Chapter Fourteen Visitors

When she lay down to go to sleep after her bath the night before, it felt as if she had just closed her eyes when the telephone beside her bed began to ring. She picked the receiver off the hook and brought it to her ear. With her other hand she grabbed the telephone's pedestal, pulling the mouth piece close to her mouth in order to speak.

"Hello," she croaked, clearing her sleep filled throat as she tried to rouse herself from the numbness of slumber.

"Oh, dear, I'm sorry Rose," Sarah's tinny voice came through the wire. "I wasn't sure if you were meeting us for breakfast this morning."

"What time is it?" Rose asked, rolling over onto her back and glancing over at the clock, mentally groaning. "I think I'll sleep in today, Sarah, if you and Charlie don't mind," Rose said as she rubbed her sleep filled eyes.

Sarah said she understood and signed off the call. It took Rose three tries to place the earpiece of the phone back onto the brass hook. She rolled back over, snuggling into the decadent Egyptian cotton sheets and pulled the covers over her head, falling back to sleep. A few hours later, she awoke to her bladder loudly complaining it was uncomfortably full, so she threw the covers off and made her way to the bathroom.

After she was done with her morning ablutions, she pulled her wrapper from the hook on the back of the door and gave up trying to sleep. If she hurried, she would be able to meet Sarah and Charlie in the lobby after their breakfast. Scrunching up her nose, she realized she was had no desire to rush through dressing.

Today was her last day of freedom before Doug Calvert and Owen Morrow were scheduled to return by ocean liner from the war in Europe. The next few days were bound to be filled with social obligations, as Sarah had breakfasts, luncheons, afternoon teas and formal dinners scheduled that would last well into the night. Her eyes wandered over to the open closet and the line of new dresses she hastily purchased from the department store on her first day here. They had been altered and delivered for her by courier last evening before dinner. She hoped they would be enough to last her through the coming holiday season.

Her toilet preparations once again required the attention of a ladies maid, graciously provided by the hotel. She felt a slight pang of loss for Trudy every time she rang for Mary's services, but the girl was competent enough. Her grooming once again stretched to over an hour before being properly outfitted to venture out into public and society.

Rose knew her trousers were only accepted in private society, not here in this city, or even in Illinois when they returned, once all the homecoming parties and Christmas soirees in Chicago were scheduled. She had been pushing the boundaries of good taste in the small town of Collier's Grove and she knew she was lucky the townspeople of Collier's Grove tolerated her liberated ways. She also knew Sarah was counting on her being at the airfield for Christmas dinner and Rose had promised herself she wouldn't make a decision about her future until after the New Year had passed.

She was still so unsure about what to do.

During the weeks of recovery from influenza, different paths of travel started running through her mind. She wasn't sure if she wanted to journey more in the states or abroad. She was seriously considering a return to Europe, this time on her terms. She longed to roam through the cities of Italy and to see the Great Pyramids of Egypt. Paris would be absolutely beautiful in the springtime with the trees beginning to bloom with new life. But she wasn't sure if Europe had recovered enough from the Great War to warrant traveling. She knew she could meet the expense of the passage and a slight tour of Europe alone, however, society would demand she pay for a ladies companion, which she wasn't sure she could afford on her own.

On the long train ride to New Jersey, Rose and Sarah had time to sit down and talk in a way they had not been able to in a long time back at the airfield. From Sarah, she learned Owen Morrow's fiancée, Evelyn Parkhurst-Thomas was the daughter of a wealthy banker and part of Chicago society. It was also interesting to learn at one time in the past, she had been a sweetheart of Doug Calvert. Rose loved gossip and knew in her heart there had to be an interesting story to be heard there somewhere, but she respected Sarah enough not to ask.

Rose was also surprised to learn Charlie was kin to the Thomas family through his grandmother and inherited an ample sum of funds when he became an adult. His inheritance allowed them to survive when so many others around them were losing their farms ten years ago when the crops failed. It was such juxtaposition, knowing Charlie now, she never would she have placed him as a member of one of Chicago's leading families. Because of his family ties, Rose learned the Adler's would be expected to attend many holiday balls in Chicago and Sarah vehemently reminded Rose she was part of the family and expected to attend.

