"Why did everyone get quiet when I said my name?" It was the third time Eva had asked since she and Dylan started the walk back to her apartment. Each time she asked he quickened their pace and found something else to comment on. "Dylan!" She grabbed his arm. He stopped. "What aren't you telling me?" He sighed. "It's a long story, and I don't even know how true it is."

"What are you talking about?" She jammed her hand in her purse and began searching for a cigarette. "What could my name have to do with anything?" He held out a cigarette. "Here,"

he said. "Just take this one." When it was lit she demanded, "So, explain." He lit a cigarette of his own. "Look, I can't really. It's this weird thing my family has, well, it's just one of their weird things—"

"I like them," she said. "They're nice. They could be a lot worse. Believe me."

….

Dylan didn't bother to knock on Lily's door. She never locked her apartment. There were always comrades needing a place to sleep or stray people she picked up on the street that she invited to stay indefinitely and locking the door would mean having a key for all of them, so after the first ten keys she gave up. "Lily!" he called. The group gathered around the kitchen table glanced up from their notebooks. He ignored them. "Water-Lily Dawson!"

The door at the end of the hall opened and a redhead appeared. "What?" she said calmly. Lily stepped out into the hall. "Why are you bellowing like that? Come in here and talk like a sensible person."

Dylan rolled his eyes. "You're one to talk about sensible," he shot back. But he followed her into her room anyway.

"This is about tonight, isn't it?" she said, pushing her window open. She sat down in the small seat next to it. "Of course it's about tonight," he said. "Why didn't you tell—"

"I tried! You wouldn't listen. You didn't want to hear any more, remember?" she reminded him. She lit a cigarette. "I knew what would happen. Why do you think I said that about her telling stories? I was trying to avoid it." He dropped into her desk chair with a sigh.

"What did you tell her?" Lily asked.

"Nothing," he said. "What could I tell her?"

"The truth, maybe?"

"And what is that?"

"You know as well as I do. When—"

"Mom and Dad met she was engaged to someone else," Dylan interrupted. "I know. I heard the story too, but I don't see what the big deal is if she happens to have the same last name as that guy."

"She doesn't just happen to have his name. She's his daughter. That's what I kept trying to tell you." She stubbed her cigarette out on the windowsill. "You know how they get when all of that is mentioned."

"Yeah, I know." Dylan grabbed a cigarette out of the pack on the desk.

"Those aren't cheap, you know," Lily said.

"Yes, they are. They're the only thing left everyone can afford," he said. "And if you didn't give all your money to the Party you would be able to share," he added teasingly. She rolled her eyes but smiled. For a second it felt like they were children again sharing one of their secrets, but then it was over and they were adults staring at each from opposite sides of a chasm.

"You haven't heard the whole story," Lily said. "There's a lot more to it than what they told us." She motioned with her head. "Look in the middle drawer." Dylan opened the middle drawer and pulled out a stack of newspaper clippings. "What is this?" he said. "Debutante dies in tragic sinking," he read. "Lily, what the hell is this?"

"Keep reading. And take a look at the photograph while you're at it."

Dylan's eyes widened. "That's mom!" It was Rose like he had never seen her. Her hair was piled on top of her head. A diamond necklace glittered at her throat. Her dress was stunning; even in the grainy newspaper picture the amount of work and money that had gone into making it was obvious. She was on the arm of an equally well dressed man. She wore a large diamond ring on her left hand. "Rose Dewitt-Bukator and fiancé Caledon Hockley at the Vicomte de Chagny's annual Christmas ball," he read quietly. He looked at Lily. "This is the guy Mom was engaged to before she met Dad?"

Lily nodded. "That's him. And from what I've heard he's a right royal bastard."

"But wait, this says she died on the Titanic when she was seventeen. That would have been April 14th, 1912. She married Dad on April 20th, 1912 in New York, so obviously she didn't die." His forehead wrinkled in confusion. "That was the ship they met on? They got married after six days?"

"Eight, actually. They met on the 12th."

Dylan's head was spinning. "Okay. They met on this ship. It sank. And everyone thought she was dead after that?"

"Pretty much, yeah. Only a lot more happened. I heard the story same as you, but one time I heard them talking about this letter Mom had gotten from her mother. She had sent a letter back to her unopened, and I think Mom was upset about it."

