Chapter Thirteen

August 13th, 1913
New York City, New York

It was a hectic morning at the diner for Rose. It seemed more and more waves of business men were flocking towards the convienent and decent little restaraunt on the corner, just before central downtown. She hustled table to table, having to remake pot after pot of coffee. Frazzled, she pulled a ticket out from her apron and cursed when she realized the order never made it to the kitchen. She slammed a new pot onto the maker, hoping it would be full when she came back. Rose darted into the kitchen, jamming the ticket on the line with dozens other's. When Rose came back out from the kitchen, Winston was ringing some customers up at the till.

"Hey, doll," Winston said after finishing the transaction, "Your beau just came in."

Rose looked towards Winston as if she had seen a ghost, "When?"

"Just now, he's findin' a seat," Winston nodded his head towards him.

"Where's Christie?"

"She's got enough tables," Winston approached her, "What is going on with you recently, Rose? The past three days he's come in, you've disappeared. He's asked about you. Sounds like he's havin' trouble contacting you. Are you okay?"

"Yes..." Rose wrung her hands for a moment, "I've just wanted space. You know, it's just been... overwhelming, I guess, feeling these feelings again."

"From everything you told me about him, he seems like a great guy," Winston placed his beefy hand on Rose's shoulder, "Don't chase away a good thing just 'cause you have a few skeletons in the closet. It's not good for you, doll."

"Oh, Winston..." Rose sighed longingly, "I wish I could take your advice..."

"Well, you're gonna have to," Winston said, peering over her shoulder, "He's comin' this way."

"I'm going on break," Rose brushed past him breathlessly, heading towards the kitchen door, not breaking more than even a fast walk. She clenched her fists at her side, her blood throbbing as it coursed through her veins.

"Rose!" She heard him call. Her breathing shallowed as she approached the kitchen door, swinging it open, "Rose!" Rose bit her lip as she began to step into the kitchen, but someone caught her elbow, turning her towards them. She came face to face with Tim, "Rose... we need to talk."

"About what?" She whispered.

Tim looked away for a moment, "Can we go somewhere, please?"

"Tim, there are a lot of customers," Rose gestured towards the diner, "I can't just-"

"I'll wait," Tim insisted, "I'll cancel appointments. I need to talk to you."

"Rose," Winston called gruffly, catching the couple's attention, "I'll take your tables. Go."

"But Winston-"

"Go."

Rose slowly cocked her head back at Tim who seemed so hurt and confused. She sighed, his grip never loosing on her elbow, "Please," Tim said softly. Rose's bottom lip began to quiver and she bit it again to still it.

...

Jack made a few final brush strokes of white before he let out a long huff, backing up to inspect the canvases. The debutaunte scene, the women in loungewear, a boy hanging on the side of a train, those three were finally completed. Jack sighed, setting his palette and paintbrush down. He wiped his face on his forearms, as his hands were covered in cracked and dried paint.

"Frenchie!" Jack called over his shoulder, his eyes not leaving the canvases, "Frenchie! Come look at this!"

Frenchie came hustling out from the back room, all the while stirring paint furiously in a small bucket he held under his arm, "What! What is it?" He asked, nearly breathless.

"These three are finally done," Jack gestured to the canvases, "I think they came out great, too."

Frenchie had stars in his eyes. He clunked the bucket down on the table and began howling with laughter, tangling Jack into his arms, "That's the way, brother! We have eleven more to make in about thirteen weeks. Do you think we can do it?"

"Yeah, o'course we can," Jack grinned lopsidedly, "We can definitely do it."

Just then, the door to the studio swung open and Iris came through, kicking the door shut behind her. She had portfolio tucked under one arm and her favorite drink, Coca-Cola, in her other hand. She grinned towards the men as she went to the table.

"Iris, look!" Frenchie exclaimed, startling her, "We've completed three of the paintings."

Iris turned to inspect them, folding her hands behind her back, "These are all really nice. They'll look good in the museum, up on those big white walls."

Frenchie was trembling with excitement as he grabbed his bucket and raised back to the room to continue mixing. Jack grinned after him and went back to looking at the paintings with his hands on his hips. Jack turned and pushed his palette out of the way, sitting down the table for the first time in four hours. He let out a sigh as his feet throbbed. He propped them up on the stool beside him. Iris wasn't looking at him. She was already set to work drawing something.

Jack craned his neck slightly to get a better look at her paper. She stretched her pinky out, deftly smearing the charcoal to create a beautiful trascending shadow. Jack cocked his head to the side and that's when it dawned on him. She was drawing roses with thorns. Jack slounched back in his seat, drumming his fingers along the edge.

"Hey, uh, Iris," Jack cleared his throat. She arched her eyebrows and looked to Jack. He pulled his feet down from the stool and slid upright, folding his hands together, "would you maybe want to go do something tomorrow evening? Just you and me?"

"Oh," Iris sounded rather shocked, laying her pencil down now, "and do what?"