Looking into the mirror on the back of the bathroom door, she once again found herself becoming the image of Rose DeWitt Bukater, as every dress, every shoe and accessory were chosen with a careful eye to the styles of the coming year. She knew she was going to have to step lightly when the time came to enter Chicago society. She would be a novelty to them, a mystery woman with no past, an aviatrix, and a woman who moved in a man's world. They would be quite lovely and kind to her face, but the minute her back was turned, they would attempt to entangle her in spider webs woven with rumor, innuendo and lies.

Rose was feeling quite torn about these upcoming engagements. On one hand, she was excited by the idea of dancing and socializing again, but on the other, she felt like a fraud, afraid she was being viewed as a freeloader, not officially a member of the Adler clan.

She sighed and walked over to her closet. Lying on her dressing table chair was the newest edition of Vanity Fair, and she picked it up and measured with a calculated eye the dresses within the pages of the magazine and the ones hanging in her closet. She had done well, impressed she had not lost her eye for style. She fingered the dresses carefully, feeling the soft gray cashmere and silk of one dinner gown and the heavy brocade and chiffon of another.

Feeling restless, she walked over the wide glass windows and pulled open the heavy drapes. She stared out over the ocean and then closed her eyes, tilting her head from side to side, appeasing some of the tension left over from sleeping. Her hair was in a heavy braid down her back and it swept against her nightgown as she stretched. She casually pulled the red weight over her shoulder, fingering the twines. Once again she pondered briefly the idea of cutting it, knowing it would drastically cut down on the time it took to get ready every morning and evening.

But not yet, she mused as she threw the braid back over her shoulder to brush against the small of her back. Soon, maybe, but not today.

As she stood there gazing down over the back of the hotel, she was surprised to see her savior from the night before walking up the path from the boardwalk. His overcoat was open, flapping in the breeze as he strolled and a new hat was perched high on his forehead. He had a newspaper tucked his arm and a coffee in the other. As he came closer, he looked up at the hotel, almost right at her and she stepped back from the window in surprise.

Astonishing herself, she opened the curtain again, wanting to watch his even stride on the concrete path. Even four stories away, she was struck by the calm confidence he exuded as he smiled easily and touched the tip of his hat in greeting to a group of passing women. He certainly was pleasing to look at, she thought, smiling slightly.

Now where did that thought come from? Rose groaned, the smile fading from her lips as she clutched the curtains tightly, her face flushing with embarrassment and anger at herself. How could she have done something as stupid as she had the previous evening? Why was she always so impulsive?

The implications of what could have happened if he wasn't there would not leave her mind. Scenarios continually ran through her head, each one becoming increasingly upsetting. The ocean could have taken her as easily as it claimed Titanic and no one would have been the wiser until her broken and drowned body washed onto the shore. Even worse was the added guilt of what could have happened if they were both washed into the sea.

What if he wasn't able to keep his balance as he clung to her hands, what if another monstrous wave crashed over the jetty and sent them both hurtling into the freezing water two thousand feet from the shoreline? It was bad enough she almost lost her own life, but to take his too, when his only crime was trying to save her made her heart beat a little bit faster.

Her hands shook and she took a deep ragged breath, pouring water into a crystal glass on the table by the window. She drank deeply, feeling the flush on her face recede, but knowing there were still twin spots of high color staining her white skin.

Breakfast was going to be a solitary event this morning, she thought as she walked over to the side table and picked up the telephone to order room service. She knew it was impossible to stay hidden in her room for the remainder of her stay here, but she hoped fate would be on her side and not let her cross paths again with the stranger from the evening before. She knew if she did see him again, she would positively die of mortification, suddenly sure he thought her actions the night before rude and ridiculous.

After her breakfast had been delivered and she had eaten her fill, she glanced down at the boards again, surprised to find the cold weather from the night before seemed to have disappeared. People of all ages roamed the boards and the piers enjoying the day. Coats were unbuttoned and children ran ahead of their parents in silent glee. It was an easy decision for her to wander back out onto the boards alone, wanting to think some more about what she should do next after moving on from the airfield.

She choose a dark green dress carefully, knowing it flattered her hair and her eyes. There was no need for Mary's services this morning as she twisted her hair loosely on the top of her head and secured it with hidden pins. She cautiously applied her make up, darkening her lips crimson and lengthening her lashes with mascara. She pulled on her good wool overcoat and placed her new walking hat over her hair. As she pulled on her gloves, she gave herself one last approving look in the mirror, dropping her room key into her pocket as she left her room.