"You heard something, and you didn't tell me?" Dylan gaped at her. "Why wouldn't you tell me?" He was more upset at discovering Lily had kept a secret from him than discovering Rose's mother, whom they had always been told was dead, was in fact alive.

"We weren't talking then. I don't remember why, but we weren't so I didn't tell you. Anyway, you remember that week I spent in Boston circulating petitions?" He nodded. "Well, I was actually in Philadelphia." Seeing his confused look she explained, "I stole the letter after they went to bed. Her mother lives in Philadelphia, and so—" She shrugged. "I went. I was curious."

"Find out anything?"

"Well, she wouldn't see me at first, but finally after hours and hours of sitting on her front steps I got her to let me in." Her eyes widened. "Dylan, you should've seen some of the stuff she had! It was a bourgeoisie nightmare!"

"Finish the story," he said impatiently.

"Alright, fine. I found out the reason she and Mom don't talk is because Mom didn't marry that guy in the picture."

"Eva's father."

"Right. He was this rich as hell steel tycoon, and her mother couldn't get her married to him fast enough which was working out fine until Dad showed up."

"And she married him instead."

"And he, in the words of our darling maternal grandmother, 'was a worthless vagabond who seduced her daughter and convinced her to give up everything.' I'm not sure, but I think she didn't quite see the romantic side of a socialite running away with a penniless artist."

"But what does Eva's father have to do with this?" Dylan asked.

"He didn't quite see the romantic side of it all either."

…..

Rose carefully removed the pins from her hair and laid them on the table. She smiled as the sound of Jack's step reached her ears. "Need help?" he asked, placing a kiss on the top of her head. He sounded cheerful, but she could tell part of it was forced. She didn't blame him. "Please?" she said, turning toward him. They both knew she didn't need help; she hadn't needed help taking care of basic tasks for years. "You're thinking about tonight, aren't you?" she said as he began brushing her hair.

"How'd you know?"

"I can feel you thinking," she replied.

He leaned down and kissed her cheek. "Where would I be without you?" She just smiled. "I'm not really sure to think," he admitted. "That was…" He gave a short laugh. "I'm not sure what the hell that was."

"Neither am I. You know, I never thought of him as having a wife and child," she said. "In my mind he's still just as he was that night. I—I never thought about him going on with life. Isn't that strange?"

"He probably still thinks of us the same way." Jack set the brush down on the table. He ran his fingers through her curls. Those hadn't changed. "I can't believe his daughter is so…" He searched for the right word.

"Nice?" Rose offered. She stood up and crossed the room. "I think that's what shocked me the most." She stepped out of her shoes. "Could you unbutton this?"

"Sure."

"She and Lily go to Wellesley together," Rose said pensively. "And Dylan is in love with her."

Jack paused, his hands on the last button. "You think?"

"Couldn't you tell? It was obvious just in the way he talked."

"And the way he looked at her." He undid the last button. She slipped out of the dress and tossed it aside. "I missed, didn't I?" she said.

"You weren't aiming for anything, Rose Petal."

"Was it that obvious?" she said, laughing. Her tone became serious. "We'll have to see him again. You will, that is," she added. "I'll just have to hear him, and if he gets too close, smell him." Jack pulled her into a hug. "There won't be any getting close to you at all," he promised. She laid her head on his chest. She breathed deeply; the air was filled with the scent of him—charcoal and paper, a hint of soap, cigarettes, something that reminded her of blooming trees, and underneath all of it there was a scent she never could identity except as him. "I'm not worried about that," she said. "It's been twenty years. I don't want to see him, not for a moment, but I'm not the least bit afraid of him." She tilted her head up. "You're worried."

"He won't like this," Jack said. "You know that."

"I know, but if she wants—it isn't up to him. Or us, for that matter. It's up to them."

Jack cupped her cheek. "I had this thought tonight about what would've happened if you hadn't married me," he said softly. She kissed his palm. "But I did.," she whispered. He didn't say anything; he didn't have to. She could tell what he was thinking by the way his hand felt against her face. His fingertips gently stroked her cheek before his hand dropped to her waist. He pulled her closer. She was unbuttoning his shirt even before their lips met.

…..

