Chapter 4 – Saturday
Rose made it to the front door of Jack's stateroom, new cargo in hand, before realizing she didn't have a key. It was such a small oversight, there not being a key available for the new stowaway, but she realized the burden she was putting on Jack and Fabrizio, potentially even the real Gustav and his Swedish friend, much more acutely.
She knocked twice, but tentatively, at the door. It opened seconds later to reveal a nervous-looking Jack.
"Rose," he said, relief washing over him as he saw she was the one at the door. "We'll have to find a way to get you a key."
"Or just make sure we don't separate from each other again," she said, the words coming out less playfully than she had intended them.
He pulled her through the doorway, into the stateroom, and kissed her deeply. They were alone. The Swedes still hadn't returned, and it looked like Fabrizio had left again.
"Did you have a nice bath?" He asked.
"I did. Did you have a nice talk?"
"I did. I told him all about how we—" he hesitated, but only just. "How we met in Paris years ago and had a whirlwind love affair. How your family tore us apart and we thought we'd never see each other again. And then I told him about how we found each other, by happenstance, yesterday on the deck of Titanic."
She looked him up and down for any hint of how he was feeling after telling that story to his friend. It sounded like he had told as much truth as Fabrizio would probably understand. But she knew Jack, and knew he could be honest to a fault. This big of a lie, especially told to a good friend, might be more than he could manage, even if it was for a good reason.
"What did he think?"
"I'm not really sure. I think he found parts of it hard to believe. But I tried to stick to as much of the truth as I possibly could."
"I know you did. Maybe we'll tell him the full story one day. Maybe fifty years from now, when all three of us are going gray."
She said the last bit hoping to get a response, and it mostly worked.
"Only fifty years? That won't even be long enough for him to hear that hat song. Anyways, Fabrizio said he wanted to go explore the ship a bit more today, but he invited us to a party tonight. You know, a real party."
"Yes, Jack, I'd love that. But first, I do have some news," she said. "In line for the bath, I heard some women talking about—well—talking about all the excitement last night. They seemed to think they had given up the search and determined officially that that first class girl had gone over the side of the ship. There's an obituary in the ship's newspaper."
She handed over the small tabloid. It was not a newspaper in the traditional sense – just one that a few members of the crew put together to document the journey so far and to share any happenings on board. The front page of the newspaper was mostly light-hearted – stories of passengers experiencing the ship's amenities and sharing updated odds for the betting pool over when they would arrive. The next few pages held brief synopses of important news from dry land that had made it through the wireless.
It wasn't until Jack fully unfolded the paper that they saw a short article on page 4. There were no pictures, of course – the limited printing capabilities on board weren't up to that – but her name alone jumped out from the page as if there had been an image.
Fiance, passengers mourn Rose Dewitt Bukater, missing and presumed perished overboard.
There were a few short paragraphs describing her life and the efforts to search the whole ship for her. A lot of ink was spilled on flowery language describing Cal's heartbreak and his determination to name a hospital ward after her once they arrived in New York. The rest of the article was bland, reinforcing the ship's safety standards and ensuring that an overboard passenger was a "random, tragic, accident."
It wasn't the first time she had read her own obituary. Then, her face had been splashed across half the newspapers in the country. People couldn't read enough about the pretty rich girl who somehow made the tragedy feel more personal. She had somehow become a mascot, the perfect victim to make the story even more tragic. Look, the sunken unsinkable ship even took her. Even in her death, Rose Dewitt Bukater had only ever been fit for being put on display.
She hadn't thought of that name in years, let alone read it in the newspaper, so it was a little unsettling seeing it in print, right there in front of her in black and white. Jack squeezed her shoulders, sensing her unease. "You okay?"
"Yes, I'm okay," she said. "I'll keep this scarf covering my hair, just in case, but I think we can probably relax a little for now."
"I think you're right. I also think we should talk about what to do about—what to do about tomorrow."
"Oh."
"It doesn't have to be right now if you're not up for it." He took her hand, knowing this conversation would be easier if they stayed connected.
