The several hundred or so people on the tropical paradise among a glowing green Sea all came out in force, rolling out a somewhat shabby red carpet along the dock, and leading onto the beach. From there, it was just a small walk up a steep cobbled road and then it levelled out into a Town courtyard, home to a sea shell covered Church, picturesque houses and a restaurant. Once Jack had blown his whistle and alerted the others of the arrival, he was surrounded by drooling men and excited women, pushed out of the way and screamed at by fellow comrades as they raced down to the beach. Eventually, Jack was at the back of the adoring swarm, and instead of trying to see the woman off the boat, he left it to the others to do that. He didn't exactly want to see the women perform, but if he could at least see them onto the dock safely the he'd be happy. But getting through that mob would be impossible, and his friends looked eager to get their hungry hands on the ladies before anyone.
Rose watched from the bow of the yacht as throbs of men, some wearing shirts and shorts, others wearing only shorts, some wearing only shirts, but all of them tanned, and strong, and handsome. She waved a delicate hand and smiled as their faces came into view, and the yacht was near enough to the dock for their voices to be heard, each voice distinguishable. Emmanuelle jumped up from her towel and raced along the deck, nearly knocking Rose overboard as she jumped up onto the rail and raised her arms majestically, sailing forth like a flawless, dark haired mermaid attached to the front of a pirate ship. When she appeared, showing more flesh than Rose, a deafening cheer rang out from the shore, and Rose sat down again, feeling somewhat overshadowed by her noticeably more petite counterpart. Rose was not fat or out of shape in any way, but compared to Emmanuelle, Rose Calvert looked what she called, "well fed."
The oldest married couple on the island, Mr and Mrs Tripoli, who had been happily married for 52 years, greeted the two radiant women off of the yacht and welcomed them to the heavenly Greek Island. Desdemona Tripoli was an olive skinned, white haired woman with ancient, wrinkled skin and fragile hands. She handed each girl a bouquet of flowers picked from their garden, and kissed their cheek. She was 73 years old and had lived on this island her whole life, marrying Demetrius when she was 21. Her husband hugged both women heartily, smiling like a proud father as he welcomed them ashore, his dark grey hair, white side burns, and tanned, weather beaten skin looking remarkably youthful for a man of 75 years. His wife had not been well recently, and although she was younger, her age was showing.
"Thank you for gracing our island!" Mr Tripoli exclaimed with a prominent accent, clearly this was one English sentence he had rehearsed the night before.
"It's our pleasure, Sir, truly." Rose replied modestly, shaking his hand. Before jumping off of the yacht, Rose had adorned a shawl and her hat, hiding most of her bikini, whereas Emmanuelle had no sense of bashfulness, and walked along the dock ahead of Rose in the skimpiest bikini Rose had ever seen, tan lines showing, waving to the men on the beach like a model on a catwalk. Rose rolled her eyes. This was going to be a long week.
"You will both be staying with us in our home, right on top of the Island." Frail old Desdemona, who spoke much better English then her other half, pointed a shaky hand towards the sweeping green tropical trees that spiralled up around a volcano type mountain, shading pathways, masking century old homes, coming to rest on top of the Island like swirls on a wedding cake, the 52 year strong bride and groom placed neatly on top in a beautiful pearly-white villa.
"Your home looks lovely, Mrs Tripoli, and thank you ever so much for having us... but if you don't mind me asking, how do you manage to get all the way up there?"
Mr Tripoli chuckled loudly, and turning around, he pointed to the end of the dock. There, on the edge of the dock where the wooden planks ended and the sand began, stood a sturdy looking grey donkey with a cart attached to his back.
Rose giggled as the donkey acknowledged its owner and snorted, stomping the ground almost excitedly. "Oh I see! Does he have a name?"
"Agnes." Demetrius beamed proudly.
"It's a she? Oh well I do apologise, Agnes." She waved at the donkey as it chewed on something, a carrot perhaps.
"When you get old, you find new ways of living. Demetrius and I ran up that mountain 52 years ago. Then he would carry me, and now Agnes carries us both. Time may change people, but time can never change love. True love is forever." Desdemona spoke softly, and this unexpected outburst of beautiful wisdom made Rose stop and stare in admiration, her wise words striking an unknown chord with Rose. Just then, she held out a hand for Rose, and humbled, Rose took her hand. Demetrius left the two women to walk towards the beach, running over to the rowdy soldiers who were already surrounding Emmanuelle like lions after finding a carcass.
