The house simply looked empty. There was no other word to describe it. Its windows were dark and dusty, its porch warped and fading from the harsh exposure to the elements. It still looked sound, and the light-colored wood that had been used to build it still appeared strong. Some of the mortar had loosened and fallen away, but the layer of stone underneath it in between the planks hadn't budged an inch. Whereas all the other chimneys in town were merrily puffing smoke, this one looked forlorn, like it hadn't been used in years. The flower gardens had long since died and now a mass of twisted, dead weeds and assorted brush sprang from the deep snow. The roof had just been shingled maybe six years ago, and it was holding up well, even against all the weight put on it by snowflakes and ice.
Where the barn had once stood there was now nothing. Since the surviving wood had been charred and dried out, citizens had volunteered to remove it so that it did not pose a threat of spreading yet another fire. They had also salvaged whatever usable thing they found – chisels, hammers, watering cans, even the occasional nail – because they had never questioned their idea that Jack Dawson was never coming back.
Ironically, it was that very same Jack Dawson who stood about twenty feet from his front steps, gazing at his childhood home, his hands shoved deep into worn coat pockets and his blue eyes blazing with something that only he recognized. He hadn't spoken a word since they had set out, and he stood alone, ahead of the rest of the group. He didn't look like he was even breathing.
Shadowy figures moved around in his mind, not quite realistic, but there all the same. Was that his mother, standing in the shadows of the doorway? He could smell her scent of tea leaves and something softer, like lavender. He wanted to go to her, he wanted to hold her, he wanted to apologize a million times – and yet it would never be enough. It seemed to him like she was trying to reach out to him, trying to grasp onto him, but before he could so much as move she faded away, and emptiness was all that took her place. The thought that he had done that, the idea that he had killed the beautiful woman he remembered, burst past his carefully built dam in his heart and the irrational fury he had not felt for years filled him again. It was more than wrath, it was a wild rage doubled with such sharp angst that it tore at him viciously. He did not cry. He glared at his home, a home filled with so many memories, as though he could communicate to his younger self what a disaster he had caused and maybe reverse it somehow. He couldn't.
He felt the air stir beside him, but it was several moments before he noticed that Peter had gone to the front door and was unlocking it. Far too suddenly, all the anger left and was replaced with apprehension. He didn't allow himself to stop and think about the last time he had been here, or about the boiling flames and billowing smoke. No, Jack Dawson confronted this like he confronted everything else – head on, consequences be damned.
"No, Pete, I'll do it." His voice sounded so calm, so even, that he could have fooled the world into thinking he was as comfortable as he had ever been. Only he knew better, only he could feel his heart pounding so hard that it sent bile up his throat, only he could hear fear whispering cold, stony words into his ear that made his spine seize up. He ignored all of it. He strode to his steps and thudded up them, stopping briefly to brush some of the heavy snow from the wood. Then he took the key from his friend's hand and managed to fit it into the brass keyhole. There was a groan, as the keyhole adjusted to being used again after being neglected for so long. Afterwards came that one eternal moment in which the whole world seemed to hold its breath, and then followed the inevitable click of the key turning a lock.
The door was swollen with misuse and didn't quite sit on its hinges correctly anymore, making it nearly impossible to open. Then again, Jack wasn't even trying. His fingers only danced feebly on the knob, turning it slightly, pulling back, and then going forward again. He couldn't make himself stop once he got into this do-it-or-die mentality, but at the same time, he couldn't make himself go through with it. He took deep steadying breaths, nearly silent, but so full that he was almost drunk on air. This was it, he realized, this was that one of those seconds in which nothing in his life would be the same after it was over.
The minute danced on the chilly breeze, brushing across his face and piercing his soul. He remembered, as much as he tried not to, he remembered . . . he remembered the blackness, he remembered the terror of being something so small lost in something so monstrous, he remembered the eyes of the people . . . the children . . . so cold and empty . . .
And then it just came, in an epiphany maybe straight from God Himself. Jack was so sick of letting fear control him. He didn't think he could stand it anymore. His irises blazed with determination as he threw his shoulder against the humble wood in front of him and kicked it open to reveal the inside of his home. He strode into the living room like he still did this everyday, and waited for his past to catch up with him.
He heard Rose gasp, but he didn't turn around. He was simply frozen on the spot. Years of being locked up had preserved this old, warm, vanilla-like scent that had always accompanied this house. The planked floor was still in good condition, and the red and yellow rug thrown over it in front of the fireplace didn't seem to be damaged much, even from mice. The deep brown leather sofa from the furniture store down the way still sat in the same place, and the two winged armchairs still framed it on either side. The mantle was dusty, but still deep brown wood. The glass windows were dark but none of them had been broken.
He didn't move, and none of the people with him seemed to be willing to go deeper into the place before he did. With a sting, he saw a newspaper still folded on the coffee table. He felt tears pushing heavily against his forehead, but he refused to let them fall. He determinedly advanced to the corner and picked up the paper, stuffing it in the inside of his coat. There was just no possible way he could make himself go through that right now.
"Yeah, uh, Jack . . . this is it . . . you two, um, you go on and check it out. I'll . . . I'll go back to the house and get your suitcases and, uh, May will go buy some groceries."
Pete was acutely uncomfortable for some reason; could he feel the ghosts too? Could he feel Jack's father's leathery hand on his shoulder or Jack's mother's soft hair on his neck?
"Don't . . . don't you worry about the grocery money there, Dawson. We'll cover it for today. Let's go, May." May shot Jack one long, begging glance, but before he could read it, she was gone. The door shut softly behind them.
Rose leaned against the wall, breathing in the musty scent deeply. Before she realized what was happening, she and her husband were alone. She gazed at him with concern, wondering what was going through his mind. He didn't even look at her. He just stood in the center of the room, hands shoved deep in his pockets. His confident swagger had fled, his certainty had vanished. He looked so lost, like a man that didn't know where his childhood had gone.
She wanted to go to him, but she made herself stay where she was, pinned against the doorframe. She didn't know what he was thinking, but she knew he needed time alone . . . right?