"No, you're right Jack. We should talk about it. And it'll be easier to do when we're alone." She paused, almost long enough that Jack thought she was finished speaking. But just as he was about to say something himself, she continued. "I've been thinking, and I just can't find a way that the two of us can prevent the collision. But I think we can try to save as many people as possible."
Jack nodded. "Can we unlock the gates? Maybe one of those keys in the room where you, you know, where you used the ax will unlock some of them."
"Oh, I hope so! Let's see if we can find a way to get back into that room. We'd have to time it right – both taking the keys so we're not noticed and unlocking the gates at the right time so that someone doesn't just come behind us re-locking them. But that could work."
"Anything else?"
"Hmm. There were stories that popped up over the years and theories from people who hadn't been there about how more people could have been saved. Like I said, though, it was too painful to give them my full attention. You'd think having been through it once we'd have something better than just trying to get as many people closer to the boats as possible."
"You're right though," said Jack, squeezing her hand. "There isn't anything we can do to steer the ship in another direction. The best we can do is try to get people up to the deck and dry – give them all the best chance possible."
"What if we spread the word that there will be – oh I don't know – a meteor shower or something tomorrow night? Lots of people will probably still prefer the sleep, but a few people might be interested enough to go up and look for it."
"It certainly wouldn't hurt anything," he said. "A meteor shower is good. It's plausible enough that it could happen, while still being exciting enough to get out of bed. I probably would."
"I know you would, Jack."
"What about us? What about Fabrizio?"
"We'll gather up all the blankets from this room and go sit on deck a little early. Waiting for the meteor shower. We'll make Fabrizio come with us. And we'll be ready. I do remember one thing that came out of the inquiry, but it might not be enough. The officers on one side of the ship – I can't remember which one – were only letting women and children in, but the officers on the other side were letting everyone in. How I wish I remembered that detail! But hopefully it'll be easier to figure out if we're some of the first people there."
Jack pulled her close and rested his chin against the top of her head. "That's what we'll do, Rose."
They were both silent for a long time, holding tightly to each other, transmitting strength to one another. Rose rested her cheek on Jack's chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. She was still in his arms when Jack spoke first.
"We should," he coughed, as if suddenly second-guessing his words, but then carried on. "We should at least consider the possibility that we won't be able to change anything. We don't know why we are back here, after all. What if it's just so that we can have a little more time together?"
Rose nodded. "Time together," she mused. "Remember that was the last thing that Cal said to us? That he hoped we enjoyed our time together?"
"I do, and that's just what I plan to do for however much time we have," he said.
"Me too. But first, will you promise me one thing?"
"Sure."
"If one of us goes," she said, "we'll both go, okay? You jump, I jump. I was so grateful to you for the life you gave me. So exceptionally grateful. But I don't think I can do it again without you."
"Yes, Rose, you had the life I wanted for you. We'll stay together this time, no matter what. I promise."
"I love you, Jack."
"I love you, too, Rose."
She kissed him then, sealing the new promise.
"So," he asked, as she broke away, his tone a clear intention to lighten the mood, if only slightly. "We do have the rest of the day today before we have to worry about any of that. How would you like to spend it?"
"Are you asking what I'd do if I knew I had one day to live?"
"That wasn't exactly my intention, but I suppose it's not far off. What would you like to do to make the most of the time we have together today?"
"That's a better way to put it," she said. "If we weren't on this ship I could think of a lot of things. Explore some small part of the world we hadn't seen before, maybe try out a new skill or hobby? But, really, the only thing that's important to me is being with you."
"Well, follow me then," he said, with a glint in his eye, and led her out the door. Hand in hand, they walked through the below deck corridors to the third class promenade. It was a little smaller than the one they had walked together once, on this same day, but the sunshine was just as bright.
"A small part of the world you've never seen, madam," he said, opening the door and presenting the outdoor space with a mock bow.
