Chapter Fifteen
August 29th, 1913
New York City, New York
A knock on Rose's apartment door drew her from the Sherlock Holmes' novel she was viciously sucked into. The entire time she had been reading, she had pretended to be Sherlock's assistant, following him on all his crazy schemes, focused on nothing but the investigation at hand. She looked over her shoulder and furrowed her brow for a moment before she closed the book and crossed to answer the door.
Tim was standing there, smiling as normal, "Hey, you. How are you doing?" He strode past her into the apartment and glanced towards her pile of books that were always present. Tim paused and reached for the Sherlock Holmes book laying on the couch, "Did I interrupt? This is a great book, I read it a few months ago."
Rose grinned and closed the door now, coming to the side of the couch with Tim, "I was finally able to find a decently priced one at a re-sell store," Rose told him, "I've always wanted to read it."
Tim glanced to her for a moment, "I'll buy you the books."
"Gosh, please don't," Rose shook her head, "They're horribly expensive, Tim," She put her hands on her hips now, "And besides, your birthday is coming up in a few days. I should be getting you something, not the other way around."
"What? How did you know about my birthday?" Tim lowered the book.
"I asked your mother," Rose shrugged, crossing to the kitchen tile in her stocking feet, "Do you want some tea?" She called over her shoulder.
"Sure," Tim put the book back onto the couch and came into the kitchen, "So, what do you have in mind for my birthday?" He smirked, crossing his arms over his chest.
"It's a surprise," Rose told him, pointedly looking over her shoulder, "Don't expect much, by the way."
"Anything you do for me will be wonderful," Tim approached her from behind, gently looping his arms across her stomach, "Even if you just show up to my office and give me one of those smiles," He nudged his forehead into the bun on the back of her head.
Rose's heart was racing wildly in her chest. She gently gripped Tim's arm, relishing in the warmth he radiated. She tilted her head back to brush her forehead against him. She snickered, reaching her hand up now, "When is the last time you shaved?"
"Oh, you don't like it?" He laughed, rubbling his prickly jaw against her. Rose giggled, giving him a playful shrug. She continued on pouring their tea and slid a small rammican of sugar cubes to Tim, handing him a mug with a green stripe along the rim. Tim put one sugar cube in and stirred, while Rose added three, "Sweet tea, huh?" He said, "You're crazy."
"Hey, it tastes better this way," Rose said, watching her cubes dissolve in the steaming tea, "You're the one who likes two glugs of creamer and half a sugar cube in his coffee."
"Glugs?" Tim echoed, trying his hardest not to laugh, "Is that your unit of measurement for me at the diner? Is that why no other waitresses can do it right?"
"You're my customer always," Rose said, leaning her hip against the counter and holding her mug close, gently blowing steam away, "Doesn't matter what section you sit in."
"Well, lucky me, because I always have a great breakfast."
"Maggie said something about it being important you had a good breakfast," Rose arched her eyebrows as she took a drink of her tea.
Tim laughed sheepishly, "My sister's are a font of knowledge, aren't they?"
"Oh, you know," Rose furrowed her brow together, lowering her mug, "I don't think I asked why you were here intially. Anything going on?"
"No, no," Tim shook his head, "I was leaving work early and thought of you. Just wanted to drop by and see you. I haven't seen you outside of the diner in over a week. I just missed you, wanted to check in."
Rose nodded, casting her eyes down for a moment, "I'm not the best at staying in contact, am I? I have to use my landlord's phone and I feel like such a bother. I should get better at atleast sending a note or something, I'm sorry."
"I just don't want us to drift away, Rose," Tim told her, placing his hand on the counter, "You mean a great deal to me. I can't just not see you or talk to you. I'm involved now."
Rose felt faint for a moment after he said that to her. She thought her legs would give out as her body tingled, a chill creeping over her bones. Rose stared intently at Tim as he stood before her. But in the forefront of her mind, all she could see was Jack that fateful night, in his cotton vest and maroon shirt, edging towards her. Rose felt her breathing shallow.
