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Chapter Text

August 1913

“This is 14^th Street Station,” came the shout from the conductor of the elevated railroad car.

As if his feet were operating of their own volition, without any input from his brain, Jack stood up from his seat on the train, picked up his coat and stepped onto the platform. As he saw the sign, once again indicating he was at 14^th Street Station and saw the short, sprawling buildings of Chelsea on the ground, he nearly turned right back around and got back on the train. But before he could make up his mind – stay or go – the doors had closed and the train continued on its journey, completely unaware of the turbulence in the mind of one of the passengers it had just dropped off.

He pulled his coat on over his shoulders and started descending the stairs to ground level. It was a hot day, one of the hottest of the summer so far. He definitely didn't need the coat, but it had become a habit of his over the last year and a half to always carry it with him, even well into the summer. Today, however, with sun's warmth on his face, he watched two young boys rush up to a hot dog cart and saw a group of young woman strolling in their colorful summer dresses. Suddenly, he felt a little silly wearing the heavy garment, and tucked in neatly across his arm.

Maybe it'll be nice to walk around in the fresh air a little, he thought to himself. Then, remembering where he was, he quickly corrected himself. Fat chance. Not in Chelsea.

It had taken Jack a long time to build up a life in New York after the sinking. He had barely survived that night, just to be nearly killed once again by the worst pneumonia he had ever experienced. His first two weeks back in America had been spent barely coherent, fighting for his life in the hospital. The next few months he had spent in a fugue state, all of the guilt and despair at having lost Rose that night weighing down on him until could hardly breathe. He lived aimlessly, unable to draw, unable to remove himself from the cocoon he had build around himself.

Somehow, he had no idea how, he managed to find a manufacturing job. The long hours of manual labor meant that, at least sometimes, he was too tired to think about anything painful. It was far from an ideal life, but it was what he could manage for now.

As the months continued to go on, some of the happy memories began seeping in among the pain. Eventually, he could think of Rose's smile and return his own smile back at the image in his head. He even got a new job: maintenance in a large Brooklyn apartment building in exchange for a place to live and a small stipend.

Over the last year, he had built some some good friends among his neighbors in Bushwick. It was a large, multicultural neighborhood, and he loved hearing stories from people from all over the world. He had even started drawing again, setting up a portrait stand in Prospect Park. Once in a while, when he was up for it, he would walk through Crown Heights and look at some of the old mansions and brownstones, trying to imagine Rose's childhood in a similar building. But, most of the time, he was content to stick to all Bushwick had to offer. Yes, his world had shrunk over the last few years, but he was as content as he had any right to be.

Today, though, as he exited the elevated platform onto the street, an unease overtook him. He knew exactly what was causing it. Almost as if the air were different here, he felt a distinct discomfort being anywhere in Manhattan, but especially in Chelsea. The station he had just exited was only a few blocks away from where Titanic would have docked, where he and Rose should have gotten off the ship together. He had very little memory of being removed from the Carpathia and taken to the hospital, but he had a very clear memory of the last time he had been in Chelsea.

April 1912

Less than two hours after being released from the hospital with nothing but the clothes on his back and a stern warning to take it easy, he found himself in the White Star Office, across the counter from a gruff-looking man in uniform. He somehow managed to look both wearied and disinterested at the same time.

“Name, please.”

Jack was startled by the brusque tone and didn't answer right away.

“What is the name of the passenger you came to ask about?” He could hear the annoyance in the man's tone as clearly as if he had rolled his eyes at him. This was the man they had informing people the fate of their loved ones?

“Uh, Rose. Rose Dewitt--”

“All right, move along, son. We aren't here to answer questions from the press.”

“What?”

It was then that the man behind the counter looked him up and down, eyeing his ragged clothes and gaunt appearance from the sinking and the illness.

“Look, kid. I don't know if you're on some sort of mission for information or if this is a sick joke, but we can't just give out information about the dead girl who's been all over the papers to any ruffian who walks in here.”

The man was still talking, much more animated than he had been at any other point in the interaction. But the words no longer made sense to Jack. Just one was ringing through his head. Dead. All of the fear, all of the love, all of the hope that had been racing through his head had been snuffed out like a candle. The only thing left was anguish.

“Her fiancé has been very vocal about it all. Seriously, it's like you haven't even looked at a newspaper in two weeks.”

It was then that Jack remembered the foul man in the White Star Line uniform behind the counter. The man who had been talking so flippantly while his whole heart was destroyed. Acting purely on instinct, Jack slammed his fist onto the counter, hard, not giving a single thought to the inevitable bruise. His other fist, as if acting of its own accord, reached up and grabbed the man's lapel, and the scream he let out was more animalistic than human, burning his still-fragile lungs.

Suddenly, two strong hands belonging to faceless men in uniform gripped each of his arms and violently escorted him out to the street. He only half noticed what was happening, as the only thing he was able to focus on was Rose. The dead girl all over the newspapers. Dead girl. All his emotion spent, he crumpled to the dirty city street and stayed there for hours.

August 1913

Walking these streets for the first time since that awful day he learned of Rose's fate was difficult. Maybe not as difficult as he had built it up to be in his head, but still, he would have preferred to be safe at home in Brooklyn.

A few weeks ago, Jack had received a letter from Harry Chapman, an Englishman he had met three years ago in Paris and who had served as a bit of a mentor to him in his art. Harry was several years older than Jack, and had been steadily rising in the Parisian art world. Harry was the youngest son of a tenant farmer from Yorkshire, and had shocked not just his family, but everyone in his village when he packed up his easel and nothing else and headed for Montmartre.

Harry had seen a kindred spirit in Jack – Fabrizio, too, but mostly Jack, and had taken the pair under his wing. Harry had been the one to teach him poker, how to hold his own in a fight, and Harry had even been the one to pay for Dorothée's time so that Jack could draw her and her hands.

When Jack and Fabrizio moved on from Paris, they had told Harry to look them up if he ever made it to America. But, it still came as a shock when the letter arrived, with a Royal Mail stamp on it, informing Jack of Harry's upcoming arrival in New York. Jack had written back immediately, offering his couch and a few beers, an offer which Harry had gratefully accepted, via the letter in his hand now, along with details of when and where Jack should meet his ship.

There hadn't been time for Jack to write back and suggest another meeting place, so instead, he had spent all week reserved, dreading the journey to the pier even more than he was looking forward to catching up with his friend. But, he had gotten off the train, and that was the first step. A chill ran through his body despite the warmth of the day, and Jack wrapped the coat around his shoulders anyway. As the sparkling blue water of the Hudson and the smokestacks of several large ships appeared off in the distance, he found himself blinking away other images that flashed before his eyes. Images of ice. Of darkness. Of the faces of people in the water. Of Rose. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to feel the warmth of the sun on his neck and to hear the sounds of horse carts and motor cars behind him, indicating he was still on solid ground.

There was a small crowd gathered to welcome the ship and meet passengers. Jack joined near the back, not trusting his emotions if he got any closer. From his vantage point, he could see a steady stream of passengers disembarking, mostly first class. He pressed his eyes closed, hard, and turned away, trying to avoid any chance of seeing someone that might remind him of her.

“Jack! There you are!”

A familiar voice sounded behind him, and he turned around on his heel to see his old friend, laden with his cabin luggage, and a grin on his face.

“Harry! Aren't you the sight for sore eyes?” he said, rushing to embrace the man he hadn't seen in nearly two years. “Here, let me help you with those bags. Is there anything else?”

“I've arranged for the rest of my luggage to be brought to the train station,” Harry said. “I'm moving onward to Chicago tomorrow.”

“Chicago? What brings you there? Your letter was a little short on details.”

“You, my friend, are looking at the new Curator of Impressionist Paintings at the Art Institute.”

Forgetting all of his nerves from moments ago, even forgetting where he was, Jack let out a small whoop of congratulations, and then clapped Harry on the shoulder. “That's quite the job for a Yorkshire farm boy. Maybe one day I'll get to say I knew you before you were such a big shot.”

Harry chuckled. “Yes, I'm chuffed about it” he said, sounding much more prim than could usually be achieved with his Northern accent. Usually, only one person came to mind when someone spoke that way, but she somehow didn't make her way into Jack's imagination this time. “Now, I believe someone promised me beers. And I'd like to take him up on that offer in celebration.”

“Sure thing,” said Jack. “My favorite pub in Bushwick is just up the street from my apartment. Let's go drop off your things and head straight there.”

–

“Another round?”

“Only if it's on you, Mr Curator,” Jack said. He was two beers in, and maybe he should be pacing himself, but he was having more fun than he'd had in months. Harry had brought news of all their friends from Paris – Dorothée was now going by Madame Mains – and they discussed the state of the art world at length. Jack had told Harry all about his life in New York, as well as what he could remember about Chicago from the last time he had been there, as a newly-orphaned 15-year-old.

Harry had briefly asked Jack about his love life. Maybe it was the fog from the beer, maybe it was the old company, but somehow that question didn't hurt as much as it would any other time, from any other person. Jack was able to laugh it off in a self-deprecating, but cheery, “who'd be interested in a bum like me?” and turn the question back on Harry, who spoke with ardor about his most recent conquests. Harry had also asked after Fabrizio, and that question was harder to dodge. But Jack was able to deflect just enough, and Harry was savvy enough to not ask further questions.

“All right,” said Harry, handing over a crisp American bill, that he must have just recently changed over, from his pocket. “Why don't you go get us two more beers, and then I have something I want to discuss with you.”

Jack took the cash and went up to the bar. He wondered, briefly, what Harry could want to discuss. The only topic that had been challenging all night had been Fabrizio, and Jack thought he had done a decent job of indicating it wasn't the right time to talk about it. Could it have something to do with his apartment? He and Harry had only stepped inside for a few moments, to drop off Harry's things and for Jack to pick up a few of his recent pieces to show him. Jack had made up the couch thinking of Harry's garret in Paris, but maybe now that he had a fancy job he would expect something nicer than a couch in Brooklyn with thin linens?

“Hiya, Jack! What'll you have?”

His thoughts were interrupted by the voice of one of the regular bartenders. Jack frequented this pub, especially in the summer after a long day of drawing in the park, and he was on good terms with most of the staff.

“Hey, Reggie. Two more of these,” he said, indicating the empty glass in his hand.

“You got it,” said Reggie, moving to pull two more beers. “Say, have you already put your name in the tombola for this week?”

“I don't think I have,” said Jack, as Reggie handed over the beers. “Still ten cents to enter?”

“You got it. I think we're getting close.”

Three months ago, Julia, the young daughter of one of the bar backs, had fallen off her horse after it had been spooked. As a regular, Jack had heard endless stories about the girl, and she sounded like a plucky, high-spirited kid. Julia survived the fall, but needed extensive medical treatment, beyond the means of a Brooklyn bar back. So, the bar staff had set up a weekly tombola drawing, allowing patrons a chance to win a small prize if they donated to Julia's fund. Jack had never cared much for the prizes, but he faithfully donated what he could to the pot each week to help Julia.

Jack gave Reggie the bill to pay for the beers, and, as Reggie gave him his change back, he turned his hand over to drop a few coins into the pot.

“Thank you,” both men said at the same time, and Jack took a beer in each hand and made his way back to Harry.

“What was it you wanted to talk to me about?” asked Jack as he arrived back at the table, suddenly remembering Harry's vaguely ominous message as he got up to get more beer. He set the drinks down and took his seat, his back straight and alert.

“Oh, yes,” said Harry, taking a deep swig of his beer. “There's a reason I looked you up and got in touch with you on my way to Chicago.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, indeed.” Harry then launched into the story of how he first learned about the job opening in Chicago. He told Jack how he had applied, and a little about some of the artwork and other supporting materials he had submitted. He spoke about the long distance interviewing process, where he and the museum staff exchanged letter after letter talking about art and Harry's credentials. By the time Harry finished, the pair had nearly finished their third beer.

“So, what does this all have to do with me?” Jack asked.

“I'm glad you asked,” said Harry. “You see, when they hired me, they said I could bring along anyone I wanted as my Assistant Curator, and I immediately thought of you. Is that something you'd be interested in? It would mean moving to Chicago.”

Jack hardly heard anything Harry said after I immediately thought of you. He was getting a job offer. A real job offer in the art world. He had been to the Art Institute twice, once as a young boy accompanied by his parents, next as a teenager, alone in the world. Both times he had been awed, made to feel small in the presence of great works of art. And that feeling had stuck with him; even as he improved his craft in Europe, he still thought back to that grand art museum, not too far from his humble midwest home town, and knew he'd never match up to the masters whose works hung in those halls. But still, sometimes in his dreams, he pictured his name on the wall – not of the Louvre, but of the Art Institute of Chicago.

“Yes,” he croaked. “I'll take it.”

“To the new Assistant Curator of Impressionist Paintings at the Art Institute of Chicago!” shouted Harry as he raised his glass, then drained the rest of it in one long swig. Jack followed suit and then got up to get them a fourth round, taking the time to empty every last coin in his pocket into the tombola.

Two Weeks Later

It had been a whirlwind getting ready to leave Brooklyn and move to Chicago. Jack had never been much of one for roots, and it certainly hadn't felt like he was putting any down here. But as he told his friends and neighbors one by one about the new job, and they told him one by one how much they would miss him, he realized for the first time just how much of a home he had made for himself in Bushwick.

He still had about a month before he would leave for good. The Assistant Curator appointment started officially on October 1, and it was still the first week of September. Autumn had begun to hit the city, the air feeling just a little crisper and the sun setting just a little earlier. He thought, with a shudder, about the winter clothes packed away in his apartment. New York winters could be bad, but if Chippewa Falls was anything to go by, Chicago winters could be far worse. But, he had recently seen the mind-boggling amount of money he was set to make, and he reassured himself that he could afford to buy several new heavy winter coats should the need arise.

It was Friday evening, and he had just finished a day of drawing in Prospect Park. He knew he would miss the large green space in the middle of the city. Each time he came here to draw, he saw the cross section of humanity – rich, poor, black, white, young, old – come together in one big park. He heard dozens of languages being spoken, and was beginning to pick up a few words of Hungarian, German, Haitian Creole, Spanish, and Portuguese. He tried to think about next summer, perhaps setting up his portrait stand on the banks of Lake Michigan after a long day of working with his favorite paintings, and the ache he knew he'd feel for the familiar park was replaced with excitement at the upcoming adventure.

There was just a touch of light left in the sky. Not enough to draw with, but enough that it didn't feel right heading straight back to his apartment. In the frenzy of trying to get everything ready for a move, he had not had time to make it to his favorite pub since the night Harry had offered him the job. But, tonight, as he turned onto his street, he headed straight for the pub.

Reggie was once again behind the bar, and greeted Jack with a bright smile as he walked in the door.

“Jack! I was hoping you'd stop by tonight,” he said, beckoning him over to the bar. “You haven't picked up your prize.”

“My what?”

“You won last week's tombola drawing. It's two tickets to tonight's performance of H.M.S Pinafore at the Hippodrome Theatre. I'm glad I caught you! The show starts in just a few hours.”

“Thanks, Reggie,” he said, accepting the tickets and stuffing them into his pocket, but silently knowing he had no one to bring to the theatre, and little interest to go on his own. “How'd we do raising money for Julia?”

“We're almost there,” he said. “I think one more week should just about do it.”

–

Jack had left the pub on foot, aimlessly walking over the newly constructed Williamsburg Bridge. Looking out over the East River to see the city in the dying light of day, he was struck with a sudden urge to make the most of his time remaining in New York. To make it count as he had once said. He wandered through The Bowery, trying to study the details of people who passed him by to perhaps use in a future sketch. He made his way through Chinatown and Little Italy, making notes of restaurants that he might want to come back to to celebrate his last evening in New York.

In Tompkins Square Park, a memory struck him of the last time he had been in New York, as a seventeen-year-old, trying to save up enough money to book a passage to Europe. He had set up his art stand in Central Park, near some of the newly built mansions of the Upper West Side. He had been there less than an hour when the rich folks who lived near the park – new money, he now knew they were – had driven him straight out with their caustic remarks.

Then, he had retreated to the safety Tompkins Square, drawing portraits of immigrants and newsboys. Now that he had returned to the small park, he noticed a few artists – painters by the look of it – and all of them looking quite young, closing up shop for the day, surely headed back to one of the nearby tenements. He felt a sudden pang of sadness for the boy he had been, aping confidence while still letting a few snide remarks intimidate him, and decided he would return to Central Park.

Besides, he was the goddamn Assistant Curator of Impressionist Paintings at the Art Institute of Chicago, after all.

He gathered up his coat and his sketchbook and headed north. Nightfall was quickly overtaking the city, but if he hurried, there might be just enough light left by the time he got there to do one portrait. Maybe he could even try his hand at drawing under one of the electric streetlights. But, the walk was longer than he anticipated. The sky had gone fully black before he even reached 40^th Street, and he realized it had been a fool's errand to make it all the way to Central Park in time to still do a portrait. Oh well, maybe he'd try again tomorrow.

He felt around in his pocket, checking to see if he had enough cash on hand to afford a dinner out, when he grabbed onto a thick piece of paper. The Theatre Tickets. Reggie had said the show started at 8, and he had just passed a clock on the street indicating it was a little after 7:30.

He started walking, vaguely in the direction of the theatre – his first thought was to go to the box office and see if her could return the tickets for cash. He would, of course, give that cash back to Julia, as she was a much worthier cause than him seeing some silly play.

As he reached the theatre district, all the well coiffed men and women rushing from dinner to the theatre, all the bright lights, everything about the area shouted at him: You are out of place. You are underdressed and under cultured. But, Jack, remembering the boy he had been who had run away from Central Park, remembering the man who had loved Rose Dewitt Bukater, would not let himself be unnerved by any of these displays of wealth. He wandered for a while, looking for the Hippodrome, until he came across a large marquee advertising Gilbert and Sullivan's most famous comedic opera, H.M.S Pinafore.

“Hi, I'd like to sell these tickets back,” Jack said, as he made his way into the box office.

“I'm afraid I can't do that, sir. These tickets are nonrefundable.”

“So – So what do I do with these two tickets I won?”

“You could always...see the show,” said the man in the box, doing a better job than most would to mask the sarcasm in his voice. “It's quite funny, if I do say so myself.”

Even as Reggie first handed over the tickets, Jack had not ever considered actually seeing the show. But the streak of sentimentality he had felt looking out over the East River earlier than night had not gone away. He had never seen a show on Broadway before, and by the end of the month, he wouldn't have another chance.

“All right,” he said. “Where am I sitting?”

“You have decent seats,” the man said, directing him into the theatre. “Right side orchestra, Row N. You're close enough to see everything.”

Even before he realized he was actually doing it, Jack strode into the theatre towards his seat. He knew the seat next to him would be empty, and he wished there could be a way for him to pay it forward – to Julia, or perhaps to a young person interested in learning about theatre. But there was nothing to be done this close to curtain.

An usher handed him a program, and Jack thanked him curtly, as he took his seat in Row N. The man in the box office was right. He was a little far back, but he had a good view of the whole stage.

When he had entered, the seats around him had been mostly empty. But now, as 8:00 drew nearer, they began to fill with people much more well-dressed than him. He tried not to think about the last time he had been surrounded by this many people wearing suits, and tried to make himself look invisible in his seat. Then, he had ben out of his comfort zone, but he had had a friendly face to look towards all night. Now, though he wasn't phased by wealth for the sake of wealth, he still felt a little out of place, sitting alone, waiting for an opera to start.

He pulled out the program the usher had handed him, and he opened it to the first page, containing a brief summary of the opera he was about to watch. He skimmed it, not wanting to know the whole story before he watched it, and then turned the page to the roster of characters.

In This Performance:

Sir Joseph Porter will be played by Jeremiah McLean

Captain Corcoran will be played by Arthur Wilson

Ralph Rackstraw will be played by Oliver St. James

Dick Deadeye will be played by Matthew Ellis

Bill Bobstay will be played by Alexander Sharpe

Bob Becket will be played by Stanley Driscoll

Josephine will be played by Rose Dawson

Cousin Hebe will be played by Bessie Finch

Little Buttercup will be played by Vera Hall

Jack had only been skimming the program, but his heart stopped dead as one name jumped out to him. He knew he had a common last name and she had had one of the most popular given names of the era. Just mathematically, there could be hundreds of Rose Dawsons in this city alone. She's dead, he reminded himself. But, even still, his finger hovered over the name in his program.

Without warning, the lights dimmed and the theatre was cast in darkness. Moments later, the stage was lit up with electric lights, and a chorus of actors dressed as sailors began to sing:

We sail the ocean blue,

And our saucy ship’s a beauty;

We’re sober men and true,

And attentive to our duty.

When the balls whistle free

O’er the bright blue sea,

We stand to our guns all day;

When at anchor we ride

On the Portsmouth tide,

We’ve plenty of time to play.