Eva was already sitting in her usual chair, a steaming cup of black coffee raised to her lips when Dylan came in. "I wasn't sure if I'd see you today," he said, sitting down across from her. "Why wouldn't you see me?" Her tone was blank, but her eyes laughed above the rim of her cup. She took a sip; it burned going down, just the way she liked it.

"Maybe because of last night," he said. "Things didn't end that well."

"Things didn't end so badly," she said. Her mouth turned up in a small smile. "I had a wonderful time." Dylan's heart fluttered in his chest. Suddenly self-conscious he ducked his head. "I'm glad," he said. "I wanted you to like them."

"What are we talking about?" Lily let her bag slam into the floor. She dropped into the chair next to Eva. "The superiority of the upper classes," Dylan said, shooting her a look. She ignored it. "Toast them while you can," she said. "They won't be around much longer. Not that there are many left," she added after a moment. "The Crash took out most of 'em." Dylan stole a glance at Eva; if she was bothered by Lily's comment she didn't show it. She said that on purpose, he thought. But that's Lily, plunging ahead and damn the awkwardness.

"I saw Mom and Dad off this morning," Lily said as a waitress set a cup of coffee in front of her. She reached for the sugar. "They said they'll call when their train gets in."

"They left already?" Eva said, a trace of disappointment in her voice. "We're going out there in a few months," Dylan said. "You could come along."

Her eyes lit up briefly. "That would be strange, wouldn't it?" she said. "Having me along?"

Dylan shook his head. His green eyes held her violet ones. "I can't think of anything I'd like better."

"I can," Lily said. "Some milk. This coffee tastes like evil."

….

"When are you going to ask her?" Dylan ignored his sister's voice and kept drawing. "C'mon," Lily said, laying her hand in the middle of his paper. "We both know you want to. You invited her to Christmas. How many people get invited to Christmas? How many people get invited to anything?"

"Get your hand off the paper."

"Answer me."

He glared at her. "Fine. Say that's what I've been thinking. Say that is what I want. It doesn't mean I can do it."

"Why not? You think she'll say no?" He avoided her eyes. "Dylan Monet!"

"What?" he snapped.

"Are you serious? You really think she doesn't want that too? Have you been watching what I've been watching? Were you there last night? Or this morning? Or for the past year?"

"No, actually I was sailing down the Rhine with a pack of bourgeoisie," he said drily.

"Well, while you were doing that the rest of us were watching Eva fall in love with you."

"You really think she loves me?" Dylan smoothed his paper. He capped his pen and dropped it in his pocket.

Lily watched him, shaking her head. "You say that like you don't know what it looks like when you see it."

…

Santa Monica

Three Days Later

From the street the house was almost invisible, and in fact it wasn't exactly reachable from the street. A stone path, laid by Jack the summer after they bought it, led through a garden and up to the door. Roses, once carefully tended by Lily and now left to their own devices, climbed the walls. A set of French doors led from Jack and Rose's bedroom in the back down to the beach.

"It smells the same," Rose said happily. Jack finished opening the last window. "It looks the same too," he said. "Except for the dust cloths everywhere. Those kind of make it look haunted." Rose rolled her eyes. "You know ghosts are opaque," she remarked.

"I know the ghost we saw that time was, but these could be a different breed entirely."

"Oh, really?"

He enveloped her in his arms. "Really." Their lips met in a soft kiss. "Happy?" he said, cradling her face. She kissed his palm. "Ecstatic." Blindness couldn't stop her eyes from sparkling. "Can we unpack tomorrow? I hear the ocean calling." He pulled her in for another kiss. "Of course we can."

Swimming was one of the few things Rose hadn't mastered. It wasn't something she could feel her way through, and as much as she loved listening to the ocean—especially at night when there was nothing but the waves in one ear and Jack's heartbeat in the other—it did nothing to help her know where she was. But that didn't stop her from running into it, curls flying behind her, shrieking with laughter. Jack followed close behind, his arms outstretched and ready to grab her.

Rose stopped when the water became waist deep. "It's so warm," she said, tilting her head toward the sun. "If I hadn't felt it myself I wouldn't believe an ocean could be this warm." Jack's arms snaked around her from behind. "It's nice," he agreed. He pressed his face into her hair; the scent of lavender filled his next breath. She covered his hands with hers. "Does it look the way it sounds?" she asked.