Rose, a tiny voice whispered warningly in her brain, don't forget what marriage is. Don't loose sight of your partnership. Don't you dare turn this sacred thing into what Cal saw it as, don't shut yourself out.
That was all she needed to shake herself out of her ignorance. The very thought of Cal's cold eyes made a piercing pain shoot through her chest. She straightened and went to Jack, wrapping her slender arms around his stiff body. Even when he didn't say anything, or even move, she simply rested her head on his chest and buried her face in his jacket. She wouldn't let him push her away, even when he tried to step out of her grasp. The weak resistance he set up wasn't enough to tear her from him.
Suddenly, a mangled sob escaped from his throat. Almost violently, he grabbed her and pulled her against him so hard she thought she heard her ribs crack. He bowed his head into her hair, and she felt him shaking. Startled at this new change that had so drastically occurred in him, all she could do was hold him as he wept as bitterly as she had ever seen him weep, for the first time since before Anna Jamie.
May carefully picked through loaves of bread at the bakery. It was the only bakery in town, but surprisingly it wasn't crowded today. Just a few women poked their way around the store, looking for leftovers from New Year's that were cheap but still good. Over in the corner stood Mrs. Peterson, Eliza's mother, scrounging for rolls. Mrs. Peterson was an older woman who loved to talk, and, May realized with an inward groan, if she recognized May she would certainly start to ramble on about something . . . her husband, her daughter, even her damn dog . . .
May was not in the mood to talk right now. She wasn't in the mood for anything. Silently but defiantly, she drew her brown wool scarf over her head. It was a meager and childish thing to do, she knew, but avoidance was the most polite thing she could muster at the moment. She turned away and fished out one of the best looking loaves from the bottom of the basket. She checked its underside to make sure that there was no mold, trying with all her might to keep her focus on the task at hand and not with him.
It was no use. Why did he have to storm back into her life like he had? She had been finally getting over him, finally accepting that she would have to love him only in memory, finally allowing that he might never return to her. At least then she could imagine him in dying in a street corner but dying with her name on his lips. At least then she could preserve him in her memory as hers. But now she knew better. Now she knew that he wasn't thinking about her at all.
Why did he still have to be so sweet, so compassionate, so handsome, so carefree? Why was he everything she wanted when she couldn't have him? Why did he have such beautiful eyes, such a heart-tugging grin, such a manly presence? Why?
She was so frustrated that she cracked the shell of the pie she had been unknowingly checking over. With a sigh, she resigned herself to the fact that she now had to buy it. It was pumpkin pie. Jack's favorite. She sighed again, longer this time.
May smiled at her mother when she brought out the slices of pumpkin pie. It was beautiful, the first homemade pie the Filners had had all autumn. For her fifteenth birthday, May had chosen to have a small home celebration. There was no use in having any sort of big party, because all of May's world could fit into her kitchen. Its name was Jack.
He was right across the table from her, boldly holding her gaze with his intense eyes. She had never known eyes like that had existed, eyes so deep it looked like she was looking into destiny. They were the most magnificent shade of blue, so probing that they read even the deepest depths of her soul. In front of her brother, her mother, her father, and God, Jack continued to give her that . . . that look. The look that made her knees knock together and her hands shake. His grin made it seem like he knew something she didn't, and it made her feel weak inside.
Even as he complimented her mother shamelessly and ravenously dug into his own piece of pie, he hardly tore his glance from her for more than two seconds. Warm flush crept to her cheeks. It made her feel loved like nothing ever had.
Later, as Jack gallantly wished her happy birthday and slipped into his jacket so he could leave, May instantly volunteered to walk him home. When her brother opened his mouth to protest, May silenced him with a steely look. Her parents had gone upstairs and no one stood between May and the door but Peter, who instantly backed down beneath her glare.
Her heart hammered as Jack helped her into her own coat and waited for her to slip into her shoes. He courteously opened the door for her and held out his hand to assist her in climbing down the front porch steps as the heavy oak banged shut behind him. When they were safely far away enough from her house so that they couldn't be spied upon, his hand suddenly closed around her wrist and he pulled her to a stop.
"Hey," he murmured quietly, turning her to him. He looked like he was going to keep talking, but a hunger that was deeper than any hunger she had seen in him before flared in his irises and he pulled her to him, his heart hammering a thousand songs into her own, his chest separated from hers only by inches of clothing, his breath ragged and hot in her cold ears. He didn't kiss her mouth. He simply held her there, so tightly each bone had to rearrange underneath his hands. His head buried in her neck and she felt his lips on her collarbone. She sighed, so quietly it might as well have been a whisper, and threaded her icy hands through his hair.
Something stormy and wild and craggy filled her so violently that her breath was torn from her. She wanted something, something only he could give her, and she wanted it right now. She couldn't think, the weight of it was so extreme. It made her head spin and the empty road around them faze in and out of color. He was so close that she couldn't not smell him, that slightly soapy, slightly sweaty sunshine smell, mixed with the sweet scent of charcoal. It was more than she could take and she started to tremble even as her yearning fingertips traveled down his neck and to the hem of his shirt underneath his coat. He jolted when he felt her freezing palms exploring the intimacies of his stomach, each angular cut of his ribs, snaking behind him to caress his back, reaching up to trace the sinewy shapes of his biceps. For a moment, he simply closed his eyes. She felt his eager reactions to her touch, the way his spine curved into the cup of her hand, the way he shivered as much as she did with just as much desire, the way his lips were ever so slowly making their way to hers.
Finally, he kissed her. It was a kiss of the likes she had never shared before and would never share again. It brought all of the pent up want and even all of her soul out of the deepest reaches of her body. It unlocked her spirit; it blew windswept across her heart. But all too soon, he was gently taking her hands into his and pulling them away from the warmth of his chest. All too soon, he stepped back, leaving her gasping and confused and deliriously lovesick. Even in her trance she saw a sudden change of mind, an irrevocable decision, change the lines of his face. He said just two words in nothing more than a murmur that hardly disturbed the suddenly searing air around them, but they disappointed her nonetheless. "We can't."