Jack found himself hardly following the play. He was steeling himself for the introduction of a character named Josephine. Josephine. The first scene passed with no one by that name, and Jack realized that not only did he have no idea what had happened in the first scene, but the program in his hand had been ripped to shreds in his nervousness.

As the first scene ended, and Little Buttercup and the Captain exited, the stage was fully empty for just a moment. Nothing was there except the scenery, mimicking an old-fashioned ship, well lit, almost eerily, by the bright electric stage lights. Tense moments passed. Silence that could have lasted seconds or minutes. Maybe years.

And then a young woman, with short, black hair, wearing a white dress with a full, old-fashioned skirt entered the stage alone, and began to sing.

Sorry her lot who loves too well,

Heavy the heart that hopes but vainly,

Sad are the sighs that own the spell,

Uttered by eyes that speak too plainly;

Heavy the sorrow that bows the head

When love is alive and hope is dead!

Sad is the hour when sets the sun –

Dark is the night to earth’s poor daughters,

When to the ark the wearied one

Flies from the empty waste of waters!

Heavy the sorrow that bows the head

When love is alive and hope is dead!

She had walked on from stage left, at first only showing the audience her side profile. Jack hadn't believed it would be her, not really. But still, something in him, some breath that he had been holding, released, and he felt deflated. Anger bubbled deep inside him, and he suddenly felt the urge to punch something. To utterly destroy some physical item. Nervous energy flowed through his body, with nowhere to go, and he stood up in his seat.

But then, the actress on stage, still singing, turned to face the audience, and he saw her eyes. Every last drop of tension in his body released, and he nearly screamed as he fell back into his chair, unable to look away from the woman on stage for even one fraction of one second.

Chapter Text

September 1913

Rose opened her wardrobe, nearly empty after a full week of neglecting her washing. She had worn the clothes she liked as repeatedly as she could realistically get away with, and was now staring down her least favorite dress.

After arriving in New York seventeen months ago, she had spent her first few nights in a women's boarding house in the West Village. The matron, Mrs. Tuttle, had been more than strict, expecting full rent, along with daily chores from Rose, despite the tragedy she had survived and the loss she had suffered only days earlier.

Rose had only been there three days when Mrs. Tuttle had handed her a flat box. “A gift,” she had said. Inside had been a plain, pale orange dress. Rose had been grateful for the gift, for any article of clothing other than the one she had worn off the ship and hadn't taken off for a full week.

She had peeled off the water-soaked dress, basking in the fresh air against her skin, the liberation she finally felt from the damp fabric. She then held up the new dress, gauging it for fit, before tugging it over head. It did fit, somewhat, but it was by far the least flattering piece of clothing she had ever worn. The pastel orange washed out her skin and clashed with her hair. It was too tight in the hips, but there was still somehow just enough extra fabric around her waist to make it look especially ill-fitting. When she saw herself in the mirror, she nearly laughed, even despite the deep despair that consumed her.

Jack, you know colors. I hope you're looking down on me and laughing at this stupid dress. She knew she shouldn't care, and, she didn't, really. But still, it somehow felt like a passive aggressive personal attack from her landlady.

Deciding she needed a little fresh air to gain perspective on her new life, to toughen up in order to make it, Rose finished her chores for the day as quickly as possible and then left for a walk around Washington Square Park. She remembered reading a Henry James novel about the wealthy people who lived in the houses bordering the park, and briefly tried to remember the plot – had it been sneakily satirical? - but she couldn't be bothered will all that right now. Instead, she sat down on a park bench, finally allowing herself to succumb to the tears for all she had lost. She could see Jack's face clearly – his face as he drew her, his face as she turned him down in the gymnasium, his face just after she jumped back on the sinking ship to be with him.

At the end of the day spent wearing the new dress, she came back to her bedroom to find the wardrobe was completely empty. Perhaps Mrs. Tuttle had laundered the old one for her? But that seemed a little unlike the dour matron she had come to know the last few days.

“Oh, it's gone. I cut it up for rags. I thought I was doing you a favor,” Mrs. Tuttle said, after her inquiry. “It looked like it had seen better days.”

She thought of her purple flowing dress. One of the last physical things she had that Jack had ever touched. The dress he had taken off of her before they made love, and the dress he had put back on her before they ran back out to the deck. The last dress he had ever seen her wear. When she wore it, she could still feel his touch – she imagined the feel of his strong hands on her back, along the neckline of the dress, slipping beneath the hem and tracing the curve of her legs. And Mrs. Tuttle had taken scissors to it.

“You bitch!” She screamed, tears flowing fast down her cheeks. “You pathetic, feeble excuse for a person!”

She picked up the nearest trinket off the wall, a small statue of a fairy, and hurled it at the offending woman. And then Rose was gone before Mrs. Tuttle could reply. Gone to the train station to catch the next train going off to wherever it was headed.

Now, she still had that pale orange dress. In this instance, practicality had won over sentimentality. There was no good reason to throw away a dress, just for being ugly. Especially considering she had almost no other clothes. Now that her hair was darker, it didn't clash quite as much, but she still hated the way she looked in the dress, and always saved it just for days when she needed something to wear as a last resort.

Today was Saturday. She had two shows today, so it didn't matter at all what she wore, as she'd spend the majority of her day in costume. After today, she only had to get through tomorrow's matinee, and then she had two and a half days free to take care of chores like washing her clothes. So, she pulled on the ugly dress that contained so many memories, and made her way to the Hippodrome.

–

“Rose, are you doing anything between shows?” Bessie, one of her co-stars was always organizing an activity for all the ladies to do between shows on their two show days. Rose joined whenever she could. She had only been with this production for five months, but she was already developing deep friendships with some of her fellow actresses. It was the first time in her life she had ever been real friends with other women – the kind you could actually talk to and laugh with – and she relished every second spent with them

“Not that I know of,” she said. “What do you have planned?”

“Lydia was the one to plan it today,” said Bessie, excitedly. Lydia was even younger than Rose – well, even younger than everyone thought she was – and was a member of the chorus, as well as Rose's understudy in the role of Josephine. The two got on exceptionally well, often getting a late dinner together after the show before heading back to their respective boarding houses. “She says her brother from Baltimore sent her a new – device? She didn't explain it very well. But she wants us all to come see it.”

Intrigued, Rose followed Bessie into Lydia's dressing room and saw Vera and several of the women from the chorus already gathered.

“Rose! Bessie! Come in,” said Lydia. “My brother Jack sent me this. It's called a ouija board.”

Over the months, Rose had grown somewhat accustomed to hearing his name used for other people, but that didn't stop her from reacting when she heard it unexpectedly. The first few times she had heard it, her heart had nearly stopped. She had followed more than one stranger after hearing the name they were called, hoping that, when he turned around, it would be her Jack. Not some imposter with the same name.

Rose knew enough about Lydia's family and upbringing – she had grown up in a bi-racial family in a mixed neighborhood in Baltimore – to know that there was no way the brother she mentioned could have any relation to Rose's beloved other than a shared name. But, even still, she had flinched.

“What does this ouija board do?” Asked Rose, trying to distract from her lapse.

“You can talk to the spirits of the dead!” shouted Lydia. “Jack says it's incredible, that it really works!” She picked up the planchette and placed it on the board, underneath two of her fingers. “Who wants to go first?”

Rose paled. Hearing his name was one thing, but a game where you feigned talking to the dead was a step too far. Had she actually believed she could communicate with him via this ouija board, she would have bought one hundred boards and stayed in her boarding house all day every day, talking to him. But to pretend, surrounded by her giddy friends who thought this was all a macabre joke, was more than she could bear.

No one jumped to volunteer, so Lydia spoke again. “Rose? Please? If my brother is to be believed it is such fun!”

“I – I don't think it's for me,” she said.

“Don't be such a spoilsport, Rose! But, all right. How about you, Louise?” She said, inviting one of the other chorus girls up. Giggling, Louise joined Lydia and put two fingers on the planchette.

“Who's there?” they asked, with affected fear in their voice.

For a few moments, nothing happened. Then, both girls' gasped as their hands moved suddenly and violently to the “T,” then to the “I.”

Rose paled even further. The planchette stalled for a few minutes, and then moved back towards the center of the board. Would the next letter be another “T”? Rose closed her eyes, unable to watch.

“G!” Lydia and Louise squealed. “T – I – G. Ooh! The next letter is H!”

It only took a few minutes for them to transcribe the whole message. T – I – G – H – O – S – T.”

“T. I. Ghost?” asked Bessie. “Are you talking to a ghost whose initials are T. I.?”

“Let's find out,” said Lydia. Putting on her spooky voice once more, Lydia asked. “Whaaaaat iiiis yooour naaame?”

“T – H – E – O – D – O – R – E”

“Oh my God” shouted Vera. “It's Theodore Inge. The stagehand who died here in 1905 just after the Hippodrome first opened.”

The girls took turns asking the theatre ghost questions, giggling the whole time, while Rose stood to the side, trying to set aside her discomfort at this farce.

“Rose,” Bessie shouted, just as she finished her turn. “You have to try this!”

Rose inhaled, deeply, trying to think of any excuse she could give to avoid sitting at the ouija board, but came up blank and, reluctantly, moved to the seat across from Lydia.

“Theodore,” Lydia shouted, dramatically. “This is Rose Dawson, she has some questions for you.”

“You do know that's not my real name, right Lydia?” Usually Rose wasn't bothered when people called her by the stage name she had adopted. Usually, she even welcomed it. But, sitting in front of the ouija board was disconcerting. It wasn't like she actually believed in it, but she still felt a strange resistance to letting the board know about the name Dawson. It suddenly felt too personal, too private to share, even with a fictional ghost.

“Ooh, right!” said Lydia, gleefully ignoring Rose's discomfort. “The ghosts won't be able to find you unless we use your real name. This, Theodore,” she repeated, boldly, “is Rose Parker. She has some questions for you.”

May, 1912

It felt like she had been doing nothing but riding the train for weeks, but she hadn't made it very far. After fleeing Mrs. Tuttle's, the first train Rose had boarded had brought her to Lincoln, New Hampshire. It was a small town, in the heart of the White Mountains, and the biting winter chill still lingered.

She had spent the first few days exploring – trying to pretend Jack was at her side and they were off on an adventure. She had even started to hike Mt. Osceola. Jack had been right when he called her an indoor girl – she had never been on a hike before, had never even really spent any leisure time outside. But as the trail made its way deeper into the woods and she was met with the peaceful silence that can only come from being among the fresh air and the trees, she was the most comfortable she had been in weeks. She found herself hardly noticing the growing incline of the mountain or her shoes and pale orange dress growing dirtier and dirtier.

But, it was still early in the year for hiking, and, halfway up the snow-capped mountain, a wall of ice blocked the dirt trail. All the calmness rushed out of her like a dam had burst, and she turned around on her heels and nearly ran down the mountain, as fast as her legs would take her.

Her real goal was to find a court somewhere that would let her legally change her name. The clerk in Lincoln had been kind, but not willing to fill out the paperwork without documentation, so she had moved on. It had been the same story in St Johnsbury, Vermont, Utica, New York, and Syracuse, New York. She had slowly moved her way West, to Sudbury, Ontario, then Marquette, Michigan, before looking at a map and realizing that, if she went any further West, she would be heading straight for Chippewa Falls.

At first, the thought stopped her in her tracks, and she nearly turned back East. But as she sat with it, it somehow seemed fitting that, if there was any small town in the world that would let her fill out paperwork to change her name to Dawson, it would be Jack's home town. So she set off once again.

Somewhere in upstate New York, she had acquired enough fabric to sew herself something to wear other than the pastel orange dress. Hesitantly, she had bought more than she really needed, silently scolding herself for spending the money she had found in the coat so frivolously. But, as she ruined yet another bolt of fabric, trying to cut it into shape, she was glad for the extra.

The new clothes she had sewn for herself were unostentatious, white blouses and black skirts, so different from all the elaborate fabrics her mother had dressed her up in, in her previous life as a show pony. But they were comfortable, serviceable, and, most importantly, she had made them herself with her own two hands.

She was wearing one of her new outfits when she arrived at the small inn near the Chippewa Falls train station. It was late, and her emotions were running high – as soon as had she stepped off the train onto Wisconsin soil, she very nearly turned around and got right back on the train. But, as she pulled open the front door, she was met with a rush of warm, comforting air, and a kindly woman working at the front desk.

“Can I help you, miss?”

“I'm looking for a room for a few nights.”

“You got a name? For the ledger?”

“Uh, Yes. It's Rose,” she said. “Rose D – er, Rose Parker.”

The name was so unfamiliar to her that, every time she said it she felt like she was an actress, playing a role. It was nice, in a way. To the world, she could be Rose Parker, a brave, confident young woman untroubled by demons. While, inside, Rose Dawson was in mourning for the only man she had ever loved. Rose Parker went on adventures; she set off to see the world. Rose Dawson would do that too, eventually, but only after she gave herself time away from the world to heal.

She had come by the name inadvertently. A month earlier, when she had been asked her name for the survivor's list, she had answered confidently, without so much as a single thought. Dawson. For the next few days, she repeated her new name to herself, over and over. Rose Dawson. No two words had ever sounded more right together.

The name made it easier to pretend that Jack was at her side. It made it easier for her to feel like the person she had always been meant to be.

But it all came crashing down when she arrived at Ellis Island.

“Name,” came the voice of the clerk, his thick New Jersey accent coming through even on just the one word

“Rose Dawson,” she said, her chin proudly in the air.

“Dawson?” the man was flipping through the papers in front of him, at first casually, but then increasingly rapidly, as if he was looking for something he wasn't finding. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she demanded. “D-A-W-”

“I know how to spell it, thank you. It's only that there's no one on the original passenger manifest by that name. We can't let you into the United States if you weren't cleared for immigration before leaving Southhampton. You know, lice checks and such?”

“I did all that!” she said, raising her voice just a touch. “Any documentation would be at the bottom of the ocean!”

“I am aware of what you went through, Miss. But, by law, White Star Line maintained a record of all ticket holders here in New York as well as on board the ship. If you were a stowaway, we'll have no choice but to send you back to Britain.”

“No,” she whispered. Any courage or defiance she had been able to feign left her in a single exhalation as the thought of crossing the ocean again was brought up.

“So I'll ask again. What is your name?”

“Rose. Rose, uhhhh,”

“Will you point to your name on the list?” he asked, turning the pages in front of him around so they faced her.

She could tell he was taking pity on her. Offering her a lifeline, a way to let her lie believably. And she took it. She picked up the small stack of paper and furiously skimmed through it, looking for a name that could be hers.

PARKER, ROSEMARY, MISS – 3RD CLASS, Date of Birth: 22 July 1890, Nationality: British

Rose pointed a trembling finger at the name, sealing her fate. Rosemary Parker was a few years older than her and it hit her, suddenly, that she would now be older than Jack. With a single motion of her finger, she had aged nearly five years. While he would never age again. The thought made her want to throw up.

“Welcome to America, Miss Parker,” said the man, cheerfully, as he stamped a sheet of paper and handed it to her.

–

After a number of failed attempts to try to reclaim Dawson, to change her name, legally, from Parker to Dawson, Rose found herself back in New York.

The courthouse at Chippewa Falls had been, by far, the most promising. The clerk had been friendly and welcoming; she had even recognized a glimmer of twinkly reminiscence when she mentioned the name she wanted to adopt. Could this man have known Jack? He had been genuinely sorry when he let her know that, under Wisconsin law, she wasn't eligible to file for a name change until she had been a resident for twelve months. He had suggested other states to try, another city whose court clerk might be open to doing it if she sweetened the pot with a dollar bill or two. But, instead, she thanked the man profusely and headed back East, finally accepting that, legally, she was Rose Parker, and would only be Rose Dawson in her private dreams.

Abandoning her mission to become a Dawson legally, she traveled around the country for most of the summer and Fall of 1912. She visited small towns and big cities, always trying out as many new things as she could – she square danced in Oklahoma, she camped out under the stars in Oregon, she drank bourbon in Kentucky, she even ended up finishing a hike, completely free of ice, in Arizona.

In Washington DC, she tried eating alone at a restaurant for the first time. She hadn't eaten at a restaurant at all since before boarding the ship, and while she didn't miss the rigid rules of society, she had to admit, if only to herself, that she did miss just having food appear in front of her, without having to cook it. From hiking to sewing clothes to navigating the rail system, she had learned a lot in the last year, but cooking had not been one of the skills she managed to pick up.

When the first course arrived, a simple beef consommé, she felt the stares and funny looks from her fellow diners, all of whom were paired off or in small groups.

Seeing the stares, she felt a fresh pang of longing, wishing Jack were seated across from her at the table. Not because she felt self conscious about dining alone or drawing attention, on the contrary, in fact. She wished she could laugh with him about how many people couldn't fathom seeing a woman enjoying a meal at a restaurant on her own.

Invigorated by the attention, almost daring the other diners to say something to the mysterious woman breaking convention, she ordered plate after plate and asked for her wine glass to be refilled more times than she could count. Okay, she also was enjoying this more than she cared to admit.

“No caviar for me," she said, as it was offered. "I never did like the stuff.” Instead, she summoned the waiter for another slice of quiche.

When the bill came, she was aghast at the number. In her life before, small details like prices were not something that was discussed in her company. Specific numbers were deemed too gauche to talk about, especially with women. So her sense of what things should cost was a little askew, and she had just accidentally ordered enough food and wine to cost a week's wages. Feeling foolish, she piled all of her cash, along with a good chunk of what was left of Cal's money she had found in the jacket pocket, onto the table and hurried out of the restaurant.

Now feeling a sudden need to earn back the money she had spent, she boarded the first train out of Union Station, headed for Boston. She had only been to Boston once, as a young girl, and spent the train ride trying to remember what the city looked like, wondering if any of her memories would serve her in finding a job. She remembered having tea with her mother and a group of stuffy ladies at the Ritz before strolling through the Public Garden. She remembered her mother pointing out Radcliffe College – where you can go meet a Harvard man. She remembered a performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream they had attended, right on the Common, and how the story and the performances had captured her like nothing she had ever seen before.

Only minutes after her thoughts had turned to theatre, the train announced the next station stop at Pennsylvania Station in New York, and she changed her mind. All thoughts of Boston abandoned, Rose Parker disembarked in New York City, just as she had done a year ago, but with a renewed confidence and a new goal – the theatre.

May 1913

There was just the slightest hint of cool air as the sun was beginning to go down on the first truly warm day of Spring, but Rose didn't mind at all as she left her boarding house. Hell's Kitchen was one of the poorest neighborhoods in the city, and had a reputation for being one of the most dangerous, but this time of the evening it was still lively with workers coming and going. Rose was just leaving for the night, headed towards the theatre for the Tuesday evening performance of H.M.S. Pinafore.

It was only the third week of performances, but she already knew she had found a home. She was very quickly becoming fast friends with her cast mates, and singing on stage made her feel more alive than she had in months. Not since standing under the sunset on the bow of a certain ship, with a certain man's arms wrapped tightly around her.

Upon arriving in New York, she got a job at a restaurant in Hell's Kitchen and a room in a boarding house not too far away. She went to audition after audition, but with no theatre experience to speak of, she was laughed out of room after room. 

After months of trying, and nearly giving up more than once, she landed a small part in a play. The playwright was a young man, no more than twenty-one years old, and he was willing to give her a shot. She had a very small role, only a few lines, as the main character's sister. But those few minutes on stage reinvigorated her, encouraged her to keep pursuing her dream.

They play had only run for a few weeks before closing. The morning after it all ended, Rose went back to her restaurant job, feeling more defeated than she had in months.

So when she landed the audition for H.M.S Pinafore only a few days later, she jumped in head first. It wasn't until she booked the role and went to the first rehearsal that she fully realized what the opera was about – a woman named Josephine on board a ship who falls in love with a man she wasn't supposed to, a man who later ends up in handcuffs– and she nearly backed out. But, as she walked into the restaurant after that first rehearsal, still feeling the energy from the theatre and her fellow actors, she knew she couldn't turn it down, even if some of the subject matter might be painful.

On a whim, she had given her name to the director as Rose Dawson. Her paychecks would still be made out to Rose Parker, but the same spirit that had moved her to take Jack's name on the deck of the rescue ship nearly a year ago had moved her once again. And wasn't it fitting? Jack had been the first person she had ever shared her theatrical ambitions with, and he had set her free to really pursue them. So, it was only right that she use Dawson in her first role as a leading lady. Legal name be damned.

Tonight, she was enjoying the short walk to the Hippodrome Theatre. The performers were required to arrive thirty minutes before showtime to get into their costumes, and Rose always enjoyed the extra time before curtain, preparing herself to step into Josephine's shoes. But, tonight, she was running a few minutes late and was rushing to get there on time.

