(Rose)
She couldn't stop talking about him. John Calvert. As though she were taking the role of matchmaker. She knew I was not looking yet. I don't think I was quite ready to put myself into a relationship again. Her description of him made me certain that I wasn't. Even the way she described his drawings. He was too much like Jack. It was too soon, even these three years later.
She said he was going to be back. He had promised to visit whenever he was able and volunteered to frame the image he had drawn of her. Probably just a shameless, self promotion. Some people would do near anything for it. It was nice though, that she had found another person to visit.
I had met her in one of the shelters after we had docked in New York. They had a few in the area, helping survivors get back on their feet. Get started in this new world. So many had lost loved ones, support, some carried their lives with them on that boat, and lost most if not all of it. Abigail was one of those.
Her son was traveling with her. He had found a job in the city and decided it was worth the move from England. He was all she had. She was given a place on a lifeboat. He was not.
She was so strong despite her loss. There was a comfort she gave to me that I imagine can only be shared by others like us. For a long time we discussed the past, careful to avoid our seaworthy tales. I was the first to break, tears relentlessly falling as I recounted the details of that night, give or take some crucial elements. All that was important was she knew I had loved. I recalled the good times, none of the adversity we had struggled through in our short time together. As I told of his passion for drawing, recounting my embarrassment of learning one model's profession, we both had a needed laugh. I tried not to cry.
I think I hid it well as Abigail remembered her own portrait and immediately tried to compose herself as she stood. I insisted there was no hurry, but did no more good than telling a bird to walk instead of fly.
"Here, you really must see." She moved with what might have been once graceful strides, had age and the limp not gotten in the way, holding out the picture. "I got a frame from Julia on the first floor. Her husband is rather good with widdling and they often have people offer to buy them. But can you imagine, she refused to let me pay. Stubborn girl, lovely in every other sense, but stubborn."
The frame was relatively simple. The wooden texture was smooth as I took it in my hand. I turned it to examine the picture, determined to be a firm critic of the most-likely amateurish image. It was in that second that I lost my grip, the framed art clashing to the ground. The glass shattered loudly, startling Miss Abby, yet I hardly noticed the sound. It took a minute to realize I had stopped breathing.
"Rose?" The voice sounded distant. My thoughts sped on. It couldn't possibly be…
"Dear? What's wrong?" The worried tone drew my wide-eyed attention. I couldn't speak. The coincidences were too much.
Abigail's focus was on me, not the broken gift on the ground. I quickly stooped to pick it up once more. I think a piece of the glass bit into my finger. I muttered an apology as I quickly ran to the door and out into the hall. I had to know.