There was no explanation, neither from his tongue nor from his eyes. Just the statement, just the fact. He watched her mortified expression for a moment, letting her thrash momentarily in her agony. Then he whispered, "We just can't. After you walk to me at that altar, we can. But not now. And don't look at me like that," he added a bit more strongly as pleading sprang into her eyes. "Don't, please, or I might give in, and I'd never be able to live with myself. I can't take advantage of you. Now, I'm gonna walk you back to your house. You didn't think I'd let you walk home alone, did ya?"
He held out his arm and she was so stunned that she instinctively took it. Half of her was touched by his honor; the other half was angry and didn't understand why he hadn't done what he so obviously wanted to do. She sounded like a pouting child, she knew, but he shouldn't have led her on like that if he didn't intend to go to where the path he had carved would have brought them.
Yet, as annoyed as she was with him, she kept stealing appreciative glances at his handsome face shadowed in the moonlight. He was so wonderful looking that she couldn't keep her gaze off of him for too long. It made her feel dizzy just to be with him. This, she decided, was how she wanted to feel for the rest of her life. He had said . . . he had said . . . had he really said that? Had he truly said that she was going to walk to him at an altar? Had he just said that he was going to marry her? It had slipped out of his mouth so naturally, so carelessly, that she hadn't bothered to listen. But now those words hit her like a million bolts of lightning, and the wide expanse of possibility raced ahead into the future. She could see her dress, their children . . .
God, she couldn't breathe. It was too fantastic for her poor heart to take on right now. She was too full.
The darkness made it impossible to read his expression, but even just through his forearm she could still feel taut desire and barely suppressed need. It brought a smile to her face even when Jack simply brushed his lips affectionately across the top of her head when they reached her front steps instead of locking lips with her like he had done in the past. She knew what he felt, and it made her skip up the fourteen steps to her bedroom and blow him kisses out of her window that he jokingly returned as he strutted away.
Tears pushed stubbornly to the edges of her eyelids. If she tried hard enough, she could still feel his arms around her like they had been six years ago. It had been so wonderful, to know that she was the only girl in the world to him. And now it was over.
She had been so foolish then, so willing to believe whatever he had told her. If Jack Dawson had said that the sky was really pink and someone just painted blue over it, she wouldn't have questioned him. It had been a dangerous position to be in, leaving her whole self out unprotected for him to do what he wished with. He had never hurt her. He had been a perfect gentleman through and through, never made her feel uncomfortable, never pushed her past kissing, and had tenderly refused her when she herself had tried to cross that border. Never in her life had she been so vulnerable but so happy.
But then he had left. With a physical pain in her heart, she remembered the day of his parents' funeral. He had put an end to their relationship months before, and that had nearly killed her, but he had not left her life. She still saw him, still talked to him, still let him walk her home from church. But on that day, watching him stand in front of his parents' caskets and whisper things to them that she couldn't hear, she knew she'd lost him. She knew the moment he turned and she saw the dead look in his eyes fading to be replaced with a burning need to escape. He hadn't even said goodbye. She was told to accept that she'd never see him again.
Then, God had finally given her a miracle. He had shown up on her porch. The moment she had seen his eyes, she had known it was him. She had known that he was still her Jack when his arms closed around her and he murmured her name. She had known, that is, until she saw the gorgeous head of red hair behind him.
With that thought, a hard shield encrusted her heart as she heavily dropped the pie into her shoulder bag with the bread. She had been planning to maybe buy some flour dough and make Jack's bread herself, but the thought of his wife eating it made her feel sick. She instead stomped to the counter and threw down some money, marching out of the shop before Greg Nancaster could give her back her change. May Filner didn't want to turn into a bitter old spinster who wore too much perfume and lived with eight cats, she really didn't, but resignedly that fate was looking more and more like her only option.
Rose was washing years of dirt and dust from the old porcelain in the cupboards. She wasn't hungry, and she knew Jack wouldn't eat anything, but she needed to keep her hands busy, so that's what she did. When she had gotten like this before . . . in her old life . . . she had stormily played on the piano, letting her fingers dance where they willed, trying to play her hurt out onto the keys and away from her heart.
Her husband was sitting at the table she had just dusted with an old rag she had found, looking almost freakishly detached from the world around him. He didn't blink, didn't move, hardly breathed. He hadn't said anything to her since they had walked in the door. It wasn't cold ignorance, really, but a helpless ignorance – he couldn't stop himself. He cleared his throat every once and awhile, idly tapping his fingers on the wooden surface in front of him, but his eyes never focused on anything. He remained staring at something only he could see.
A sudden burst of water woven with ice randomly spat from the metal pipe into the metal basin she was working in. The pipes themselves had to have frozen and thawed so many times over the winters she was surprised they hadn't burst. Somehow, maybe because most of the pipework was located beneath where the frost reached the ground, they had remained intact. The water they brought was full of minerals and smelled almost coppery. It was so cold it made her slender hands red and inflamed.
The last dish was cleaned and stacked again in the newly swiped-down cupboard. She wanted to change out of her travel clothes; she had been wearing them for far too long. All of her other dresses were still packed neatly in the suitcase that Peter had just dropped off at the front door, and she hadn't wanted to wear another one this morning without knowing where the next opportunity to wash clothes would come from.
Now she leaned against the counter. There was still so much more to do, but she couldn't force herself to work anymore, not with Jack sitting there looking so lost, like a little boy. She wished desperately that she could do something. Such utter loneliness written on that man's face hurt her deeply, cutting to her soul. She walked shakily over to him and sat down across from him, delicately, not making so much as one single sound, hardly stirring the air around her.
He looked up at her, and for the first time in over an hour he seemed to snap into reality. The rugged pain vanished from his features. A tentative smile curved his lips upwards, and slowly, almost as though he was exhausted, he wrapped his hands around hers, bonding them just as surely as their hearts were bonded.
It was late at night and Jack could hear, as crazy as it seemed, the silence – the cold, winter silence that was blanketed by snow. A fire, for the first time in years, blazed and crackled beyond the hearth and in the fireplace. Its flames leaped and jumped and danced, licking at the stone walls that confined it, throwing strange shadows across the room and shading everything a warm hue of orange. Rose slept peacefully on the couch by him, her hair spilling over the armrest and falling to almost the floor. He watched the comforting rhythm of her chest rising and falling with each breath she took, her mouth slightly parted, her eyes softly closed.