As she turned the corner onto Sixth Avenue, she saw audience members beginning to gather on the sidewalk in front of the theatre. As usual, they were all very well dressed, likely upper class, and she paid them almost no attention as she turned towards the stage door entrance. But, off in the distance, she saw just a flash of a tall man standing on his own. His stance and figure seemed so familiar, like something out of a dream, but she couldn't quite place it.

Shaking off the eerie feeling, she rushed into the theatre and entered her dressing room, but she still couldn't shed the feeling of familiarity. Even as she started the breathing exercises she usually used to calm herself down and prepare to go on stage, there was a nagging feeling that she needed to know who that man was.

Still in her street clothes and knowing she was running out of time before curtain, she raced out of her dressing room and into the box office. The man working at the counter had just finished a sale, when he turned around, clearly startled to see her there.

“Oh, uh, Hello Miss Parker. What can I do for you?”

“Do you have the names of everyone in the audience?” She asked. “I'm afraid it's rather urgent.”

“I can get you everyone who bought a ticket, at least up until this morning,” he said. “We don't write down the names of the last minute sales until we have the complete list.”

“That will have to do,” she said. “May I see it?”

He shuffled around in his desk for a few minutes, looking for the list, but then pulled it out of a filing cabinet. She grabbed for it, hungrily, as he held it up.

“Sorry!” she shouted, half-heartedly, as she walked away, already scanning the list as quickly as she could read.

Rose was now almost all the way up the stairs, back towards her dressing room. The list was alphabetical by last name, and she had made it halfway through the C's without any name sticking out to her. Blindly, she reached for her dressing room door as she kept reading names as quickly as she could.

“Holy shit!” she said aloud as she landed on one name. “Oh my lord, holy shit!”

Hockley, Nathan...2 tickets, Orchestra Row C

Without thinking, Rose took off in a run. Luckily, her feet were thinking better than her brain, and before she knew it, she was knocking on Lydia's dressing room door.

“Rose, hi,” she said, pulling the door open. “What do you need?”

“Can you go on tonight?” she asked, breathlessly. “I – I – I think I ate something that disagreed with me. It's just hitting me now.”

“This is really short notice, Rose.”

“I know, and I'm so sorry. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't necessary.”

“I – I don't know,” Lydia said, tentatively. “I really want to. But I only just started learning the part. I'm barely off book.”

“Do you want me to ask Mr. Wilson if we can delay the start by a few minutes so you can get ready?”

Just as Lydia opened her mouth to speak, though, the stage manager popped his head in the door and called, “five minutes 'til curtain, FIVE MINUTES!”

But as he caught a glimpse of Rose, not yet dressed in costume, he spoke again. “Miss Parker, what are you doing? We go on in five minutes, you need to get ready.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I seem to have come down with food poisoning.”

“Well tough,” he said. “The show must go on. Vomit now if you have to and then get ready.”

She hadn't felt like vomiting before, but the thought of performing with Cal's father and an unknown guest three rows away certainly made her want to now.

–

As soon as Rose exited the stage after her final bow, she took a huge sigh of relief. The bright stage lights usually meant she couldn't see the audience very well, but she could usually see people as close as Row C clearly enough. She had not, though, noticed Cal's father among the audience, and it made her wonder if she had somehow escaped his notice, too.

Considering she had been engaged to his son, she had only met Nathan maybe half a dozen times. But it had been frequent enough that he would certainly recognize her if he was looking for her. She wondered, once again, who the second ticket was for. If it were Cal himself, the name Rose Dawson might set off alarm bells with him. But, she seriously doubted Cal would have volunteered the information about her affair with Jack to his father after the sinking, so it was likely that, if his guest were anyone else, Nathan wouldn't make the connection with the name. But still, in the third row, he would have been close enough to recognize her features, whatever name she put in the program.

A knock at her dressing room door drew her away from her thoughts.

“Miss Parker? An audience member sent you these.”

She turned around to see George, one of the men the theatre hired to work security at the stage door standing in front of her dressing room, holding a bouquet of flowers.

Shivers ran down her spine.

“Which audience member?”

“I didn't get the name, miss, I apologize. But there is a card.”

“Thank you, George,” she said. But as he handed over the flowers she took them as if they were laced with a landmine.

Once she set them down on her vanity, George began to retreat.

“George?” she said.

“Yes, miss?”

“Can you please make sure you don't give any information about me to anyone who asks? And please make sure you never let anyone up to see me. Never.”

“Of course, miss.”

Rose sunk back into her chair, before standing back up and picking up the bouquet with two fingers, as if it would explode, before hurling it into the trash in the hallway, not daring to look at the card.

Taking the stage name Dawson had been sentimental, but it had been risky. She had built up a decent life as Rose Parker, and had not thought, even once, about what Cal and her mother had gotten up to in the meantime. She had paid them so little attention that she didn't even remember that there was anyone alive who would recognize the name Rose Dawson. So, the next day, she found herself standing in Mr. Wilson's office, ready to give it up, ready to request to go back to Rose Parker in the program.

But before she could speak, something stopped her. No, you are meant to be Rose Dawson on stage. Instead, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“Is – is it all right if I change my hair color? I've been thinking of making a change, but I wanted to make sure it would be okay for the show first.”

Mr. Wilson had agreed, provided she refrain from further drastic style changes until the run of the show was over.

That very same day, she had cut six inches off her hair, dyed it black, and made sure Rose Dawson was unrecognizable. But she needed to be in order to safely act on stage using her real name.

September 1913

Still in her Josephine costume and heavy stage makeup, Rose slumped into the chair in her dressing room. She loved singing and acting, and doing them in front of an audience was energizing and exhilarating. But the two show days were exhausting. She breathed deeply, relaxing into the chair and closing her eyes, taking just a few minutes to herself before changing back into the ugly orange dress and walking back home.

A knock at the door broke her out of her thoughts.

“You still in there, Rose?”

“Hi, Bessie. Come on in.”

Bessie had already changed back into her street clothes and was carrying her large handbag. “The rain really picked up during the evening show,” said Bessie. “Ollie, Matthew, and I were going to call a car, and were wondering if you wanted to split the fare four ways? It'd save you a walk back in the downpour.”

Rose was very tempted to take them up on their offer. Her boarding house was only a twenty-minute walk away, but it always felt like more after the two show days. Adding heavy rain into the equation made it a daunting prospect. But as she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, still fully made up, and Bessie standing behind her, ready to go, she knew it wouldn't be fair to make them wait for her.

“That's all right Bessie, I'm not ready to leave yet tonight. But thank you for asking.”

“All right, Rose. Have a good evening. I'll see you tomorrow.” Bessie turned around to leave, through the door she had just come in, but then paused in the doorframe. “I think everyone else has already left, so you're the last one. Be sure to get home safe.”

“Thank you, Bessie,” Rose repeated. “I'll only stay a few more minutes.”

And then, her friend exited the room, rushing to catch up with the two men who had run outside to hail a taxi. Rose rested for another few minutes, suddenly savoring feeling warm and dry as she thought of her fellow actors getting drenched. A shiver ran through her body, and she blinked away the images fighting their way to the front of her mind.

Well, at least this time it'll be that goddamn stupid orange dress that gets ruined, she thought, cynically, and began washing off the stage makeup. Once she was back in her street clothes, she pulled open the drawer near her vanity where she kept her umbrella. A flash of horror ran through her body when the drawer was empty, but she shook it off and started opening all the other drawers and cabinets. Over the last five months, she had managed to collect more knickknacks than she realized – press clippings, small gifts from the other women in the cast, toiletries and snacks she had stored here in case she ever needed them – and she was suddenly overwhelmed searching through them all for the umbrella. Once every drawer had been opened, and there was no umbrella in sight, she started from the beginning, looking back at the first drawer, more meticulously this time. But as her fingers closed around a book she had borrowed from Lydia, she suddenly remembered a day a few weeks ago.

“Someone sent me a bottle of wine after I went on the last time you were out, Rose” said Lydia, to the group. “Do you all want to drink it together in my dressing room after the show?”

“Ooh, do you have an admirer?” cooed Vera.

Lydia looked properly embarrassed at that, and Rose stepped in. “That sounds lovely, Lydia. We'll toast to you doing what I was told was a wonderful performance, and to me having to watch my back,” she winked.

It quickly came to light, however, that no one had a corkscrew on hand. Lydia, who had now returned to her role in the chorus that didn't feature in all the scenes after intermission, volunteered to rush out during Act 2 and get one for them.

“It's more fun to sneak around,” she said, after the other women said they wouldn't mind waiting, and Rose chuckled, throwing an arm around Lydia's shoulder.

“Why don't you take the umbrella out of my dressing room? It's in the drawer to the left of the vanity. You can hide under it and sneak out, right under their noses!”

But it was only now, on a late, rainy night, that Rose remembered she had never gotten the umbrella back from Lydia. Rose stepped into the hallway, towards the direction of Lydia's dressing room, until she remembered Bessie's warning that she was the last one still here. She tried Lydia's door anyway, but it was locked, as expected.

Sighing, Rose stopped in front of the large window in the second-floor hallway that overlooked the street. She glanced through it, trying to see just how bad it was after all. The sidewalk in front of the theatre was illuminated by new electric lights, with a few stalwart gas lamps remaining. The bright lights lit up the mist and gave the damp street an ethereal glow, as if she were seeing the scene in a hazy dream.

From Rose's vantage point, it was hard to tell for sure how heavily it was raining, so she glanced around, trying to see if she could tell how wet passersby were getting by their clothes. After the performance had ended, the crowds had cleared quickly, and now the streets were nearly empty, but she could see a few people rushing down the street, trying to stay dry. A man she recognized from the box office huddled under his coat as he ran towards the train. A well-dressed woman, flanked by several young children waited patiently for a car, each under an umbrella. She could see two men, one of whom she was pretty sure was George, the theatre's security guard, having a discussion in front of the stage door exit. Across the street, she watched a street vendor hastily pushing his cart after closing up for the night, as well as a few workers from nearby restaurants huddling under the awnings, lighting up cigarettes.

She stood at her spot at the window for several more minutes, watching the few pedestrians in their drenched clothes, and waiting for the rain to stop. Finally, it looked like it had at least slowed from a downpour into a drizzle.

“Miss Parker?”

She jumped at the voice behind her in the empty theatre, and turned around on her heel to see a familiar man standing behind her.

“Oh, hello, George. I was just trying to wait out the storm before heading out.”

“Miss Parker, there is a man here who is asking about you. He was here yesterday too.”

Visions of the day she saw Cal's father at the theatre swam into her head. She had begged George to never let anyone up to see her, and she had thought he understood her instructions. But now, standing in the hallway of a deserted theatre, she wondered if George had relented to whoever was asking about her. She was terrified to wonder just who it might be. In the weeks following Nathan's visit, she had kept a close eye on the names of ticket buyers, just in case Nathan told any of his friends – or his son – about the show. But it had been months and there had been no names she recognized, and she had finally relaxed. But she realized, now, that she had relaxed far too early. There was only one man alive who would recognize her stage name and go to the trouble to ask about her two days in a row, and that man's father had seen this show only months earlier.

“Did you—”

“No, ma'am. I remembered your instructions. But the gentleman was just so insistent. After I wouldn't let him up tonight, he gave me this to give to you.” George held out a small envelope for Rose to see. There were no markings on it, but it was thick, as if there were several pages stuffed inside. “I wasn't sure if you'd want to see it or not.”

Suddenly terrified, Rose recoiled from the envelope in George's hand. It was just paper, but somehow, looking at it, she could see Cal's face clearly for the first time in months. She could picture his great, violent hands writing out the long letter in his surprisingly delicate handwriting, and she didn't want her own hands anywhere near the letter.

She opened her mouth, ready to tell George to throw it away, to burn it, to do whatever he needed to do to to get it out of her sight. But before she could speak, she remembered throwing away the flowers without looking at the card. There had been an instant relief at getting away from them. But, for weeks after, she had been haunted by whether or not they had actually been from Nathan. It fueled her paranoia, made her nervous enough to demand the audience list before each performance, and had turned the theatre that had once been home into a nightmare for those several weeks. 

She glanced back through the window out onto the street. There was a man there, in the shadows, underneath an umbrella. He was tall, with a slender frame, and a sudden panic washed through her body. From a distance, he looked a little bit like Cal, but there was no way to be sure. No way, that was, without opening the letter.

She held out her palm, trembling, but ready to accept the envelope. “Thank you, George,” she said, as he handed it over, and retreated back downstairs.

Her hands still shaking, she tore open the outer layer of paper and unfolded the pages inside. She had braced herself for a sickeningly familiar handwriting, but, instead, her own face stared back at her. In the drawing, she was on the stage, in her Josephine costume, looking radiant.

Instinctively, her eyes darted to the lower righthand corner, where impossible initials and an impossible date jumped off the page. Speechless, and without so much as blinking, she stared at the page in front of her for what could have been hours, uncomprehendingly.

Out of the corner of her eye, she once again saw the man standing on the sidewalk outside, under the umbrella. And then she turned to really look at him. And then she took off running.

Chapter Text

September, 1913

Jack was getting wet. The sturdy umbrella was enough to keep his head and shoulders dry, but the rain was falling hard enough that droplets of water were bouncing off the ground and soaking through his boots and the hems of his trousers. Rain rushed off the sides of the umbrella, dripping onto the sleeves of his coat.

He hardly noticed the water, though. No, for the last twenty-seven hours, there had only been one thing – one person – on his mind.

During the performance last night, he had not taken his eyes off of her for one second. He hadn't followed the plot of the opera, or been aware of anyone else in the room, performer or audience member. He just sat there and stared, transfixed.

When she walked off the stage for intermission and the lights went down, it felt as though a piece of his heart – the same piece that had just been put back into its slot after being so violently ripped out a year and a half earlier – had been torn out once again. He spent the whole intermission in his seat, staring at the curtain, willing it to open once again so he could see her.

Her. Rose. Rose Dawson.

When the curtain finally opened, she was not on stage. Jack could feel panic rushing through his body at her absence. Would he see her again? He scolded himself for doing nothing but sitting there, watching. Why hadn't he called out to her? Run up to the stage to embrace her?

But, when she finally re-entered, his eyes were drawn immediately to her once again, and a calmness overtook him. When she started singing, her voice echoed in his ear as if she were beside him, singing the love song only to him. He watched her, and saw small mannerisms he recognized so clearly from the time he had spent by her side. He saw the familiar confidence shining from behind her eyes. And he saw her, just as clearly as he had that first day on the promenade deck. The tears in his eyes were the only thing keeping him from screaming.

When the performance ended, and the heavy curtain once again ripped her away from his view, he didn't move. He couldn't. He had no idea how long he sat there, until an usher came by and kindly, but firmly, directed him to the exit.

“Where—” he began, and the usher turned around. “Where do I see Rose?”

He hadn't said the name, not out loud at least, in months. But as soon as he said it, it felt right on his tongue. Like it was the only word he had ever been meant to say.

“Rose?” the usher asked. “Oh, you mean from the cast? You can try the stage door, though I don't think she's one of the ones who usually comes out to greet the audience.”

But before the usher finished speaking, Jack had taken off in a run, looking for the stage door. When he found it, there was a small crowd gathered. A few people he vaguely recognized – he thought they may have been on the stage with Rose, but he couldn't be sure - exited through the stage door and thanked everyone for coming to the show.

As quickly as it had formed, the crowd dispersed, and then Jack was left standing alone next to a tall, burly man dressed all in black.

“Is Rose coming out? Rose Dawson?”

He had been wrong earlier. There were two words he was meant to say.

“Sorry, lad, she's already left for the day.”

“Can you tell me where to find her?”

“Surely you don't think I can just give out that kind of information?”

“Okay, will you give her a message from me?”

“Look, kid, the lady really appreciates you coming to the show, and she thanks you for thinking of her. But I'm sure you understand that she values her privacy.”

“It's not like that. It's—” Jack was suddenly lost for words. There was no way he would let this man be the thing that came between him and Rose. Even if it meant resorting to begging.

And resorting to begging he did. He tried, again and again, to get the man to budge even one inch. To give him anything. Any crumb of information he could use to find Rose once again. But it was like talking to a brick wall. Eventually, the man – George, he had said his name was – just stopped listening to Jack and went inside. Still, Jack waited outside the empty theatre for what could have been hours.

By the time he got home to Brooklyn – he had no idea how or when he managed to tear himself away from staring at the blank theatre wall – he hadn't been able to sleep a wink. Nervous energy coursed through his body. Eventually, he got up and did the only thing he could think of to do, and he drew Rose.

He hadn't drawn her since that first time. He had wanted to, he'd wanted to so goddamn much. He had been able to see clearly the pictures of her he wanted to draw. Pictures of how he imagined she'd be – her sitting at his kitchen table with a cup of coffee, her face flushed after a night they spent together, the two of them, together, on a train bound for who knows where, her, reclining on a couch with a glimmer in her eye.

But finally, he would be able to draw her not from his imagination, but from his memory. He brought the charcoal to the page, holding the fresh image of her standing in front of him on stage clear in his mind. And he drew. He drew her face, familiar as it would always be to him. He drew her short, black hair, which was less familiar, but just as beautiful as the red curls he had spent so much time imagining.

He left Brooklyn early the next morning in order to get to the Theatre District in time to buy another ticket for the Saturday matinee of H.M.S Pinafore. And then, when he didn't see her between shows, he bought one more ticket, for the evening show.

Now, he was here again for a second night. This time, though, he must have worn George down just enough. Because tonight, after more of his incessant begging, George had agreed to bring the envelope containing the drawing up to Rose.

From under the umbrella, he glanced up at the theatre, where there was one light still on, streaming out of a second-story window.

Rose was so close he could almost feel her. He had spent the better part of the day in the same room as her, but it wasn't enough. His arms ached to embrace her. His mouth begged to kiss her.

From the minute he saw her again, alive, here in New York, he had decided not to take the job in Chicago. It hadn't even really been a decision. She was here, so how could he in good conscience move 700 miles away from her? He hadn't thought through what he would do instead; he hadn't really thought of much beyond Rose and making sure he got to speak to her. All he knew was, with her alive, his future looked bright once again, Art Institute or not.

He though of all they could do together, here in new York. He could show her Bushwick. Coney Island wasn't quite Santa Monica, but there were a few amusement rides on the Boardwalk. There was so much of the city he hadn't explored, and he could see, so clearly, what it would be like for them to do it together.

“JACK!”

He turned around at the sound of his name, to see a figure rushing towards him at full speed. And even before he fully registered what was happening, she was in his arms and they were kissing.

He pulled her into his chest, even closer, without daring to break the kiss. There was nothing in the world outside of her lips on his. No rain. No man at the door telling him he couldn't see her. No job in Chicago. No months of separation. His chest was on fire, whether from desire or lack of air, he couldn't care less.

“Rose,” he whispered, against her lips, as they finally broke the kiss, but stayed only a breath apart. “Rose, oh my god,” and then he kissed her again.

“How did you—” she began, and he vaguely wondered how she had meant to finish the question. Find me? Survive?

“You won't believe this,” he said with a grin, choosing to answer the happier of the two options. “But I won tickets to your show.”

Her eyes lit up at that, even brighter than they had been when she first saw him, and she brought one hand up to cover just the tiniest of gasps.

“Of course I believe that, Jack. How else would we find each other again?” She met his eye, and kissed him one more time before taking his hand. “Come on, let's get out of the rain. I know a cafe nearby that's open late. We have so much to catch up on.”

–

“Would you like some coffee, to warm up?” Rose asked. When they had arrived at the restaurant, the host had clearly recognized that they were standing closer to each other than was proper, and sat them at a small, private booth towards the back of the restaurant, where they could sit together, as close as they wanted.

“Hmm? Coffee, yes,” said Jack. “And then let's get some champagne.”

“Champagne? Have you developed a taste for the stuff since the last time we ate together?”

“Maybe I have,” he grinned. “But we're celebrating, right?”

She slid even closer to him and nuzzled his neck, before leaning her head on his shoulder and folding the rest of her body against his side.

“Yes, we're celebrating,” she leaned up for a kiss, which he gave, happily.

By the time their coffee was served, they had settled into a conversation. Rose was telling Jack all about her travels across the country before settling back in New York at the beginning of this year. He was listening, intently, so proud of all that she had done and everywhere she had gone.

He, in turn, told her about his life in Brooklyn and some of his friends at the pub, as well as fellow artists he knew from Prospect Park.

While he was talking, the waiter arrived with their champagne, and poured two glasses.

“To you, Rose,” said Jack, as he lifted his glass up in a toast.

“No, Jack,” she said. “To us. To us and to being alive. To always finding our way back to each other.”

“To us,” he repeated, and then they both took a large swig of their drinks.

“What do you want to eat?” asked Jack.