"I'm sorry," was all Rose could manage to say.
"Rose, I don't think you've told me everything that bothers you," Tim said slowly.
Rose's green eyes darted to him, investigating him thoroughly, "Tim, I'm..." She lowered her eyes and sighed, shaking her head, "I told you when we started seeing each other, there are a lot of demons from my past, always creeping back up on me. I've made mistakes. Mistakes I think about every day," She clenched her hands for a moment and walked away from the counter, cradling her hand in her palm.
"Is this about Cal Hockley?" Tim asked, remaining in place.
Rose paused and slowly turned to face Tim again. She shook her head, "No. It's not."
"Then who? Your mother?" Tim pressed, eager to know what he could do for her.
"Not her, either," Rose lowered her eyes to the tile.
"Who?" Tim now crossed to Rose, placing both his hands on her shoulders.
"Me," Rose said, tears springing to her eyes, "It's about me, Tim. I don't accept who I am as a person. I wanted to be free from my old life only to fall into the same miserable trap! What was my grand escape for!? I'm just a waitress who lives in a small apartment. I'm just a speck of dust in this city."
"Rose, Rose..." Tim drew her into him, pressing his hands flat to her head and shoulders. Rose gave into her cries and wrapped her arms around Tim, "You shouldn't have to feel like that. You're not that at all," Tim told her, resting his chin ontop of her head, "You're the only person in this city I care about. Out of the thousands of them, you're the most important. We all have to start somewhere, right? I was a bus boy at a restaraunt while I was in law school," Tim tilted her back to look into her eyes, "This is just a precursor. Things will get better. I know they will."
Tim parted from her suddenly, walking into the living room and straight to her desk. Rose came to the edge of the tile, watching him with a perplexed look as he moved her desk weight and grabbed the stack of papers there, "Is this a finished short story?" He asked her.
"Uh, yes, but I haven't proof read it," Rose shook her head, "It's a rough draft."
Tim smirked, reaching for his briefcase by the coat wrack, "I have a client who works as a literary agent for a company. I'm giving this to him."
"What!" Rose nearly hit the floor. She staggered over to Tim and grabbed hold of his briefcase from his hand, hugging it against her, "No, no. Please don't. It's no good, just read it for yourself. I was just playing around with tone and flow."
"No, I'm taking it," He deftly removed the briefcase from her arms and grinned, gingerly tucking it away, "Like I said, we all start somewhere. You've always wanted to be an author, right? Well, everyone will know you had the willpower to pursue it while working as a waitress full-time."
Rose crossed her arms over her chest and looked up at Tim, "They're going to laugh and throw it straight in the bin, Tim."
"You don't know that," Tim leaned in towards her with his eyebrows arched, "Say they love it. Then what?"
"But they won't," Rose deadpanned.
"Say they do, though," Tim wrapped an arm around her shoulder, "Just imagine, seeing your name on the new release board outside the bookstore. Rose Dawson!" Rose giggled at the thought. Tim grinned and pecked her on the forehead, "Trust me, Rose. You'll mean something to this city, I promise."
Rose looked to him and smiled weakly, "I'm sorry..."
"You have nothing to be sorry for," He said, gently kissing her forehead again.
...
September 1st, 1913
New York City, New York
"Jack!" Frenchie sprang into the doorway to the backroom. Jack looked up from where he was crouched on the ground between paint cans, "I changed my mind on the violet. I was a light pink! Like blush!"
"What! Are you serious" Jack sighed, showing him the dark purple he had in a bucket in his hands, "I don't have anymore white, I'll have to go to the store."
Jack set the bucket down and reached for a rag, wiping his hands and following the frenzied Frenchie out to the main workspace. Iris was sitting on top of the table, just staring at the paintings. Frenchie marched up the scene of the girls on the hay cart, "Her shirt should not be purple. I think it would be too bold. She is not the main subject of the painting."
