Chapter 21
Jack stepped out of the carriage, his bags in hand, onto the busy streets of Chicago. The air was sharp and brisk, but there was an energy to the city that invigorated him. It was a new chapter, a fresh start. He gazed up at the modest brownstone where he'd be renting a room and adjusted his hat.
The door creaked open as he knocked, revealing an elderly woman with kind, weathered features. She smiled warmly. "You must be Mr. Dawson. Come in, come in."
Jack stepped inside, grateful for the warmth of the house. It was small but inviting, with worn rugs and the faint smell of baked bread lingering in the air.
"Thank you, ma'am. It's Jack, by the way," he said with his usual charm.
The older woman waved her hand. "You can call me Mrs. Greene. My daughter will show you to your room. Clara!"
A few moments later, a woman appeared from the adjoining room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She looked to be in her thirties, with auburn hair pinned neatly back and an air of efficiency about her. Her eyes lingered on Jack, sizing him up in a way that made him slightly self-conscious.
"So, you're the new tenant," Clara said briskly, her voice low and firm. "Follow me."
Jack nodded and picked up his suitcase, trailing behind her up the narrow staircase. Clara led him to a small room at the end of the hall, opening the door with a swift motion.
"This is it," she said, stepping aside to let him enter.
The room was simple but clean—a single bed with a quilt, a small desk by the window, and a wardrobe in the corner. Jack set his suitcase down, taking in his new space.
"It's cozy," he said with a smile.
Clara leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed. Her eyes flicked to his belongings with casual curiosity. "Mother told me you were going to study here?"
"That's right," Jack replied, turning to her. "I'm starting on Monday."
"What course?"
"Art and design," he said, his voice filled with a quiet enthusiasm.
She raised an eyebrow, her gaze drifting over him as though trying to reconcile the image of this scrappy young man with such lofty pursuits. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-one," Jack answered, standing a little taller under her scrutiny.
Nodding slowly, her eyes sweeping him up and down, as if assessing his potential. There was a hint of something in her expression, though Jack couldn't quite place it.
"Well," Clara said at last, straightening up. "I'll be downstairs if you need anything."
"Thank you," Jack said, watching her retreat down the hall.
As soon as she disappeared, Jack let out a small breath of relief, dropping onto the bed and running a hand through his hair. The house was quiet now, the faint sounds of the city filtering through the window.
He looked around the room, the bare walls and modest furnishings. It wasn't much, but it was a start. He thought about the days ahead—school, meeting new people, building a future for himself. And he thought about Rose, wondering what she'd say if she could see him here, ready to take on the world.
Smiling to himself, Jack began unpacking his things, the faint scent of Clara's perfume lingering in the air as he settled into his new home.
My Dearest Rose,
I'm sitting here at my small desk, my ink-stained fingers hovering over this paper, trying to find the words to tell you how this first week at school has been. It's been a whirlwind, to say the least. I've never been in a place like this—so much bigger than anything I've known before. The city itself is overwhelming at times, but there's a strange kind of excitement in that. Every corner I turn, there's something new, something unfamiliar. It's hard not to feel alive here, even in the quietest moments.
The school is everything I imagined and more. It's not just the art—it's the entire atmosphere. The smell of paint and clay fills the halls, and the hum of constant activity is like music to my ears. I've already met a few students. They're all so driven, so focused on their craft. It's inspiring, but also a bit intimidating. There's a lot of talent here, and sometimes I wonder if I belong among them. But then I remind myself that I'm here for a reason—to learn, to grow, to carve out my own path. And that's what I plan to do.
One of the professors seems particularly intrigued by my sketches. His name is Professor Reynolds, and he's been teaching here for years. He says I've got "raw talent"—his words, not mine—and I should embrace that, no matter how messy my work gets. It's funny, Rose. I don't think I've ever felt as passionate about something as I do when I'm drawing or painting. It's like I can see the world differently when I hold a pencil in my hand. I wish I could describe it better, but I think you'd understand. It's like I'm capturing the soul of the world, or maybe just a part of it.
But the best part? The best part is that I know it's only the beginning. The class has a lot of work, and the days are long, but the excitement of it all makes the tiredness worth it. I spend my evenings working on my assignments or sketching whatever I can find around this strange new city. I found a little café nearby where I've started to go almost every night. It's quiet, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee reminds me of home. There's a small piano in the corner of the café, and sometimes, when no one's around, I'll sit down and play a few chords. And then I stop and laugh to myself, knowing that music is something I'll never be good at.
Speaking of home, it feels strange to not have you here. I can't help but think about how different this place would feel with you by my side. But I'm making it work, and I hope you're doing well, wherever you are. I think of you often, Rose. Every new thing I encounter here reminds me of something you'd love—the streets, the people, the sounds, the way the city seems to never sleep. I can imagine you here, walking beside me, exploring all of it with that spark of excitement in your eyes.