"Thank you, Jack," she said as she walked through the open door. Once they were both outside, he offered up his elbow, before she playfully swatted it away, opting to take his hand instead. They strode around the deck, taking time to enjoy the warm ocean breeze. They talked some, silently reveled in each others' presence some. Jack told her a little more about his family and how he learned to draw, they both recounted the plots of their favorite novels, teasing each other when one of them hit on a book the other hadn't read. Really Rose? You lived to be 100 and never got around to reading a single Sherlock Holmes story? But that was the closest either of them got to discussing the years they were apart.
After a few circuits of the third class promenade, having filled in gaps and deepened their trust even further, Rose dragged Jack back inside and up the stairs to the ship's library. Another small part of the world she hadn't seen.
Likely due to the gorgeous weather outside, the small library was empty except for a stern looking gentleman sitting at the front desk. As they swung the door wide to enter, Jack and Rose were continuing their flirtatious banter and giggling giddily together at a volume that would have garnered angry glares from other library patrons, had there been any.
They each picked out a book for the other – Jack opting for The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor, while she headed straight for the health and medicine section, looking for the most embarrassing title she could find in hopes of bringing another familiar blush to his cheeks. As he caught up with her, still trying to make her selection, he pulled a book, seemingly at random off the shelf.
"The Mystery of Love, Courtship and Marriage Explained," she read the title he displayed. "What is it, 'how to woo a woman'? That's the book you should borrow."
He opened the volume to the table of contents. Then, sliding his finger along each section, he began reading chapter titles aloud: "Chapter eleven is called wooing, so it looks like you're right, Rose. Ooh, here's a chapter on love and lovemaking. I'll need a bookmark for that one."
"Let me see it, Jack," she said, grabbing at the book in his hands. "Look at this. Fan flirtations, handkerchief flirtations, parasol flirtations, hat flirtations, and glove flirtations." She flipped to the appropriate pages. "Hmm, different movements with your gloves or parasol all have meanings?" Jack pressed his chest against her back to read over her shoulder.
"So drawing your fan across your cheek means 'I love you,'" he said, miming moving a fan down her cheek. "But twirling it in your right hand means 'I wish to be rid of you.' Courtship in high society sounds exhausting."
Rose laughed, flipping the page. "I've never heard of any of these in my life! But look, if I wear a glove on my right hand with a naked thumb exposed, it means—"
"Kiss me," Jack continued reading. And she leaned her chin up and obeyed, capturing his mouth for a tantalizingly short kiss. "It looks like we'll have to find you some gloves," he continued, after they broke apart.
"Or a fan," she said, laughter in her voice. "Though I may get mixed up whether I love you or want to get rid of you."
"Well, to be safe, let's check out this book so we can always look it up," he said. They brought their selections up to the front desk and signed their names – or, at least, Sven and Gustav – to check them out. The ship librarian told them that the books were due back before they docked, along with a firm reminder of the hefty fines for not bringing them back on time, before sending them on their way, visibly glad to be rid of the disruptive couple.
Books in hand and still giggling at the librarian's stern expression, they absentmindedly walked through the second class corridors, stopping now and then to sneak off into an alcove to claim each others' lips, increasingly ravenously. The lunch bugle went off as they found themselves half-hidden behind a service door that had been propped open. They separated, both finally remembering that they had missed breakfast, before she took his hand and eagerly dragged them back to the third class dining room.
"After lunch, will you teach me how to draw, Jack?" she asked, almost out of the blue. They had sat at the end of a long table, up against the wall, in an attempt at privacy. But the room was so crowded, and so many conversations were happening in so many languages, they needn't have bothered. No one else in the room was paying them the slightest attention.
"If that's what you want," he said, after a beat.
"It is. I—I always regretted not having a picture of you. So one day, I took out a pen and paper and tried to draw you. I—well, you can maybe imagine the result, but suffice to say that I do not share your gift. I liked drawing it, though, so I would be so grateful for anything you can teach me."
"All right," he said, scraping up the last bits of his meal. "Why don't we go back to the stateroom? We can find something for you to draw there. We'll start with a still life and work from there."