He leaned back deeper into the big chair that had once been his father's. He could actually still smell the scent that had always lingered on Pa, a hint of smoke and coffee, but mostly leather. It disturbed him that he didn't have the urge to cry. Maybe he had, without knowing it, let go of his past long ago. But then how had it managed to haunt him so severely just over the past year? How had it entered his nightmares, mixing with all his dreams, making him wake up in a cold sweat? How could he so suddenly be at peace with it now?
Maybe this was just what he had needed, he decided. Maybe he had needed to come home in order to allow home to move on. There was a deep sadness, yes, but there was no more fear. He could still almost see the ghosts of his parents, walking around him, by him, through him, but he knew it was only his imagination. He knew that his mother, beautiful and soft, was dead. He knew she would always be dead. Yet he also knew she would always be alive, too. She was still here, and he still needed her. He, a man who had seen enough pain to kill him, a man who had been thrown into situations that threatened to destroy him, a man who was a husband and father, but had lost his child . . . he was still a boy who desperately needed his mother. Instead of filling his heart with terror, warm relief drenched his body as he heard her whisper to him that it wasn't his fault. It wasn't his fault that she had laid in a pine box while he had lit off to Europe. It wasn't his fault that his father didn't tan leather anymore, or work at the lumber mill, or go for coffee with the local men on Saturdays.
He closed his eyes against the bright firelight, letting it warm his icy body and thaw his frozen heart.
Rose was up with the sun, pulling back the dusty drapes to look at the winter wonderland outside. She smiled when she saw her husband's head lolling against the side of the chair. So he had finally fallen asleep. She had tried with all her might to stay up with him last night, but not even undying love could create a miracle as powerful as that.
The fire in the fireplace had burned down to glowing coals, and she blew them back to life just like she had watched her maids do in Philadelphia and London. A crazy, almost laughable thought struck her. What would her mother say if she saw Rose now, on her hands and knees like a street girl, trying to keep the ashes alive with heat just so that she wouldn't freeze? What if she saw the worn out, deserted house in which Rose was now making her home?
But the humor of that was struck away by a darker question. What would Rose have thought, a year ago, maybe, if she had known her life would turn out like this? Would she have had the courage to venture onward like she had? Would she have been able to give up everything – everything – for a man she loved but hardly knew, for someone who had nothing to offer but his heart? The answer was imminent. No, she wouldn't have been able to see this coming, and if she had, she would have run away. That idea made her terribly sad. She could have missed out on this life and not ever realized what beauty she had denied the right to exist. The very suggestion that she might have had to go on without Jack made her feel sick. She would have died. It was no exaggeration. She just wouldn't have been able to survive in that world.
She traced patterns in the condensation on the windowpane, aimlessly allowing her finger to sketch lines and circles and squares without reason. Then again, life had changed so much for her. All it had taken was one ship, one moment, one look, and her entire future was flip flopped. She remembered whirling with Jack on the deck of Titanic, before the iceberg but after they had made love. She remembered knowing that she couldn't go back. She wanted to live in a garret and sleep next to this strangely wonderful man. She wanted to be so cold in the winter her fingers ached and so hot in the summer she slept without any blankets on at all. She wanted to wake up every morning to his sweet kisses and live every day in apprehension of him coming home.
She heard Jack stir as she moved away from the windows and peered down the dark hallway that led to the other half of the small house. Like she had been caught stealing from something that was not hers, she whirled around so quickly she almost fell. Guiltily, she bit her lip as Jack sighed and a sleepy grin crossed his face. "What has my Rose been up to this mornin', hmm?" He asked groggily, stretching his arms above his head.
"I . . . I just . . . I was just curious . . ." She stumbled over her words, not knowing how to explain. She had been curious, that was true, but she had no right see the rest of this place without him.
He pulled himself up to a standing position and stumbled in his socked feet across the old floor. "Oh, Rose, Rose, Rose," he muttered quietly, coming towards her even as he wiped sleep out of his eyes. "It's your house, too."
There was such tenderness in his voice, such sincere hope that she would accept what he had to give her, that she nearly melted. She was too afraid to go near him, for the desires inside of her were overwhelming and she knew she couldn't give into them. When he stopped a few feet in front of her, she didn't cross the space into his arms, even though her entire body screamed at her to do so. Instead, she broke the somberness of the moment by playfully asking, "So, are you going to show me it?"
His grin widened, and then he nodded. His hand reached towards hers, and she allowed him to loosely link his fingertips with hers. His touch made her dizzy but she followed him without a word as he pulled her along behind him. "This is my room," he whispered softly, and pushed open the nearest door on the left, one of grainy oak. She didn't detect any hesitation from him anymore, just expectation. He wanted her to be part of this, he really did. Her nose caught the familiar strong scent of charcoal as he led her across the threshold and into the place where a part of him must still be sewn.
It was beautiful, in a way only Jack could make anything beautiful. The first thing she noticed was that there were dozens of sketches nailed up on the wall above his bed. Something inside of her yearned for those pictures so deeply that she involuntarily walked to the wall and leaned over a wooden desk, trying to be as close to them as she could, trying to breathe them in.
They were all dated from 1905, 1906, and 1907. Something about them was beautifully simple and yet uniquely intricate. There were children playing in a cornfield, their grins contagious even through the paper. The next row down featured several scenes of young women dancing in the grass, feet bare and hair wild, holding sides that ached with laughter. She saw an old man saddling up a horse, each line on his face seeming to contribute to his life. Then, perhaps the most heartwarming of all, she found a drawing of a middle aged couple. They were dressed in plain, homespun clothes, with their arms wrapped around each other, sitting on a porch swing. The wife's head rested on her husband's shoulder, and some of her wavy hair spilled from its twist to fall on his chest. She looked very peaceful, very content, and very in love. Her eyes were focused on something in the distance that brought a soft smile to her face. The man was looking at his wife, and the expression in his eyes was so sweet and gentle that it made Rose want to cry. She knew that look. She felt it on her right now, its warmth coming from directly behind her.