I suppose that's why I'm writing this letter. I want you to know what this feels like—what it feels like to take these first steps, to begin again. It's scary at times, but it's also thrilling. And I wish I could share it with you.
I'll write again soon, and I hope to hear from you too. Tell me how you're doing, what's new in your world. I miss you more than words can express.
Yours, always, Jack
P.S. I'm learning a lot here, but I have to admit—there's something about the quiet simplicity of the farm that stays with me. It's the stillness, I think, that I miss most. Don't ever let go of that peace, Rose. Keep it close to your heart.
My Dearest Jack,
I received your letter this morning, and I'm sitting here now, writing to you with a heart so full that I hardly know where to begin. Your words have touched me in ways I can't even explain. It's been a long time since I've had the chance to hear about your life, your dreams, your thoughts. And reading your letter made me realize just how much I've missed you, more than I could ever put into words.
First of all, I'm so proud of you, Jack. I can feel the excitement in your words, even across the miles. To know that you're diving into something that excites you so deeply—that you're finally getting the chance to immerse yourself in your art, the thing you love most in this world—it fills me with such joy for you. You've always had that fire in you, the passion for creating, for seeing the world through your eyes, and I have no doubt that you're going to do amazing things in that school. I can already picture you, sketchbook in hand, walking the city streets, capturing everything that catches your eye. It's strange, but even though we're so far apart, I feel as if I'm there with you, witnessing everything you describe.
You mentioned Professor Reynolds—his words about your "raw talent" made me smile. Of course he noticed your talent. You've always had it, Jack. I've seen it in your work, in the way you look at the world, how every line you draw seems to hold so much meaning. You're meant to do this, and I know you'll find your place. I'm excited to hear more about your classes, about the work you're doing. I have a feeling you're going to make such an impact on everyone around you, just like you've always had that effect on me.
I'm not sure what to say, Jack, but I have to admit that as much as I love it here, I still feel like something is missing. There's a part of me that aches for the simplicity of those days on the farm, the quiet moments we shared, and the warmth of your presence. I know it's a long shot, but sometimes I close my eyes and imagine what it would be like to have you here, to walk these streets together, to show you the sights of this city that I've come to know as well. There's so much I want to share with you, Jack. So much I've experienced that I wish you could be here to see with me.
But then, when I read your letter, I realized that this is what you needed. You needed this time, this space, to chase your dreams and find your own path. And as much as I wish I could be there beside you, I understand why this is the journey you have to take. I'm proud of you for going after it. I always knew you had something special, something that would lead you to greatness. And now, as I sit here and read your words, I can't help but feel that you are on the right path.
You asked about my life here—well, I've started getting more settled in, and there's a comfort in that. Lucinda has become like family to me, and the work at the inn keeps me busy. But it's not the same without you. I think you might be right when you said that I should keep that peace we had on the farm close to my heart. It's something I hold onto when things get overwhelming, when I miss you too much. There's a quiet in my heart that reminds me of those times. And it's that peace, Jack, that gives me hope—that gives me strength.
I've been keeping busy with the guests at the inn, but there are moments, quiet moments, when I let my mind wander to you. I wonder what you're doing, what you're learning, and if you think of me when you're out there in that new city, in the midst of all that bustle. I try to imagine what it would be like to be there with you, walking those streets, seeing you in your element. I can picture you now, so caught up in your art, your sketches, with that look of concentration on your face. It's like you're the only person in the room, even when there are others around. It's something I've always admired about you, Jack. The way you get lost in your work, in your passion.
I'll be here, Jack. I'll be waiting for your next letter, for every word you write. And no matter where you go, no matter how far apart we are, know that you're always in my heart. And one day, we'll be together again. I know it.
Until then, I'll keep your letters close, and I'll carry your words with me, wherever I go. Keep your dreams alive, Jack. I believe in you. Always.
With all my love,
Rose
Rose was just finishing the last lines of her letter to Jack, carefully folding the paper and sealing it in an envelope, when the sound of the front door opening drew her attention. She looked up, startled to see a small, plump woman standing in the doorway. The woman had vivid red hair that matched Rose's own and a face full of freckles that seemed to glow against her pale skin.
"I'm looking for Mrs. Donnelly," the woman said, her voice thick with an Irish accent. "I'm here because she's looking for a cook."
"Oh, yes." Rose stood, smoothing her skirt as she moved toward the woman with a warm smile. She extended her hand. "I'm Rose Williams."
The woman hesitated for a moment before shaking it. "Mary Maine."
"Lucinda is still cleaning one of the rooms but should be downstairs shortly. Would you like some tea while we wait?"
Mary's face softened, and she nodded. "Yes, please. That'd be lovely."
Rose led her to the parlor, a cozy room warmed by a crackling fire in the hearth. The scent of lavender and beeswax lingered in the air, and soft light filtered in through the lace curtains.
"Make yourself comfortable," Rose said, gesturing to the armchair by the fireplace. She moved toward the tea tray Lucinda always kept ready for guests. "Sugar? Milk?"
