Chapter 26

December 1916, Los Angeles

The telephone sat on the counter of Lucinda's Inn, polished and new, its brass accents gleaming under the dim light. The excitement in the air was almost tangible as Rose fumbled with the receiver, her fingers trembling slightly. It had been three years since she had last heard his voice.

Lucinda and Mary hovered nearby, their eyes wide with anticipation.

"Operator," a crisp voice rang through the line.

"Yes, I need to place a call to Philadelphia," Rose said, her voice a mix of nerves and hope. "To a Mr. Jack Dawson."

She gave the address and waited. Each second stretched unbearably long, her heart pounding in her chest.

Then, finally—

"Hello?"

She gasped softly. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

"Jack?"

There was silence on the other end. And then—

"Rose?" His voice was a whisper, almost as if he didn't believe she was real.

She let out a shaky laugh, gripping the receiver tighter. "It's me."

A deep breath came through the line, as though he was trying to steady himself. "God, Rose… I never thought I'd hear your voice again."

Mary covered her mouth, Lucinda squeezing her arm in quiet excitement as they leaned in, trying to catch every word.

Rose swallowed the lump in her throat. "I—I didn't either." She exhaled. "Jack, how are you?"

Jack chuckled, a sound so familiar yet distant that it made her chest tighten. "I'm… good. Working a lot. I got an commission, Rose. I'm helping design a new school here in the city."

A warm smile spread across her lips. "A school? Jack, that's wonderful."

"It's hard work, but I love it," he admitted. "I finally feel like I'm building something real, something that will last."

Rose felt a pang in her heart. He sounded so different, so grown, and yet still the same Jack.

"What about you?" he asked. "I read in your last letter that you've been getting more roles."

She nodded, even though he couldn't see her. "Yes. More than I ever imagined. The stage feels like home now."

"I always knew you'd make it," he said, warmth in his voice.

Rose closed her eyes, wishing she could see him, touch him.

"I've missed you," she whispered.

Jack was quiet for a moment. "I've missed you too, Rose. More than you know."

Then, suddenly, there was a faint clicking sound.

"Jack?" she said quickly.

"…Rose?"

A sharp crackle echoed through the line, and then—silence.

"No, no, no," Rose muttered, shaking the receiver. "Jack? Jack, can you hear me?"

But the connection was gone.

Lucinda let out a disappointed sigh. "The line must have dropped."

The lobby of Lucinda's Inn was quiet now. The warmth of the late afternoon sun filtered through the lace curtains, casting soft patterns on the wooden floor. Rose stood behind the desk, her fingers absently trailing over the telephone, lost in thought.

The conversation with Jack still echoed in her mind. Three years without hearing his voice, and now, just a few fleeting moments of connection before the line had died. He had sounded different, older somehow, but still the same Jack. She could still hear the way he had said her name, the way his voice softened when he spoke of his work, of the school he was helping to design.

She let out a quiet sigh, unsure if she felt comforted or more restless than ever.

A throat cleared behind her, pulling her abruptly from her thoughts.

"I'm sorry, miss, but I'd like to check in."

Rose turned, startled. Before her stood a tall man with dark hair and kind eyes. He was well-dressed, though his coat looked a little travel-worn.

"Oh," she said, shaking off her distraction. "I don't work here, sir. But I'll get someone who can help you."

She turned toward the staircase, calling, "Lucinda?" But there was no response.

After a moment, she sighed, then glanced back at the man. "I guess I will be working here today after all."

The man chuckled, a deep, warm sound. "Back to the old ways, I see. I thought I recognized you."

Rose hesitated, studying him. There was something familiar in his face, though she couldn't quite place it.

"I used to work here for a couple of years, up until last spring," she said finally. "Lucinda, the owner, is like family, so I'm here as often as I can be. What is your name, sir?"

"John Calvert," he said with a polite nod.

She pulled out the registry book, flipping through the pages before selecting a key from the wall behind her. "You'll be staying in Room 302. Third floor, first door on your left."

As she handed him the key, he lingered for just a moment, watching her with quiet curiosity.

"Thank you, Miss…?"

"Williams. Rose Williams."

John smiled as he took the key. "Thank you for your help, Miss Williams."

"You're welcome," she said, offering a small, polite smile. "Enjoy your stay."

"I certainly will," he replied, then turned toward the staircase.

As he disappeared up the steps, Rose exhaled, pressing her palm against the desk. Something about him left an impression, but she couldn't quite name why.

The sound of laughter drifted from the kitchen, and a moment later, Lucinda appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. "Who was that?"