Her finger reached up to delicately brush the lines making up James and Anna Dawson's faces, their intertwined bodies, their everyday magnificence. Awe crept across her, for they might as well have been standing next to her in the room, she felt they were so close. There was something almost young and innocent about their love, something that went deeper than devotion and into the timeless realm of adoration. "Jack," she whispered, hardly able to talk because her throat had constricted so much. "Jack . . . they're . . . unbelievable."
There was no other word to use. When she closed her eyes, she could still feel them and the other sketches; she could almost hear their voices weaving through the air, some light with happiness and others thick with sorrow and regret, some untamable and giddy and others peaceful and solitary. They braided together in a song that she thought had to be the most beautiful thing she had ever heard on Earth.
She felt the pleasant heat of breath on her neck and then Jack's arms wound around her waist as he buried his face in her hair. He didn't cry. She couldn't even tell if he was hurting. All she knew was that he needed her there as much as she needed to be there.
Jack sat with Rose on his old bed, the green-and-blue-checked comforter soft beneath them. They had been here for the past half an hour, just talking about everything – about their childhoods, about their dreams, about their happiness at being out of New York. Slowly, this room seemed to be coming to life again. The fire's warmth drained down the hallway and reached them so that Jack finally took off his jacket and helped Rose out of her coat for the first time since they had come here.
"It must have been wonderful, growing up here," Rose said, her voice filled with regret. He looked over at her for a moment, carefully studying her face. He saw all of the sorrow etched in her eyes, in her heart.
"It's almost more wonderful here, now," he whispered, reaching for her hand. "With you." He felt the tattered pieces of his soul beginning to move themselves back together, like a weaver delicately pulling together her masterpiece. This feeling of being put back into one piece, whole, actually was more fulfilling than any feeling he had ever had in the house before. He knew he could overcome loss, and it was wonderful. Everything delicate and fragile within him suddenly stopped toppling over the edge of the abyss of his spirit, and moved back to where it was safe and balanced. This, he thought, this is how a man in love feels.
He moved his palm up over Rose's arm as she looked at him with eyes that were full and a mouth that trembled. She was speechless, he knew, but there was a thankfulness that lingered in her expression that he couldn't understand. Why was she grateful, when he was the one whom had been saved? When she had made his life worth living? This mystery of passion was one that, in his whole life, he would never understand.
His hand slipped behind her to cup the back of her head while the other's fingertips traced her jawbone. It was still almost terrifying to touch her like this; it was still so much like touching the moon for him. Never had he envisioned that she might someday be his. It still felt like she was angelic; it still felt like this was all too good to be true. He was still scared.
Something inside of her hesitated, and she looked out the window behind him for a moment, breaking her gaze from him. He searched her face. He wanted to kiss his wife. He wanted to hold her in a way that neither of them had been strong enough to do for months. He wanted to enfold her body with his own, and hug her so tight her bones cracked. Confused as to why she was being so distant, he did nothing but stare at her for several seconds.
Then quite suddenly, she had flung herself into his arms and was pressing herself so close against him that there was no air in between them. The distinctly flowery scent of her shampoo and the soft powdery aroma of her skin mixed intoxicatingly around him for the first time in far too long. He didn't do anything but keep her in his arms for a moment, maybe a minute or maybe two hours, he didn't know. The feeling of his Rose finally again against his chest was something that could not be measured in time like other normal things could. There was no more Time, just a man and a woman, just Jack and Rose, just how everything was supposed to be.
He felt her stir against him. Without warning, her face was mere inches from his own. They simply looked at each other, not blinking, almost like they couldn't believe their counterpart was real. And then slowly, ever so slowly, Jack's lips felt their way to Rose's forehead, and then her cheek, and then finally to her own lips.
Jack never even started to move towards making love. The honeyed depths and the silkiness of Rose's mouth was enough to satisfy him forever.
The Dawsons had been in Chippewa Falls for over a week, and it was Sunday again. Rose carefully arranged her hair in a delicate upsweep, pinning the curls back off her neck and stabbing the twists with pins. The usual stubborn pieces of hair managed the work their way out of the band she wound around her hair, but she didn't even bother with them anymore. Only one or two were long enough to lie on her shoulders and dangle onto her neckline anyway. It was chilly out to wear her hair completely up, yes, but this would be her first public appearance, her first open declaration of, "Yes, I live here now." She wanted desperately to be accepted.
The dress she was wearing was something that Peter had convinced May to let her borrow. It was cotton, and not the high quality she was once privileged, but it was still beautiful. It had long sleeves; there was really no other choice in this kind of weather. It was a deep emerald green, the kind of green that set her hair and eyes on fire, the kind of green that her maid Trudy had once said was made just for her. Green faux lace and beads dripped like icicles from the dress itself, making it appear much more expensive than it actually was. Rose didn't like that, she admitted to herself. She preferred simple these days, but the elegancy of the gown was something that Peter had insisted she have. It would have been rude to refuse, and she owned very little that was suitable to wear. The neckline was reasonably cut, not overly low but not along the neck, and scooped around on her collar bone. She had also borrowed a silvery cotton shawl that she wrapped around her shoulders. It was possibly the nicest article of clothing May had, or so her brother had said, so Rose had to promise to take good care of it. Rose had wanted to laugh – her mother would have killed her if so much of a stain had ever appeared on any one of her garments, so Rose was wonderfully skilled in the art of garment keeping – but she had managed to restrain herself.
Rose gently latched one of the only two necklaces she had, other than the one that she would never again touch. This one was made of gold-colored metal that Jack had found at a pawn shop near their old apartment. The other was braids of a substance almost like sea grass that was strung with shells and stones from the beaches of New York, and that had been something that a merchant had been selling on the streets.
She was standing in Jack's bedroom, but he was not there. Instead, he was trying to find the old shovel he remembered to clear off the walk and the porch. She twisted the wedding rings on her left ring finger and turned to face the mirror.
