Some time has passed and the chill of winter has begun to subside along with it. Rose was back to work, and despite the growing plainness that there was no real drama surrounding the Dawsons, or at least none that the town would ever find out about, that still hadn't quelled all of the vicious gossip at her place of work. There was no scandal as the town had seemed to be waiting for, and the crowds at the diner had died down to the usual flow of business, probably aided by the fact that Jack and Rose kept almost entirely to themselves and still did not go out in public together very often. This however didn't stop the lingering stares Rose could feel at her back, or the women crossing the street to avoid her path. She was truly having a hard time figuring out why she had become such a pariah. The appearance of a ring on her finger had served to quell some of the more insidious rumors however, and for that she was grateful, and still, there were many who were very friendly and merely curious.
The bullying that Josephine had been experiencing at school had thankfully died down for the most part however, and not only had the young girl made up with William, with whom she was once again inseparable, but she had also begun to form a real connection and relationship with her father. Josephine and Jack would spend time together in the evenings as Josephine would draw or work on her lessons, and Jack would tell them both stories of his travels or recount his childhood antics.
Rose had also learned in the past few weeks that Jack was extraordinarily smart and very well-read, adding an entirely new layer to Jack and Rose's relationship as they were able to debate philosophy and discuss authors and poets. While not formally educated beyond grade school, he had continued to read for the love of it, and Jack especially adored poetry. Rose figured, with his artist's soul, she shouldn't have been as surprised as she was when she first heard him quote from Keats or Whitman.
Since Rose had gone back to work in late February, Jack had been spending much of his time going through his parents affairs as well as their home— something he had put off for nearly two decades. He didn't regret putting it off. Getting away, and traveling and living for himself had been what was necessary at the time. He wasn't always as steadfast and self-assured as he tried to appear, and at fifteen, he hadn't been able to face any of it. Even years later, with all of the death and sadness and destruction that he had witnessed in his relatively short life had taken a toll and he was finally ready now to slow down and sort through everything before deciding on a new course of action. Right now, he had Rose and Josephine and all the time in the world to build a life together with them. He finally had a family again.
He also knew however, that he wanted to be able to do something to make that family proud. They were, with Jack's inheritance, very well off and bordering on wealthy, and that's not taking Rose's nest egg from Cal's jacket, and the Heart of the Ocean into account. Those things, they wouldn't touch— had talked even about sending them back to Caledon Hockley anonymously. He also knows that wealth isn't something that either he nor Rose value beyond wanting to meet their basic needs and comforts. Jack still however wanted to do something that Rose and Josephine could be proud of, just as Rose continued to work more as a matter of pride and for the companionship with Miranda. He knew that she wouldn't necessarily continue to work at the diner forever, but for right now, it was good for the both of them to have routine and some time apart to continue grow into their relationship.
He had been toying with the idea of building a new workshop and going into the furniture business in his father's footsteps. It would be good, honest work, and something creative that would occupy his time allow him to use his hands. It was a possibility. That, however, he was afraid wouldn't be as fulfilling as he wanted. Once again, the niggling desire to draw and paint and to be a serious artist had begun to re-emerge: the only problem being that he hadn't done more than a simple sketch since before the Titanic. Most of his drive to create had gone down with that ship, lost along with the woman he had believed, until about six weeks ago, to be dead.
That afternoon, with Josephine still at school, Rose arrived home from her shift and called out for Jack, expecting to find him near the entry or sitting room or at the kitchen table, where he usually sat. Upon calling his name, there was no response.
He hadn't mentioned going anywhere. In fact, she hadn't seen him at all the morning, which had been odd. He was usually up at dawn, but his door was still closed at eight, so she had left him to sleep. Listening harder as she made her way through the house, she heard the faint sounds of the radio on down the lesser used hallway on the ground floor. Following it, she came to a room that had once been Jack's father's office. It was situated across from the small bedroom that had been hers until recently, and which now housed Jack in the evenings, as they were still sleeping apart.
The door was ajar, and looking in she could see Jack seated at his father's broad oak desk with papers strewn about. Some were crumpled and tossed haphazardly onto the floor, and Jack himself appeared equally rumpled. He was dressed still as if he had just awoken, in his dark brown corduroy pants and a cream colored shirt from the day before, which was still hanging untucked and wan't fully buttoned. His usual suspenders were hanging loose at his hips, bunched around him in the chair. His hair, while often pushed back nowadays was flopping into his eyes. He was sitting somewhat awkwardly, with his bad leg out sideways so he could extend it fully. He had a drawing pencil in his hand, making broad strokes upon a paper, and a cigarette was burning away between his lips, nearly forgotten in his concentration.
"Hello, Jack." She greeted him, lingering in the doorway. She didn't want to startle him, or disturb his work, unsure if her presence was welcome just now. He looks up, dropping his pencil with a sigh, and crumples the paper he had been drawing on, tossing it behind him. Rose can't help but frown. Something about his demeanor appears defeated.
"You're home early," he states, taking another drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out in a nearby ash tray. He rises slowly, being visibly careful of his leg, which Rose had noticed he seemed to have both good and bad days with.
"It was slow," she states, and embraces him as he puts his arms out for her, relaxing into his hug. "What are you up to?" She asks, peering over towards the desk.
"Getting frustrated," he responds with a shrug. "I was trying to draw something I actually like, but I'm so out of practice."
Rose peers up into his face, trying to get a read on his expression, and brushes his hair from his forehead. Come to think of it, she hadn't seen him draw much at all since they were reunited. He had done that sketch of Josephine that now hung in the master bedroom, but that was all she had seen.
"I haven't done much drawing since we got separated," he offers by way of explanation, and she knows that what he really means is that he hasn't drawn much since Titanic.