–
"Are you sure you don't mind my using your supplies?"
As he had handed her the leather portfolio and charcoal set, she felt a strange sort of intimacy, as if he had let her into the deepest part of his soul by sharing these materials with her. She worried, briefly, if this was an overstep, and if she'd somehow ruin the sanctity of his portfolio with her practice.
"Anything of mine belongs to you, too." he reassured her. "Besides, what's the point of having art supplies if you don't use them to make art? Now, what would you like to draw?"
She glanced around the room, noticing again how small it was for four – now five, she reminded herself – people. She looked at the belongings strewn across Gustav's bed that she had nervously sat in the previous night, she looked at Fabrizio's upper bunk, tidy as could be. She looked across the floor at Jack's half open pack, but then her eyes caught the washing basin. It was perhaps not the most interesting thing to draw, but the shape seemed straightforward. She pointed out her choice to Jack.
"Great," he said, not giving away whether he actually thought it was a great choice or not. He propped up the pillow they had shared the night before and sat down on the bed. "Why don't you sit here next to me. You'll have a good view of the basin from here."
"So," he began, as she settled in next to him, the charcoal in her hand hovering just above the blank page. "When you look at that basin, that's what you see, right? You see it as a bowl for washing up?"
"Yes?"
"The first step in learning to draw is looking at your subject with artists' eyes. You're looking at the pieces, rather than the whole. Try to not think about drawing a basin – a recognizable object – but instead look at the individual lines and shadows that form the object, and draw those."
He held her hand in his and guided it to the page, and, together, they drew the first curved line making up the edge of the basin. He pulled his hand away, encouraging her to continue on her own. "Look just at how the curved edge meets the flat bottom, and try to draw that."
She continued drawing a few tentative lines, staring intently at just the base of the bowl. From a distance, it looked flat, but now as she was looking at it with a much closer eye, she noticed just a bit of a curved lip around the edge, where it met the table. She varied the straight lines she was drawing with some at an angle, trying to faithfully portray the way the basin looked against the table.
As she worked, Jack had moved his left hand to rest on her hip, his thumb absentmindedly moving up and down her side. Looking up from the basin momentarily, she caught a glimpse of the two of them in the mirror above it. Though they had easily slipped back together as if nothing had changed since that night they had spent gleefully running around, unaware of the coming danger, it was still a shock seeing her face as it had looked then. It was still a wonderful jolt to see him next to her, sitting as close as could be, side by side. The concentration in her eyes met the adoration in his, and she leaned back closer against his chest, tilting her chin up for a kiss.
"How're you doing so far?"
"I'm not sure," she said, looking back at the partial drawing in front of her. "It doesn't look like anything yet."
"That's good. It means you're seeing just the parts."
"Is that what you saw when you drew me? Just the parts?"
In the mirror she saw, just for the briefest moment, a look of horror cross his face. But he recovered once he saw the grin on hers. Locking eyes in the mirror, he slowly moved the hand that was on her hip upwards, almost daring her to tell him to stop, but she instead leaned into his hand, in silent encouragement. His thumb brushed the bottom of her breast, before the rest of his hand came to rest on her waist, just below where his thumb had been, a few layers of fabric the only thing separating their skin.
"To answer your question," he said, not moving his hand. "Figure drawing is the same as still life. Sure, you get an initial shock when you first look at the subject, but then your artist brain takes over and you're just drawing the lines you see. But you, my love," he planted a tiny kiss on her temple. "You were a special case. I was maybe drawing the lines and shadows, but I knew exactly what I was looking at the whole time. My artist brain was at war with every other part of my brain. I have no idea how I got through it without tossing aside the portfolio and running over to you."
"You were very professional, Jack. I think there was a small part of me that was hoping that you would come over, but you were so serious the whole time. I'm glad it happened the way it did though – I really loved the way the drawing turned out. And, well, we did take the next opportunity when it came along."
"Can I draw you again? Once you finish with the basin?"
"When I finish with the basin?" she asked, setting aside the portfolio and turning around to face him. "Or when I finish with you?"