She felt as furtive as a fugitive moving through the hotel lobby, using her hat as a shield to hide behind, not wanting to be interrupted. Once she hit the concrete path she sighed, enjoying the warm sea breeze and the sunshine on her upturned face. She began to move towards the boards with a purpose, deciding to browse a few of the fine shops that lined the shoreline, possibly finding a few small trinkets for the Adler's on Christmas day.

Rose was leaving a milliner's shop with a purchase for Sarah and as she turned from closing the door, she stumbled over a large dog sitting in her path. She grunted in surprise, automatically placing her head on the dog's head as she fought to keep her balance. The dog did not move from his sitting position, waiting patiently for her to regain her footing.

"Silly boy," she chided the dog gently as she stroked his head. "Off with you now. Be a good boy and go home."

Rose began to walk down the wooden planks, looking back to see if the dog was still there. He wasn't sitting there any longer, he was heading right for her and a flicker of apprehension coursed through her, turning to astonishment as he jumped up on her coat, his tail wagging a mile a minute. In the bright sunlight, it looked as if he was grinning at her as he jumped around her ankles before sitting down in front of her, his tongue lolling as he cuffed happily once.

"Well, hello there, boy," she said as she knelt beside the dark colored dog. He was some kind of retriever, she knew on sight. She stroked his head and scratched behind his ears, all the while speaking to him gently. He flopped to the deck and rolled onto his side, presenting his belly for rubbing. She chuckled at the sight of the silly dog. "What's your name, huh? Where's your master? Let's see if you have a tag, what do you say?"

She started in surprise as she read his name from the silver tag hanging off the red leather collar. No, it couldn't be, how could he be been here? Her mood was suddenly buoyant as she hugged the dog in happiness; thankful she had found a friend from her past. She heard the sound of clomping feet beating a steady rhythm behind her on the boards.

"Sam, there you are, I'm sorry miss, and I really don't know what got into him. Usually he stays by my side." A young man with a light French accent stood in front of her, resting his hands on his knees as he fought to catch his breath.

Rose raised her head silently, unveiling her face from behind her hat. She was deliberately casual as she stood slowly, smiling as recognition flew across his handsome face.

"Maybe he recognized an old friend from the past," she said quietly, not taking her hand from the dog's head.

Sam cuffed as if in agreement, leaning his heavy body against her legs, his nails scratching along the boards as he fought for balance.

"Rose?" The man stood up, pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his short, black hair, before pulling her towards him for a bear hug.

"Julian, stop it. I can't breathe. Let me go!" She cried happily as she pulled back from him.

"What...what are you doing here?" He asked as he held her at arm's length, taking her in with his dark blue eyes.

"I could say the same for you, my boy," Rose smiled becomingly.

"Well, my love, New Orleans could not offer me the attention I felt I deserved once you were gone. I lost my best acting partner after you took off like a thief in the night," he waved a hand in dismissal. "I wandered around for awhile, trying to decide what to do next and ended up in Atlantic City, which is a story much too long to elaborate here on the boardwalk."

"Where is Philippe?" Rose asked, not imagining seeing Julian again without Philippe.

Julian's face clouded over. "He enlisted, Rose, and died a year and a half ago."

"Oh, Julian, oh no...not Philippe." A lump formed in her throat, as she fought the sudden tears for a lost friend rushing to the surface once again. "I'm so sorry."

Her mind echoed in pain Sarah's sentiment from when she was ill. There's so much death here.

Julian nodded grimly. "He missed you terribly you know, much more then I did," he said lightly, trying to break the mood as he handed her his silk handkerchief from his coat pocket.

"Oh you," she said, smiling through her blurred vision as she swiped at him half-heartedly. "I missed you both terribly, too."

"Are you working? I've only arrived about a month ago and I've been so busy, I haven't checked out any of the playbills from the other theaters. I'm directing now," Julian said proudly. "Hamlet of all things, can you believe it? There never was a better Ophelia than you, Rose. You deserved every standing ovation you received in New Orleans with those performances. No one played madness quite as well as you."

"Thank you so much!" Rose cried, playfully indignant. She shook her head shivering, as a cool blast of air swept off the ocean and lifted the stray curls under her hat into her face.

Julian's fingers took her arm with gentle authority as he began to lead her down the boards. "Come; let's walk, you know I positively do not want to let you out of my sight for a moment after not seeing you in so long," he said as he snapped a leash onto Sam's collar.

"Where are you staying?" Rose asked.