"Jack, you have such a talent. Why haven't you let yourself draw?"
He sighs again and pulls back, releasing his grip on her waist but still rubbing her arms instead, as had become a habit. Always a bundle of energy, Jack always seemed to be in motion somehow unable to sit still for long without finding some way to fidgit.
"After the sinking, it took a long time for me to feel anything but sadness and anger. Physically, it took me a while to recover from the hypothermia and frost bite, and even then, all I could think of was trying to find you. And then the war happened. I did some drawing while I was overseas, but it was all mundane and thoughtless sketching to pass the time between bombs and gunfire— I sketched birds and animals I would see down in the holes, or still life drawings of objects in the trenches or buildings we would pass in cities. I couldn't bring myself to draw portraits. I couldn't record the faces of the men around me who had a 50/50 chance of living through the day. It made the reality of dying out there in those fields seem like an even greater possibility, and if the last portrait I had ever drawn was that one of you those years before, then I was okay with that. Since then, it has been more recovery time, and too much mind-numbing administrative work for the military. In truth, it has only been since just before coming out here to Chippewa Falls that I've really considered doing my art again."
He pulls away and approaches the desk again, letting Rose follow. He picks up a few pieces of paper and hands them to her. On the pages she sees beautifully rendered portraits of the family that she now recognized as the Dawsons— his parents and sister, whom had graced the walls of this house and made a home in her heart, even if she had never met them for real. There's one of the little girl, Cora, from Titanic, for whom Josephine's middle name had been given. There was a man— Tommy, she recalled, wearing a bowler hat and clutching a beer with a mischievous smile on his face. And then there were soldiers— smiling too, as he must have remembered them, but Rose had an inkling that all of these drawings had one thing in common— they were all people who had passed on. This was Jack's way of grieving and honoring the ones he'd lost.
"Jack, these are wonderful," she says, flipping through the small stack and wondering how he had found the time to do this many sketches in a morning.
"They're not right, though. They're good enough, but they don't have that thing… that thing in the eyes that my portraits used to have. They don't show them as they truly were."
Rose considers this. She knows what Jack means. "Well," she suggests, "every time I had seen you draw before had been from life. Here you're drawing from memory. Maybe you should start drawing from life again."— not from death, she thinks silently. "I'm sure there are plenty of people in town who wouldn't mind a portrait."
Jack nods. "Maybe you're right. Maybe that is the difference." Jack slides back into the desk chair and pulls Rose closer until he has her perched on his lap.
"Jack," she protests, "Your leg. I'll hurt you." She tries to stand again, or shift her weight from his bad leg but he keeps her firmly in place with his arms wrapped around her waist.
"I'll be alright," he assures her. He rests his forehead against her shoulder, hugging her tight and breathing in the scent of her perfume— lilac, he thinks, or maybe lavender.
"Are you alight, Jack?" she asks. There's an air of seriousness in her voice, and he knows she's talking about more than just his leg.
"I am, Rose. I promise you, I am. It's just, all the memories get to me sometimes. I don't mean to be melancholy or shut you out."
Rose shifts to face him better, bringing her hand up to smooth his hair from his eyes again and rest her palm against his cheek. "You never talk about it," she says quietly.
"I try not to dwell," he explains honestly. "With my family it's too easy for me to get trapped in my grief like when they had just passed. I never got to say goodbye— I left before they were buried— ran away from it. Then there's Titanic, and the deaths we witnessed that night— the screams and the silence." Rose shivers. She remembers that all too well.
"Most of the time it's easier for me to set it all aside or stay distracted," he explains. "With the war, its not so easy to set aside. It was all carnage and senseless killing. My company became like a group of brothers. There were 40 of us going in. Seventeen of us are still alive and I've lost track of half of them. There are days when I can close my eyes and hear the sounds of the bombs and artillery shells around me. I still get nightmares. Not— not all the time, and much less nowadays, but often enough."
It was as if Rose could feel the deep-rooted sadness and remorse rolling off of him in waves, and she wasn't sure what to say. This pain is not something that she's able to erase, and she knows that. Instead of words, she finds herself embracing him further, kissing his forehead before pulling him in to rest against her chest, his cheek pressed to her heart as she cards her fingers through his hair, and she's surprised then to hear the quiet sobs and to feel the tell-tale wetness against her blouse. She wonders when the last time he had let himself cry like this had been, and continues to hold him tight, a few tears of her own dropping as she contemplates all that this wonderful man had been through.
"It's unfair, Jack, and I'm so sorry for it. You deserve more than to have lost so much," she says, something occurring to her. "Are the nightmares the real reason why you're not staying with me upstairs at night?" She had been curious. Barring that one night a month ago, they still said goodnight and retreated to separate rooms for the night, usually after staying up much later than they should curled together on the sofa. She had thought, after redecorating it, and especially after his proposal, that Jack would stay with her, but he hadn't asked.
He gives a sigh, pulling back to see her face. "I guess, subconsciously that's part of it. It's mostly that I haven't known how to ask or broach the topic. But yes. I haven't wanted you to see me like that, although If the nightmares continue, I suppose it's inevitable."
"Jack, I'm marrying you, and I'm doing that for a reason. I love everything about you, sadness and nightmares included. From here on out, let's neither of us sleep alone. I can't think of anything better than being in your arms anyway."
That gets a smile out of him, and she counts it as a triumph. "And Jack, I think it might help to visit your parents' and sister's graves— maybe you can find some peace and closure. I know talking to them has helped me through these years without you."
Still a little wet faced from crying, Jack kisses Rose gently, having taken in everything she had to say, and feeling that much more loved and supported. "You talked to them at their graves?" he asks in wonder.
She nods. "I did. A few times a year. It made me feel closer to you and hold on to what little hope I had. Praying to them helped me keep my hope alive."