Rose stared into nothingness, her eyes unfocused and her face expressionless. Her hands were clasped tightly together in front of her. She hardly even breathed. Vaguely, she heard the high, tinkling sound of her mother's laughter nearby. Somewhere, someone dropped a wine goblet. The echo of it shattering into a thousand pieces rang throughout the house, seeming to take hours to complete, even though it must have been only seconds. In her mind's eye, Rose saw the glass slipping out of a loose grip, and falling until it smashed into the floor and was destroyed. A door was slammed closed near the kitchen. Footsteps padded down the hardwood floors of the entrance hall. A manservant carrying a tray of caviar danced around Rose and managed to wriggle by her and out into the flowery courtyard. His name was Jim, Rose remembered suddenly. He couldn't have been more than nineteen years old. She had nursed a sweet spot for him when she was a young girl. He was from somewhere near Pittsburgh. His brother lived down in Georgia, working on an orchard. His mother had died last winter, and his father had been dead for years.
All of these things, these comforting things that didn't change, that she thought she knew, were the only things she had to hold onto now. Her world was rapidly evolving from one of china dolls and dress up clothes to something darker, more dishonorable. She turned her head ever so slightly to look at the huge white blossoms that her mother had ordered be placed on every table in the house. They drooped under the weight of their petals and dipped towards the ground. For every birthday before this one, Rose's father had commanded that the local florist bring in dozens, even hundreds, of white roses. The white, he had explained, symbolized his daughter's purity. The flower, of course, was in honor of that daughter. She hadn't understood what kind of purity he had been talking about. When she had hit her teenage years, she had thought maybe she knew. But he hadn't been referring to sexual purity, like she had guessed, even in her naivety. Rose hardly knew what sex was, and years ago had been no different. No, he had wanted to keep her pure from the filth that surrounded her; he had wanted to shut her away from the corruption that plagued her world. He had never told her in so many words, though, and by the time she had figured it out, it was far too late.
For not the first time, bitter anger reared in her heart and made her throat burn with unshed tears. She wanted to remember the father she had known, the rock steady, strong, enduring man who had loved her with everything he had and worked hard to keep his family a loving whole when so many others were drifting apart. She wanted to remember his laughter, but all she could bring up in her mind was the sound of his last few breaths, the gurgling death rattle that had chilled her to the bone and taken away her soul as he lay in his bedroom. Her brain brought forth the pictures of him there, in his bed, sweat soaking the sheets and his hands clenching and unclenching furiously beside him. The doctors shook their heads helplessly and moved to doorway. Her mother was absolutely silent, her hand on her husband's chest, until the end came. Then there was the piercing wail that split through the house, making Rose's eardrums vibrate, and the tears falling hot and thick into both of their laps. It had been only days later that Rose had learned, that she had seen the papers with the word "last notice" stamped on them in bright red, that she had learned how irresponsible her father had been. She knew he hadn't been going to business meetings on Tuesdays, but gambling sessions. And it had hurt.
"Miss Rose, Mrs. DeWitt-Bukater requests you meet her under the pavilion. She says it's imminent." There Jim was again, his brown hair curling sweetly into his face, his eyes urgent. She wondered if he would kiss her back if she kissed him. Then she wondered if she'd ever have the strength to kiss him. He wasn't very far away, really, just a few feet.
"There's someone she'd like you to meet," he went on, as if he wasn't sure she had heard him. She nodded, and then smiled carefully. He was wearing the uniform that her mother required when company was over: a starched white shirt and carefully ironed black pants. A dark bowtie was tied underneath his collar. He was nothing but a crush. Yet she felt like being a little bit difficult today, a little bit trying to the rules of Society. She wished she was brave enough to tell him how she had felt about him for the past few years, but she wasn't. Instead she tried to stall. She didn't want to go to her mother.
"I don't feel like meeting any more of her 'friends,'" she murmured, like one would to a confidante. She leaned against the wall. Rose had met so many of her mother's acquaintances that she knew exactly what to expect – a young man with his pockets bursting with money. Some were handsome, some weren't. Some had a sense of humor, others she could liken to a dried bean. None had smitten her, none had given her what she wanted, and none had come even close to taking her heart. She breathed deeply and sighed. "She's trying to marry me off so quickly that I don't even know what's happening half the time. It seems like she's already decided on my dress, on the place, on everything but the groom. That much, it seems, remains in my power – but not for long." Her voice trembled with tears at the very thought of the arranged marriage that was sitting, huge and foreboding, on the horizon. It was unavoidable and she knew it.
"I'd like to think you won't let that happen." His voice was quiet, but she heard the compassion and the hope. She saw a hint of a grin break on his face, but he stifled it before it dawned completely. Her heart leapt a little, like a young girl caught up in the glories of puppy love, but that innocent feeling was soon overcome by the gloom the idea of a set up marriage brought. She breathed slowly, deliberately. After her mother said the word, she would be forced to walk down the aisle. All of her freedom would be gone: the freedom to learn how to love, the freedom to find her soulmate, the freedom to be herself. She trembled uncontrollably at the thought of being pushed into even deeper bondage. The very idea of being thrown into chains and shackles caused her to close her eyes for a moment to regain her composure. Even that could not lessen the weight of her spirit.
"Mmm . . . I'd like to think so, too, but look at me, Jim. It's my seventeenth birthday, but instead of celebrating I'm hiding in the corner." Rose answered, her voice unsteady. She looked up at him with desperation, pleaded for him to tell her that she was different and that the web of finance wouldn't be able to draw her in. Her lip started bleeding because she had bitten it for too long. Tears trembled on her eyelashes, ready to fall, just as fragile as her heart.
She looked up at him and saw the resolve in his eyes, the glimmer of gold that peeked from the warm chocolate brown, the swirling colors that said he had finally made a decision. Suddenly his lips were on hers. She was shocked for a moment, hardly able to move, afraid that someone would see and yet at the same time terrified someone wouldn't. She was too surprised to breathe. She understood that this was wrong, that she should not be kissing a manservant that worked for her household, but the more she tried to fight it the more enticing it became until she was forced to give in to it at all costs. She liked how he hadn't gone through protocol, how gentle he was, and how good of a kisser he turned out to be. She liked it when his arms came around her waist and her hands rested on his chest. She liked how she could smell his cologne, the gentle scent tickling her nose. There were no fireworks, no blurry lovesick parade that was struck up in her head, no amazement, but there was definitely pleasure – something she hadn't felt for a long time. Maybe he wasn't her soulmate, maybe he wasn't her knight in shining armor, but these were not the thoughts crossing through her mind right now. All she could think about was how wonderful it was to be free. She had her taste of liberty in that moment, and from then on, she would never want to let it go.