"Ah, we're staying in the lap of luxury, of course, in the penthouse at the Traymore. Only the best will do for the Packard's, you know, even a black sheep like me," he smiled bitterly and Rose remembered the grand plantation house of his family, which she had visited once in an ill-fated ruse to dupe Julian's parents into believing she was his mysterious fiancée who was keeping him in the city and away from his family.

They linked arms and strolled towards the Millionaire's Pier. "It is much too late for breakfast, but if we walk a bit more, we will be just in time for brunch. You know I won't take no for an answer," Julian said as they stopped before the entrance to the pier.

"Of course, Julian," Rose smiled up at him. "I would like to freshen up a bit of course, and drop off my packages. Would it be possible to walk back to my hotel? I'm staying at the Dennis."

"Better yet," Julian said as he flagged down a passing rickshaw, "let's ride to your hotel in style!" He tipped the driver additionally for Sam and grasped Rose's elbow as he helped her climb aboard the boardwalk's version of the hansom cab. "I have to drop Sam off back at the Traymore anyway. These hotels are so funny about letting pets in, you should see the bills he racks up for my father."

They chatted on the way back to her hotel and Rose began to tell him about how she ended up in Illinois and staying with the Adler's. Before they knew it, they were in front of her hotel. "What do you say we meet in the lobby here in two hours?" Rose asked as she took Julian's hand and allowed him to help her down from the rickshaw. "We have so much to catch up on. I can't wait to tell you what I've been doing all this time."

"Until then, milady," he said as he bent over her gloved hand and placed a chaste kiss on her palm.

"Oh you," she admonished him as she sent him on his way with a quick kiss and an all too brief hug.

Back in her room, she sat on the bed silently, amazed at the coincidence, which returned Julian to her life. But only Julian, she thought sadly.

As her first real friend in New Orleans, Philippe was the more serious side of their trio, but also the one who instigated most of their adventures, the one who balanced their escapades with only a little bit of common sense.

Another ghost to add to my collection, she thought as she lay back on the bed covers and stared at the ceiling.

She had chosen to lose herself in New Orleans and for nearly five years she managed it.

New Orleans had been like a long lost lover to her, more than willing to open its arms to her charms and press her to its chest and soothe her shattered nerves from the unforgiving streets of New York City.

Armed with the wad of cash found in Cal's pocket and a frugality that was new to her, she began to start a new life in the city she had first visited when she was ten. She treasured every memory of New Orleans ever since a surprise visit with her father for her fourteenth birthday, as it was the last place they were alone together before he died.

In New Orleans, the voices where softer, slower and kinder then the streets of New York. It was such an odd blend of French and Creole that was at once oddly beautiful and lyrically pleasing to the ear. Even now, she knew she could listen to Julian recite the Bible, just to hear him speak in that delicious accent of his.

After she had found a room to stay in and a theater company signed her on, she would spend her days off wandering Jackson Square and First Street in the Garden district. The houses were so beautiful, with the massive oak trees dripping Spanish moss and the gardens overwhelmed with fragrant, vibrant blossoms. She would stand outside on the brick walkways breathing in the scents of the city, trying to imagine whom these people were who lived behind the wrought iron fences in these grand houses. She wondered about the daughters she saw, dressed in their finery, if they were bounded by their own laws of society and if any of them, like her wished they could throw it all away and start anew.

She kept to herself. Real friendships in the theater was an impossibility, she thought.

Real friendships meant questions about past experiences and she was not willing, or strong enough to field questions of her past. They wanted to dissect your past, believing it was their right to know everything about you, whether you felt comfortable about sharing or not. It was their way of placing you in the pecking order of the group. She was not naive enough to look at the first few attempts by the women in the troop without suspicion. Everything was a competition there, from where and how you were born and raised to the last part you were given the lead in. Every bit of information they could gleam from you was ammunition to be savored and fired about as needed.

Rose became very good at giving the other women very chilly receptions. She snapped, she snarled and she was blessedly left alone. It was very surprising to learn the colder and more haughty you acted, the more you seemed to be feared and admired by the other women in the company.

These were her impressions of theater life until the one day she discovered the courage to show some of her ideas to Philippe, the costume designer of the play she had just been cast as the lead in. This was her first leading role and she took it very seriously. She had definite ideas about how she thought her character was to look, sound and act.

