First of all, I want to say thanks so much for the reviews. I've never published anything before, and it is really nice to have someone outside of your inner circle telling you, "Hey! You don't suck!" So thanks a lot more than words can say. :D
Secondly, I'd like you guys to take note of how I'm trying to develop the relationship (or lack thereof) between Rose and Ruth. I'm planning on manipulating it later on; using it as a plot device. That's all I'm going to say, but I'd like some feedback on how it's panning out. Is it realistic? Too tense? Too forced? Too cliched? Working out well? Thanks it advance; you guys are the best!
xoxo
Chapter Four
The Heller Art Gallery
Rose hadn't seen Caledon Hockley since she was thirteen years old. Back then, she had been afraid of him. When she was very young, she'd assumed he was in the Mafia, and even when she'd realized that he wasn't even Italian, it still made her uncomfortable to even think about him. He just didn't seem like a good guy. Apparently he'd been off touring the world for the last four years, and Rose couldn't help but hold on to a tiny hope that, if she had to marry him, he would have at least lightened up a bit. Seeing him for the first time in a long time made her severely disheartened. If anything, he was even more stuck up and creepy than he'd been before.
Now, as he kissed her hard on the cheek, it was all she could do not to grimace. Here was this guy, this creepy guy who was twice her age, trying to make her love him when she hadn't seen him since she was a little girl. To be honest, the first word that came to mind when she thought about him was 'pervert.' Psychopath, overly controlling, creeper and predator were also up there.
It only took her a few minutes of contemplation after her mother had dropped the marriage bombshell on her to realize that that's what had been being planned all along. It almost made her sick to think that two people whom she had trusted – well, not trusted, but not distrusted, either – had been planning and arranged life for her behind her back for years now. Almost as sick is Cal's smothering.
"How interesting is all this stuff, sweetheart?" he asked, clearly faking his enthusiasm. "Isn't it amazing?"
Rose wrinkled her nose at the weird sphere-type thing that stood in front of her. It was all sorts of different colours and splatters that seemed to form some sort of self-replicating pattern. She turned around to eye the classical paintings behind her. They were Picassos.
"I like those ones a lot better, to be honest," Rose said, gesturing to the hanging paintings. "That's what art is to me. Truth, but no logic."
Cal shrugged and peered at the inscriptions under the pieces. Unlike him, Rose had recognized them without reading the caption. "They're Picasso," he explained nonchalantly, as though Rose didn't already know that. "No," he said, turning back to the multi-coloured sphere, "this work here is much more interesting. See that pattern on the globe? It's a fractal. Do you know what a fractal is, sweet pea?"
Nodding, Rose said nothing. Of course she knew what a fractal was. What most people didn't realize about Rose was that she was intelligent enough to do anything she wanted in life. She had ended the eleventh grade with a 92% average and could have been the star of the senior volleyball team, if her mother had allowed her to play. According to her teachers, there wasn't an academic subject that she didn't have astounding aptitude in, but that's not what her mother saw, and clearly it wasn't what Cal saw, either. They looked at her and saw a future trophy wife, but that was the last thing she wanted to be. She could go on to be a mathematician, a doctor, a lawyer, an author, a dancer, and actress, an athlete... but as it stood, she was going to become a stay-at-mom with a husband who was thirteen years older than she. How frigging wonderful was that?
"You're quiet today, Rose," Cal said. "Is something bothering you?"
She was just about to open her mouth and say that he didn't even know her, and maybe she was just a quiet person (which was a lie) when her phone buzzed in her pocket. Without a word of apology to Cal, she whipped it out and read a text from her friend Mekyla. Ruth absolutely detested her daughter's addiction to texting, but in a strange way it was sort of her own fault. Ruth scheduled her daughter's days so tightly that she never really got time to hang out with her friends. It was a wonder that they even bothered texting her, since they never really got to meet up. At least they cared about how she was, unlike her mom.
With her thumbs going a mile a minute, she replied to Mekyla's message.
"Rose Elizabeth DeWitt Bukater!" her mother said through clenched teeth. "Put that thing away right this instant! I don't want to see it again until we get home!"