"Rose," was all he could say before she kissed him, deeply and passionately. Her hands moved, as if of their own accord, to join his, her fingers tracing the back of his hand as his own interlaced with hers. He separated from her mouth just long enough to trail kisses down her throat, while she brought their joined hands down and rested them on the top button of the shirt of his she still wore.
"Please, Jack," she whispered. He obeyed, slowly undoing each button, one by one, taking time to kiss her mouth, her shoulder, her neck in between each button he undid. Her own fingers were making quick work of the shirt he wore, finally sliding it off his shoulders and onto the floor. As he continued his ministrations, she ran her hands up and down his solid chest, kissing the hollow of his collarbone and breathing him in deeply.
At some point, they had shifted so that he was lying on his back. The shirt she had been wearing was now fully off, having been quickly followed by the skirt she had sewn out of his trousers just that morning, and she was straddling him in just her chemise.
One of his hands on each of her hips, he slid them both upwards, agonizingly slowly, over the fabric, until they came to a stop over each of her breasts. As his strong hands began gently massaging them, occasionally dipping beneath the loose fabric, he sat fully up, so they were chest to chest. As he pulled her even closer, she could feel her own arousal sharply. She claimed his mouth, kissing him hard and sloppy, knowing that the only thing she needed in the world right now – more than food, more than oxygen, was this man's touch on every part of her body.
They certainly hadn't been timid when they did this before – they had trusted each other, even then, and she hadn't lied when she said she wasn't nervous, but they still were practically strangers. They had used what time they had to learn each others' bodies, to try things out and discover what they liked, but they hadn't yet known each other yet. Now, she recognized a boldness in him, a confidence that hadn't quite been there before, and it only made her want to pull him closer, to meet his confidence with hers. To stoke the flame they had lit together until it was wildfire, and never let it go out.
Her chemise suddenly felt heavy, like it was made of bricks rather than fine fabric. Even the thin layer between them felt like a stone wall. Jack must have felt the same, as he began tugging at the straps, trying to pull them downward. She separated from the kiss just long enough to pull the garment up over her head in one swift movement, and then she was bare in front of him.
"You're so beautiful, Rose," he said, kissing her once on the lips before moving down to claim one of her breasts with his lips. "Your skin is so soft."
They had now both moved back into a supine position, this time with him on top. They interlaced their fingers together and brought their clasped hands up above their heads, while he continued working on her breasts with his tongue. He dedicated a little extra time to each of her nipples, hardened and sensitive, until a jolt went through her body as he gently grazed one with his teeth. She let out a breathy noise of release, and arched her back, trying to press her chest as close to his as possible.
He removed his mouth, stealing just a quick kiss between her breasts. He pulled back just slightly, hovering inches above her, waiting while she caught her breath. As her breathing regulated, he started up with his mouth again, moving lower down her belly. She stopped him, with a gentle hand on his chest, and he rose, abruptly.
"Do you not want me to?"
"Oh, I do. But it's your turn for me to take care of you." At that, she flipped them back over so she was on top again. Her hands moved straight to the button on the trousers he was still wearing, and undid the top button in a swift move. Their eyes met then, full of trust and love, and he brought his own hands down to undo the rest of the buttons and slide out of his trousers and flannel shorts in one rapid motion.
She took just a moment to sit back and take him in, as erect as she was wet. She kissed him, then drew back only millimeters to whisper against his lips, "I love you, Jack." And then she slowly made her way down his chest.
As she took him in her mouth, he let out a noise halfway between a grunt and a gasp. She took it as a good sign, and wrapped one of her hands around his shaft and gently stroked up and down, following just behind with her mouth. She hadn't done this the last time. Too turned on and too nervous someone was coming after them, they hadn't really engaged in much foreplay at all. Now, they were still plenty aroused, but they each wanted to take the time they had been given and their deeper trust in each other to explore fully. Every inch.
