I hope you're still enjoying the story. I know there is a bit of a time jump in it now, but it will all make sense! Enjoy this new chapter xoxo

Chapter 27

March 1917

Rose adjusted the collar of her coat as she stepped out of the theater, the cool evening air wrapping around her after the warmth of the backstage dressing room. The show had gone well—another full house—but all she could think about was getting home, curling up with a book, and forgetting the exhaustion tugging at her bones.

But then she stopped short.

A man stood near the entrance, just outside the glow of the streetlamp, holding a single white gardenia in his hand. At first, she thought he was waiting for someone else, but then he shifted slightly, his face coming into the light, and she recognized him instantly.

"Mr. Calvert?" Her voice was laced with disbelief.

John Calvert smiled, that easy, familiar smile of his, and took a step toward her. "Hello, miss Williams."

She blinked, still processing his presence. "What are you doing here? I thought you were in Sacramento."

"I was," he said, glancing down at the flower before meeting her gaze again. "But I just moved here. My firm needed me in Los Angeles, and, well... I thought it was a good opportunity."

Rose nodded slowly, still trying to make sense of it. "So, you're here now? For good?"

"For the foreseeable future." His lips quirked into a smirk. "I won't lie, though. The move wasn't just for work. I wanted to hear you sing again." He held up the gardenia. "The last time I did was last Christmas at the inn. I haven't forgotten it."

Rose hadn't forgotten it herself either.

Taking a steadying breath, Rose turned to the pianist, who nodded at her. The first few notes drifted through the room, and then, with quiet confidence, she began to sing. Her voice carried through the inn, silencing conversations, drawing people in. She sang an old carol, one she had loved since childhood, her voice rich with emotion. As she sang, her eyes moved across the room, taking in familiar faces, the warmth of the holiday spirit filling her heart.

And then she saw him.

John Calvert was standing near the fireplace, a glass of brandy in his hand, watching her. He wasn't like the other guests, who had polite smiles and appreciative nods. No, he was watching her like she was the only thing in the room. His dark eyes were steady, focused, almost… captivated.

A strange heat crept up Rose's neck, and she forced herself to look away, concentrating on the last notes of the song. As the final note faded, the room erupted into applause, and Rose let out a small breath of relief. She thanked the guests with a small nod before stepping away from the piano, making her way toward the back of the room where Lucinda and Mary were standing. But before she could reach them, a voice stopped her.

"That was beautiful."

She turned, and there he was—John, standing close enough now that she could see the hint of a smile on his lips.

Rose gave a small, polite smile. "Thank you."

"I don't think I've ever heard a voice like yours," he said, his voice low, as if he were confessing something.

She tilted her head slightly. "You must not go to the theater much."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Not nearly enough, I suppose."

They stood like that for a beat longer than necessary, her palm warm against his, before she pulled away.

"Can I get you something to drink?" he asked, nodding toward the bar.

She glanced toward Lucinda, who was already watching with knowing eyes. Then she looked back at John and, for reasons she didn't quite understand, nodded. "Alright."

That night, they talked for hours. While others danced and laughed, while the clock crept past midnight and the fire burned low, they sat by the window, sipping cider and sharing stories.

Rose now felt a strange warmth rise in her chest. She hesitated before reaching out to take the flower, brushing her fingers lightly against his. "That was a long time ago," she murmured.

"Not long enough to forget," John said softly.

For a moment, they just stood there, the city humming around them, streetcars and carriages rattling in the distance, the murmur of late-night pedestrians filling the air. Rose wasn't sure what to say. So much had happened since that night—since she had last let herself think about John in that way.

"Would you let me walk you home?" he asked after a beat.

Rose exhaled, glancing down at the delicate gardenia in her hand. It smelled like winter and memories.

She lifted her eyes back to him, searching his face. And then, after a long pause, she nodded. "Alright," she said.

John fell into step beside Rose as they walked through the dimly lit streets. The city had quieted at this hour, the clatter of horse-drawn carriages and automobiles reduced to a distant hum. Streetlights flickered as they passed, casting long shadows against the buildings.

For a few moments, they walked in silence, their footsteps in sync. Rose twirled the gardenia between her fingers, feeling the smooth petals brush against her skin.

"I meant it, you know," John finally said, his voice gentle.

She glanced at him. "Meant what?"

"That I wanted to hear you sing again. You were incredible tonight, miss, Williams."

She smiled faintly. "You didn't even tell me you were coming."

"Would you have let me if I had?" He smirked, but there was something serious in his eyes.

Rose looked ahead, thoughtful. "I don't know," she admitted. "I guess I wasn't expecting to see you again."

John nodded, seeming to consider that. "I wasn't sure if I should come, either. But when I got here, I couldn't stop myself. I suppose I wanted to know if you were happy."

That caught her off guard. She slowed her steps slightly. "Happy?"

He turned to her, his expression unreadable. "Are you?"