"How does it sound?"

"Beautiful and blue—like your eyes."

"It is beautiful. The water's so clear you can see straight to the bottom. Fish keep swimming around us. There aren't any big waves, just a buncha small ones crashing against the rocks."

"I think that's what I hear. What else?"

"There are some people down the beach giving us funny looks."

She laughed. "Tell me about them."

…

"You awake?"

Rose murmured something in reply. She rolled onto her side and threw an arm across him. "Guess not," Jack said, breaking into a smile. He lightly kissed her eyes. They fluttered weakly but remained closed. He brushed her curls away from her face. Her skin glowed in the light from the full moon. He wished there was some way he could capture the way she looked at that moment, but no drawing or painting, no matter how good, would ever fully capture her. He got snatches of her but never the whole thing.

"That's absurd," she said the last time he showed her a drawing. "Look at this! It's perfect!" She had snatched it from his hands. "Jack, how can you not see how gifted you are?" He moved to take the drawing back. "It's not that good," he said. "I've done better ones." She held the paper out of his reach. "It's beautiful. Tell me you see that." That had been the last time he showed her a drawing. After that he hadn't drawn anything for almost two years.

With a heavy sigh he pulled her closer. "I'm sorry, Rose Petal." He kissed her eyelids again; it was a long time before he moved away.

Wellesley

Eva paused, her hand on the doorknob. She didn't have to go in; no-one had seen her yet. It would be nothing to drop her keys back into her bag, go back down the stairs, and walk the four blocks to the dinner she had declined an invitation to. The dinner Dylan had asked her to. Dylan. His image filled her mind, the soft blonde hair he never combed, the green eyes that always brightened just for her, the mouth—Stop it. She shook her head, banishing all thoughts of him. She couldn't go, not unless she wanted a repeat of what had happened the last time she accepted a dinner invitation from him. With a sigh she pushed the door open and went inside.

The apartment was quiet, the front room dark. She checked her watch. It was only six p.m., but the darkness could only mean her mother was in bed. The sound of glass clinking in the distance signaled her father's location. Quietly, she hurried across the apartment—not that there was much to hurry across; it was only four rooms—clutching her books to her chest, Dylan's latest drawing tucked safely inside a copy of Mrs. Dalloway. She had just reached her door when her father's voice broke the silence.

"Eva."

She stopped, one foot still in the air. "Yes?" she said, turning around slowly. Cal stood in the doorway that led to the kitchen, one hand in his pocket, a glass of amber liquid and ice in the other. His dark eyes were clear. It was either his first drink or he had eaten something for lunch. His clothes were rumpled as though he had slept in them, and he probably had. Once he had abhorred the very idea of an afternoon nap. Now that seemed to be one of his chief occupations. His hair was swept back, held down by a palmful of pomade. It shone in the dim light from the kitchen, more jet black onyx than hair. As a child Eva had often spent hours in front of the mirror trying desperately to transform her unruly tresses into the same slick onyx as her father's.

"Have you eaten?" he asked. She shook her head. "Well, I made something if you would care to join me." His mouth turned up just slightly at the corners The smile was as awkward as the silence that was sure to fill the air between them until she escaped to her room—to her sewing, her books, to run her fingertips over Dylan's drawing and fall asleep with it beneath her hand.

…..

"How was the party?"

Dylan flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette before answering. "Dull. I couldn't remember why I was there after ten minutes," he replied.

Eva rolled her eyes. "Sure it was," she said, taking a sip of her coffee.

"How can you drink it like that?" he asked, eying the steam that rose from her mug. "This is the only way I can drink it," she said. "Doesn't it hurt your throat?" She sighed happily. "That's what I like, the burn. It doesn't hurt, not like you think. It feels nice…warm." She smiled sheepishly. "Like getting a hug."

Dylan returned the smile. "I could just hug you. Save you the quarter."

Eva arched an eyebrow. "I think your other girlfriends would have a problem with that."

"What other girlfriends?"