"I know of this cool bar on the river that has a live band in the evenings," Jack grinned, leaning forward on his elbows, "I figured it'd be more fun with two people, y'know?"

Iris grinned after a few moments, "So... you're asking me out on a date?"

Jack cast his eyes down for a second before looking back to Iris, "We can call it that if you want."

"Okay, it's a date. I'll meet you here?"

"Yeah, six o'clock."

...

Tim and Rose found themselves in a nearby alleyway minutes later. Rose pressed her back to the grimey wall, the cool brick stinging into her skin. Tim stood in front of her, the cool gusts of the oncoming autumn brushing his trench coat back and revealing his suit. Stiffly at his side he held his briefcase. He shuffled his feet for a moment, looking at her with deep concern.

"Rose... something has been up for awhile now. Something has felt... different," He said, calculating his words carefully, "I think I may have an assumption, but you know what assuming does. Would you maybe like to tell me what has been going on? You have seemed off lately."

"Just... tired," Rose shook her head, digging her nails into the side of a few bricks, "I think maybe my body has been fighting some illness off. Work has just been really busy."

"Are you taking care of yourself?" Tim asked, stepping forward slightly, "Rose, you need to be going to bed early, eating properly and frequently."

"I'll, uh, I'll work on it," She swallowed roughly, casting her eyes down.

Tim shifted his weight between his feet and rubbed his hand along his jaw for a moment, glancing towards the street full of pedestrians occassionally looking their way, "Rose," He whispered, leaning in closer to her now, "I don't really think you're telling me the whole truth," Tim brought his hand up and tenderly touched Rose's cheek. Her heart throbbed in her throat as she felt his smooth skin against her's, nearly searing her, "Whatever it is, you can talk to me. You know that, right? I won't judge you. I want to help you, Rose. You know I love you. Just tell me what it is."

Tears welled up in Rose's eyes and she scrunched her eyebrows together, her entire body trembling. Tim set his suitcase down and put both his hands on her shoulders as the tears fell and Rose fought against the sobs, "Tim, there's..." She took a deep uneven breath, forcing herself to look at him, "There's a lot I need to tell you... about me," Rose closed her eyes longingly, her nostrils flaring as her face became warm.

"Why don't you come back to my office with me?" Tim asked, gripping her shoulders tightly, "It will be quiet and private. It's not a far walk at all."

Rose's throat felt pinched as she looked at Tim who was trying so hard to understand. She shook her head, "The words are right on the tip of my tongue, Tim. But... I don't know if I can say them. I never have outloud in the order I'm thinking of. It will all..." She choked for a moment, her chest falling heavily, "It will change your perspective of me entirely."

"Rose, come on, give me a chance," Tim's bold eyebrows knitted together, "You're making it sound like you murdered someone and did away with the corpse. Whatever it is, it can't be as horrible as you're making it seem. I need you to talk to me," His finger came to rest under her chin, "And I need you to trust me."

...

Frenchie and Iris left the studio mid-afternoon. Their mother was making an early dinner because her favorite radio story was coming back on the air tonight. Iris dug her hands into the pockets of her coat as they descended the hill and began heading towards their neighboorhood a few blocks away. Iris glanced to the sky for a moment before she peered over at her brother.

"You know... Jack asked me out on a date," She told him, smiling crookedly.

"What, a date!?" Frenchie arched his eyebrows, "Really, when?"

"Tomorrow evening at a place with live music," Iris shrugged, blowing a bang out of her eyes, "He asked me just out of the blue while you were mixing paint."

"That son of a bitch," Frenchie breathed, "He actually listened to me?"

"You talked to him?" Iris' cheeks grew rosy, "Frenchie, no! Why did you talk to him?"

"Hey," Frenchie held his hands up in self-defense as they turned down a street lined with trees that were waning in a variety of shades of green, yellow, and red, "I was tired of seeing him mope over that dead girl-"

"Her name was Rose."

"Right, well, she is toxic to Jack now," Frenchie shrugged, "He'd be better just moving on with his life. It all just came up in conversation."

"Stop meddling in my romantic affairs," Iris told him with a pointed look, "I certainly hope he isn't doing it just to appease you. I happen to think he's great and just want to spend more time with him. That's all."

"That's all?" Frenchie echoed with a snort, "No, you've finally found your Tom Sawyer, Becky."

"Oh, cut it out," Iris gave him a small push.

"We haven't talked about it in over a month," Frenchie told his sister, his shoes crunching over some fallen leaves, "Honestly, I thought he had forgotten all about it because he was not happy to hear what I had to say in the moment."

The duo walked in silence for a few moments, only the rustling of the trees to be heard. Iris tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and looked at Frenchie, squinting in the afternoon light, "You know it's none of our business, right?"

"What?" Frenchie glanced to her.

"Jack and his past life," Iris said, looking forward at the approaching path, "Whatever happened between him and Rose, whatever he witnessed on the Titanic... We can't force him to tell us. To re-live those memories. They're demons to him, Frenchie. He has to battle them alone sometimes."