Philippe surprisingly loved them and to her shock, they struck an easy and amiable friendship. He took her vague answers about her past at face value, never digging further than Rose allowed. Through Philippe she met Julian, the lead male in many of troupe's performances. When Julian became her opposite in many of the stage productions, her natural talent as an actress bloomed and the theater began to enjoy more sold out shows, as long as their names graced the marquee together.

After the shows, she would overhear Julian and Philippe discussing their plans for the evening, or past experiences with ladies of the night they had encountered. One evening she was delayed in undressing from character by the director and by the time she had a chance to, everyone else had gone home. It was only the three of them and Julian decided it was a grand plan to include her in one of their many adventures.

"Come with us Rose, we'll dress you as a man and we'll gallivant all night long in the red light district." Julian said as he tugged a red curl down her back, still high from ovations after the performance.

The heavy makeup worn on the stage dried to a cake finish on her flawless face and she began to scrub it off with a worn wash cloth and soap. "How?"

"How?" Philippe asked as he watched her in the mirror, his sandy blond hair falling across his dark eyes and shading his face momentarily. "Rose, we are in an empty theatre with a prop and costume room at our disposal. I'm the costume designer of this magnificent company, what do you mean how? You insult me," he said as his hand fell across his chest in mock wounding.

"This is a once in a lifetime chance. If you hadn't distracted Edward for so long, you'd been home asleep already," Julian smiled as he sidled along the other side of her.

"I distracted him?" Rose asked indignantly. "He was critiquing my performance!"

Julian rolled his eyes and elbowed Philippe. "Did he ask you to dinner when he was done?"

"Well, yes. He does after every performance," Rose said, smoothing cream onto her clean face.

"Then you distracted him. Come on, Rose. Come with us. It will be an experience you'll never forget." Philippe said as he leaned a hip against the dressing table.

"I've had quite a few memorable experiences in my life, Philippe. What makes you so sure this one with live up to them?"

"Ah, the memorable experiences you hint at always, but never deliver. This time will be different, we promise, because this time you'll experience it as a man."

Rose sighed and folded her hands on the table. She had to admit it was tempting, to be sure, being able to wander the streets in men's clothing, live as a man, even for just the night? She faced them squarely in the mirror, watching their eyes glow in the electric light of the bulbs surrounding the mirror. "How long to get me ready?"

Julian and Philippe threw their heads back and laughed. "Not long, not long at all, we promise."

They were true to their word and an hour later an unsettling visage began to emerge from her mirror. With a dusty brown wig borrowed from the prop department and a bit of epoxy glue above her lip holding a slight mustache, she had been transformed into a young man.

A young man with delicate, effeminate blue eyes.

"She can wear a hat," Julian offered in a French whisper, arms crossed as he stood staring at her reflection from behind her.

"Don't talk about me like I don't understand what you're saying," Rose admonished, "I don't know about a hat. What about glasses?" Rose asked, turning her head, checking for loose curls and sneaking a finger up under the wig to scratch her scalp. "Are you sure this thing doesn't have fleas? My scalp itches."

"No, it was dusted for fleas just yesterday. The light will be low in the clubs, I don't think anyone will notice you," Philippe said as he looked her over critically. "But a hat, yes, let me get you a hat. You'll be breaking hearts tonight, Monsieur Dawson."

Rose rolled her eyes as she stood up. "Hardly," she said dryly.

The jacket and trousers were loose, and the stiff collar of her shirt was chafing against her neck but other than that, it was almost a perfect fit. She bent over to lace up her boots and twitched her nose. The moustache was going to be a problem as the evening wore on, she thought as she tried to carefully scratch it with a tip of a fingernail. But it would have to do.

She linked arms with her new friends and entered the streets of New Orleans reborn as Jack Dawson.

Back then, in the existence she thrived on, she would have been up to any sort of adventure presented to her. If it was a challenge, she was up for it, plain and simple. Challenges were what she thrived on. She knew the first few times she wandered the streets with them as a man she must have look absurd, but as they began to venture out together after more and more shows, both Philippe and Julian could see her becoming a man, picking up their social cues and their mannerisms and even mimicking their accents.

It was ironic in a sense, here she was trying to pass, so they called it, as a male, when there was so many more people of color trying to pass as white.