Rose was about to demure, to say she didn't care – and, in a way, she didn't. Something as trivial as what they were eating was far less important than talking to the man in front of her. Being next to him. But, then she realized. It was the first time anyone had ever asked what she wanted to eat off a menu. As a child, she had eaten whatever cook prepared for her. As a teen, she had eaten whatever Cal or one of her parents had ordered for her. And over the last year and a half, she had chosen for herself or had decided together with Lydia or Bessie. But she had never been asked.

“Let's start with bread,” she said, before glancing at the menu. “Do you like shrimp?”

“Mmhmm,” he said, claiming her lips.

“Ok, so we'll get the shrimp salad. What else do you want?”

“Order whatever you want, Rose. I don't care,” he said, trailing kisses down her neck.

“Jack!” she said, in mock protest. But as his lips moved down to her collarbone, she suddenly didn't care what they ordered either.

When the waiter came by a few minutes later, Rose managed to compose herself just enough to order a few plates of food for them to share.

“And another round of champagne,” said Jack.

While they were waiting on the food, Jack continued telling her the story of how he had found her.

“So you saw the show three times?” she asked.”Did you like it?”

“You are amazing, Rose. I couldn't take my eyes off of you.”

“Oh!” she said, drawing her hand to her mouth as she suddenly realized something. “That means you saw me kiss Ollie three times. Did you mind?”

“The first time, I couldn't even follow the plot. It was like there was no one else in the room other than you and me. I didn't even notice there was anyone else on stage. In a weird way, it almost felt like you were kissing me. Not in a woo woo telepathic way or anything, I didn't feel it – at least, it didn't feel like when you actually kiss me,” he said, pausing just long enough to claim her lips to prove his point. “But there was a strange intimacy to it even though you were so far away.”

“The second time, I followed the story a little bit more. I did start noticing the other characters. I won't lie that it was a bit of a shock seeing you kiss Ralph, er, Ollie, was it? Especially, because, by that point, I was coming off a night of unsuccessfully begging to see you. I hadn't even been able to talk to you yet.”

“And the third?”

“The third time was the first time I saw you as Josephine rather than Rose. I still couldn't take my eyes off you, of course. But I could finally follow the plot a bit more. I was happy for Josephine and Ralph, happy that they got to be together like we never—”

“We can be together now,” she said, simply.

“That's the only thing I want,” he said, kissing her gently and deepening it. “Though I'm happy it happened this way for us. A case of mistaken identity may have been convenient a few months ago, but I'm very glad that Cal and I weren't switched at birth like Ralph and Sir Joseph.”

“You did like the show!” she chuckled, holding onto him tightly. “But, yes, I agree. I always thought it would be a better ending for Josephine to run off with Ralph, not caring if he's a nobleman or just a sailor.”

“Was it difficult for you?” Jack asked. “Performing that story every night?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “I almost quit the show when I first learned the plot. And, even after I decided to go ahead with it, it was nearly impossible to get through it at first. But it helps that the tone of the show is so funny and that I made friends with everyone else in the cast so there was always someone to laugh with.”

“Such good friends with one of them that you kiss him eight times a week, huh?”

Rose's eyes widened, but then she smiled, brilliantly, as she realized he was teasing. She learned over and kissed Jack on the mouth, thoroughly. “Ollie is totally harmless. He's nice enough - maybe just a touch full of himself - but otherwise he's rather dull. Kissing him is nothing like kissing you.”

“I get it, Rose,” he said. “You saw those pictures I drew. I can see how people would think there was more to them, but there wasn't. I just didn't see any of my subjects that way, even if not everyone understood that.”

She blushed, remembering how she had accused him of partaking in a love affair that first afternoon he had shown her his drawings.

“Actually” he continued. “That's not quite true. There was this one girl I drew who I wasn't so professional with. She captured my whole heart and it's hers forever.”

Rose looked at him, confused for just a moment, and then smiled in realization. “I'm so glad to have you back, Jack.”

When the food came, they ate slowly, taking bites in between kisses and stories of their time apart. The hand they weren't using to hold the fork held on tightly to the other. Even after the food was gone and the last of the champagne had been drunk, they sat there, curled up together, talking.

“All right, you two. It's nearly two-o-clock, and we have to close for the night. Is there anything else I can get you last minute?” The waiter's voice shocked them both out of their private little world, and they looked around to see the empty restaurant.

“That's all right,” said Jack. “We'll just take the bill.”

Now that he wasn't taking the job in Chicago, he would have to be a little less frivolous in his spending. At least until he found something else. Two theatre tickets and a restaurant meal would have been fine if he could still expect a high salary from the Art Institute, but with his future now in doubt, he would need to tighten the laces a little bit. Then again, his future wasn't really in doubt. Rose was his future, and she was sitting right here.

“I can cover it,” said Rose, glancing at the bill, as it was delivered. “I have a bit of cash saved up.”

For a moment, he wanted to protest – to insist that they split it or or that she let him pay for them both next time. But money, as much as everyone else around them thought it should have, had never come between them before. Now was not the time to start counting tit for tat or turning their financial status, which was now more even, into anything bigger than it was. Just a simple fact about them.

“Thank you, Rose,” was all he said, flashing her a grin as she counted out the money.

“I suppose we have to leave,” she said, though she didn't make any movement to actually get up. “I wish I could bring you up to spend the night with me. I have a roommate who's a bit of a busybody, so, if I did, the whole house would know the minute you set foot inside. That doesn't mean I'm not incredibly tempted to try it anyways.”

Jack chuckled, squeezing her hand, as he asked her where she lived, suddenly realizing he didn't know.

“Hell's Kitchen,” she said. “Only a mile or so from the theatre.”

By now, they had managed to get up from the table and were slowly making their way to the front door of the restaurant. “You have a matinee tomorrow, right? Then there's not another show until Tuesday night?”

“Yes,” she said, tentatively, as if trying to remember if that was correct. “Should I be worried you know my schedule better than I do?” she asked, with a brilliant smile on her face.

“Well,” he said. “If George hadn't given you the picture tonight, I would have had to have come back to more performances to try again. When I was waiting for you tonight, a big part of me was wondering how I'd survive waiting until Tuesday to see you again if it came to that.”

“You'd have figured something out, I know you would have.”

“Why don't I walk you home tonight?” he offered. “And then, why don't you pack up a bag for a few days? I'll pick you up from the Hippodrome after your show tomorrow, and we can spend the weekend together. You can stay at my apartment, or we can go pitch a tent in the Catskills or something. Whatever you want.”

“Yes, Jack. I would love that. Why don't we stay at your apartment?” she asked, with a mischievous look in her eye. “I don't plan on having much time for sightseeing.”

–

Rose was glad she knew her part so well, that she had performed as Josephine often enough that she no longer needed to think about where to stand or what the next line in the song was. She wasn't sure she would have made it through the Sunday matinee otherwise.

It had been well after three in the morning when she finally said goodbye to Jack outside her boarding house. The rain had slowed to just a trickle as they left the restaurant and they meandered, hand in hand, vaguely in the direction of Rose's residence. They spoke a bit – mostly about what they wanted to do with their weekend together - but they were mostly content to walk together, to be in each others' company once again, and to stop every few minutes to claim each others' lips. When they arrived at her front door, they had been reluctant to separate. She leaned in for one more kiss, and then another, and then, as he finally dropped her hand and turned away, she brought him in for one more.

She thought of the night he had walked her to the first class stairwell after they had danced the night away below decks. She remembered just how much she wanted to kiss him that night. She remembered how starkly empty the air beside her felt once he turned around to leave. She remembered her inner turmoil that night and how hard she fought against falling for him. In the time since the sinking, when she though him dead, she had scolded herself for wasting so much time with him. She had spent so much time over the last months replaying that night in her mind, wishing she had made a different choice – that she had kissed him then and there, and not stopped all night.

But here he was, in front of her. Not dead. Tonight, she chose to kiss him, just one more time.

“I'll see you in the morning, Rose,” he said. “I promise.”

“Good night, Jack,” she whispered. And then she was alone again. But only for the night.

She had slept, fitfully, for an hour or two, until the sun had come up enough that she could justifiably call it morning. She walked over to her wardrobe, ready to pack up the bag for the weekend. The weekend she's going to spend with Jack. But it wasn't until she opened the wardrobe door to find it nearly empty that she remembered what her original plan for this weekend had been. Laundry. She had even had to resort to wearing that stupid orange dress yesterday.

Yesterday. She nearly gasped when she realized that's what she had been wearing when she reunited with Jack. He didn't seem to notice the way it washed out her skin and didn't quite fit properly, and she chuckled to herself. Maybe she didn't hate that dress quite so much, after all.

As she looked once again at the empty wardrobe, she was suddenly glad she hadn't been able to sleep. She was suddenly glad that she had a menial task to do that would fill the time until she saw him again, and she started washing clothes to pack for the weekend.

But now, she had just stepped off stage after the final curtain call of the morning's performance. Jack hadn't been in attendance today – he had expressed last night that he wanted to come see the show again, and she wanted him to come again now that she would know he'd be there, but they had agreed that four times in three days was a bit overkill. Instead, he was going to shop for provisions for their weekend at his apartment, before meeting her at the stage door and whisking her away to Brooklyn. She could feel herself beaming as she raced back to her dressing room, ready to get out of her costume and heavy stage makeup.

She paused, for just a moment, though, as she saw the drawing Jack had given her last night on her vanity, and picked it up to look at it once again. She didn't know how it had ended up there – she must have dropped it after she took off running towards Jack the night before, and someone must have recognized her in the image and left it for her.

Jack had told her he had stayed up all night drawing it after he saw the show for the first time on Friday night. She thought of how difficult it had been to say goodbye to him last night, and how much more difficult it must have been for him the night before – before she even knew he was alive.

“Rose, Bessie and I are thinking of getting lunch,” came Lydia's voice from the hallway. “Would you like to join us?”

“Sorry Lydia,” said Rose as her friend stuck her head in Rose's dressing room. “I have other plans this afternoon.”

“Anything exciting?” Lydia started to ask, before spotting the picture in Rose's hand and getting distracted from her original question. “Ooh, who drew that? I saw it on the ground before the performance this morning and I wasn't sure where it came from. I wanted to ask you about it.”

Rose was glad for an answer as to how the drawing had made its way back to her dressing room, and was glad it hadn't gotten lost in all the excitement last night. But, she realized, she now needed to come up with something to tell her friends. She hadn't told them anything about her life before the theatre – as far as they were concerned, Rose Parker had simply popped up one day in New York City. And, in a way, she had.

“Someone in the audience drew that for me yesterday. He—” Rose paused, trying to decide what to say. “He asked me to go out with him after the show today.”

Lydia squealed at that, bringing Rose into a hug. “Oh Rose, you deserve to have someone take you out! And such a good artist, too, by the looks of it.”

“Thank you, Lydia,” said Rose, struck, yet again, by how much she valued having real friends. The kind who she knew would support her when she eventually told them the whole story. The kind who wouldn't judge or gossip about Jack, or her for that matter, or want to prevent them from being together.

“Where is he taking you?”

Rose had now set the drawing back down and turned her attention back to washing the makeup off her face and getting ready to go. Jack would be there any minute – or maybe he was early and was already waiting at the stage door for her – and she could feel the anticipation coursing through her body. She didn't hear Lydia's question until she repeated it.

“Oh, um—” she hesitated. She couldn't well say his apartment. “MoMA. That new Museum of Modern Art.”

“I've been dying to go there,” said Lydia. “You'll have to tell me everything.”

“I will,” Rose said, nonchalantly. It had been the first idea that came to her, but the idea had taken hold. She remembered how enamored Jack had been with the paintings she had on the ship, how he noticed little details in them, and helped her to see them, too. Maybe she really would ask Jack if he wants to go to the museum this weekend. Maybe they would do a little sightseeing after all.

Finally washing off the last of the stage makeup, Rose turned to Lydia.

“Enjoy your lunch with Bessie,” she said, picking up the bag she had packed and starting for the door.

“Rose?” Lydia asked. “Did you pack an overnight bag?”

She looked back at Lydia, examining her face for signs of shock or scandal. But, instead, she saw a hint of a giddy smile on her friend's face. Lydia had definitely seen Rose's bolder side over the last few months. Though never this bold. Never pack an overnight bag for a first date bold. But, as Rose studied her friend's face, she was glad to see she hadn't shocked Lydia too much. She was glad to see that the overwhelming expression on Lydia's face was one of genuine excitement and support for her friend.

Rose smiled, just a hint of a blush reaching her cheeks. “Maybe I did,” she said, and she slipped out the dressing room door, without looking back.

Chapter Text

September 1913

“It's on the fifth floor, I'm afraid,” said Jack, slightly hesitantly, as he pushed open the front door of his apartment building into a dimly lit hallway leading to a narrow staircase. “Can I – can I, uh, take your bag?”

All of a sudden, he was feeling a little nervous. He thought of the small, utilitarian apartment waiting for them at the other end of all those stairs, and scolded himself for not doing more to make it cozy and hospitable. It had come furnished with the basics, and, other than moving a few pieces of furniture around and hanging some pictures on the wall, he had done very little to personalize it. He had so few guests over, he never thought he'd need to.

He had been so quick to invite Rose to spend the weekend with him, but he hadn't even bothered going out to get a bouquet of flowers or something to make his empty apartment feel more welcoming.

“Thank you, Jack,” she said, as she handed him the bag and started up the stairs. He followed behind, still trying to calm his sudden nerves.

He watched Rose's expression carefully as they reached the fifth floor landing and he let them into the apartment. The last of the day's natural light was streaming in from the large window in the living room, giving the whole apartment a warm glow, and Jack found himself thankful for small miracles.

But, as Rose stepped into the apartment and caught his eye, beaming, he knew she wasn't concerned about the lack of decoration. And, suddenly, he wasn't so concerned either.

“Will you show me around, Jack?”

He took her hand and brought her around to each of the three rooms – the living room, the kitchen, and the bedroom, and pointed out the bathroom down the hall. As they re-entered the apartment, and the heavy door swung closed behind them, they exchanged a quick glance and, before either of them knew it, Rose threw her arms around Jack's shoulders and put her lips on his.

Without separating, they maneuvered into the living room and collapsed together onto the couch. Rose pulled him tighter into her chest, until he broke away, a sly grin on his face.

“You must think I'm so uncultured,” he said, trying to channel his earlier nerves into a self-deprecating joke. “I invited you over and then never even offered you anything to drink.”

He moved as if he was going to stand up and walk towards the kitchen, but she tightened her grip on his hand.

“Oh yes,” she said, with a smile on her face. “How terribly rude. Almost as rude as leaving your guest all alone to entertain herself. I think the only way you can make up for it is to stay right here.”

And then she kissed him again, hungrily. She felt him smile against her lips as he deepened the kiss, moving one of his hands to her neck as he slid his tongue into her mouth.

Rose had been waiting to do this all day. Ever since they had said goodbye outside her boarding house in the wee hours of this morning, she had been counting down the minutes until she could see Jack again. Until she could kiss him senseless again.

As promised, he had been waiting at the stage door when she exited after her matinee. In a way, she had hoped he would scoop her up and kiss her, right then and there. But they were both aware of the crowds of people around and the very public setting,so they settled for a chaste peck before he took her hand and ushered her away.

As they walked, she had told him about her encounter with Lydia on her way out of the theatre. How she had said they were going to MoMA to avoid telling her she was spending the weekend at Jack's apartment, and how the idea had made Rose want to actually go to the museum with him. He had gotten quite the laugh out of hearing that Lydia had seen the overnight bag, anyways.

The museum was only a few blocks from the theatre and, impelled by the high they felt in each others' presence, the lust for life and adventure that they brought out in each other, they found themselves stopping at the museum on the way back to Brooklyn.

They spent a very pleasant afternoon wandering through the galleries, pointing out little details of paintings they liked, listening to each others' opinions on the artwork, gently teasing each other when they came upon one that one of them liked and the other one didn't.

Rose watched as Jack lit up as he pointed out works by new and upcoming painters, as well as lesser known works by more famous artists. She listened as he gleefully told her about encounters he had in Paris with one of the artists whose work they were looking at. The broad smile that had crossed his face as soon as they entered the museum had never faded and, between his hand in hers, and the wonderful art they were looking at, she was sure the same expression was mirrored on her own face.

“I've never been to MoMA before,” he said, as they entered the last gallery. “Thanks for suggesting it.”

“Neither have I,” she said. “I'm glad I get to experience it with you.”

She smiled up at him, once again wanting to kiss him. But before she could, something across the room caught his eye, and he hurried over to look at the painting in more detail. Rose chuckled and rushed to catch up with him.

“What do you think of this one?” he asked, as she sidled up next to him.

It was a very odd painting. At first, it just looked like a bunch of lines, but the longer Rose stared at it, clear shapes started to emerge. She narrowed her eyes and, for just the briefest of moments, could recognize a farm scene among the lines – a tall red barn surrounded by animals in their pens. As soon as she blinked, though, she lost the image and could only see the lines once again.

“I think I like it,” she said. “I like how it seems to change and grow the longer you look at it, even thought it's a static image.”

“I like it too,” he said. “Did you see the clocktower?”

“The clocktower?”

“You know, here,” he said, moving his finger towards the canvas and pointing out the line that, to her, had looked like a barn.

“I saw a barn,” she laughed. “And some farm animals. You saw a clocktower?”

He laughed, then. “Yes, a clocktower, in the middle of a city street.”

All of a sudden, Rose didn't like the painting as much. A sense of unease overtook her as she realized that she and Jack saw different images, even while they were looking at the same canvas. She narrowed her eyes again, trying to force herself to see the clocktower, but it was no use. The only thing she could see anymore was the lines. Abruptly, she looked away from the painting, trying to shake the eerie sense of disconnect it had caused in her.

“Rose, is everything all right?”

But, before she could answer Jack's question, she noticed another painting on the wall across from her, and any disquiet she had been feeling evaporated as quickly as it had come over her. As fast as she could, she walked over to the other wall, dragging Jack behind her.

“Jack, look!” She spoke excitedly, and louder than she probably should have in the quiet museum. “It's a little bit like the one you did of me.”

As Jack caught up with her and noticed the painting for himself, he threw an arm over her shoulder and pulled her in close.

“A little bit,” he repeated, just a hint of a blush creeping up his cheeks. The painting in front of them was of a nude woman reclining in a similar pose, but instead of a divan, she was laying in the middle of a rainforest, surrounded by vines and tropical plants. The style was a lot different, less realistic than Jack's had been, and the creeping vines gave the piece a unique ethereal feel.

“I liked yours better,” she said, leaning into his shoulder.

He chuckled. “I don't know about that. I've never tried to do anything like that with the vines before. Isn't it neat how otherworldly they make it feel?”

“If you want, you can try it out when we get back to your apartment,” she said, snaking both her arms around his middle.

But now they were, indeed, back at his apartment, and drawing wasn't on either of their minds. Neither of them was willing to separate long enough for him to go retrieve paper and a pencil, let alone long enough to actually complete the drawing.

Instead, they curled together on the couch, trying to make up for a year and a half's worth of missed time. Rose only stopped kissing him when she felt something brush up against her leg, and froze in place, startled. As she pulled away, she saw the source of the contact as a small, orange cat jumped up on the couch next to her.

“You have a cat, Jack?”

“She's not mine, exactly,” said Jack, as he sat fully up and slid over on the couch to give the cat enough room to slink between them and examine the newcomer. “This is Cleopatra. She was a stray who showed up in the building one day. She kind of goes from apartment to apartment. It always feels like a special day when she decides to visit.”

“She is precious,” said Rose, reaching a tentative hand out to stroke Cleopatra.

“Do you like animals, Rose?”

“I've never had one,” she said. “I always wanted a pet as a child, but mother never would have allowed it.. Maybe we can—”

“What, Rose?”

She had nearly suggested that, maybe, she and Jack could get a pet together, but immediately thought better of it. There was no need to rush into things now. They weren't on the ship anymore, they weren't being followed or threatened, and there were no icebergs coming for them in Brooklyn. In the back of her mind, she could picture the two of them living a happy life together, maybe in this apartment, maybe with a dog or cat keeping them company. But, as much as she wanted to grab onto Jack and never let him out of her sight again, she knew they had time. Time to heal from their ordeal and their separation, time to get to know each other more fully, time to plan their future before diving in head first.

“Nothing, Jack. I'll tell you some other time.”

He narrowed his eyes at her for the briefest of seconds, but then a smile spread across his face, and he changed the topic, trying to dispel any awkwardness.

“Here,” he said, as he stood up and offered his hand. “Let me show you what I got us for dinner.”

She took his hand and let him escort her into the other room. “Maybe you can finally offer me that drink,” she said, with a wink, grateful for his effort to move the topic away from her slip. “My mother would hate it if she knew I visited a man's apartment unchaperoned and he didn't even offer me a drink.”