"Rose!" The shrill voice of her mother rang throughout the foyer, causing agonizing chills to run up Rose's spine. She drew from Jim like she had been electrocuted, jumping back so swiftly she hit the wall. His hands traveled from her middle to her face, brushing one finger against her skin. The look he gave her struck her as so compassionate that she thought she was going to burst into tears. There was true understanding, a knowledge that she could never openly be with him, that this kiss they had just shared hidden in a corner was the first and would have to be the last. Real regret coupled with acceptance looked down at her, so honest that it broke her heart.
"Go," he whispered, soft enough that his voice only carried mere inches. He tenderly pressed his lips to her forehead. Her tormented soul silently begged him to stop her from going. She wanted to be next to him, she wanted to flirt with him, she wanted to kiss him again. But all of the sudden, he had gone and vanished back into the kitchen from whence he came. It happened so quickly that she wondered if he had really been there at all. She pressed her hand over her kissed-bruised lips to affirm to herself that it had. Whether or not he was meant to be hers forever didn't matter to her right then, all she knew was that she had never experienced anything like that before and her mother would never let her again.
"Rose! Rose! Where are you!" The sharp clacking of fast-moving heels became louder and louder and Rose fought for her composure, knowing that nothing but pain would result if she didn't. She tried to be like her mother, strangely, in that second. Ruth DeWitt-Bukater could turn emotions off so quickly that sometimes Rose wondered if she really had any at all.
In moments, she felt the heat draining her face and felt she could attribute whatever color was left to the stifling August heat, if anyone asked. She could wait no longer, her mother sounded like she was almost on top of her, and she didn't want to be caught in such a suspicious manner. She positioned herself to make it seem as if she was just coming in from the courtyard, and not a second too soon.
"Rose! Where have you been! I've been looking all over God's creation for you." The last sentence came from her mother's mouth like a hiss, so full of blame that Rose briefly indulged her amusement and wondered if perhaps she'd killed anybody lately that she had forgotten about. "There is a man who wants to meet you, not just any man, mind you, and I won't let you ruin it this time!"
The groan involuntarily escaped Rose's mouth. She pressed her lips tightly together to make it stop, but Ruth mother had already heard, and the icy look that came from her bitter green eyes burned Rose like cold steel. Rose opened her mouth to protest. "I won't –"
"Yes, you will," her mother answered coldly, looking at her with such disdain that it made Rose cringe. The feeling that Jim had managed to give her – the feeling of being loved – was gone as quickly as he had been. She felt lonely and forsaken; she felt worthless. And it hurt.
She lost her ability to believe in herself. Instead of fighting like she inwardly wanted to, she simply followed her mother like a puppy dog being taken out of the rain. She did not belong to herself. She had no control over what happened to her. It was a thought that horrified her.
"I found her!" The fakeness in her mother's voice made Rose want to gag. She saw the smile now pasted on Ruth's face, but could not force one to rise on her own. She was being showed like a prize horse, again, and she had to swallow violently to keep tears from overflowing. The laughter she heard grinded against her spirit like a nail. "This," Ruth said, sounding so proud that she might have been talking about her own son, "is Nathan Hockley, and his son, Caledon."
For the first time, Rose looked up. Shock caught her off guard. The name Hockley was splashed across newspapers everywhere. They owned the wealthiest steel mills in America, perhaps in the continent. The family had enough money to make God seem poor. Instead of being delighted to meet their acquaintance, like the rest of the crowd seem to be, Rose was repulsed. They were as much into this façade as it was possible to get, and it disgusted her.
"Ah, this is the young beauty I have spoke of," the older one murmured. She remembered him from somewhere – a ball, perhaps? His salt and pepper hair gave him a distinguished look befitting for a man who could probably buy the country, and his smile was grateful, but his eyes were cold and hard as he brushed his lips against the hand that she automatically gave. His son immediately followed, and insisted that she call him Cal.
Cal was a man that she had heard so much about it was hard to separate fact from legend. He looked like a person that was pleasant enough. His black hair, blacker that night, was slicked back from a face with high cheekbones and large, snapping, dark eyes. He seemed genuinely pleased to be at her estate, and complimented her far more than he was required to. "My father did not give your beauty justice when he told me about you, Miss DeWitt-Bukater." He grinned an award-winning grin at her, and her mother beamed.
Rose managed to give a ghost of a smile back as he continued to talk on, his voice confident and sure. Before long he was escorting her on a walk throughout the courtyard gardens, asking her anything he could think of about herself. Her initial sharp impression to hate him was gradually dulled. He was naïve, and a little bit arrogant, but not as horrible as she had imagined him to be. He seemed to be quite taken with her. Rose did not yet know that she was the naïve one for believing him to be sincere. Caledon Hockley was never sincere.
Just that simply, Rose was drawn back into her world without even being aware of it. The fresh breeze of freedom had touched her face, and then it had gone. She felt it gently only once more that day, when Jim came with champagne glasses and served the small inner circle of herself, her mother, Cal, and his father. She was stopped midsentence by the look he gave her, a look full of enough sadness that she felt it even yards away. She remembered the glorious feeling of his arms, of being loved, even if for only a minute. She remembered how exhilarating it had been to step beyond the fence that surrounded her heart. Then, painfully, she saw that the sympathy that had once been in his gaze was replaced with disappointment and a cry to her that begged her to not go back to her chains.
She didn't laugh again for the rest of her party.
Jack and Rose stood outside of the whitewashed church in the icy air, grasping each other's hands. They were invisible to passerby, hidden in early morning shadows.