Pink dimes spread across her cheeks. She knew she was the only one, had known for months, but he had never said it before. Do it. Do it now or you won't. She sucked in her breath. Her hands were cold despite the steaming mug between them. "Dylan, would you….would you like to meet my family?" She studied the ceiling's reflection in her coffee and counted the seconds that passed. A minute went by. Two. He isn't saying anything. Why isn't he saying anything? Hesitantly she raised her head. He was staring at her with an unreadable expression. "If you don't want—" she began.

"I'd love to."

"You would?" Relief thickened her voice. "I have to warn you. They're nothing like yours. I don't think my parents have talked to each other as much in ten years as yours do in ten minutes."

Dylan chuckled. "Comparing them to my parents is a bit unfair. They aren't like anyone else I've met so far."

"I've never met anyone like them either. They were like something out of a fairytale." Dylan laughed. "I'm serious!" Eva insisted.

"I know you are," he said. "It's just when we were kids, Lily and me, our dad used to tell us about how he met our mom as though it had been a fairytale." A faraway look came into Dylan's eyes. "He was the artist who saved the princess from the prince."

"I thought a prince was supposed to save the princess?"

"Not in this story. She wasn't a regular princess he always said. She was a gypsy princess that had gotten mailed to the wrong address."

"How did they really meet?"

Dylan hesitated. Should he tell her? There was a chance she already knew. But what if she didn't know? I'll tell her. Just not now. "They met on a ship."

…..

Lily crossed her arms over her chest. "Are you serious?"

Dylan ignored her. He shifted a stack of books from one side of her desk to another. "Don't you have any more cigarettes?" he asked irritably.

"In the drawer. What the hell are you doing?"

He turned around, a lit cigarette between his lips. "Smoking."

She exhaled loudly. "I can see that. And you know that's not what I meant. What are you doing having dinner with Eva's family?"

"She had dinner with ours."

"Ours have never tried to kill anyone."

"That was twenty years ago. And besides, he married someone else. I hardly think the man's still harboring a burning desire for revenge," he responded.

"Even if he isn't I'm sure he won't want you marrying his daughter," Lily pointed out.

"So you won't come with me?"

"Give me one of those." She snatched a cigarette from the pack in his hand. "Why do you need me?" she said, lighting it. "Most men don't take their sisters along when they're getting ready to ask a woman to marry them, you know."

"Most women don't drop out of college to be fulltime revolutionaries," he said. Lily's eyes narrowed. "You haven't told them yet, have you?" he added. She studied her nails. "I didn't think so. You have to tell them. They'll figure it out eventually."

She didn't look up. "Yeah, I know. It's just…"

"What?"

"You didn't want to go, and I did. And now I've quit. I gave my scholarship money to someone else. How do you think they'll take that?"

"They've never told us what we had to do in life. You know that."

"Yeah, I know, but still…." She sighed. "I'll tell them about this when you tell them you're marrying Eva."

"I'm assuming that's a yes to coming with me next week," Dylan said triumphantly.

Santa Monica

Rose stretched her arms above her head until the joints popped. Satisfied she smiled and let her arms drop. "It'll hurt later if you keep doing that," Jack said. His footfalls were soft on the thick rug. His feet were bare; she could tell. His feet were always bare when he worked. It was easier to wash paint off skin than shoes he said. Rose turned toward the sound of his voice. "You always say that."

"And you keep doing it anyway," he pointed out. A smile lurked at the edge of his words. She heard it and her smile widened. "Are you still working on that set piece?" she asked.

"Just finished it."

"How did it turn out?"

He shrugged. "It's alright, I guess."

"You would say that about the Mona Lisa if you had been Da Vinci."

"He probably did say that a few times. What were you doing?"

Rose held out her hand. "Come here." His fingers curled around hers. "Okay," she said. "Stand in front of me." He hesitated. "Go on," she urged. She wrapped her arms around his middle. She pressed her face into his back. The thin cotton was soft; beneath it she could feel his muscles moving as he breathed. He was so warm, so solid. "Do you see it?" she asked, lifting her head just enough to keep her voice from being muffled.

"I see it." There was a trace of awe in Jack's voice. Through the doors that led from their bedroom he saw the ocean. It shimmered in the afternoon sun. "It's like someone dropped a bag of sapphires," he said. "That's what I thought it would look like," she said softly, "from the way the sun felt."

He reached behind his back and pulled her around. "Let's go see it up close," he suggested.