“We certainly can't have that,” Jack laughed. “Would you like me to find you a chaperone?”

“Jack!” she shouted, as she smacked his shoulder good-naturedly. “Cleopatra can be my chaperone. She'll make sure you don't get up to anything.”

“Me?” he said, feigning incredulity, as he retrieved a bottle of wine from the cupboard. “If either one of us is going to try something I think it'll probably be you.”

“Well, Cleopatra isn't watching right now,” she said, glancing over to the cat, still in the living room and not paying any attention to them. “So I can do this,” and she pulled him in close, kissing him deeply.

As they broke away, Jack squeezed her hand before returning to the cupboard for two wine glasses, taking a moment to brush a layer of dust off one of them.

“I don't know why I bothered buying two glasses,” he said. “I suppose there's a special pitifulness in buying just one wine glass. But I'm glad I have them both now.”

“Me too,” she said. “Did I tell you about all the funny looks I got the first time I ate at a restaurant alone?”

As she told him about the evening in Washington DC, Jack poured them each a glass of wine, and then pulled a few wrapped parcels from the grocer's onto the counter.

“Are you ready for dinner, Rose?”

She nodded, before taking a sip from the wine he had offered. It struck her then just how normal this all felt. How comfortable she was standing in Jack's kitchen about to prepare a meal, despite their long separation. She glanced over at Cleopatra, who was now stretched out on the couch they had abandoned, and thought once again of what it would be like to share a pet with Jack. To share an apartment with him. To share a life with him.

“Can I help with anything?” she asked. “But before you answer that, I do have to warn you that I'm a terrible cook.”

Jack chuckled, as he handed her two ears of corn from the grocery bag. “If you want, you can start peeling these. I'm not the best cook either, but I can manage one or two things.”

Rose accepted the corn and started peeling them as Jack unwrapped a package that looked like a filet of fish. She watched as he sprinkled a little salt over it and started up a hot pan.

“What is it you're cooking?”

“It's something my mom used to make,” he said. “My dad and I spent so many summer afternoons fishing for trout. Every time we'd come home with one, my mom would cook it up with some herbs from her garden and whatever produce was ready that time of year. Corn was the most common, but we'd sometimes have carrots or beets or cucumbers. I must have eaten this at least once a week every summer when I was a kid.”

Rose set the now fully-peeled corn down on the counter and took his hand, distracting him a little from the task at hand. He threw his one free arm around her shoulder, as he spoke again.

“You, uh, you can't really get trout in New York, so this is cod; but I did manage to find some corn.”

She thought back to the few brief days she had spent in Chippewa Falls the year before. She could picture the river that ran through the town, and wondered if that was where Jack and his dad had caught the trout. She very nearly asked him about it, wondering if he would take her there one day to experience the real thing, but bit her tongue, once again not wanting to get ahead of herself.

She shook the thought away as she watched him flip the fish and turn his attention to chopping the herbs. Before she knew it, he had moved a piece of cod and some corn onto each of their plates and invited Rose to take a seat at the kitchen table.

“It may not be the best version of this dish I ever made,” he said, as he served them both dinner. “But there was a beautiful woman standing next to me as I cooked, and I just might have been more interested in her than in the task at hand. I hope you'll understand.”

“It looks delicious,” she said.

“I guess it's a Dawson tradition,” he said, casually, as he dug into his plate. “Since you're a Dawson now, too, I thought you'd want to try it.”

“What?” was all Rose could get out, as she blinked back at him. His words had sounded almost like a proposal, and she wondered if such a thing were possible. Yes, she had thought about getting a pet with him and about traveling to his home town together, but she didn't want to rush things. Did he feel differently about taking their time? She thought of Jack as she had known him on the ship – confident, romantic, ready for anything. Yes, he might be the sort of person to propose after only a few days spent together, separated by eighteen months.

“I saw your name in the H.M.S Pinafore program,” he explained. “Rose Dawson. I nearly screamed when I first saw it, even before I saw you on stage.”

“Oh,” she realized. “Oh! I almost forgot about that!”

Now it was his turn to look confused, which she recognized and launched into the story of taking his name on Carpathia before being stopped at Ellis Island. As they ate, she told him the story of that first train trip to New Hampshire and how she had spent her first few months back in America hopping from small town to small town trying to get her name changed, unsuccessfully.

“So I use Dawson as a stage name,” she said. “It just felt right, since you were so supportive of my aspirations to perform on stage. You were the first person I ever shared them with, and you really gave me the confidence to pursue them. I do regret not being able to become a Dawson legally, though.”

“There is another way to do that,” he said. “To become a Dawson legally.”

Maybe her thought that he was proposing to her earlier had been closer to the truth than she realized. In a way, it was what she wanted more than anything – a promise between them that they would be together forever. But in another, perhaps larger, way, she just wasn't quite ready yet. She knew she loved him and she knew he loved her, though they hadn't yet said the words. But she had found out he was alive less than 24 hours ago. She wanted to get used to the idea of him being there – to get used to the idea of not being alone – before thinking about becoming his wife.

“Jack, I—”

Jack didn't realize he had said those words aloud until he registered the surprise on Rose's face. Ever since he saw her Friday night, and ever since they finally got to talk, last night, his mind had been at war. He had chosen a future with her over the job in Chicago; and so much of him was impatient for that future to begin. Warmth had spread through his body at the idea of spending their lives together, at the idea of marrying her.

But, at some point this afternoon, as he watched her casually strolling through the museum, he found himself thinking back to that last night on the ship, before the iceberg, when they had been carefree and in love. The bond between them that night had been growing stronger, but it had been undefined, unspoken. Even when Rose told him she'd get off the ship with him, they had both understood it meant she was reinforcing their commitment to each other, confirming a future between them. But not necessarily talking about specific plans just yet. Jack looked across at Rose, sitting at his kitchen table with confusion spread across her face, and wondered if what they needed now was to get the carefree joy back, and talk about the specifics some other time.

“Sorry, Rose,” he said. “Ignore me. I – We'll talk about everything later. For tonight, I just want to spend time with you.”

“Later,” she agreed, savoring the fact that there could be a later between them. “In the meantime, I'd like just spending time with you very much.”

Jack smiled, kindly, as he got up from the table and led her back into the living room, lit now by a small paraffin lamp that gave the room an intimate glow. He drew her in close, holding one of her hands in his and resting his other hand on the small of her back.

“Does Miss Rose Parker care to dance?”

Instead of answering, she settled into his touch and began gently swaying, despite the lack of music.

“As long as you're gentle with me, Mr Dawson,” she said, with a broad smile on her face. “I'm older than you now.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I took on Rose Parker's identity, I also got a new birthday – July 22nd. But she – the original Rose Parker – was a few years older than me. So, legally, I just turned 23 this summer.”

He moved the hand that hand been on her back upwards, resting it on her cheek, and pulled her in for a kiss. She deepened it as soon as their lips met, but didn't stop swaying to the music playing only in her head. As they broke apart, she started humming, a tune vaguely reminiscent of one she sang in the show, but a little slower, a little more romantic.

“Rose,” Jack whispered.

“Hm?” she asked, still in his arms, as she leaned her head against his shoulder.

“When was your other birthday? Your original one.”

“It was only a few days after I last saw you. April 19^th.”

“Really?”

“Really,” she said, cracking a small smile. “I wanted to tell you on the ship, but I never found the right time to just casually mention my birthday was coming up. Now you're the only one in my life who knows.”

He kissed her again, then. He was tempted to deepen it, to run his hands all over her body and carry her into the bedroom. But a crack of thunder off in the distance, followed by the distinctive sound of heavy rain starting up, startled them both. Keeping hold of Jack's hand, Rose rushed over to the window.

“I've always loved the sound of the rain,” she said. “Especially when I'm warm and dry inside.”

Jack stood behind her and wrapped both his arms around her chest. “I know what you mean,” he said. “There's a strange comfort to listening to the rain when you're safe inside.”

Safe. Yes, that is exactly how she felt. As she glanced out the window, she could see the heavy droplets of rain hitting the ground in the dim light of the gas street lamps. She couldn't help but be reminded of the night before, standing at a different window, watching the rain fall. Yes, she had felt safe then, in the empty theatre. She thought back to watching summer storms roll through as a child, sitting at one of the imposing windows of their brownstone. She had felt safe then, too, she supposed. But not like tonight.

“I don't think I've ever felt more safe than I do in this moment,” she whispered.

“Yes, Rose,” he kissed her cheek. “We're safe. We're together. We're alone.”

She didn't respond, opting instead to move her hands up to intertwine with Jack's, wrapped around her chest, and listen to the rain a bit more. A flash of lightning lit up the street outside the window, and she saw the rain starting to fall faster.

“And we have time,” she whispered, turning around to face him and settling into his embrace. Their lips came together then, and they deepened it, slowly. It wasn't frenzied, desperate like it had been when they first got to the apartment earlier in the afternoon, but it was just as passionate. They stood in each others' arms, re-learning how their lips and hands fit together and proving to each other that they were real.

“Do you want to listen to the storm a little bit longer?” Jack asked, against her lips. “I can get a fire started.”

“No Jack,” she whispered. “I'm ready for bed.”

–

The rain had stopped and sun was fully up by the time Jack opened his eyes. Rose had fallen asleep in his embrace, but they must have moved a bit in the night, because, now, she was on the other side of the bed. He glanced over to her and saw her bare back poking out from the blankets. He saw the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders as she took deep, steady breaths.

As tempted as he was to reach over and wake her, to see her bright eyes and kiss her good morning, he could only lay there and watch. He had seen her at her most vulnerable in so many ways, but he had never seen her sleep.

Besides, she deserved a little more rest after the late night they had had.

Within seconds of the bedroom door closing the night before, they found themselves together on the bed, kissing every inch of exposed skin. When they ran out of places to kiss, they began shedding layers, slowly, one by one, taking their time to get reacquainted with each others' body. Hands explored, then lips followed, over and over, until they had one another memorized.

Their pace picked up as they came together, raw need and desire overtaking them both. They kissed, hard and fast, as Jack's fists clenched the sheets around them and Rose's fingers clawed at his back. The heat they made together grew and grew and grew, mimicking the sounds of the heavy rain outside the window, until there was release.

The second time they came together, they took it slow. They moved, as if floating through a dream, taking time to kiss, to nip, to tease each other in their most sensitive places.

The third time, they started off boldly, as Rose flipped them over, put both her hands on his chest and got on top. They finished sloppily, as they fell together in a jumble of arms and legs, dizzily happy and deliriously tired.

But, now it was morning, and Jack realized he had nothing to do all day except spend time with the woman next to him. He closed his eyes, trying to think back to a year ago, a month ago, even a week ago, his life and future had been starkly different. He looked back over at Rose, admiring the way her hair, now dyed black, spread out behind her on the pillow. He had been surprised to see the change in hair color at first, but there was something about the new color that he adored on her.

“Jack?” came her voice from the other side of the bed, shaking him from his thoughts. He watched her turn over to face him as her eyes fluttered open.

“I'm right here,” he said, as she met his eyes and scooted closer. “Good morning, Rose.”

She leaned up to kiss him, quickly, no more than a peck, before pulling back. “Good morning,” she repeated.

“Would you like me to make us some coffee?” he asked.

“Mmhmm,” she said, moving away just enough to stretch out her arms and legs. “That would be lovely.”

Somehow, he had no idea how, he managed to tear himself away from the warm bed and put on his dressing gown. Behind him, Rose followed suit, opening up the overnight bag she had packed and pulling a floral-patterned nightgown with lace trim over her head.

“I went to all the trouble to pack this, I might as well wear it,” she said, with laughter in her eyes. “I'll put on real clothes if we go somewhere later. But, in case we don't, this one is also easier to get off and on.”

He kissed her forehead quickly, before tearing himself away and leaving the room to go make coffee. Rose trailed, just behind, and entered the kitchen just as he was starting the water to boil.

“Oh, we never cleaned up from dinner, did we?” she asked, noticing the plates still out on the table. “Let me get started washing those.”

“I think we had other things on our mind by that point,” he said, picking up a towel to help out.

“You're right,” Rose said. “Cleopatra really failed as a chaperone, didn't she?”

As she spoke, she turned her head towards the living room, looking for the small orange cat, but she could see no evidence of her.

“She must have gotten fed up with us,” said Jack, noticing where Rose was looking. “Moved on to another apartment.”

“It's too bad,” she said. “However will we manage the rest of this weekend unsupervised?”

“I have a few ideas, Miss Parker,” he said, setting down the plate he was drying and wrapping his arms around her. She closed her eyes and nestled into his chest, wishing she could stay right there, in that moment, forever.

The sound of rapidly bubbling water broke them out of their thoughts as they turned around to see the water for their coffee was ready. He poured the hot water over the coffee grounds and took a seat at the kitchen table.

“Let's sit down and have our coffee, Rose. We can finish the dishes later.”

She accepted the cup and took a small sip of the warm liquid. As Jack drank from his own coffee, he remembered all of the ways he had imagined drawing her. How, only a few weeks ago, the image of her sitting at his kitchen table, happily drinking coffee after a night they had spent together, had been too painful for him to imagine.

“May I?” he asked, as he reached to the shelf behind him and pulled down his portfolio.

“Of course,” she said. “Do you want me to—”

“No, stay right where you are,” he said, as he turned to a blank page and eyed her, something about his meticulous, knowing gaze making her feel even more exposed than before. She snuck in one more sip of coffee, knowing she'd soon have to keep still, and licked her lips. As he started drawing, she wrapped her hand around the warm mug and settled into the chair, watching him intently.

Before she knew it, he set the charcoal down on the kitchen table and turned the page around, so she could see his completed work. She saw herself, realistically portrayed sitting at the table, coffee cup in hand, but there was a deeper intimacy than she remembered seeing in the other one. Though she was wearing the nightgown, it was clear that he knew exactly what was underneath it. This, she realized, was not a picture of a woman drinking coffee, but a picture of a woman drinking coffee just after waking up naked in bed with the artist.

“I like it,” she said, leaning up to kiss him as he got up to pour them both a second cup of coffee.

“I wanted to draw you so badly,” he said. “But I never could make myself do it. Not until I saw you on Friday night. Even as I drew it, I wondered if it had all been a dream – a figment of my imagination, like you had been so many times before.”

“I don't know how you managed,” she said. “At least when I found out, you were right outside and I could run straight to you.”

“It was your new haircut.”

“What?”

“Every time I saw you in my dreams, you still had your red hair,” he explained. “I could only imagine you as I had last seen you. Somehow, I knew I hadn't imagined the detail of your hair looking different. It was what grounded me, gave me the confidence to actually finish the drawing and go back to the theatre the next day.”

“I was terrified when I first did it,” she admitted. “Cal's father showed up at the theatre one day. I don't think he recognized me, or my stage name. But, by that point, I hadn't thought about anyone from that life in so long, that it really sent a shock through me to remember that there were people out there who might have reason to recognize the name Rose Dawson. So I went straight out and got a haircut.”

“It really suits you,” he said. “I thought your hair was beautiful before, but it's maybe even more so now.”

“Flatterer,” she laughed, though she did genuinely appreciate his compliment. “It took me a long time to get used to it. But now that I have, it feels like I've always had dark hair.”

He drained the last of his second cup of coffee, and started to get up to add it to the stack of dirty dishes, when a knock at the door startled them both.

Rose couldn't think of any reason someone would be knocking on the door first thing in the morning, and was suddenly nervous about who would be on the other side. It was just last night that she had told Jack she had never felt more safe in her life, and she had meant it, but the urgent knocking gave her a sudden unsettled feeling.

“Let me go see who it is,” said Jack. And then he slipped out of the kitchen towards the front door. Rose heard muffled voices at the front door, as she drained the last of her coffee, wishing there was a little more in her cup. At least sipping from her coffee cup would distract her from the unease.

After only a few minutes, Jack returned. His expression was neutral, but she detected an underlying irritation.

“So, uh, Rose? Do you remember what I told you about how I have this apartment?”

“You do maintenance around the building, right?”

“Yep,” he said, walking into the bedroom to dress himself more fully. “That was my neighbor from upstairs. It seems all that rain put a leak in his roof, and I have to go fix it. I'm hoping it'll only take an hour or so but—will you be okay here? Or you can come along if you want, I suppose.”

She felt a very brief panic at the thought of being separated from Jack for an hour, and then scolded herself for it. She had managed fine, well, mostly fine, when they had been apart for a year and half. She could handle him going to work for an hour. But, still, something about him leaving felt very wrong. Very wrong indeed.

“It's all right, Jack,” she said, trying to sound more confident in her words than she felt. “Go do what you need to do. I'll finish the rest of dishes and I'll see you in an hour.”

“All right,” he said. “Make yourself at home. There should be some books in the bedroom if you want to read. I'll be back as soon as I can.”

“Bye, Jack,” she said, as he made his way to the front door again. “I love you.”

She watched as a strange look crossed his face, and then she realized. Maybe Jack isn't the only one who says things out loud without realizing. The words had been on the tip of her tongue ever since she saw him again. She knew them to be true, but she had been waiting for the right moment. Instead, they just slipped out.

“I love you, too, Rose,” he said, from the door frame, seconds before the door swung closed.

As soon as he was gone, she felt his absence starkly. She looked around the apartment, trying to remind herself that she was in his space, and everything around her belonged to him. Jack had mentioned the night before that he hadn't done much in the way of decorating the apartment; he was right that it was a little basic, but as she looked around she could see little touches that must have come from him. A colorful blanket, which matched the color schemes of the rest of the furnishings, was draped over the back of the couch. There was a small pile of well worn boots by the front door. She saw scraps of paper and bits of charcoal tucked away in all corners of the apartment, so they could be grabbed at a moment's notice if inspiration struck.

Turning back towards the kitchen, she remembered her promise to finish the dishes and got to work. With no one to distract her from her task, she stacked the last of the clean dishes much quicker than expected, and found herself standing in Jack's kitchen with nothing to do.

She wandered into the bedroom and picked up the dressing gown he had worn all morning, before hastily discarding it for a shirt and trousers only minutes ago. She pulled it tightly around her shoulders, before glancing at the bookshelf and remembering his offer of reading material. Suddenly, she found herself curious about what books she would find. He had never told her his taste in books, but she thought he must like adventure stories. She could almost picture a younger Jack sitting by the river in Chippewa Falls reading Treasure Island.

The first book she saw, though, was a large volume of art re-prints. She picked up the book, sat down on the floor of the bedroom, and opened it to a page near the middle. The pictures were re-printed in full color and were stunning enough to make Rose gasp. Flicking through the pages, she saw painting after painting, mostly Impressionists, but also some of the Old Masters and more recent entries. Alongside each picture was a short description – sometimes of the artist, sometimes of the work itself. Even looking at the book, she could tell it would have been very expensive. It must have been one of the only luxuries Jack allowed himself.

Jack had left several bookmarks, and Rose opened each of the pages he had marked, admiring the paintings, before turning to the next one. As she turned to the last bookmarked page, she couldn't wait for Jack to get back so she could ask him about the book and some of the paintings.

But the last bookmark wasn't a bookmark at all, it turned out. Instead, she saw a train ticket, with Jack's name on it. Glancing at the ticket, she saw he had gone from New York to Chicago last fall, and she wondered what all he had gotten up to on his trip. She would have to ask him about that, too.

But as she slipped the ticket back into the book, she noticed the date more fully. He had not gone to Chicago last Fall. He was going to Chicago two weeks from now, and he hadn't said anything about it at all.

Chapter Text

September 1913

Jack rubbed his fingers over his eyes in frustration. The leak in his neighbor's roof had been easy enough to fix, but just as he had started back down the stairs to his own apartment, another neighbor caught him with another repair that needed to get done. The building was large, and it was a lot of work keeping up with the maintenance, but it was rare to have two urgent issues in a row like this. He thought of Rose waiting downstairs and sighed, cynically, regretting that the maintenance work would cut into their weekend together.

Meanwhile, Rose herself was back in the apartment, sitting on the floor of the bedroom, thoughts racing. At first, she had been merely curious about Jack's upcoming trip. She was excited for him, looking forward to hearing about his plans in Chicago. But, as time ticked on, well past the hour he had promised, her concern grew. They had talked about so much in the hours since their reunion. Heartfelt things. Silly things. They had told each other so much about their lives while they had been apart. What possibly could have compelled him to not mention a train trip coming up in two weeks?

Yes, they had talked about so much. But they hadn't talked about the future. Not really. Jack had made that little slip, and, at least in the privacy of her own thoughts, she had as well. But neither of them had been brave enough to actually broach the topic of what their future looked like, now that they had found each other. She knew she wanted to have some sort of future with Jack, and she was pretty sure he did as well. But she realized she had no idea what either of them wanted that future to look like.

“Rose?” came his voice from the front door, breaking her out of her thoughts.