"A guest," Rose murmured. She glanced at the staircase once more before turning back to Lucinda.

….

Philadelphia

Jack stood at the drafting table, pencil in hand, sketching the intricate details of a school building's façade. Sunlight filtered through the large windows of the architectural office, casting warm golden light over the stacks of blueprints and wooden rulers scattered across the room. The rhythmic scratching of lead against paper was comforting—steady, predictable—so unlike the chaos of the past year.

Mr. Kinley, his employer and mentor, stood nearby, watching Jack work with a thoughtful expression. After a moment, he cleared his throat. "You've got a good eye, Dawson."

Jack straightened, pushing his sleeves further up his forearms. "Thank you, sir," he said, offering a small smile. "I've learned from the best."

Mr. Kinley chuckled, crossing his arms. "Flattery won't get you out of your workload, son."

Jack grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. "Didn't think it would."

Kinley's smile faded into something more serious as he studied the young man before him. "You've come a long way, Jack. When I hired you as an apprentice, I knew you had talent, but now…" He gestured to the sketches. "You're more than just a promising student. You're a real architect in the making."

Jack felt a flicker of pride in his chest. "I appreciate that, sir."

Kinley nodded, then leaned against the desk. "That's why I wanted to talk to you. You'll be finishing your studies next summer, and I'd like to offer you a position here, full-time. We're expanding, taking on bigger projects, and I need people I can trust. You've more than proven yourself."

Jack blinked, caught off guard. A full-time position at Kinley & Co. It was everything he had worked for, everything he had dreamed of since stepping into this office.

"I—" He hesitated, taking a breath. "That means a lot to me, sir. I'd be honored."

"Good." Kinley clapped him on the shoulder. "Take some time to think about it, but I'd like an answer before the holidays. I know you're a man who's got things to consider outside of work."

Jack swallowed, thinking of Rose, of the future that still felt uncertain between them. "Yeah," he murmured. "I'll think about it."

Kinley gave him a knowing look but didn't press further. "Good man. Now, finish that drawing before lunch, or I might start reconsidering my offer."

Jack chuckled and got back to work, but his mind was racing. A future in Philadelphia, a stable job, a chance to build something real. He had spent so much of his life wandering, chasing fleeting dreams. But now, for the first time, he had the chance to plant roots.

Jack sat in the corner of O'Malley's, a familiar bar just a few blocks from his apartment. The place buzzed with laughter and the clinking of glasses, the warm glow of gas lamps casting long shadows against the wood-paneled walls. Smoke curled from cigars at the next table over, mingling with the scent of whiskey and worn leather.

Vincent slid a glass of whiskey toward Jack with a grin. "Well, Dawson, looks like the world's finally catching up to your talent."

Jack chuckled, shaking his head. "I don't know about that."

Carl lifted his own drink. "A toast," he declared, raising it high. "To Jack Dawson, the man who's about to design half of Philadelphia."

Jack clinked his glass against Carl's, then Vincent's. They all drank, the burn of whiskey warming his chest.

"And to George," Jack added quietly, his grip tightening around his glass.

Vincent nodded solemnly. "To George."

Carl exhaled through his nose. "Damn war. If there's any justice in the world, he'll come back in one piece."

Jack didn't say anything. He hoped so too, but every letter they'd received from George had become shorter, grimmer. The last one had only contained a single line: I don't know how much longer I'll last here.

The weight of it settled over them, but Vincent shook it off quickly. "Let's not drown in our sorrows, boys. George is on leave now, spending the holidays with his family in Birmingham." he said, slapping Jack on the back. "We're celebrating Dawson tonight. You made it, Jack."

Jack smirked, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Made it? I haven't even said yes to Kinley yet."

Carl furrowed his brow. "What do you mean? Jack, this is the opportunity of a lifetime. A stable job, good pay, your foot in the door as an architect. What's stopping you?"

Jack ran a hand through his hair. "You know what."

Carl sighed. "Rose."

Jack nodded. He took another sip of his drink, letting the burn distract him from the knot tightening in his chest.

Vincent leaned forward. "I thought you two had some kind of understanding. She's out in California, you're here. You both moved on."

Jack looked at him sharply. "I haven't moved on."

Vincent held up his hands. "Alright, alright. But let's be honest—do you really think she's waiting around for you?"

Jack flinched. That thought had haunted him for months. He had asked her to wait once before, and she had. But that was different. This time, there was no set plan, no clear future where they would come together again.