Rose opened her mouth, then closed it. It was a simple question, but somehow it felt impossible to answer. She was doing what she loved—performing, building a life for herself—but there was a part of her that felt untethered, as if she were waiting for something she couldn't name.

She swallowed and looked away. "Yes. I think so."

John didn't push her for more. Instead, he said, "I saw your name in the paper before I moved here. The reviews for your performance last month—people are talking about you, miss Williams."

She let out a small laugh. "People talk about everything in this city."

"Not like that," he countered. "Not with admiration. Not with the kind of praise I read."

His words warmed her, but they also unsettled her. She had spent so long proving to herself that she could stand on her own, without relying on anyone else. Yet here John was, showing up out of nowhere, speaking to her in the same steady, thoughtful way he always had.

As they reached her building, Rose stopped at the steps, turning to him. "It's somewhat strange," she said. "Having you here again."

John chuckled. "Good strange or bad strange?"

"I haven't decided yet."

He smiled, his gaze never leaving hers. "Take your time."

The night air felt heavier now, thick with unsaid words. Rose shifted on her feet, gripping the flower a little tighter.

John exhaled, glancing toward the quiet street before looking back at her. "Would it be alright if I saw you again? Maybe for dinner?"

Rose hesitated. Not because she didn't want to, but because she wasn't sure what it would mean.

But then she heard herself say, "Alright. Dinner."

John's face softened with relief. "I'll find us a nice place."

She nodded, stepping back toward the door. "Goodnight, miss Calvert."

"Please call me John."

"Good night, John."

"Goodnight, Rose."

…..

Philadelphia

Jack's pencil skated across the page in loose, confident strokes, shaping the outline of a new building—one he had imagined in his mind's eye, full of tall windows and bright, open spaces. He was lost in the rhythm of creation when a sudden crash shattered his focus.

The clatter of plates hitting the floor was followed by a sharp, anguished, "Goddamn it!"

Jack bolted upright, his heart pounding, and rushed out of his room.

The kitchen was a disaster. Shattered ceramic littered the wooden floor, food strewn across the table. But what stopped Jack cold was Carl, gripping a crumpled letter in his shaking hands. His face was red, his breathing ragged, his knuckles white as he clutched the paper as if it physically hurt to hold it.

Vincent came skidding in from the hallway, alarmed. "What the hell happened?"

Carl's voice was hoarse when he spoke. "He's dead," he choked out. "George is dead."

Jack's stomach twisted.

Carl took a ragged breath and read from the letter in his trembling hands. "Killed in action near Ypres. Shot to pieces. They couldn't even bring his body back." His voice broke, and his grip loosened, the letter slipping from his fingers.

Jack lurched forward, snatching up the letter. His eyes scanned the words desperately, as if he could will them to say something different. But there it was, in cold, unforgiving ink.

George William Hadley. Deceased.

Jack's head spun. His throat tightened.

Carl turned away, bracing himself against the kitchen counter. His shoulders heaved. "He was twenty, Jack. Twenty." He let out a bitter laugh, his voice filled with something between grief and fury. "They butchered him. Just like that. Like he was nothing."

Vincent ran a hand over his face, his own expression stricken. "God… His parents. They've lost all their children now."

Jack could barely process the words. Just last year, George had been sitting at this very table, laughing over a bad hand in poker, talking about the books he wanted to read when he got back home. He had been so full of life, so certain he would make it through.

And now he was gone.

Jack clenched the letter in his fists. His chest burned with something wild and angry, something that made his whole body tense with helpless rage.

Carl's hands balled into fists at his sides, his face flushed with anger. He stormed across the kitchen, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. "I can't take this anymore," he said through gritted teeth. "I can't just sit here and wait for the next one of us to end up like George! I'm enlisting. I'm going to join the fight. It's the only thing left to do."

Jack's stomach churned as he watched Carl, his fury and sorrow twisting into something sharp. Carl wasn't the only one who felt this way. He could feel it deep inside, too—the anger, the helplessness, the need to do something, anything. But he couldn't let Carl make this decision, not now, not like this. It was too soon. Too raw.

"Wait a minute, Carl," Vincent interjected sharply, stepping in front of him, his face serious. "You can't just—"

"I can!" Carl shouted, stepping forward to face Vincent. "I don't want to sit here, pretending like everything's fine while we wait for the next letter. George is dead, Vincent. You think I'm going to let it happen to us without doing something?"

Vincent exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Look, I understand how you feel. We're all angry about this. But we're not even involved in this war. You can't just sign up like that."

Carl scoffed, throwing his arms up. "So we're supposed to just sit here, twiddle our thumbs and wait for the world to collapse around us? That's your plan?"

Vincent took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "No, that's not it. But George was English. He wanted to fight for his country, for his fatherland. It's different for us." He turned to Jack for support. "You know it's different. We're not even involved in this war. It's not our fight."