“In here,” she shouted to him, and she saw his frame appear in the bedroom door only seconds later.

“Sorry that took so long. As soon as I finished with the leak, someone else had another problem.”

“It's okay,” she said, his presence bringing an instant comfort; a relief to her inner turmoil over the train ticket. But it didn't stop her curiosity.

“Ah, I see you found my art book. Isn't it beautiful? My friend Harry gave it to me, only a few weeks ago.”

“It is,” she said, reaching for the book sitting on the floor next to her. “And what a generous gift! Will you tell me about it?”

Generous might not have been the word he'd have used for it, considering Harry had only given it to him so he could look over it in preparation for the job he now wasn't going to take. He wondered, vaguely, if he could find a way to scrounge up the money to buy the book from Harry, if only to be able to keep it. But, before he could think too much about that, he glanced down at Rose, sitting on the floor with the book in her lap, looking up at him, expectantly.

Slowly, he sat down on their bed, before silently correcting himself. His bed. The bed he had slept in alone every night for nearly a year. But, then again, there had only ever been one person who had any right to the other side, and she had slept there last night. So, no, he corrected himself again. It was their bed. And, by all rights, he beckoned to Rose in an invitation to climb up and sit next to him. She brought the book up with her and handed it over, before he opened it to one of the pages he had bookmarked to show her one of his favorite paintings.

“Sure,” he began. “Harry was my friend in Paris. He took me and Fabrizio under his wing and kept us out of trouble. Well, mostly out of trouble.”

Rose chuckled, sitting attentively at Jack's side, listening to the rest of the story of his time in Paris. He told stories about Harry teaching Jack about art and about life, stories about the wild adventures the three of them went on, stories of begging for money and cramming twelve or thirteen people into a small room in a garret, stories of being young in the wide world.

“I got a letter from Harry a few weeks ago saying he was moving to America and would arrive in New York,” Jack finished. “I put him up for the night, just in the couch in my living room.”

“And he gave you an expensive book? Just for one night on your couch?”

“Well,” Jack began. The last thing he wanted to do was lie to her, but suddenly, his brain was working overtime to come up with a reason Harry would have given him such a gift. Any reason other than the job he had been offered.

Maybe he would tell Rose about the job offer one day. One day many years from now. But, for now, there was no reason she needed to know about it. She had been willing to give up everything for him without a second's hesitation. She had given up everything for him.

On the ship, instead of just being together, they had wasted so much time tearing down the walls between them. The job – dream job as it was – in Chicago would be nothing but another wall between them, another barrier keeping them apart. And, in his decision to give it up, he had brushed the wall away as if it were just a curtain. The slight tinge of regret he felt thinking about what could have been with the museum paled in comparison to thinking about what could have been, with them, had they gotten off the ship together.

He thought back to the bill at the restaurant that first night, how it didn't feel right to tally up who owed who money, which one of them would pay for dinner this time, whose turn it was to sacrifice everything for them to be together. No, now that the decision was made, telling her would do nothing except perhaps make her feel like she owed him another big sacrifice. They were starting their relationship anew on even terms – no walls, only love. And a little white lie of omission was preferable to disrupting the gentle balance of their newly rekindled relationship.

“Harry recently made it big,” Jack continued, opting for at least a partial truth. “I think he was excited to 'share the wealth,' as they say.”

Rose nodded, though she still looked unconvinced. “You said he was just here for the night? So he wasn't staying in New York? Is that who you're going to see in Chicago in a couple of weeks?”

Shit.

“You found the ticket?”

“Yes, Jack,” she answered, dispassionately. They were still sitting close together, but she had straightened her back, almost defensively, and shifted her body just slightly away from him. He studied her face, and while the overwhelming emotion on her face was confusion, he thought he saw a hint of torment below the surface. “Why didn't you tell me you had a trip coming up?”

She watched as he visibly drew in a breath and then turned his head away, breaking their contact for just a moment, before he turned back to face her.

“That's a long story, Rose,” he said. “I hope you'll forgive me after you hear it.”

She didn't say anything at all for a while, but then said, “I will.” She spoke quietly at first, not yet knowing what she was promising to forgive. But then continued, with just a touch more confidence in her voice. “As long as you tell me everything. The whole, honest truth. We've never lied to each other before—” Once again, she hesitated.

I'm fine, Jack, I'll be fine.

See, I've got my own boat to catch.

“Well, we've never had any reason whatsoever to doubt the trust between us,” she continued. “And I don't intend to start now.”

“Yes, Rose,” he said, without the slightest hesitation. “I will be honest.”

“I will be, too,” she said, squeezing his hand. “So, why didn't you tell me about your trip?”

“You were right,” he began, “about my friend Harry. He stopped here in New York on his way to Chicago. He had just been offered a job at the Art Institute of Chicago. A big job. Curator of Impressionist Paintings.”

“Wow,” she said.

Jack continued, telling her all about his evening at the pub with Harry. He told her about how nice it had been to catch up with his friend, talking about the most recent developments in the art world. He talked about the praise Harry had given some of Jack's more recent work.

“Well, during that night,” he continued. “Harry offered me a job, as his Assistant Curator.”

“Jack!” She sat up straight, excitement coursing through her voice. “Jack, that's amazing! I'm so proud of you.”

He smiled at her, gently, before speaking again. “You saw the ticket, Rose. It's just a one way ticket. I'm not going on a trip to Chicago, I –”

Her voice was now even, all traces of excitement gone. “You're moving to Chicago? Why didn't you tell me?”

“I'm not moving to Chicago,” he said. “I'm not going to take the job.”

“What!? Jack, you have to!”

“There's something else that happened that night Harry came to visit. At the pub, I put a few coins in a tombola. I wasn't trying to win a prize, I was just trying to help pay for medical treatment for the young daughter of one of the bar's employees. But, two weeks later, they told me I won the tombola prize. Two tickets to H.M.S Pinafore.”

“Oh,” she said.

“At first, I wasn't even going to go to the show,” he had told her all this before, as he recounted the story of finding her again. He didn't quite know why he was repeating it, but he carried on anyway. He told her once again about finding himself in the theatre district, as if his feet had carried him there of their own accord. Of trying, unsuccessfully to sell the tickets back, and of sitting, shaken deep to his core, in a dark room after seeing her name in the program. “Sometime that night,” he finished. “I decided I couldn't go to Chicago. Not when you were here. It wasn't a difficult choice.”

Rose adjusted her position so that they were facing each other. She took both his hands in hers and held them, clasped, between the two of them.

“Jack,” she said. “I-I'm honored. I really am. But you have to take the job. I saw you at the art museum yesterday. I saw you with those paintings I had on the ship. I also saw you get pulled away to go fix that leaky roof this morning. It was like night and day.”

“Rose—”

“Let me finish,” she said, smiling at him. “You told me once that there was a fire in me that you didn't want to burn out. I saw that fire in you yesterday at the museum. You are meant to be an Assistant Curator of Impressionist Paintings.”

“I am meant to be with you.”

Suddenly, the words were out in the open. The words they both had been dancing around since finding each other again. A declaration that he wanted to be with her. Not just now, but in the future, too. Rose saw the serious look on his face, but she also recognized a desperation behind his eyes. Out of nowhere, she was reminded of that afternoon in the gym all those months ago, when those same eyes had begged her to be brave enough to love him back. Once again, he had been the one to speak first, to be the one to tell her just how much he wanted this. But, this time, she had the confidence to speak, too.

“I want to be with you, too, Jack,” she said. “And we will be. Even if it takes me moving to Chicago with you.”

“You can't do that, Rose! You can't leave your show! You may think I'm meant to work at the museum, but you are meant for the stage even more so,” he insisted. “Besides. You already gave up everything to be with me. I can't ask you to do it again.”

His tone was impassioned, and he spoke quickly, with tears welling in his eyes as he finished. She pulled him in close to her chest and held him tight, taking a few minutes for them to breathe together before speaking again.

“First of all,” she said, eventually. “If you mean giving up my life in first class, I did that for me. You were the one who gave me the courage to do it, and I have thanked you for that nearly every day since we've been apart. But, Jack, I thought you were dead. If being with you had been my only reason for leaving that life behind, I could have easily gone back to it. But I built the life that I wanted even though you weren't there. How I wished you were there to share it; how I wished we could have built up our life, together—”

Her voice had been growing more and more fervent as she spoke, until she cut herself off, abruptly. She took a moment to catch her breath and even her tone before continuing. “The last thing I want is for you to think I made some sacrifice. Every change I made was welcome; every decision I made was one I wanted. I traded in a life where I wasn't happy for one where I was.”

“Secondly,” she added. “Moving to Chicago doesn't mean I have to give up performing. I don't know Chicago very well, but I've heard they have plenty of theaters.”

“There are art museums in New York, too,” he said. “Maybe I can stay here and try to find a better job locally.”

“It sounds like we're already both committed to being together,” she said, allowing a small smile to float across her lips. “We don't need to prove it by sacrificing other good parts of our lives. We just need to find a way to fit our lives together, whether that's in New York or Chicago. Or, hell, London has art museums and theatre. So does Paris. I'm sure there are dozens of wonderful places around the world where we can both live without having to give anything else up.”

“It would have been easier if we got off the ship together,” he said, quietly. Now that they had broached the topic of the future, there was only one other thing that they had both been thinking about but hadn't been able to bring themselves to talk about. What if?

“Yes, it would have been easier in some ways,” she said, sliding over to make sure they were as close together as possible. “Both of our futures were pretty much blank slates at that point. We would have built up our lives together instead of having to combine already existing ones.”

“I spent so much time torturing myself over what it would have been like," he admitted.

“I have too,” she said. “Do you want to talk about what could have been?”

“I think we should,” he said, tentatively. “Just this once. I want us to talk about it now so we don't have to torture ourselves with it forever. Then we can focus on only looking forward instead of back.”

“That's a very smart idea,” she said. Just as she found herself wishing there was a way they could be even closer, still, Jack leaned back so he was lying down and he held his arms open, inviting her to join him. She nestled into his side and brought their hands together before continuing. “Close your eyes, and think back. How would that day have been different if we got off the ship together?”

“I was very ill,” he said. “I don't remember much besides waking up in the hospital a few days later.”

“Okay, so there's something that would have been different for me,” she said. “I would have accompanied you to the hospital instead of going to that first boarding house with Mrs. Tuttle.”

“They might not have let you in,” he said, quietly. “Not unless—” he paused for just a moment. “They probably still wouldn't have let you into the country with my last name, would they? So you'd still be Miss Parker.”

She nodded. “Yes, but I think I would have had more reason to just pretend my name was Dawson. I went on that long trip trying to get it legally changed because I wanted to feel connected to you. But if you had been there I probably could have just adopted the name and no one would have had any reason to question it.”

“Or,” he began. “Or maybe we would have just gone to the courthouse and gotten married. Maybe not immediately, but I think I would have been worried about getting separated from you. Especially if I had in fact spent two weeks in the hospital without them letting you in.”

“I think you're probably right,” she said. “At that point, I was so paranoid about anyone from my old life finding me that I would have felt safer being married, too.”

In a way, it was incredibly weird to talk to him about this. But it was also therapeutic. To give voice to all of the things they had hoped for but knew never could be. It was a testament to the trust they had between them that they even could talk about this, openly and honestly. Rose wondered, briefly, if they would have been able to have a frank conversation like this if they had gotten off the ship together. But, either way, after the last year and a half spent apart, she was glad they both now recognized the importance of starting anew without any secrets between them.

“So,” he said, his tone still serious. “It's two weeks after we got back to New York. We've either just gotten married or are just about to. Where would we have gone next?”

Jack was glad that they were having this conversation in their bed. It was such an intimate discussion, and it required a safe, private place. Even if they were just sitting together on the couch, he thought, the living room, with its high ceilings and big window, would make him feel too exposed to have this conversation properly. No, the safety and closeness of their bed made it so they both felt comfortable sharing their deepest truths. It made them comfortable enough to have the honest conversation they needed to re-seal their commitment to each other after their time apart.

“I think we probably would have just gotten on a train to wherever it was headed,” Rose said. “I did that pretty often in the months I spent traveling around before coming back to New York. I could always picture you by my side.”

“We would have needed money for the train tickets.”

“We would,” she agreed. “I don't think I told you I found a bunch of cash in the pocket of the coat Cal left on me. The – the necklace was there, too. I still have it in a box under the bed in my boarding house. I – I used that money for a lot of my travels those first few months, always supplemented by whatever I could get from odd jobs here and there. I was a little conflicted about using it – mostly because I knew you would have been – but I thought he owed it to me after all he put us through.”

Jack made a noncommittal noise as he thought through what Rose had just said about the money. She was right that he probably wouldn't have wanted to start off his life with her using money from that bastard. But, one thing about talking about this eighteen months after the fact was that he had the benefit of hindsight. And, from the stories she had told him of that time, it sounded like she had done so much – learned so much – succeeded in making a life, free from the trappings of first class. And it was more than they would have been able to do together if he had been there and had been stubborn about the money.

He told Rose as much, and she smiled, pulling him in closer. “So it sounds like we would have done some traveling, but a bit more of the odd jobs.”

“You still would have found theatre,” he said. “I know you would have.”

“Yes,” she said. “Though I wonder if the timing would be the same. It might have taken me a little longer if I didn't use up the last of Cal's money on that fancy dinner in DC.”

“Maybe you would have found it earlier; maybe it would have been one of those odd jobs we found while out traveling.”

“And what about you, Jack? Harry still would have looked you up and offered you that job, right?”

“Oh,” he said. “Yes, I suppose he would have.”

“So,” she said. “It sounds like, if we had gotten off the ship together, I'd be in the theatre, you'd have just been offered a job at the Art Institute, and we'd be together. Except for the obvious difference that we would have been fortunate enough to spend more time together, it sounds like the only difference between what is and what could have been is in the details.”

“That doesn't change the fact that, if we want to stay together, one of us will have to give up a dream job so that we can be in the same city. I think it should be me, since I haven't even started the job yet.”

“The same thing might have happened if we got off the ship together,” she said. “I might have booked my first part on Broadway just after you got the job offer in Chicago.”

“What would we have done, then?”

“I would imagine the same thing we're doing now,” she said. “Talked about it.”

“All right,” said Jack. “Let's talk about how to solve this.”

“When I was a young girl, we lived in a brownstone along the park,” she began. Jack looked up at her, momentarily confused, but he didn't say anything. “One of the families who lived just down the street from us made some good investment that I never knew the details of, and they were suddenly able to expand. They could have moved, could have started from scratch, built a huge mansion out in the country somewhere. But, instead, they wanted to stay where they were. So, they bought the neighboring brownstone and knocked out all the walls between the two houses, hoping to turn the two buildings into one bigger building.”

“It turned out, though, that the ceilings in one building were a few inches taller than the ceilings in the other building, which made it so that the floors weren't quite level with each other. They hired builders to fix it – and even with all the money it the world, it took them years. It was all anyone could talk about for weeks – how much easier it would have been for them if they had just put up a new building instead of trying to force two buildings together. Mother was so angry about having to live next to such unsightly construction for so long. But, eventually, the construction ended and that family got to have their giant house without having to leave the neighborhood they loved.”

“Everyone else probably had a point that it would have been easier to just build something fresh somewhere else. Just like it would be easier for us to draw straws for who has to give up their job. Just like it would have been easier if we had never been apart. But, I think if we give it time – some of which might be painful time – we can be together in the same city without having to sacrifice anything for it.”

“What do you mean, Rose?”

“Well,” she began. “I know I said the difference between now and then was only in the details. But there is one rather large detail we talked about that would have been different.”

Jack still didn't quite see what Rose was getting at. His confidence that they would figure out a solution, even it wasn't the perfect one, was growing the longer they talked. But he didn't know what was causing Rose to feel so assured they they would find a way for every detail to fit into place. He thought back through their conversation, trying to think of what details they had talked about that would have been different—

“The courthouse? Is that what you mean? Do - do you want to get married? I-I'm not sure I see how that would help.”

“That's sort of what I meant,” she said. “I do want to marry you someday. In fact I'm pretty sure we will, one day. But, I also remember what you let slip last night.”

There is another way to become a Dawson legally.

“Oh,” was all he said.

“It wasn't the right time to talk about it last night,” she said. “But we're laying everything else out on the table today, so I think we should talk about it now.”

“You're right that it slipped out,” he said. “The idea had been on my mind, a bit, but I don't think either of us were quite ready for it.”

“I know,” she said. “And please don't feel weird about it, because I don't. But, that's also why I brought it up. We both seem to agree that, now, we're not ready for it yet. But when we talked about what would have happened eighteen months ago—”

“In the scenario we imagined,” he said, realizing what she was getting at. “We got married right away because we were worried about being separated.”

She nodded, before pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “And now, we don't have to worry about anyone coming after us. We can take our time. Isn't it better this way?”

“I still think I'd choose the extra time with you,” he said, kissing her again. “But yes, it's better to marry because we want to and are ready rather than as a way to protect ourselves from people trying to tear us apart.”

She kissed him for the third time in quick succession, wanting to deepen it, but knowing the conversation was too important to be derailed. “When we marry – and yes, I believe it's when not if – I want it to be on our terms. And for that to happen, we need time. Time spent together, and probably time spent on our own, too. Time to connect the parts of our lives that don't match, like the floors of those two buildings.”

“So what does that mean?”

“I think you should take the job in Chicago. If you want, you can write to Harry and ask if the appointment can be pushed back. Maybe until the New Year? Maybe just a week or two if that's not possible? I have a contract with Pinafore until mid-May of next year, at which point I'll be free to go wherever I want. Wherever we want. New York, Chicago. Anywhere in the world. You and I will make the decision together, based on what works best for us as a couple. As a partnership. In the meantime, we'll court each other properly. Well, maybe not entirely properly,” she winked. “If you have time off the museum, you can visit me in New York, and when I have time off the show, I'll visit you in Chicago. The rest of the time we can write each other letters.”

“I don't know, Rose,” he said. “We only just found each other. I don't think I can let you go again that easily.”

“I know,” she said. “It won't be easy at all. But, three days ago I thought I'd never see you again. The difference between you being dead and you being in Chicago, where I can write you a letter? It would have brought unimaginable joy only a few days ago.”

“How long is it until May? Eight months?”

She counted on her fingers. “Seven and a half. Seven and a half months apart for the rest of our lives together.”

“All right,” he said. “We'll do it. But promise me something.”

“What's that?”

“Promise me you'll take one of the smaller diamonds off the chain of that stupid necklace in the box in your boarding house and sell it. Then promise me you'll use the proceeds to buy a telephone. I'm not sure letters will be enough for me.”

“Consider it sold,” she said. And she kissed him, deeply and sensually. He pulled her in closer, his hands moving over every bit of her, trying to savor the feeling of holding her. To commit it to memory. She was so solid now but, in a few weeks, he would once again hold her only in his imagination.

Pushing those thoughts out of his brain, he deepened the kiss, hungrily sucking at her lips and tongue. At some point, she pulled the nightgown she was still wearing up over her head, and started working on undoing the buttons of his shirt and trousers. He was kissing her all over her body. He was kissing her with every breath in his lungs. But it wasn't enough.

As if she felt the same, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him in close to her chest. She traced kisses down his neck, across his collarbone, and down his right arm. Every muscle in his body was on fire, burning only for her.

“I love you,” he whispered. And then repeated it louder, as if shouting it to the world. “I love you.”

“I love you,” she said, moving her lips back up to meet his, sultrily. “I will love you forever. I will love you even if you live far away from me.”

Chapter Text

October, 1913

The train, thankfully, was running late. Rose wondered what would happen if it just never came. If the platform stayed empty and she and Jack just stood here, hand in hand, in the crowded waiting room forever.

In many ways, it would be preferable to the alternative. At least if they were stuck in the train station for eternity, he wouldn't have to leave her.

But, instead, they stood there, waiting. They were both too nervous to say anything. Jack was nervous about saying goodbye too soon; nervous that saying it out loud might make the train come faster. Rose was nervous that, if she opened her mouth, the only words that would come out would be ones begging him to stay.

She thought back to this morning, when they had said their heartfelt goodbyes. They were sitting across the table from each other in his apartment. All of his personal belongings, any individual touch he had added to the place, had been packed up and sent ahead to Chicago. Only the furniture, which came with the apartment, stayed behind. The bed, stripped of sheets, the walls, now completely bare of art, the empty bookcases, all gave Rose an eerie sense of something not being right. She thought it would have been better if the apartment was completely bare, instead of littered with familiar pieces but no trace of Jack.

They had gone out early to get pastries from one of their favorite neighborhood bakeries. But, as soon as they got back to the empty apartment, her appetite had left her.

“I don't want you to go,” she said, tears welling in her eyes.

“I'll see you at Christmas, Rose.”

“I'm coming with you then,” she pleaded. “I'll quit the show.”