"This is it," Jack whispered, and strangely he was extremely calm. It was the old Jack, the Jack he hadn't seen in so many months, that was in his body right now. He felt carefree, light, unshackled from all the worries that had kept him tied on the ground since last spring. He was once again the free bohemian artist who didn't give a damn about what people thought of him, and that was something he had missed for what felt like years.
"You said that yesterday, and the day before," Rose replied, and he was surprised to find that she herself seemed uneasy. Her hand kept tightening around his until her knuckles had turned white. Her eyes were large with fear and anticipation. She shook, but he suspected it was from more than the cold. He wished that he could comfort her somehow. He loved her, loved her so much it almost killed him, loved her with every fiber of his being. He wanted that to be enough. He wanted her to be able to lean against that love, and not need anything else, because it was strong enough to support her. He did not want her to starve for acceptance, especially for him, because he understood that that was what she was doing – she wanted desperately to be approved of by the people who had once played such a monumental part in his world. He wanted to tell her that it didn't matter what they thought, because she was his world now, all of it, and no one on Earth could ever alter that. He wanted to, but he didn't.
Instead, he just held her in his arms. He hoped that would say what his words could not. He pulled her against him so that there was absolutely no space between them and buried her face in his coat. He kissed her hair, trying to do something to make her stop trembling. The entire world narrowed to just them for a moment, and he didn't care that he was in Chippewa Falls. He could have been on Mars, and he wouldn't have noticed.
Eventually, she stilled. Her grip on his collar became loose. He felt her whole body shudder as she took a deep breath, and finally, she lifted her head to meet his steely gaze. He saw memories drifting in her irises, memories that gave her a reason to fear rejection. It hurt him just as much as it was hurting her. "Rose," he murmured, so quietly that his voice couldn't have traveled much further than her ears, "Rose . . . Rose . . . it's gonna be fine. I promise you."
It made his heart swell when he saw the serenity that gradually worked its way into her expression after he'd promised. He didn't deserve to be trusted like that; he didn't deserve to have someone so beautiful and magnificent take his word without even a shadow of a doubt in her face. It scared him, in a way, because he was terrified he'd mislead her, but it warmed him even more. Not many men could say that their wives believed in them like Rose believed in him. He silently thanked God for her, and for her pure trust.
"I know," she whispered back. Her ghost of a smile turned into something more tangible. "Let's do this thing." She worked her way out of his embrace, and he reluctantly let her go. They walked together to the church entrance. People had been disappearing through those double doors for the past fifteen minutes, but now it seemed that most people were already inside. Jack grabbed the tarnished handle and yanked the door open, hurrying Rose inside so that the blustery wind would not manage to escape into the building. He followed her.
It still smelled the same, he decided. It was a musty smell, a smell that he had associated with old people when he was younger. The place was spotlessly clean anyway, except for a bit of dust in the high places that the volunteers couldn't reach. There were no magnificent halls or huge pipe organs. The windows weren't full of stained glass. Everything was very plain and homey, just like he remembered it. A slate board nailed onto the wall had the name of the pastor and the time of the service scratched onto it. The familiarity was comforting and irritating all at once. It scared him that he had been here a grand total a day and a half and he was already itching for something more.
Rose was looking at everything with eyes that could have possibly said she had just walked into a trove of Spanish gold. This was a treasure to her, something she could have never imagined as a child. This church seemed like it was used, like it wasn't just a showcase, although all of her past experience with churches had told her otherwise. She was thirsty for real, honest, down to Earth people, and this seemed like evidence that they existed. What would it have been like to grow up here, instead of in a mansion with marble hallways and white flowers? Would she have turned out differently? Would she live with less regrets? For a moment she allowed herself to remember Sundays when she had been young. There was her father, uncomfortable in his expensive, hand-tailored suit, shifting his bulk on the pew. Her mother would be sitting next to him, so still she could have been a doll, her eyes on the priest but not her mind. It had been such a lie, she knew. When they had gotten home after the services, the serious Sunday faces had come off and been replaced by the power struggle that had always went on between her parents.
"This is where my parents' funeral was done," Jack said in what he meant to be an offhanded way, turning to look at her. His face was expressionless, but she knew what hurt he must be feeling. He must have been remembering the caskets. He had told her about it, told her that their bodies had been so badly burned that he had not been allowed to see them. It wrenched her heart out of her body every time she thought of it, and here he was, right in the very same building for the first time in years.
"They're probably so glad you're home," she answered quietly. He couldn't disguise the raw emotion in his eyes quick enough. She saw the flash of conflict; she knew he must be fighting a desire to leave again. This place was like a chamber of phantoms for him. She could feel them, their cold fingers brushing along her neck, their torn garments whipping around near her ankles, their hollow, empty stares fixing themselves on her. Hope, however, made them seem sad instead of terrifying, the hope that things would someday be better, that things would eventually heal.
Jack swallowed, and she saw that he was not afraid. Whatever Jack Dawson was, he was not a coward. There wasn't a trace of fear in his expression. There was dread, yes, and a certain amount of heavy sadness, but she could see relief, too, and excitement: excitement for starting this new adventure and excitement that she was here with him. He was gambling again, although this time he had no money to bet on a poker game. He was now gambling with his emotions. He was putting all of himself on the line to these people, and she knew that he knew it could result in one of two extremes, but the threat of failure wasn't nearly enough to keep him from pressing onward. She loved that about him. He loved her, too. The look he gave her told her so, and it didn't need to be enforced with words. It said it in a way that words couldn't. Blue desire burned in his eyes, so beautiful that she had to smile. There was desire for the past, desire for the present, desire for the future, but most of all there was a desire for a new start. That was what they were getting. Titanic could follow them here, but it was forced to be silent. There was not a reminder of the death of that night every time they turned a corner. There was a chance to bandage their wounds and pray for them to close. That was something they both desperately needed.
This knowledge caused him to be fearless again. She felt it more than she saw it. He was again the bold man she had fallen in love with, cheerful and blithe. She hadn't seen this side of him in so long that she was taken by shock all over again at the magnetism that it drew her with. She was like a helpless moth being brought to a flame, and that made her feel safe again.