Jack's throat tightened as he listened, but something deep inside told him that it wouldn't be long before they were involved. He looked at Carl, saw the raw emotion on his face, and the hopelessness that had taken over his mind. Carl wasn't wrong. This war was spreading like wildfire. No one could sit idly by forever.

But then Jack mumbled, his voice low, heavy with a mixture of anger and resignation, "It won't take long before they come knocking on our doors."

Vincent froze, his gaze fixed on Jack. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Jack looked up, his eyes clouded with a storm of frustration. "How do you think this war's going to end? You think it's just going to stay over there? I know Russia's already pulling back, but we're not just going to sit here while Europe tears itself apart." He gestured to the letter in his hand, still clutched tightly in his fingers, as if he could make it disappear by simply holding it longer. "How many ships do they need to sink? How many more people need to die before they finally call on us? We will get involved, trust me."

There was a heavy silence in the kitchen as Vincent stared at Jack, a look of disbelief on his face. He opened his mouth as if to argue, but nothing came out. Carl didn't say anything either, his face grim as he processed Jack's words.

"You really think that's going to happen?" Vincent finally spoke, his voice now quieter, more uncertain,

Jack nodded slowly, his heart heavy. "I do. I've seen the way things are going. We won't be able to ignore it forever."

Carl turned away, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "God, this is all too much," he muttered. "Too much."

Vincent stepped closer to him, his voice softer now. "Carl, I know you're angry. We all are. But we need to think carefully about this. You can't let your grief and rage decide for you. This isn't something you just jump into on impulse."

Jack felt his chest tighten as he thought about George. He didn't have the answers. But he couldn't just stand by, either. He knew deep down that this was a turning point for all of them.

Carl finally nodded, though it was clear that his mind was still in turmoil. "Maybe you're right. I don't know what to do anymore, Jack." He paused for a moment before looking up at him, his face softened by the grief. "But I'll tell you one thing: someone has to do something."

Jack's heart ached as he met Carl's gaze. They were all just trying to make sense of a world that was slipping further into chaos. None of them knew what the right decision was. They were all searching for a way to make things right. But in the end, they were just men. Ordinary men caught up in extraordinary circumstances.

Carl turned to Vincent, his voice quieter now. "I'll think about it. But I don't think I can sit here much longer and wait for that knock on the door." He looked back at Jack, and for a moment, the three of them were caught in that heavy silence.

Eventually, Jack stumbled back to his room, his mind a storm of emotions, his heart aching with the weight of George's death. He slammed the door behind him, pressing his back against it as he stood there, trying to catch his breath. The room seemed to close in on him, suffocating him with the grief, the anger, the helplessness.

His hands trembled as he sat on the edge of the bed, the letter from the war department still clenched tightly in his fist. George, their friend, the one who had always been there, now gone. Just like that. And for what? For a war that seemed to stretch on endlessly, consuming everyone in its path.

Jack couldn't hold it in anymore.

The tears came fast and unbidden, breaking through the dam of his control. They were hot and raw, mixing with the confusion and fear that had been building inside him for so long. The grief for George was overwhelming, a crushing wave that swept over him. He pressed his face into his hands, trying to stifle the sobs, but it was no use.

"Damn it, George," Jack whispered hoarsely, his voice thick with emotion. "Why'd you have to go? I am so sorry."

….

The evening air in Los Angeles was warm and soft, the faint scent of ocean breeze mingling with the city's ever-present hum. The streetlights cast a gentle glow on the sidewalk as Rose and John strolled out of the restaurant, their footsteps in sync.

John had taken her to a small, cozy place not far from the Inn, a restaurant she'd never been to before. The dinner had been delicious, full of laughter and easy conversation. For the first time in a while, Rose felt a sense of ease, as though the world was moving at a slower pace, giving her room to breathe. She wasn't entirely sure what had changed—whether it was the passing of time or simply being in John's company—but she felt lighter.

They reached the steps outside the restaurant, the warmth of the night wrapping around them. John turned to her, his eyes soft, yet there was something else there, something Rose couldn't quite place. His expression held a quiet intensity, the kind that always made her heart beat a little faster, and she noticed the way he seemed to be searching her face, as if trying to gauge her thoughts.

"Rose," he said, his voice low and tender, "I've been wanting to do this all evening."

Before she could say anything, he leaned forward and gently brushed his lips against hers.

For a moment, everything seemed to stop. The world, the sounds of the city, the bustling of people all around them—it all faded away. It was just John and her, standing in the soft glow of the streetlights, his kiss lingering on her lips.

She froze.

Her heart skipped a beat. She hadn't expected it, not like this. But as much as her mind wanted to pull away, her body didn't. Instead, she stayed there, her eyes fluttering closed for a brief second, caught between the shock of the moment and the warmth of his touch. The kiss was gentle, like a question, one that she wasn't sure she had an answer to.