More out of fatigued resentment than actually feeling the need to listen to her mother, Rose rolled her eyes, obligingly hit the send button and placed her phone back in her pocket. Apparently cell phone use in public was wrong or something, even though that was the entire reason they were invented. It wasn't even like she was smoking or swearing or something, which were bad but would be completely her own prerogative if she wanted to partake in them. She was just talking to her friend!
"She knows," Cal explained, as though he had the right to speak for her. "It won't happen again, right sweet pea?"
How in the world did this man, this man who hadn't seen Rose in four years and who knew absolutely nothing about the person she was now, presume to speak and think for her? A sudden onset of absolute rage boiled so furiously in her blood that it surprised her. Cal wasn't even supposed to be here today. Ruth had promised Rose that it would just be the two of them, and that they would have a chance to talk about all of things that they never really got to otherwise. Rose wasn't an idiot- she knew that she and her mother never had and never truly would have a genuinely close relationship, and she wasn't about to pour out her heart and her soul in front of a woman who probably didn't even care about her. But at the same time, just talking to her, even a little bit, even if it was just about the final fitting for her gown for the debutante ball, was something. Something that didn't happen very often.
In fact, far from ever having had a long, heart-to-heart, mother-daughter conversation, Rose had been unable to go to her mother even when it had been absolutely necessary. She remembered being twelve and getting her period for the first time- oh, God, that had been an awful experience. She'd hid from her mother for as long as she could, because she knew how it was supposed to be between mothers and daughters when that time came around, and she couldn't bear facing the reality that it would not be like that for them. At first, she'd only told Mekyla, because they were best friends and, at twelve, people like to presume that their best friend knows everything. She was supportive and completely understood Rose's reluctance to speak to her mother, but she'd gotten hers about a month previously and was none too quick to remind her friend that that wasn't the sort of thing you could hide for very long.
It had lasted two days, and Ruth had been very nonchalant – almost cold – when her daughter finally told her.
"Well, you seem to be making out all right," she had said stoically. "You know, Rose, that this means you're not a little girl anymore."
It was probably right around that time that Ruth had started planning her daughter's eventual marriage to Cal. If she had been lying to Rose all of these years about her own future, then what was to stop her from lying about having a somewhat normal relationship for once, even if it was just for one afternoon? That was what Rose craved about all- a normal, loving mother who would be proud of her daughter as long as she was following her dreams. And those dreams had nothing to do with Cal.
For the first time in a year, Rose dared herself to think about her father for more than a fleeting moment. She allowed herself to wish he was still with her; to wish she could be with him. It was an odd sensation, really. The sensation of true loss. It perplexed her, to be honest.
"Excuse me mother," she said quietly. "I'm just going off to find a bathroom. Don't worry; I'll be back soon." Ha. That was a lie. Rose happened to know that up on the second floor, there was a cafe, and that was where she was headed to. She was sure her mother would have had something to say, but she turned on her heels and walked calmly through the crowd, distancing herself from Ruth as quickly as possible.
The cafe had a cute, quaint little vibe to it, and it was a nice place to think. But more important than what it had was what it didn't have: Ruth and Cal, the later in particular. Right now, he was the last thing Rose wanted around.
~.~
There truly are people in this world who were sent to the wrong address; who are living lives that are not the ones they were meant to be living. Bert Cartmell had to be one of those people. The director of the Heller Art Gallery, he must have had money oozing out of his pores and could have people running around at his every whim, but he didn't. He was a pleasant, jolly sort of guy who made you feel instantly at ease, which was good, considering how nervous Jack was. He'd never been in a place like this before- everything was expensive, antique, breakable or all of the above. Just breathing made Jack feel like he was violating a sanctuary.
"So, Mr Dawson," Bert said, his face fixed in a permanent, genuine smile, "we'd love to see you start working here by Wednesday. How does that sound to you?"
"That sounds excellent. I'll be here." Despite his fear of breaking something and getting sued, Jack couldn't wait to start work. He'd only been in the gallery for a little more than an hour, but he had already decided that it was the most amazing, magical place in the world. The walls were covered in classic paintings- Picasso, Monnet, Van Gogh... the whole building was a breathtaking masterpiece. In display cases were modern works of art which Jack had something of a hard time understanding. They were all three-dimensional objects splattered in paint or paper maché- not exactly his definition of art, but interesting nonetheless. Jack felt that he could literally spend a week in this place and never get bored.
"Well then, I'll look forward to seeing you," replied Bert, extending his hand.