"So... her little sister is?" Iris asked, cocking her head to the side.
"No!" Frenchie turned towards Iris, "It's supposed to be the nature! So the little girl's shirt is yellow and the older one should have a light pink!"
"Fine, fine," Jack nodded, unrolling his sleeves and buttoning them at the wrist. He knew better than to try to question Frenchie, "I'll be right back. Do you need anything else, Frenchie?" Jack held his hand up towards him, "Take a moment and think. Any special brushes? Gloss? Anything?"
"No, no," Frenchie waved his hand dismissively, his eyes glued to the painting, "Just supplies to make the paint left on the list."
"Alright," Jack ducked under the worktable and reached for a small dark green lock box nestled in the back. He withdrew some money, sticking it in his pocket and stood up, dusting his pants off, "I'll be back in a bit."
"Want some company?" Iris asked, dangling her legs off the side of the table.
"Yeah, sure," Jack said, looking over his shoulder, "If you feel like hauling paint cans."
...
"We need all of these?" Iris asked, her face red and pinched as she hauled two paint cans beside Jack to the door of the studio. She set them down and let out a long huff, seating herself on the concrete amongst their haul. Eight trips later, they had accumulated over a dozen paint cans.
"Yup," Jack pulled his list from his pocket, examining it, "I think I have enough to mix everything without having to go back," After Jack tucked the list away, he felt something else in his pocket and withdrew the left over dollars he had from the purchase, "Hey, wanna go get ice cream?" He asked, holding the money up.
"Ice cream?" Iris looked up at him, "Where?"
"There's a creamery not far," Jack offered his hand out, "What? You gonna turn down free ice cream?"
Iris laughed, grabbing hold of his hand and allowing him to haul her to her feet.
...
September 3rd, 1913
New York City, New York
Rose sat outside on a bench near Tim's law office, simply watching the building. She had been there for nearly an hour, waiting for the moment Tim left to catch lunch. That's when she would spring. Meanwhile, she people watched. Several walked by, typically men in business suits. Occasionally there were women with frilly umbrellas walking by with their children. Rose readjusted herself, her spine begging for a break from the hard wood of the bench.
Suddenly, the light caught the movement of the glass door moving. Rose held her breath and sat forward. It was Tim. He had the newspaper jammed in his face as he set off down the sidewalk, probably to the nearest diner. Rose sprang to her feet and raced across the street, stepping onto the path beside him. Hanging on her arm was a picnic basket. She had spent all morning, and a good amount of money, on a nice lunch for them to have in a nearby park.
Rose continued behind him with a big grin, watching him walk without the slightest clue. He was going in the way of the park she had mind and she giggled to herself. He was falling right into her plan. Rose was feeling good the crisp bright day. She had awoken happy of the idea of it being the day Tim was given to the world. It felt good to be doing something for someone else for a change.
Finally, Tim came to stop at a street corner, glancing around. Rose came up on his side and gripped his arm, catching his attention. He turned towards her with his eyebrows arched, some brown hair falling across his forehead, "Hey, happy birthday," Rose said, leaning forward and pecking him on the lips, "Were you heading out for lunch?"
"Yeah," Tim nodded, now getting over his surprise. A grin spread across his face, "Would you like to join me?"
"I have a better idea," Rose now held the picnic basket up towards him.
Tim look to it and his smile got even bigger, "You know the way to a man's heart."
Rose laughed and took hold of his hand. They crossed the street and went to the closest park. It was quiet since it was the middle of the day. They picked a spot in the shade of a giant oak tree. Rose spread out a quilt she had brought with her and set the basket down. They seated themselves on either side of it.
"Well, I hope it all tastes good," Rose said, opening the basket, "I spent all morning working on it. So hopefully it paid off. But first," Rose raised a bottle of champagne out and passed him a flute glass, "A toast to your birthday. Would you like to pop the cork?" She grinned and handed him the bottle, which he gladly opened.