"Just sugar, thank you," Mary replied, settling into the armchair and glancing around the room.
Rose poured the tea carefully, her thoughts momentarily drifting back to Jack's letter and the excitement she'd felt reading about his first week at school. She had tried to capture that same excitement in her response, but now her focus returned to Mary. Handing the woman a teacup, Rose studied her more closely.
Mary took a sip of tea and let out a small, appreciative sigh. "You've got a kind face," she said suddenly, her tone almost shy.
Rose blinked in surprise before laughing softly. "That's very sweet of you to say. Thank you."
Mary set her teacup down and glanced at the piano in the corner. "Do you play?"
"Every day," Rose replied, taking the chair opposite her. "Mostly for the guests in the evenings, though sometimes just for myself. Do you play?"
Mary shook her head. "No. My mother used to say music was for people with magic in their souls, and we didn't have much magic in our house."
"Where are you from?" Rose asked.
"Boston," Mary replied. "Though I've been drifting for a while now. Jobs come and go, you know how it is. Mrs. Donnelly's ad seemed promising—steady work, respectable house. That's all I'm looking for."
"You'll like it here," Rose assured her. "Lucinda runs a good place, and the guests are kind. She'll be thrilled to have someone who knows their way around a kitchen. Cooking isn't exactly my strength."
Mary smiled, her freckles crinkling as she chuckled. "You look more like someone meant for playing the piano or reading books than wrestling with pots and pans."
Rose laughed, feeling a sense of ease with this stranger. Before she could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed down the stairs, and Lucinda appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron.
"You must be Miss Maine," Lucinda said warmly, her face lighting up as she stepped into the room.
"Yes, ma'am," Mary replied, standing to shake her hand. "Thank you for seeing me."
"Of course," Lucinda said, her gaze flicking to Rose with a smile. "I see Rose has been keeping you company. Why don't we go into the kitchen and discuss everything?"
The kitchen was cozy, the evening light fading into a golden hue, casting a soft glow over the room as Lucinda, Rose, and Mary continued their conversation. The warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth seemed to match the warmth of their gathering, as the sound of clinking cups and quiet laughter filled the air.
The day had been a busy one, but with Mary's easygoing presence, everything felt lighter. They had discussed the inn, the work that lay ahead, and shared bits of their pasts as they worked together. Mary seemed eager to settle in, her kind spirit already fitting in with the rhythm of the household.
As time passed, the evening wore on, and Rose felt herself becoming increasingly tired. She glanced over at the clock and saw that it was getting late.
"Well," Rose said, standing up and stretching a little, "It's been a long day, and we've still got plenty to do tomorrow. Let me show you to your room, Mary."
Mary looked up with a grateful smile. "Thank you, Rose. You've been so kind. I appreciate you showing me around."
Lucinda, who had been quietly listening to their conversation, smiled warmly. "You're welcome here, Mary. It's always nice to have new faces around the inn."
Rose led the way out of the kitchen and down the hallway. The faint sound of Lucinda's voice followed them as she spoke softly to herself, likely going over some of the day's chores or plans for the future.
Rose felt a quiet sense of peace wash over her. There was something fulfilling about running the inn with Lucinda. They had built a little family here, and she was glad to welcome new people into their fold.
When they reached the top of the stairs, Rose opened the door to the small room at the end of the hall. "This is it," she said, motioning for Mary to step inside.
The room was small but inviting. A small bed, a wooden dresser, and a chair by the window gave it a homey feel. There was a floral-patterned rug on the floor, and the soft, warm light from the lamp gave it a calm, peaceful atmosphere. The window looked out over the garden, and even at night, the view had its charm.
Mary stepped inside, her eyes scanning the space with appreciation. "It's perfect," she said, the smile on her face warm and grateful. "Thank you so much, Rose."
Rose smiled, watching her. "I'm glad you like it. We always try to make the rooms comfortable." She placed a small vase of fresh flowers on the bedside table, a habit she and Lucinda had gotten into over the years. It was one of the little things they did to make the inn feel like a home.
Mary glanced at the flowers, clearly touched by the gesture. "It's beautiful. You really do think of everything, don't you?"
Rose chuckled softly. "We try." She paused for a moment, looking at the room one last time. "If you need anything, just let me know. Lucinda and I are both here to help."
"I will, Rose. Thank you again."
Rose smiled and gave a small nod. "I'll leave you to settle in then. I'm sure it's been a long day for you."
"Very long," Mary said with a laugh. "But in the best way possible."
Rose gave her a warm smile before heading toward the door. She opened it slowly, but as she was about to leave, Mary called out.
"Rose, thank you again. I really appreciate it. I already feel at home here."
Rose paused at the door and looked back, her eyes meeting Mary's. "I'm glad. I'm sure you'll fit in just fine here. Goodnight, Mary."
"Goodnight, Rose."