He pulled her into a tight embrace. “I don't want to be apart either,” he said. “but we talked about this.”

“I know,” she said, as tears started falling down her face. “And it was my own goddamn stupid idea. Why didn't you talk me out if it, Jack?”

“I think you're overestimating my ability to talk you out of something you have your mind set on,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to get a laugh through the tears. “But, even so, you were right. We just need these few months apart so that we can build a future together.”

“It all made so much sense on paper,” she said. “But now that it's here—”

“I know,” he said. “Come with me, I have something for you.”

He led her into the bedroom, completely empty except for a small parcel on the night stand. A thick envelope with her name on it was attached to the top.

“That is your first letter,” he said, pointing out the envelope. “You should open it later this afternoon. I promised you I would write, but I didn't want you to have to wait until I was already gone to get the first one.”

“I wrote your first letter, too,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes. “I put it in the mail on my way home from the show the other day. I'm hoping it'll be at your new apartment waiting for you when you get there.”

He moved his hand into her hair – the new hairstyle he couldn't get enough of, and brought her lips up to his. When they met, the kiss was slow, but desperate. They both wanted to savor every second together, to commit these feelings to memory, to prove their trust and love to one another, and to imbue each other with any strength they might have for the coming separation.

“You can unwrap the package now, though, if you want,” he said.

It wasn't anything fancy, just a thin package wrapped in newsprint and tied with a bit of string. As she took it in her hands, it felt flimsy, like fabric. She pulled the string, before pulling back the newsprint to see that fabric was exactly what it was.

“It's the pillowcase I've been using for the last year,” he said. “I – I was wondering if you might want to put it on the pillow at your boarding house and send me the one you'd been using. It might be a small way for us to feel more connected. Only – only if you want to, that is.”

“I'll put it in the mail today,” she said. “Thank you, Jack. It really should be me that's giving you all this. You're the one who's leaving. The last thing I want to do is make it harder on you by begging you to stay. I should be the one who's strong for you.”

“We're strong for each other,” he said. “Besides, trying to stay steadfast just now was the only thing that kept me from begging you to come.”

She smiled, kissing him again. “Oh, I almost forgot! Jack, do you have any pliers?”

“I think there's a pair in the toolbox that came with the place,” he said. “The one I left for the next maintenance man who takes over this apartment.”

“Will you get them?” she asked, but he was already on his way back to the living room where he had left the tool box that came with the apartment. She followed, right behind him, and saw him rummaging through the box.

Rose, in turn, moved to the small bag she had packed of her own belongings that had accumulated at Jack's apartment over the last several weeks. It was the same overnight bag she had brought that first afternoon, now staged by the front door next to Jack's suitcases, ready for her to bring back to her boarding house. But for now, she unbuckled it and started digging around in it.

“Here they are,” said Jack, pulling out the pliers. “What do you need them for?”

“Well,” she said, her hand hitting on the object she had been looking for. “As promised, I went to the library between shows last Saturday. I looked up how to use the telephone. I can call you in Chicago, as long as I can find a phone that connects that far. The good news is there's one in a little room at the library. The bad news is it will cost about $20 for a ten minute conversation.”

Jack paled. He hadn't thought that it would be easy to talk to Rose on the phone, but he hadn't quite expected it to cost quite that much.

“So,” she said, finally revealing what was in her hand. “Let's pull off a couple of these smaller diamonds. Not the giant garish blue one, that's too obvious. But maybe some of the little ones from the chain? If we each take a few, we can probably pawn them and make enough to talk on the phone. Maybe not quite every week, but at least once or twice a month.”

He looked down to see the Heart of the Ocean in her hands. A shiver ran down his spine when he first saw it, and visions of being handcuffed to a pipe in a sinking ship flashed across his mind. He would have been glad to never see that goddamn stone ever again. But the idea of talking to Rose on the phone was too tempting.

“Something good should come out of that stupid necklace.”

“Two things,” she said, kissing him quickly. “Your drawing and a few hours talking to you on the phone. Would you like to do the honors?”

She held out the chain in her palm, and he took it. Using the pliers, he tugged at six small stones, loosening them, before freeing them from the setting. He gave three to Rose, before putting the remaining three in his own pocket.

“Perfect,” she said. “Now, why don't you put those pliers away for the last time? I don't think you'll need them much as an art curator.”

Now, waiting at Pennsylvania Station for the delayed train to Chicago, Jack's mind was blank. The three diamonds weighed heavily in his trousers pocket, but not as heavily as Rose's hand in his. A station attendant had just passed through the crowd, announcing a new departure time, about twenty minutes from now. A grumble had passed through the rest of the gathered passengers, but he and Rose clung to each other, trying to savor every last second of their extra twenty minutes.

They still didn't have anything to say to each other. They had said what needed to be said at the apartment this morning, as well as at many times throughout the last few weeks. And they would definitely exchange kisses and I love yous when the train finally came. But, for now, neither of them needed anything beyond the other's hand in theirs.

Rose thought back to the last few weeks, thinking of how they had made the most of their limited time together. How they had grown even closer. It maybe made it even more difficult to separate, but neither of them would have chosen any differently.

–

Upon making the decision that Jack would go to Chicago and then, in May, when Rose's contract with Pinafore was up, they'd decide together on the best option for them both, Rose had unofficially moved into Jack's apartment for the two weeks they had together.

Jack had written to Harry, making a flimsy excuse about why he couldn't start right on October 1, and had bought them a third week together.

Rose, in turn, had immediately sent a message to Lydia, asking her to cover her role in the show for a few days. And she and Jack spent that first week together, hardly leaving the apartment except to replenish their supply of food or take an occasional walk around the neighborhood. Jack brought Rose to have a beer at his favorite pub, and introduced her to Reggie. When she told him she was a performer in HMS Pinafore, Reggie gave Jack a knowing look, and served them a second round on the house.

But, mostly, they spent their time reconnecting with each other, deepening the connection they had built on the ship and had added to over the last few days.

When Rose finally returned to the show, she claimed one of the complimentary tickets she was entitled to so that Jack could come to the Wednesday matinee. They had agreed that he would stay between shows so that she could introduce him to everyone.

“I – I also think I want to tell them everything,” she had said. “At least Lydia and Bessie – they've been my closest friends over the last year, and they deserve to know. Do you mind?”

“I've never been able to get up enough courage to tell anyone the whole story,” he admitted.

“Oh, I haven't either,” she said. “I don't think I can unless you're with me.”

“Then I'll be there,” he said, kissing the corner of her mouth, gently.

As soon as the curtain closed on the Wednesday matinee, Jack rushed outside to wait for Rose at the stage door. He hadn't admitted as much to her, but he was a little nervous to meet her friends. Yes, he had mostly held his own when meeting her family before. But, even then, it was clear that Rose was forming her own opinions about him and wasn't too concerned with what Cal and her mother thought of him. But now, not only was he about to meet important people in Rose's life – people whose opinions she actually trusted, he thought – but they were about to tell those same friends the whole story. He wondered just what her friends would think of him after they heard it.

As a small crowd of his fellow audience members was starting to form outside the stage door, however, he was starting to get anxious to get it over with. He had built up telling the whole story in his mind to be something to fear – his mind was racing a million miles an hour thinking of all the wrong kinds of memories telling the story could trigger. Deep down, he knew he'd feel better once they told the story, but he couldn't do that until he saw Rose.

She had promised to see him right after the morning performance and bring him upstairs to meet her friends. But, he had now been waiting at the stage door for almost half an hour, and she had not yet emerged from the stage door. What had first been curiosity at what was taking her so long had slowly morphed into panic.

Suddenly, the stage door creaked open, just a few inches, and a tall, slender man with hair so blonde it was almost white poked his head out. After a moment of confusion, Jack recognized him as the actor who played Rose's love interest in the show. No, Josephine's love interest, he tried to force himself to remember.

“Is there a Jack out here?”

Tentatively, Jack raised his hand. For just a moment, he wondered if this was a trap. If he was about to be the victim of an elaborate prank. He wondered if he was about to find out just how much Rose enjoyed kissing this man after all. What was his name again – Ollie? Yes, Oliver St. James, he remembered seeing in the program.

What a stupid name.

“Come with me,” the man, Ollie, said, suavely. “Rosie was really worried about you.”

“Rosie?”

But Ollie didn't seem to hear him. Or, if he did, didn't seem to pick up on his concern. Instead, Ollie rushed back inside, leading Jack, who was struggling to keep up with his pace, backstage.

Jack could feel his heart racing, his nerves swelling, as he followed Ollie upstairs. From the hallway on the second floor, Ollie knocked at a door and, getting no answer, pushed it open, indicating Jack should enter. He stepped inside, wondering if Ollie would follow him, but he did not. Instead, Ollie stood in the doorframe, casually waving goodbye, and then walked off down the hallway in a fast pace.

Jack looked around the room, wondering for a minute where Ollie had brought him. The first thing he noticed was the bright, electric lights, which gave the room a pristine, almost stolid feel. Next, he saw several large mirrors flanking each wall. They made the small room feel a little larger than it was, but they also unnerved him even further.

Suddenly feeling a need to sit, Jack walked over to the wooden chair in front of one of the mirrors and planted himself down, somewhat awkwardly. He glanced at his own reflection, not quite recognizing the worried expression on his face or the silly bow tie around his neck. This morning, a sudden urge to dress up for the theatre overtook him and he put it on – it was the only article of formal attire he owned, one that had been handed to him haphazardly from one of the clothing donation boxes after the sinking by someone how had no idea just how little he needed it.

Rose had very nearly laughed at him when he pulled it out as they were dressing this morning, before changing her mind and helping him tie it. Once it was tied, she pressed her lips to his and told him it looked nice. But, now, in the mirror, he could see just how wrong it looked on him. In this strange room, he could tell just how constricting the fabric was, and he tugged desperately at the bow Rose had tied, trying to loosen it.

But, as he glanced down at the desk in front of the mirror, he saw a very familiar drawing. One he had stayed up all night creating just a little over a week ago. Next to it, there was a framed black and white photograph of Rose, flanked by two other women. One, he recognized as Bessie, from the show. The other, a very young woman with dark hair, must be Lydia. It was only then that he realized where he must be – Rose's dressing room.

“Jack, there you are! I was so worried about you!”

Looking up from the desk, he turned to see Rose herself standing in the doorway. As their eyes met, she ran right for him, pulling the door closed behind her.

“It didn't even occur to me,” she said, as she moved close enough that she was standing right in front of him. “At least not until most of the way through the second act, that I never actually told you where I'd meet you after the show. I sent everyone off in different directions looking for you.”

“Ollie found me at the stage door,” he said. “He seemed very worried about Rosie.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Jack regretted them. Yes, he had been worried, but most of that was due to the story he had been preparing to help her tell. Somehow, he had twisted that in his mind, and had allowed himself to be nervous about Rose's feelings for him. But, as he had seen the pictures on her table, and remembered the last week they had spent together, all those nights she had slept next to him, he found it harder and harder to believe she could possibly have feelings for Ollie.

“God, I hate it so much when he calls me that,” she said. But, as she replayed his words in her head, fully realizing his tone, she looked up at him, concern in her eyes. “Jack, you don't think I—? Do you?”

“No,” he said, meaning it. “I don't quite know what got into me, but something did. When I couldn't find you after the show, I started to get worried, and then when I saw Ollie instead of you – I don't know, the tiny fleck of jealousy I had when I saw you two on stage grew a bit. I think some of it stems from being nervous about meeting your friends and telling them the whole story, but it got misdirected.”

Rose, who was still standing in front of him as he sat in her chair, stepped towards him, close enough to wrap her arms around his shoulders and pull him in to rest his head against her abdomen.

“Why didn't you tell me you were nervous about meeting my friends?”

“I don't know,” he admitted. “I think maybe I felt like I shouldn't have been. Nervous, that is. I was maybe a little ashamed to tell you I was nervous about something so simple.”

She didn't say anything for a second, letting his confession wash over her. “Well,” she said, finally. “First of all, you don't need to be nervous about meeting my friends. I suspect they'll love you. And, if they don't, well, screw 'em. Secondly, thank you for telling me. I – I want you to know that you can tell me anything. I – I don't say that because I need to know every thought you have or need to know every last detail of your life. I trust you. But I also want to make sure that I'm the sort of person you can...confide in. That, if you have any doubts or fears you want to get off your chest, that you trust me enough to let me in.”

“I do trust you,” he said. “I might even trust you more than I trust myself. I think it might just take some getting used to. I haven't had anyone to confide in for a very long time.”

“Neither have I,” she said. “Bessie and Lydia come close, but no one compares to you, Jack Dawson.”

“About Ollie,” he said. “I'm not actually worried about anything. Not least because, now that I've met him, I can't even imagine you being interested. He's just as you described – a little full of himself but totally harmless, otherwise.”

Rose opened her mouth, starting to speak, but Jack continued.

“And, yes, even if he were someone more worthy of your attention, there is not a single doubt in my mind that anything that happens on the stage is emotionless, purely professional. And that everything that goes on with us is...very much the opposite of that.”

“Yes,” she said, reaching for a small, empty vase from the table behind her. “Yesterday's evening show was the first time I had to kiss him on stage after I knew you were alive. There was a tiny part of me that was nervous about it – not that I'd have any emotional connection, that was the furthest thing from my mind – but I was maybe a little nervous that I wouldn't be able to go through with it now that the real thing is so fresh in my memory once again. Instead, I felt invigorated, knowing that you had come to see me before and would be coming again, today. I wanted to give my best performance in all aspects. And that kiss is just another part of the performance. I – I might as well be kissing this vase when I kiss him on stage. Here,” She held the vase out to him, indicating he should take it. “Why don't you try?”

“Kissing the vase?”

She nodded.

“I'll kiss the vase if you really want me to,” he said. “But I don't need you to prove anything to me. I trust you.”

Rose hadn't expected him to actually do it, but, before she could say anything, she saw him bring the vase up to his mouth. At first, it looked like he was going in for just a chaste peck, but, instead, he caught her eye, flirtatiously, and opened his mouth, moving his lips passionately against the vase.

Jack felt suddenly self conscious as he started kissing the cold porcelain. It was such a weird thing to be doing, and he realized he would have been much less comfortable doing it if anyone other than Rose was watching. He had never, not once in a million years, thought there would be anything intimate about letting a woman watch him make out with an inanimate object. The vase itself meant nothing, of course, but a strange feeling of exposure – the kind that he wanted Rose, but no one else, to see – overcame him as he saw her watching him kiss the vase, with a smile on her face.

“Did you get anything out of that?”

“Not a goddamn thing,” he said, with laughter in his voice, as he brought her down to sit on his lap. Once again, she wrapped her arms around his neck but, this time, she was face to face with him. Unable to resist the temptation, she stole a kiss from him. It was quick, with much less action than he had given the vase, but, somehow, just as much passion.

“Anything there?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “All the love in the universe. All the love I have for you, Rosie.”

“You had better stop that right now,” she said. “If you call me Rosie one more time, I'll divorce you.”

“Divorce me? But we're not—”

“I'll marry you first, if I have to. But then I'll divorce you.”

And then she leaned back in, claiming his lips again, and deepening it. But, before they could get too carried away, there was a knock at the door. Rose stood up from Jack's lap, reluctantly, and walked over to the door of her dressing room, opening it to reveal Lydia and Bessie.

“We've been waiting all morning to meet your new fella,” said Bessie, as she leaned in, trying to catch a glimpse of Jack. “We couldn't wait any longer.”

“I also think we were promised a story,” added Lydia.

Rose glanced back at Jack, silently confirming he was, in fact, ready. He smiled back at her, with only a tiny hint of his earlier nerves, and Rose pulled her friends into the room and began the story.

A little while later, all four occupants of the room were crying. Lydia couldn't resist running over to Jack and pulling him into a tight embrace.

“I had always hoped there was someone out there for Rose,” she said. “She's so deserving of love. I can't believe what you two went through.”

Startled, Jack hugged her back, before opening one of his arms and inviting Rose into the hug as well.

Bessie, who was standing a bit off to the side, was a tiny bit more skeptical.

“But, even after all that, you're still moving to Chicago?”

“I told him to, Bessie,” said Rose, tears streaming down her face. “It'll only be for a few months and then, in May, we'll figure out where we're going, together.”

“You deserve a grand, romantic gesture,” she said. “Maybe he'll decide to stay, right at the last minute.”

“Bessie.”

Rose's voice was stern as she spoke her friend's name, in warning.

But Jack, seemingly unfazed, was the one to speak up. “Maybe I'll think of something. Rose deserves it, of course.”

And then both Bessie and Lydia squealed, rushing up to embrace their friend.

–

The day before Jack was due to board his train, the unseasonably warm autumn day beckoned them out of the apartment and to Prospect Park. They weren't the only ones enticed outside by the lovely weather, and they spent a lively afternoon walking through Jack's favorite park. They talked some, laughed some, and spent some time sitting together on a bench, watching the people around them.

They saw a small dog, nearly dragging a middle-aged woman along behind him. In the distance, they saw a group of young boys throwing around a ball. They also saw several courting couples walking closely together along the paths.

“It used to be so hard for me to watch things like that,” Rose admitted, taking Jack's hand. “People falling in love.”

“Me too,” he said. “I came to this park to draw quite a bit. So I eventually got used to it. But, at first, this irrational anger overtook me every time I saw others who were happy. I could see a perfectly normal and happy couple walking down the street and convince myself they were somehow less deserving of happiness than we were. So it made me angry that they got it when we didn't.”

He couldn't quite believe he had admitted that, out loud, even to Rose. Each time he had had a thought like that, shame had come rushing in right after, followed by a renewed sorrow at his own loneliness.

“I know what you mean,” she said. “Lydia has a brother named Jack and I never quite got to the point where I could hear her talk about him without flinching.”

“It took months before I could look at people walking together and not get angry. But, now, I can look over at those two and fondly remember that time we spent the whole day together on the deck, just talking.

“I think I first fell in love with you that day,” she said.

“No way!” he shouted. “I think you're misremembering. I would have noticed if you were in love with me that early on.”

“I was,” she insisted. “Even if you were too dense to notice.”

“Maybe you're just that good of an actress,” he said, with a wink.

She turned towards him, smiling brightly. “If not then, when did you first notice I was in love with you?”

“At the party that night, when we were dancing,” he said. “That's when I fell in love with you, too. I, uh, I don't know if I ever told you that I saw you, from afar, the day before we actually met. I think I was half in love with you from that very moment. But, on that dance floor, when I saw the real you, I was pretty much done for.”

“Let's go dancing together, again” she suggested. “Tonight.”

“I think that can be arranged,” said Jack, as he picked up his coat and stood up from the bench, offering her his free hand. “But, first, let's keep walking. I don't know if there will be many more nice days like this, especially once I get to Chicago.”

A sudden shadow crossed Rose's face as she remembered their forthcoming separation. They had been having such a good time these last few weeks, and while neither of them denied that it would have to come to an end soon, they had done a good job of mostly avoiding the topic in conversation. Even now, the flash of worry only lasted a second as today, she was out in the sunshine on Jack's arm and they would be going dancing tonight.

They ended up taking the long way home, deep in conversation the whole time. As they passed though Crown Heights, Jack told Rose about the times he would occasionally walk down President Street on his way to the park.

“I saw all those old mansions and would try to imagine your childhood in one of them,” he said, as they turned down the street. Crown Heights was a small neighborhood that was so different from any other part of Brooklyn Jack had seen. The rows and rows of apartment buildings suddenly vanished, giving way to manicured, sweeping lawns leading to stately homes. When Jack had first gone down this street, not only had the transition been jarring, but he had also been hit with an unexpected memory of Rose.

Up until then, most of what had triggered memories in him had been things that reminded him of their time together – couples holding hands in the park, the echo of a car horn honking, an Irish band playing. He hadn't thought much at all about her life before she met him – her life where she clearly hadn't been happy. So seeing these mansions, especially without any warning, brought up complicated feelings.

It had taken him so long to get to the point where he could think of her and smile instead of cry. So, while it was nice to think about her, it was incredibly difficult to look up at a house much like the one she must have grown up in and remember how much of her short life had been spent at the wrong address.

“I – I always had trouble picturing you inside one of them, but I could sometimes imagine you walking the grounds.”

“After storming out of some stuck up party, I'm sure,” she chuckled.

“Naturally.”

“I think some distant relative of my father's lived around here. His second cousin twice removed, or something like that. I remember we spent one New Year's there when I was young – maybe seven or eight? I'll try to point out the house when we walk past it, though I'm not sure I'll remember properly.”

At first, Jack was excited to see which house, specifically, she had spent time in as a little girl. He thought that knowing which one it was would help him imagine her even clearer. But, even as he thought that, he looked over at her and realized he didn't have to imagine her anymore. Not when the real thing was standing right next to him.