Philippe and Julian introduced her to new sights, sounds and ideas. She could not come to grips at first; brought up as she was in the shackles of Philadelphia society the thought of someone who looked the same as her was barred from sections of the city because some distant ancestor had been a slave. But this was how life was lived in New Orleans and she could not change hundreds of years of tradition. In certain sections of the city, there would be octoroon balls held, in order for women of color to be introduced to upper class men, to become mistresses. Julian and Philippe asked her if she wanted to go, but she refused, not wanting to see women of color chosen as one would choose meat for the evening meal.

Her world in Philadelphia was almost prudish compared to what she at first saw in this loose and extravagant city. Sometimes she felt as if all of New Orleans suffered an utter lack of morals. But, she had to admit she was also intrigued. Julian came from a very stiff upper class family, who was able to trace their linage from Louis the Sun King, so they were able to gain entrance to many of these halls on the merit of his name alone.

They had a lot in common, her and Julian, which he must have recognized no matter how hard she tried to hide her past. Neither of them ever questioned her story of growing up in Philadelphia, the daughter of a wealthy merchant and marrying a man against the wishes of her family. They had expressed out rage at her family of her subsequent disinheriting, leaving her penniless and alone after her husband died.

Julian's family was pressuring him to marry a wealthy cousin of his, so their excursions to Storyville were for him a way to blow off steam. The section of city named Storyville was founded in1898, when a man named Sidney Story introduced an ordinance for a restricted area where prostitution was allowed.

It was a very eclectic, very diverse area. Only this area could bring together Downtown black musicians with Creoles and Uptown blacks with the upper class of New Orleans. The lively music would fill the air every evening from dusk till dawn.

Rose remembered standing on a street corner dancing until her feet would give out from exhaustion. She could imagine she was dancing as she danced that night so long ago, in love. Philippe and Julian would stand back and watch in amazement as Rose would sweep an unsuspecting woman into her arms and twirl her around before letting her go.

They became inseparable, the three of them, and for the first time Rose felt as if she belonged.

Some nights they sat around a table in Philippe's small apartment on Bourbon Street and talk for hours about everything and nothing, smoking and drinking red wine. It felt so very bohemian. They knew they were the talk of the theater and gossip was being thrown about freely about the three of them, but they didn't care. They would stay up until the sun would slowly melt into the room, turning all the furnishings a burnished gold before saying good-night and heading to their own homes.

When the two of them taught her how to play poker on evening, she caught on like a fish to water. When they thought she could hold her own with the big players they decided to go to a saloon owned by Tom Anderson and it was there she honed her poker skills.

It would drive the other men insane when she would win.

They knew there was something different about her, something they couldn't quite put their finger on. By this time and after many excursions into the New Orleans underworld, she was quite adept at stepping into the role of Jack Dawson, the ne'er do well who was quite good at taking the pot home at the end of the night.

Over time, she amassed a small fortune in winnings, Sam and the Model-T she drove across the country.

Rose sighed in embarrassment, thinking back to the night she won the key to the car and the quick thinking of Philippe who stashed her in one of the ladies bedrooms. She quickly changed out of her disguise into a dress because the man she won the motor car from decided he wanted it back, with a piece of her flesh thrown into the bargain.

It should have frightened her to death, but she instead she relished it. It breathed new life into her body and brought a flush of pleasure to her cheeks. How she remembered laughing and laughing when they were finally able to escape from the saloon and made their way back to her room. She could not wait to finish her performances every evening on stage so she could escape with her friends.

She thought she could stay with them forever. But like all good times, this too, had to come to an end.

When the melancholy she thought she had banished returned, she knew it was time to move on. Life was moving forward. Julian finally gave in to the pressure of his family and became engaged to his distant cousin and Philippe was planning to move to Hollywood to design costumes for the moving pictures.

Rose closed her eyes briefly, remembering the last words Julian spoke to her as she packed up her car. She had made Julian promise to keep Sam safe, knowing the road was no where for him to be.

He held out his hand to her and she took it, only wanting to bury her nose in his neck and inhale his scent one last time. She held him tightly, saddened Philippe was not there to say good-bye. His arms tightened around her and he nudged her chin up to look at him in the eyes. He kissed her gently and Rose drew back in surprise.

"Marry me, Rose," Julian's voice whispered from across the past as the telephone began to ring.

She jerked up to a sitting position and swung her legs onto the floor. Picking up the ear piece, she breathlessly said hello.

"Oh Rose! You'll never believe what has happened!" Sarah bubbled happily on the other end of the line. "Doug is here! His ship docked a day earlier then expected and he arrived last night! He's home and he's safe and I can't wait for you to meet my son!"