She glanced up to see his eyes rolling back in his head, one of his fists grabbing the bed frame. She dragged her tongue up his length one last time, before pulling away and sitting back on her knees. She had thought he would flip them back over, but instead he put one of his hands on each of her hips and nudged her legs apart with his knee. Keeping his hands firmly on her hips, he then slid his body between her legs so that she was straddling his chest. He half-sat up, her lower belly just at his eye line and his mouth only inches away from her.
He kissed her just below her navel as he peeled one had away from her hip and pushed two fingers inside her. She was already as aroused as she could ever remember being, but his fingers drew out even more waves of pleasure throughout her body. When he pulled them out she felt a foreign emptiness, but only for a moment, because his tongue now filled the space. Both of his hands crawled up from her hips, taking a moment to trace circles on her back, before resting once again on each of her breasts. As he gently kneaded her breasts at the same tempo his tongue was working below, she let out a hoarse, nearly silent scream.
"I need you now, Jack."
He pulled back and nodded once, adjusting their position once again so that he was flat on his back and all she had to do was lower herself onto him. As soon as he was inside her, a sudden sense of completeness washed over her, as if they both had only ever been half of a person until they connected like this and made each other whole. She leaned down and kissed him, languidly, and he moved his hands back to her hips. She then started moving, slowly at first, building up to a cantor and then a gallup. She rested one hand on his chest and threw her head back, trying to change the angle a little bit, until—
"Rose," he gasped.
She looked down at him, an almost pained expression on his face, and then there was an explosion. His fingers curled in and his hips spasmed as she felt him release. She stayed momentarily still as he came down from his orgasm, and then she slipped off of him, feeling sated but somehow empty once again.
She lay next to him, absentmindedly drawing lines on his chest with one of her fingers, and kissed him.
"Did you learn all that from the wooing book?" she asked, just a hint of a glimmer in her eye.
"No," he said, breathlessly, matter-of-factly.
"Then you must be a natural talent."
"Only with you," he said, kissing her again. "It's instinctive with you. Like we're two halves of the same whole."
"I thought the same thing," she said, leaning her cheek into his chest and wrapping her arms around him. They stayed like that, together in contented silence, occasionally kissing or running a hand through the others' hair, for what could have been hours.
Jack got up first, walking over to the basin to wash his face. Rose watched from behind, her eyes lingering on his slender backside and the tiny movement in his deltoid muscles as he rinsed his hands and face in the fresh water.
"Weren't you meant to be drawing this basin?" he asked, half-turning around to meet her gaze. "It doesn't seem very professional to abandon your drawing halfway through to, uh, ravage your art teacher."
"Why don't you show me how it's done, then, Professor Dawson?"
He walked back over and picked up the portfolio that had been tossed to the ground earlier and flipped it open to a new page.
"May I draw you?" he asked once again, though he already knew the answer, as he took a seat across from her at the foot of the bed. "It might be a little different than the last one, with that glow on your cheeks."
Rose moved to gently smack him, but he was too far away. "Actually, I have a request," she said. "I know I'm not a paying customer this time, so you don't have to give me what I want."
"It's on the house, Rose. Besides, I hope you know I'll always give you what you want."
She smiled back at him, but her voice turned serious as she spoke. "Will you be in it, too? I don't know if you've ever done a self portrait, but all day I've been thinking that I want a picture of the two of us together."
He didn't respond to her question directly, instead moving over to rummage through this bag, pulling out one of the other portfolios she had seen that morning.
"I've only ever done one self portrait," he said, flipping through to a page near the beginning and handing it over to her. "I was about fourteen, only a few months before I left Chippewa Falls. At the time, I really wasn't happy with it, so I never showed it to anyone or ever tried it again. Looking back, I still can see some of the details I would have done differently if I were to do it over again. But even still - and I dunno, maybe this sounds sappy, but I pull it out and look at it now and then when I feel homesick."
She looked down and saw the drawing in front of her, featuring a teenaged Jack. In the image, his expression was serious, as if he were trying to make himself look like an adult, but she could see the hint of the smile she knew so well underneath. She didn't see any of the flaws he was talking about – to her it looked exactly how she would have imagined him looking at fourteen.