"It is beautiful here Mrs Tripoli, nothing like California." Rose gazed around her, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply, warm, crisp sea air filling her lungs. No sound or smell of traffic, no graffiti covered alleyways, no homeless souls who travelled to Hollywood to pursue their dreams and lost it all. Just sun, sand and sea. Perfection.
"It is all I have ever known, and all I want to know. I was born here, in that very house. It has been in my family for generations."
Suddenly, a loud cheer from the soldiers made Rose and Desdemona both turn their heads in surprise, and they saw Emmanuelle rip off her bikini top and dive into the crowd of grinning, drooling men.
"I'm sorry about her." Rose said, her cheeks burning.
"She wild I see." Mrs Tripoli
"Wild is one word for it." Rose could think of several more, but they were perhaps less tasteful.
The elderly woman sensed something in Roses' voice and looked at her as they continued to walk. "You have your differences?"
Rose wasn't expecting her to realize this so quickly, but Desdemona was a wise woman, and Rose had realized this quickly too. "I guess you could say that. We just have different views on life."
"You are both cabaret dancers, yes?"
"I played one in a movie, but she has been one in real life for many years. Off screen she has the confidence to do all this!" She gestured with distaste to her friend as she paraded her half naked body across the dock, Demetrius clapping and presenting her like a Magicians glamorous assistant.
"You only have the confidence to be someone else on screen?"
"I guess you could say that, yes. I only change who I am when I have to, and right now I'm Rose."
Desdemona smiled very warmly, and gripped Rose's hand tighter. "I like Rose. I like Rose very much."
"Thank you, Mrs Tripoli."
"Please, call me Desdemona."
"Desdemona." It was such a beautiful name. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I love performing on stage. It is a wonderful song, and a brilliant routine. It makes me feel so alive! People think I'm this delicate little flower which I'm not."
"Rose's are not delicate, not at all. A rose is one of the only flowers that can make you bleed if you hold it the wrong way. And they have so many petals, so many layers. There is more to a rose than meets the eye."
Rose looked at this old woman who she had only known for a matter of minutes, and already this woman seemed to know how Rose ticked. It was extraordinary. Rose felt like spilling her heart out to this mysterious lady with the trusting brown eyes and flowing white hair. But the more Rose thought on this, the more she wondered, "What do I need to spill from my heart? I'm happy... aren't I?"
However, their conversation was cut short. They both looked over at the soldiers as they held their hands up, Emmanuelle surfing the crowd expertly, dipping up and down with the rise and fall of their strong arms. "Come on Rose, hurry up! We don't want to keep them waiting!"
"Yeah, Rose, don't keep us waiting!" One of the soldiers called out, and at once, every man began chanting "Rose", the chant growing louder and louder with each second.
Rose let go of Desdemona's hand and turned to face her. "Thank you again. I'll see you later."
Desdemona raised a hand to Roses' face, placed a strand of blonde hair behind her hair, and said in a hushed and secretive tone, "I didn't know this Island was perfect for me until I ventured from it. When I came back, I knew this was where I wanted to be. Never settle for second best, Rose. Never."
Rose nodded, and replied, "I won't... I promise." And with that, she gave into the calls of the crowd and began running across the dock, handing her shawl and hat to Demetrius who took it happily and laughed loudly.
As Rose dove into the crowd and was carried above their heads alongside Emmanuelle, who gripped her hand and screamed with delight, she couldn't help but think of what Desdemona had just said. It was random, and because it was so random it should technically mean nothing to Rose, and yet Rose could not get those words out of her mind, and they suddenly meant everything to her.
Jack sat in his bunk, sketching the scene of the beach and the approaching yacht from memory. He could hear the girlish squeals and manly shouts from the beach, but he was in his own little world as he drew. When he drew, he felt safe. When he drew this war torn battlefields, he felt safe, because drawing it meant he had survived it. Drawing was, and had always been, his escape. On the Carpathia, he drew sketches of the Titanic, and one was used in a New York newspaper. Suddenly, one word caught his concentration, repeated over and over again from outside, and before he knew it his pencil was writing out this word, this name, over and over again.
Rose... Rose... Rose... Rose