"Rose, wow," Tim shook his head as he filled their glasses, propping the bottle up in the basket, "I'm just blown away you've done this for me. Thank you. This is the best gift ever."
"Oh, come on," Rose laughed sheepishly, "You'll eat it and it'll all be gone."
"But," Tim held his glass up for a moment, "I got to enjoy it with you. My greatest gift."
Rose felt herself blush madly, her face growing warm beneath his soft look. She cleared her throat and lifted her chin and glass, "How old are you today, Tim?"
"Thirty-one," He said, "I thought thirty was scary. Thirty-one is a whole new world."
Rose chuckled at this, "Happy thirty-first birthday, Tim," They clanged their glasses together.
...
September 9th, 1913
New York City, New York
"I can't do it anymore," Frenchie sighed, tossing his art palette onto the table. He rubbed his eyes, uncaring of any paint on his hands, "Jack, it's nearly midnight. I gotta go home and sleep. If I do another paintbrush, my head is going to pop."
Jack looked down towards his boss from the ladder he was perched on, touching up the hay in the cart behind the little girls. He was completely unbothered by the hour. He often lost track of time and didn't keep the most scheduled routine of life. He shrugged and nodded, "Okay. I'll see you tomorrow?"
"I don't know," Frenchie sighed as he unbuttoned his dirty smock, discarding it in a chair. He ruffled his white undershirt briefly and turned back to Jack, "I think I need a day or so. You know, reflection time. I have to be sure we're using our time wisely."
"Don't you think it'd be wiser to keep painting so we don't fall behind?" Jack asked.
"You've said it before, great art can't be rushed," Frenchie called up to him, "Take the day for yourself, too. We've been working like crazy."
"Well, are you at least happy with the color of the girl's shirts?" Jack pointed towards them.
"Yes, yes," Frenchie nodded, putting his hands on his hips, "It'll be fine. Let's not think about it for a day, okay? Get some rest. Do whatever you need to. Good night, Jack."
"Night!" Jack called as Frenchie disappeared out the door. Jack did a few more brush strokes before he finally sighed and climbed down the ladder. He laid the ladder flat and tossed their palettes in the deep sink on the far wall. He glanced around the studio before he flicked the light off, heading up the dimly lit stairwell to his room. He kicked the door shut behind him, unclipping his suspenders and tucking his shirt. He ruffled his hair as he grabbed his cigarettes from ontop of his dresser. He reached up towards the ceiling, pushing open the hatch. He climbed up the creaky steps and stepped out onto the roof.
He shook his lighter, sparking a dying flame that was just enough to get the cigarette lit. The wind snagged the smoke away quickly as he exhaled, slowly wandering around the roof, looking towards the surrounding buildings. It was so quiet, Jack felt his ears ringing. He tilted his head back to watch the stars. The sound of the nearby river reminded him of that night of star-gazing on the Titanic. Jack paused, the wind blowing his bangs across his forehead. He had captured a shooting star that night, he was certain. She looked nearly angelic. When he had first seen her dangling off the back of the ship, he thought he was meerly imagining her. Her red hair was windblown and tangled, but glowed ferociously in the lit deck aboard the ship. Her skin looked like porcelain, gleaming, without blemish. Jack was convinced she was not really there until she looked at him with those piercing green eyes. They were so wet, she could have flooded the Atlantic Ocean. She looked so hurt. So desperate.
Jack squeezed his eyes shut, his cigarette dangling between his lips. He looked back to the stars with a look of hurt, "Why?" He whispered, his voice carried away into the wind. He lowered his cigarette and ground his teeth together for a moment, "Why her?" He said to the stars, "Why not me? Why couldn't you have taken me!?"
He threw his cigarette onto the roof and watched the wind sweep it off the side. Jack shook his head and kicked a nearby vent, letting out a ragged sigh, "I will never understand or accept that she had to die," Jack glanced around the vacant roof, "It should have been me."