"I work closely with the man," Frenchie shook his head, "It's in my best interest to know, Iris."

Iris stopped walking, staring after her brother who walked a few more paces before pausing and turning towards her, "Not in Jack's best interest. Only time heals wounds, Frenchie. And we all heal differently. You have to give Jack time. And besides, maybe this invitation is the beginning of his true healing process, where the scab finally heals."

Frenchie grinned, nodding his head, "Maybe you're right. Maybe he did listen to me?"

Iris rolled her eyes melodramatically and playfully punched Frenchie on the arm as the two continued home beneath the shade of the trees.

...

Tim guided Rose into his dark office on the twelfth level on a downtown skyscraper. Tim opened some of the curtains to allow some natural light in. The office was bordered by dark stained woods and had a thick dark green carpet. He had a large L-shaped oakdesk and that towards the windows. There were more leather chairs against walls and gathered towards his desk, many plants accenting the corners and making the room bright. Rose paused and looked out over New York City. Everything seemed so small and far away. Tim gestured her to seat herself and he leaned up against his desk, pressing his palms to the edge. Mechanically, Rose sunk into the chair in front of him, clutching her dress in her clenched fists.

Tim cleaned his glasses for a moment, putting them on the bridge of his nose before he began speaking quietly, "Now, Rose... I like to think I'm not an oblivious distracted man, but I can't pretend to be the best on picking up on signals," He licked his lips, his eye contact with her unwavering, "But I think there's something we need to discuss. And... it's what happened at my place."

Rose felt her heart thundering in her chest. Tim remained cool and collected as usual.

"I think, maybe, we progressed too quickly," Tim said softly, "And I'd hate to think I made you uncomfortable in anyway. Would you tell me if I did?"

Rose lowered her eyes for a second, "Tim, no. You didn't make me uncomfortable," Rose lifted her eyes slowly, "I just..." She snapped her mouth shut for a moment and pondered her words. Tim waited patiently, "I'm experiencing emotions I haven't felt in a while. I'm... in a way, still adapting to my new life as I know it. These feelings are just confusing and... overwhelming."

"Do you care to explain?" He asked, lowering himself into the chair beside her, reaching out to touch her arm.

Rose looked around the quiet office. The silence was nearly deafening, ringing in Rose's ears as she became acutely aware of it, "Tim, I'm from Philidelphia. And," She took a deep breath, willing herself to look at those hazel eyes, "Dawson is not my real last name."

"What is your real name?" Tim asked, cocking his head to the side.

"It's Rose DeWitt Bukater," She said, her breathing shallowing, "And I was engaged to a wallstreet tycoon by the name of Caledon Hockley."

"What...?" Tim slowly sat up straight, "I... I read about this story in the newspaper. Rose, I read about your death. I read about the speculation of Hockley's stake in the stock market. You're telling me it was you? You were the fiancée?"

Rose pursed her lips together and nodded gravely, looking down to her hands in her lap, "My father was Stephen DeWitt Bukater, the founder of the textile company DB and Co. I'm... I'm his only child. He died, the business went with him..." She let out a long sigh, her eyes still trained downwards as if she was ashamed, "And my mother sold me off to the first man willing to buy."

"How did you end up on the Titanic?" Tim asked.

"My mother, Cal, and I went on a tour of Europe at the end of 1911. It was kind of an early celebration before... before I became Rose Hockley," She shuddered at the thought and had to take a deep breath. She still didn't look to Tim, "And we were sailing back on the Titanic for the wedding."

"So... when you say you and your mother don't talk... it's because she thinks you're dead?" Tim was watching Rose closely, absolutely floored by what she was telling him.

"Yes, and I feel awful about it," A singular tear rolled off the end of Rose's nose, plopping onto her clenched hands, "Things were awful, Tim," She looked to him with a desperate hurt, "He was awful. Cal didn't care about me in the least. I was his golden ticket to inheriting his father's domain on wallstreet. I was nothing more than an arm decoration. I couldn't stand the thought of us being together... the way he talked to me, the way he treated me," Her eyes slowly gazed off into the distance at nothing at all while the tears flowed freely now, "... the way he touched me. It was... it was horrible, Tim. I had to get out. Things fizzled over on the Titanic. I tried leaving him. It was easy to disappear on a ship bursting at the seams with mania. The sinking was my way out."

Tim reached forward, brushing some curls from her pinched face, "You've had to go through so much. And you've just kept that bottled up this entire time?"

Rose quivered, pulling back from his touch slightly, "There was no one left to tell, Tim."

"Well, I'm here now," He gave her a soft grin, his thumb gently stroking her jaw, "Where'd you get the name Dawson from?" He asked in hopes of lightening the mood.

Rose felt her insides constrict for the slightest moment, "A book. It was the name of a hero..." She whispered, her lips barely moving.

Tim smiled, flattening his palm to her cool cheek. She allowed herself to melt into the touch, "And what did this hero do that was so great?" Tim whispered.

"Same old, same old," Rose shrugged, tears still in her eyes, "He saved the girl."