help you."

I smiled at him, relieved, and glanced at my two companions, who beamed at me. "Thanks, Rob."

For a moment Robert did nothing but sort of marvel at me, then smiled warmly. "Well, I expect that some of the boys will want to see you again. I know I would if I were them. Let's go now, they're in the shipyard. Your friends can come too, if you like. And then we'll start discussing this whole shipbuilding business."

****^^^^****^^^^****^^^^****

Carrie Stevenson was immediately signed on to a six-year program designed for an apprentice who desires to enter into the business of shipbuilding. She was almost through two years when World War I broke out in Europe. Garrison and Wheeler-- as well as most other shipbuilding companies around the United States-- was transformed into a construction yard for warships, sent to the Allies in England and western Europe. When the United States entered into the war, the production quota increased dramatically, as more ships were needed for the United States Navy.

For the four-year duration of WWI, Carrie returned to her former job as a worker, putting her apprenticeship aside to help her longtime friends punch out battleships for the navy. In 1917 Garrison and Wheeler also began testing submarines, and Carrie's work shifted between subs and ships. Many of her friends went to war-- she longed to go as well, but remained behind with the older boys to continue her work on the ships.

Throughout the war, she kept in contact with Commander Charles Lightoller and Commander Harold Lowe of the Royal Naval Reserve via letter. When it was all over in 1918, both Lowe and Lightoller stopped by in New York, where they met Carrie again.

Finally, in December of 1922, Carrie graduated from her program and moved to England with a small group of Garrison and Wheeler folk, Robert Wheeler among them. Another year was spent completing Thomas Andrews' blueprints, filling in the little details and even the greater ones. It was at this point that she and her team approached the White Star Line offices about the ship.

The White Star Line was in a stage of moderate decay. Since the disaster of the Titanic, its popularity had dive-bombed, and it needed a new ship. It was therefore not that difficult to convince the aging Baron Pirrie that another ship was in order. He certainly was convinced after Carrie revealed to him that the blueprint was the one that he and his company had thought was lost ten years ago.

Construction on the ship started in the Belfast shipyards on September 15, 1923, and it was completed April 15, 1925. The ship was roughly two-thirds the size of the R.M.S. Titanic, but just as grand, featuring a motion picture theater, beautiful accommodations for all classes, and more than enough lifeboats for the passengers and crew. Charles Lightoller was offered captainship, and he held the position for the first three uneventful voyages.

Carrie Stevenson worked hard on her ship, enduring sleepless nights and a relentless overseer, but the day she saw the new ship set forth from the harbor, all effort seemed worthwhile. The ship was called the R.M.S. Aphrodite, after the Greek goddess of love. It encompassed not only the love that brought the liner to life, but also the grandeur and beauty of the myths of ancient Greece.

After the Aphrodite was put to the waters, Carrie became team manager for a prestigious sports car racing team. She remained in this business for the second half of her life, in which she acted sometimes as driver and mechanic in the midst of her team managing duties. During this time, she and Harold Lowe tried several times to pursue a romantic relationship, but each attempt failed, and they finally split with the intention of remaining close friends.

They did just that, exchanging letters and Christmas cards (along with Charles Lightoller and Harold Bride) until Lowe's death in 1944. In 1952, Lightoller passed away. Carrie attended both of her friends' funerals. She herself never married, and was killed in the late 1960s in a racecar crash. Upon removing her driving gloves, the rescue workers noted no jewelry aside from a modest gold band around her thumb.

In 1978, the R.M.S. Aphrodite docked for the final time, becoming a stay-at-home cruise liner, much like the Queen Anne. Today it rests in Southampton, both a floating hotel and a visitor's attraction due to its large collection of artifacts from the R.M.S. Titanic.