"I've never shown it to anyone else before," he said.
She looked up from the drawing to see the man himself, older and more confident, sitting casually in front of her. Neither of them had bothered to get dressed again, their easy comfort with each other nullifying any modesty they might have felt. But there was a sheepishness, almost vulnerability in his eyes as she glanced back down at the picture, as if it wasn't just his body he bared to her, but the innermost parts of himself as well.
"I love it. Thank you for sharing it," she leaned forward to kiss him. "I wish I had known you then."
"No you don't. I was an idiot at fourteen. My mother always said I must have some of the devil in me because I was so reckless, always off chasing some new thrill. But the rest of the pictures in this portfolio are from around the same time if you want to – uh—"
He turned to the next page and looked up at her, silently giving her permission to look through the rest of the pages. As she opened page after page, he kept up a running commentary of who each person featured was and even the names of some of the farm animals he had drawn.
"The cow is Mabel, I think," he said, as she flipped to a random page towards the end of the book. "The kid next to her is my next door neighbor Leroy, one of my best friends growing up. He gave me that scar on my leg when we were about nine or ten years old, playing with the pitchfork in his barn." He leaned back to give her a better view of the long, thin scar along the side of his right thigh, and she gently ran her finger up and down it.
"I'm sorry I didn't notice it before."
"That's alright. It was pretty nasty when it first happened, but it healed up fine. It's hardly noticeable after all these years unless I point it out. Plus, I think we had things on our mind other than looking for a scar on my leg."
She grinned back up at him. "Tell me more about Leroy."
"He was a couple years younger than me, but we got on fine. Always getting into trouble around town, trying to have some adventure. His family ran the neighboring farm, but theirs was a lot bigger. My dad and I would go over to help around the farm in exchange for extra meat and produce. He had three older sisters - I had such a crush on Sally when I was about twelve. You might find a picture of her in there, too, but I can't really remember. I might not have been brave enough at that age to ask if I could draw her."
Rose's mouth was agape at that, but only for a second. "I have competition, I see," she said, eagerly turning pages.
"Some competition," he guffawed, claiming her lips for only a moment. "I hope both Sally and Leroy are doing well, but I doubt either of them have ever been more than fifty miles from home. I like my women a little more worldly."
Continuing to flip through the pages of his portfolio, she landed back on the youthful self portrait he had showed her, and remembered her initial request that had caused him to bring it out in the first place.
"So, will you draw us both? We can do it like this or we can get dressed first if you'd rather. I don't mind either way. Or we could do a John and Yoko."
"Who?"
"Oh, sorry. Another thing that popped into my head from the time we were apart. Do you want to know?"
"Sure," he said, casually. "But maybe keep it quick? We have a drawing to do and only a couple hours until dinner."
She smiled brightly at him, overjoyed that he had agreed to do a portrait of them together, even if he didn't usually draw himself.
"There was a famous musician in the 1960s and 70s named John Lennon. He married an artist named Yoko Ono and they lived the hippie life. I'll tell you about hippies some other time – I think you'll like them."
"Anyways, a famous photographer named Annie Leibovitz came over to take their portrait. I always loved her pictures. She had a way of using the camera to capture people in ways I'd never seen before. At least not since, well, you and your charcoal."
"I've heard variations of the story of how the photograph came about – I think the intention was for them to eventually both be nude for the portrait, but she wanted to take some warm up pictures with clothes on? I can't exactly remember the details. It turned out that the actual photograph that was published was of Yoko fully clothed and John was sort of tucked around her with his clothes off. It became an iconic picture, shared far and wide."
"Hmm," he said. "That sounds interesting. But I think for us we should both stay the way we are. If we're both going to be in this picture, we'll do it properly, together."
"That's good," she said, as he got up to detach the mirror from the wall and bring it over to the bed so he could see them both. "Because John Lennon—" she cut herself off, abruptly. She couldn't bring herself to say out loud that John Lennon had been killed only hours after that photo had been taken.