Carl set his glass down with a thud. "Jack, we've known each other a long time, so I'm going to be straight with you. You and Rose have been living separate lives for years. She's in Los Angeles, building her own future. You're here, doing the same. What makes you think she's going to drop everything and come to Philadelphia?"

Jack didn't answer. Because he knew the truth—she wouldn't.

She had sworn she would never return to Philadelphia. That was the past for her, a place filled with painful memories. She had built something new, something better, out west. And now he was doing the same.

He swirled his drink in his glass, watching the liquid catch the light. "I always thought when I finished my studies, I'd go to her," he admitted. "Ask her to marry me."

Vincent and Carl exchanged a look.

Carl leaned back, crossing his arms. "And now?"

Jack sighed. "Now, Kinley is offering me something I never thought I'd have. And if I say yes, I don't know how I can leave."

Vincent let out a low whistle. "That's a hell of a crossroads, Dawson."

Carl studied him for a long moment. "Let me ask you this: If you say yes to Kinley, does that mean you're saying goodbye to Rose?"

Jack's chest tightened. That was the question, wasn't it? Could he have both? Could he build his career here and still keep Rose in his life?

"I don't know," he admitted. "But I don't think I can ask her to wait again."

Carl nodded slowly. "Maybe you don't have to."

Jack looked up. "What do you mean?"

Carl hesitated, then sighed. "Look, Jack… maybe it's time to be honest with yourself. You and Rose, you've been holding on to something that might not even be there anymore. And if it is… well, you have to ask yourself if love is enough to make her leave the life she's built. And if it's not, then you have your answer."

Jack's fingers tightened around his glass.

Vincent clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You'll figure it out, Dawson. You always do."

Jack forced a small smile.

The bar was nearly empty now, save for the bartender wiping down glasses and a few drunks slouched in the corner, murmuring to themselves. Jack swirled the last of his brandy in his glass, staring into its amber depths as if it held the answers he so desperately needed. His thoughts were tangled—of Rose, of Kinley's offer, of the path ahead that seemed to split in two.

And then—

"I thought I recognized you."

Jack tensed, his fingers tightening around the glass before he turned in his seat.

There, standing just a few feet away, was Clara.

For a moment, all he could do was blink at her. It had been years since Chicago, since Mrs. Greene's boarding house, since the days when he'd barely had a nickel to his name and Clara would sneak him extra bread at breakfast. But this woman standing before him now—the Clara he remembered was in threadbare dresses, with flour-dusted hands from working in the kitchen. This Clara was different.

Her deep red dress shimmered under the dim bar lights, the fabric hugging her figure in a way that suggested a life of comfort. Her dark brown hair, which had always been tied back in a simple braid, was now styled in soft curls framing her face. A string of pearls rested against her collarbone.

"Clara?" Jack finally said, still trying to reconcile the girl from his past with the woman in front of him.

She smiled, a little amused at his reaction. "I wanted to come up to you earlier, but you were too busy with your friends."

Jack shook his head, setting his glass down. "I can't believe it. It's been—what? Three years?"

"Almost four," she corrected, tilting her head as she took him in. "You look different, Jack. More… put together."

He let out a soft chuckle. "Well, I guess that means I don't look like I just crawled off a freight train anymore."

She smirked. "Not quite."

Jack leaned against the bar, still trying to process this. "So, what are you doing here? You live in Philadelphia now?"

Clara's expression softened. "I do. Mother passed away last year."

Jack straightened. "Clara… I'm so sorry."

She waved a hand, though there was a flicker of pain in her eyes. "It was her time. But, believe it or not, I never thought I'd find a man at forty years old and move across the country."

Jack raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk forming. "You? Married?"

"Surprised?" she teased.

"A little," he admitted. "But I'm happy for you."

Clara's eyes softened. "And you? Are you happy, Jack?"

Jack hesitated. The question caught him off guard. Before he could answer, a voice called from across the bar.

"Clara, darling! It's late."

Jack turned to see an older man standing near the entrance. He was tall, dressed in a tailored suit with silver streaks in his dark hair. He had the air of someone accustomed to being in charge, his presence commanding without saying much at all.

Clara sighed and gave Jack one last lingering glance. "That's my husband."

Jack nodded, offering a small smile. "You should go."

She hesitated, as if she wanted to say something else. Then she reached out, lightly touching his hand.

"It was good to see you, Jack. I hope you find what you're looking for and I also hope to run into you again."

And just like that, she was gone.

Jack watched as she walked across the room, linking her arm with her husband before disappearing into the night. He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face.