Jack attempted to shake the man's hand, but Cora, who was perched in his arms, squirmed around restlessly and rubbed her eyes. If he freed one hand now, he probably would have dropped her. He nodded at Mr Cartmell instead, and turned to look at the little girl who was resting her head on his shoulder.
"Are you getting tired, Cora?" Jack asked, setting her gently down on her feet and shaking her father's hand properly.
As all small children do when asked if they're tired, Cora shook her head resiliently and stifled a yawn. "I'm not tired," she explained. "My eyes are just sore."
That excuse had never been known to work, especially on Tommy, who appeared to know Cora better than anyone else, a mystery which still puzzled Jack. He took Cora's hand in his and brushed her hair out of her face.
"C'mon, Cora. We all know better than that," he said, tickling his niece under her chin. "I think we best be gettin' home, if that's alright with your dad."
With the rebellious spirit that could only belong to a young child, Cora yanked her hand free from her uncle's and looked up at Jack and her father with those big, brown, puppy dog eyes.
"No way!" she exclaimed. "Can we at least go get something to eat first?"
Tommy shrugged, evidently not seeing a problem with the suggestion. He looked to his brother-in-law for approval, who nodded.
"That seems reasonable to me," he said. "Jack, Bert, would you care to join us?"
"Yes they would!" Cora exclaimed. "They definitely would. Right Jack?"
Bert laughed heartily at his daughter's comment. It appeared to Jack that he was quite used to his daughter's joyous spirit, which was quite the comfort. Although Mr Cartmell was a nice man who clearly loved his daughter very much, today had only served to deepen Jack's worries that Cora depended more on her uncle than her parents. During the rare instances that she hadn't been in Jack's arms, Cora had spent the time holding Tommy's hand rather than her father's. When something excited her, it was her Uncle Tommy who she pointed it out to. Cora's family life was a mystery that Jack was absolutely determined to figure out.
"I'd love to," he replied, "if it's all right with your father."
Looking at his watch, Bert said, "I've got about fifteen minutes. Sounds good to me."
Maybe it was that. Maybe Cora was one of those unfortunate kids who got scheduled into their parents' work lives. It would be hard for such a child to feel truly loved and happy. Ever since he could remember, Jack had wanted to change somebody's life... just one person. Just to make them truly happy. Maybe his chance was coming.
Cora jumped back into Jack's arms, and the pair followed Bert and Tommy up the steps to the cafe on the second level of the gallery. They had almost reached the top of the winding staircase when, from the corner of his eye, something flaming red caught Jack's attention. At first he thought it might have been some sort of painting, but he was made to feel like an absolute idiot when he realized that, far from a painting, the work of art in front of his eyes was a woman... the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was so stunning that he couldn't help but stop in his tracks and stare.
Her hair was the colour of a brilliant rose; her skin like cream and her eyes like dancing emeralds. She must have been cut from the same stock as Cora's family, maybe even better, because her white jeans were clearly designer and the earrings and necklace that she wore looked as though they'd cause her to drown the moment she set foot into a swimming pool. All that aside, though, it was the look on her face that captivated Jack the most. Confusion, pain, anger... so many emotions painted plainly on her angelic face. Jack could only wonder what lay beneath it.
"Eh, Jack!" Tommy called. "What are ye- oh, Lord..."
Jack barely heard him. The woman turned her head for a moment, just for a moment, but Jack couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, she had been looking at him. Moments later, a much older man walked up behind her and grabbed her by the arm, but she pulled away from him. To Jack, it appeared as though they were arguing. Poor girl. He could only imagine what sort of turmoil she was going through at the hands of this man. Anger clearly rising within the woman, she turned on her heels and stomped off, leaving Jack staring into thin air.
"Forget it, boyo," Tommy said. "You'd as like have angels fly out o' yer arse as get next to the likes o' her."
Shaking his head as he brought himself back down to earth, Jack ignored Tommy's words and continued making his way up the stairs, balancing the near-fast asleep Cora in his arms. He tried to put her out of his head, but no matter how valiant his efforts, there was something about the look on her face that pulled him in and wouldn't let him go. She was like a lost work of art; a Picasso trapped inside a museum of paint-splattered spheres. He knew those emotions all too well, and a girl as beautiful as she didn't deserve them in the least.