“If you want, Rose,” he said. “But, really, imagining you here was always difficult for me. When I thought of you here, at the wrong address, I felt such a strange mix of emotions. Glad for the chance to think of you, but regret at how much of your life you had to spend unhappy. There are so many reasons I'm glad you're alive. So many. But one of the most important is that you got to see more of the world than the inside of some parlor. You got to explore. You got to perform. When I was here, staring up at that mansion where you never belonged, it would have made me so happy to know you were off having an adventure.”

Rose blinked back tears and took Jack's hand, suddenly overwhelmed.

“I told you I went from small town to small town trying to get my name changed, legally,” she said. “But I don't think I ever told you where I ended that journey.”

Jack saw the tears welling in her eyes and an earnest look on her face. Something about the way she said it struck a chord deep within him, and he suddenly knew it was important.

“Can I guess?” he asked, as he felt tears forming in his own eyes. And then, almost struggling to get the words out, he whispered the name of his hometown.

“Yes,” Rose said, nodding her head vigorously to avoid having to speak more through her tears.

“When I left Europe, I had every intention of heading straight back there. But, well, after everything, I never quite made it.”

“I was just wandering around,” she admitted, wiping away the tears. “And ended up in Michigan. When I realized how close I was, I headed straight there. As I got closer, I almost lost my nerve more than once. Even once I got off the train, I very nearly ran right back to the station to wait for the next one out of there. But I kept telling myself that if there was anywhere in the world that would let me change my name, it would be Chippewa Falls.”

“But they didn't let you?”

“No,” she confirmed, looking him up and down and remembering his words from just a few days ago, the first time she had brought up her journey to get her name changed. She had regretted not being able to do it for a long time. But now, with Jack standing in front of her, she didn't mind at all. Even though they hadn't been ready a few days ago, and still weren't now, she had every confidence in the world that he would make her a Dawson one day. So she didn't have to regret it any more. Not when she had it to look forward to in her future.

“Everyone was incredibly nice to me, despite how nervous I was to go there at first. I didn't tell any of them I knew you, but the court clerk did give me an almost knowing smile when I told him what I wanted to change my name to.”

“The court clerk? Was it a man about this tall,” Jack held up his hand, indicating a height just a little shorter than himself, “with graying hair and a long beard? Probably in his mid fifties or so?”

Rose closed her eyes, trying to remember exactly what the man had looked like.

“I think so,” she said, “yes.”

And, suddenly, Jack's face lit up in excitement. “That's Philip Wells. His son Teddy was a few years older than me, but we were always great friends growing up. I know he worked at the courthouse – he officiated my parents' wedding, as they often reminded me when Teddy came to visit – but I never knew exactly what his job entailed. He – he was the one who had to tell me when they died. I was walking home from school and he stopped me on the road leading up to the house. Apparently someone had seen the fire and called him to investigate. Once he realized what had happened, he waited there all afternoon so I could hear it from him directly and not have to see the ashes of the house for myself.”

Rose stopped walking and pulled Jack into a tight embrace. She had managed to stop herself from crying, earlier, but now the tears flowed freely down both their faces. The man in front of her had comforted her through so much, but he had his own scars that he was only just now letting her see. As she thought of the stoic, steadfast Jack she had known all those months ago, she shed another tear for the pain he hadn't shown her then. But now, she pulled him in closer, wanting to bring him as much comfort and peace as he brought her.

“I –” she hesitated. “I looked for your parents' graves. I wasn't quite sure I had the right to. But I wanted to meet them in whatever way I could.”

“Did someone put a marker up? There wasn't the money for it at the time. I always promised myself I'd put one up when I could afford to, but I haven't been back.”

“I don't think so,” she admitted, gently, as she held him tightly, watching his face for a reaction. “Or, at least, not one that I was able to find. If – if you still want to try to go back, I do have that time off from Pinafore after Christmas that I was going to use to come see you in Chicago. But, we can use some of that time to go to Chippewa Falls if you want me to come with you.”

“Would you really come?”

“Of course.”

He was the one to pull her into an embrace, this time. “Thank you, Rose,” he whispered. “Let's go in the summer, though. That way I can show you around when it's not freezing outside. We can actually put up a marker and I can introduce you to my family properly.”

It was the first time either of them had talked about next summer, and Jack's statement hung heavily in the air. They had agreed to separate for a few months and plan their next move together, they hadn't planned much beyond that. In the back of her mind, Rose expected that the most likely outcome would be her moving to Chicago in May – it was clear that, once her contract was up, she would be the more flexible one, and she was already thinking a bit about what it might be like to live in a new city, once again – but neither of them had spoken of it out loud, no formal plans had been made.

Jack's suggestion to wait to visit his hometown in the summer was likely simply that – an invitation to go on a trip with him next summer. But she couldn't help thinking it would be an easier trip to make if they were both already in Chicago next summer.

“Yes, Jack,” she said, genuinely. “I'd love that. I was only there for two days, before, and I didn't have time to do much exploring. Though I did get up very early the morning before I left to go that Lake you mentioned.”

“Really?”

“It was the first time I swam at all since that night – the only time, even now. I only stayed in for a few minutes; even in June it was still pretty cold. But it did help me feel connected to you, even for just those few minutes of being in the same place you had once been.”

Jack kissed her, then, wanting to transmit all of his emotion to her through their joined lips. They had spent so much of today talking about the past, and he was honored to hear about her trip to his hometown. But he was also glad that she hadn't flinched at the mention of the future. He was nervous about their coming separation, and he knew Rose was, too. But he also knew that all this time they were spending together, now, deepening their trust and their love, was setting them up to weather the separation and come out even stronger on the other side.

–

That evening, Rose used Jack's kitchen to prepare one of the only meals she knew how to make.

“It's really pretentious,” she warned him. “But it's really easy to cook. I learned how to do it when I was a little girl, after my parents left me behind to attend some function or another. I managed to sneak away from nanny into the kitchen, and cook just wanted me out from under her feet, so she assigned me a chore.”

They both laughed at the story, Rose imagining the gall and jadedness it must have taken for the cook to assign the young lady of the house a chore, while Jack was picturing a younger Rose enjoying getting her hands dirty.

“Brie en croute,” she said, exaggerating the French just a little, signifying that this was a very posh meal. “It's literally just cheese wrapped in pastry. But it's one of the most delicious things I've ever eaten.”

“I hope you know how us Wisconsin farm boys feel about cheese,” he laughed, as she cut into the sphere in front of them, letting the melty cheese run out. “I think I love you more than I love cheese. But cheese is a close second.”

“Harsh, but fair,” she laughed, as she took a bite of the cheese, before kissing him to give him a taste.

As soon as they finished dinner, Jack strode over to the hook by the front door and picked up his coat. “Do you still want to go dancing?”

Rose rushed over to meet him at the front door, picking up her own coat – Cal's, really, but she had cut it up and resewn it back together to alter it into something feminine and nothing at all like the one she had worn off the ship.

“Yes!” she said, with acute excitement ringing in her voice.

He slid both his arms into his coat, and then took her hand, walking her downstairs and out the front door towards a dance hall he knew.

“I've never been inside before,” he said, as they arrived. “It never quite seemed right to go on my own. But sometimes, if I was walking home late at night, I could hear the music playing from the street outside. Sometimes it gave me a smile, sometimes it made me wistful. But I could always picture you, looking so happy when we were dancing before.”

Rose pulled him in close, wanting to show him how happy she still was. She smiled, against his lips, as she locked eyes with him and saw her own joy reflected there. As they kissed, she felt not just his love, but also their mutual happiness. She felt the memories of that first night, dancing, and just how much she had wanted to kiss him. She felt his lips, soft and intoxicating against hers, right in this moment. And she felt the promise of more evenings dancing with him, wherever in the world they ended up. Past, present, and future all collided in that kiss as they deepened it, leaning against the exterior wall of the Brooklyn dance hall.

Much later, they made it inside. The music was lively, too loud for conversation, but perfect for dancing. As Jack swept her up into his arms this time, she offered no resistance as he pulled her close and up onto the dance floor. Still not knowing the steps, she followed his lead as he moved at a fast pace through the crowd, holding onto her tightly as they spun around.

At one point, Jack dropped her hand and, before she knew it, they had traded partners. She found herself face to face with a petite blonde woman and, not thinking twice, pulled her into frame to keep dancing. Glancing over at Jack, she saw he had done the same with this woman's previous partner. After a few bars, partners swapped again, then again, and she made her way down the line of other dancers until found herself back in Jack's familiar arms. As he bent down, dipping her deeply, she beamed up at him, he face flush with adoration.

Once they stepped off the dance floor to catch their breath and refill their beer glasses, they caught one another's eye and all of a sudden couldn't help themselves from letting out fits of joyous laughter. They clung to one another, the only way to keep their balance was to lean against the other for support.

They didn't need their coats as they raced home, faces still flushed from activity and the warm dance hall. Even if it had been cold, they were too focused on each other to pay much attention to the weather. Still wrapped up in each others' arms, Jack let them into the apartment, and they fell together into bed, bringing the passion and and romance of the night to its logical conclusion.

“What are you drawing?” she asked, as they lay awake in bed, late into the night. She nodded towards the movement his finger was making across her abdomen.

“You can't tell?” he grinned. “I must not be as much of an artist as I think I am.”

She closed her eyes, focusing only on the tip of his finger against her flesh, as he continued his absentminded motion.

“I think it's an abstract piece,” she said, finally. “Some of your finest work.”

He chuckled at that, and drew her in close to him, bringing his ministrations to a temporary halt, before starting up again on her back. This time, tracing circles and squares down her spine.

“I don't know what style of art that is,” she said. “With the shapes.”

“I think thats just 'schoolchild,'” he said. “I'm not sure any gallery wants to display a bunch of circles.”

“Oh, I don't know,” she said. “I'm on pretty good terms with the Assistant Curator of Impressionism at the Art Institute of Chicago. I'll call in a few favors and get those circles of yours hung up.”

Jack smiled broadly at that. “Actually, I've heard the Institute is more into pointillism these days.” As he spoke, he stopped tracing the slow circles, and started poking rapidly across her back.

“Jack!” she squealed, before they both fell together into uncontrollable laughter, which turned into kisses and then, in turn, to one more round, before they both succumbed to sleep.

–

“Last call! Last call for the 20^th Century Limited, en route to Chicago Union Station, with station stops at Syracuse, Albany, and all points west!”

Jack felt Rose's hand tighten around his, reflexively, as the announcement came. The moment they had been dreading all morning was here, and one of them had to be the one to break away. To rip apart their hands, that had been holding onto one another nearly nonstop for the last two weeks. Jack wasn't sure he was brave enough to be the one to do it. So, instead, he pulled her in, kissing her as hard as he could, trying to make it last until Christmas.

“Last call!”

At the repeated announcement, Rose drew back. She looked up at him, trying to memorize every detail of his face for when he wouldn't be in front of her anymore. Trying to tell him with her eyes how much she would miss him. Finally, she swallowed the lump in her throat, brought their clasped hands up to her lips, and planted a gentle kiss on his fingers before pulling her own hand away.

“I love you, Rose,” he said, not bothering to fight back the tears on his face. He was tempted, so incredibly tempted, to reach for her hand, to kiss her, just one more time. But he knew that, if he did, they might not find the strength to separate again. So, instead, he tightened his grip on his hand luggage and forced himself to take one big step towards the platform.

“I love you, Jack,” she repeated, quietly. She too, started to reach out her hand, needing to feel his touch one more time before it wouldn't be available for months. But before she could connect with him, he was suddenly too far away, making his way down the stairs to the platform.

In a run, she took off after him, fighting her way through the crowds. As one of the conductors stopped her at the door to the platform, she saw the back of Jack's profile at the bottom of the stairs.

“JACK!”

At the sound of his name, he turned around, and she saw him look up at hear with a twinkle in his eye.

“I LOVE YOU!” she shouted.

At that, a broad smile crossed his face. Noiselessly, he mouthed the words back to her and blew her a kiss, before turning around and boarding the train.

Rose could only watch, from the top of the stairs, as he disappeared into the compartment. She stood there, unable to move, as the train slowly began to move and then picked up steam. As the train left the station, she craned her neck, trying to see if she could spot Jack through any of the windows. But before she could pick up anything at all, the train had departed from the station. She leaned further, watching as the train got smaller and smaller, moving further away. She strained her eyes, trying to convince herself she could still see it, even after it slipped from view. And, even then, she kept staring at the empty tracks.

“Rose! There you are!”

A familiar voice startled her. For one brief, solitary moment, she recognized the familiarity of the voice more than its tone, and was sure Jack had run back off the train for her. But, as she turned around, she saw Lydia rushing towards her.

“Lydia,” she said, just a hint of a smile breaching her face. “What are you doing here?”

“Jack sent me a message at the theatre the other day,” she said. “He asked me to meet you here and take you out to do something fun. Make sure you're not alone. I'm really sorry to be so late.”

Rose wrapped her arms around her friend, tightly, as if clinging to a lifeline. “Thank you, Lydia. And you're not late. You're perfectly on time. The train just left.”

“I invited Bessie to come too,” Lydia said, with just a hit of regret in her voice. “But even up until the very last minute, she thought he would make some big romantic gesture.”

“He did,” said Rose. “He sent my best friend to come cheer me up.”

“I suppose he did,” said Lydia. “So, do you need the ice cream sundae kind of cheering up or the cocktails kind of cheering up?”

“Both,” she said, smiling fully now. “Let's start with ice cream.”

Chapter Text

October 8, 1913

Rose,

I'm writing this from the little stuffed armchair next to the window in my new apartment. It's plenty cozy, but very small. Harry offered to pick one out for me a few weeks ago, and I told him to just find something warm and inexpensive. He did a good job – it's pretty close to the museum and has a nice, big fireplace, as well as a wonderful cityscape view out the window. It's just a one room studio and not really meant for two people, but I think you and I will do just fine when you come to visit me. I promise I'll put just a little more effort towards decorating it this time.

My first few days in Chicago have been a whirlwind – the last time I was here was six years ago, so it's been a challenge to have to learn a new job while simultaneously re-learning the city. But it hasn't stopped me from missing you. Everywhere I walk, my hand feels empty not holding yours.

You would think, that after so much time spent in that Brooklyn apartment alone, I'd be used to an empty space next to me in the bed. But that has not been the case. The mattress here is the same size as the one I used to have in Brooklyn. But it feels like an endless void now that your side is unoccupied.

Thank you for sending your pillowcase, though. I just received it yesterday and it's already given me comfort – last night was the first good night's sleep I've gotten since we parted.

So far, the job has been great. I spent most of the first two days orienting myself and meeting all of my new colleagues. But today, for the first time, I actually got to work with the art. The museum is considering making a purchase of a few pieces by this new up and coming artist – a Parisian woman named Marie-Honore Bontemps – and they genuinely seemed to trust me and care about my opinion on the work. For what it's worth, I think her art is fantastic. It's mostly pastoral scenes, but she does them with a unique hand that makes them feel a lot more modern. I recommended we make the purchase and, at least so far, it seems like we will be acquiring them.

Maybe you'll see some of those pieces in the museum when you come to visit. If you want to, that is. I still haven't had much time to explore what Chicago has to offer beyond the Art Institute. So I can't say for sure where I'll bring you, just yet (other than my new apartment, of course) but I have to admit, I'm already counting down the days.

I love you, I miss you, I love you,

Jack

October 12, 1913

Jack,

I don't think I can put into words how excited I was when I saw your letter in my mailbox. It was there waiting for me as I got back from yesterday's evening performance, and my heart leapt straight to my chest. I sat up in bed reading it over and over, trying to imagine you writing it, trying to imagine you next to me. I'm so relieved to hear you're doing well.

First of all, there is nothing in the world I want to see more than the museum where you work and the pieces you collect for it. I've never heard of Marie-Honore Bontemps, but I am already looking forward to seeing her work when I come to visit.

Secondly, I do not give a shit whether or not you decorate your apartment. I will be coming to Chicago to see you, not your apartment. Plus, after so many months apart, I'm genuinely not sure we'll be able to get out of bed long enough for me to notice any decorating you do or don't do.

Speaking of apartments, though, I have to admit it's been a little surreal – a little jarring – to come back to my old boarding house in Hells Kitchen after those three weeks we had together in Bushwick. My roommate, Flora, has been very curious where I've been the last few weeks. (I think I told you about her? The busybody who always needs to know everyone's business?) I told her that I was in Brooklyn, living in sin with my lover, but she seemed to think I was joking, and has kept asking. I keep insisting I'm not lying, and I think it's knocked her off the rails a bit. She still can't quite wrap her mind around me, and I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed that.

I haven't shown her the pillowcase you gave me, though. It's been such a relief having something of yours so close every night. If I close my eyes and breathe in deep, it almost feels like you're right there next to me.

New York has been the same since you left. We're still having a few days of unseasonably warm weather, so I spent the afternoon after today's matinee walking through Central Park. I walked past a few artists who had set up stands – it was a sight that would have nearly knocked me unconscious a few weeks ago. But, now that I know you're alive and well and thriving in Chicago – seeing them just gave me a warm, comforting feeling as I thought of you. For what it's worth, none of the portrait artists had anywhere near as much talent as you do, but there was one woman who had a tent full of landscape paintings – mostly beaches and rocky bluffs, that I just had to stare at for a while. I very nearly bought one for you. But, instead, I asked her her usual schedule at the park, so that I can bring you back to see for yourself next time you're here.

Have you gotten a chance to set up your art stand along Lake Michigan, yet? I'm still having trouble wrapping my mind around a freshwater lake that looks as vast as the ocean. I can't wait to see it in person, with you by my side.

All my love,

Rose

October 15, 1913

Rose,

I'm shocked! I've been gone less than two weeks and you've already gone out and found a new favorite artist. Maybe I'll have to teach myself how to paint to maintain your affection. Maybe I'll even teach myself how to paint landscapes.

In all seriousness, though, I have been wanting to experiment a bit with new art styles. Even in just a short time, I've been exposed to so many masterpieces at the museum, and it's been so inspiring to me – I really do want to try something new.

Maybe once I set up an art stand by the Lake, I'll practice painting a bit in between portraits. I haven't had a chance to go down there yet, but hopefully I can next weekend if the weather is nice.

That doesn't mean I haven't drawn at all, though. Last night, I had a little trouble sleeping, so I sat up, pulled the pillow with your pillowcase on it into my lap, and just started drawing. I drew you, I drew us, together, I drew so many of our happiest memories.

In a way, I was just making up for lost time – I told you about being unable to draw you, no matter how much I wanted to, the whole time we were apart, right? Some of the pictures I drew last night were the ones I should have been drawing all along – memories of our time on the ship and dreams I had about what our life could have been like if we got off it together. But I also drew much more recent memories – memories of time we spent together that I didn't have to dream about.

I've chosen two to send you along with this letter – it took me a long time to decide which two – so I hope you'll enjoy them. I'll show you the rest when you come to visit.

I've been a bit busy at the museum, but I did get two very important tasks done yesterday. First, I asked Harry for instructions on using the phone in his office. I confirmed, more than once, that it can connect to New York if I need it to and, if I really want to, I can come in early or stay late to make a personal phone call, as long as I reimburse the museum for any charges.

Next, I took the elevated railway to a pawn shop my new colleague Lawrence recommended in Hyde Park, near the University. The man at the counter gave me a very fair price for the first diamond – even without much negotiation. So, now I have a bit of cash on hand to pay for our first phone call. I was thinking I could try to call you after work on Monday the 27^th?

I can't wait to hear your voice,

Jack

October 19, 1913

Jack,

YES! Yes, of course I want to talk to you next Monday. I will be at the library waiting for your call.

Thank you for sending me your drawings. The one of both of us together at the pastry shop near your old apartment nearly brought a tear to my eye. Ever since we parted, the one thing I've really regretted is that we never thought to get a photograph of us together while we were. I don't know if you read my mind, or if we were thinking similar thoughts, but I can't tell you how grateful I am to have it now. I will go out to buy a frame for it later this afternoon so I can keep it in my dressing room, right next to the other one you did.

I have to admit that, at first, I didn't recognize myself in the other drawing. I'm so used to my new haircut that seeing a picture of me with the old one took me by surprise a bit – so much that it took me a few minutes to figure out what memory you had drawn. But, Jack, as soon as I did, I nearly screamed.

I don't think I'll show this one to anyone else, even though, to them, it probably looks innocent enough. Just me lowering the partition in a fancy car. But you drew it so...exquisitely, that I think anyone who took the time to really look at it could figure out what was really going on. I love the drawing and I love you, and I'll find a secret place to tuck it away so I can take it out and look at it when I need to.

There's a bit of influenza going around the theatre. Thankfully, I haven't caught it yet, but it's made for an interesting and challenging week working with so many understudies. Sometimes, it can get rote to sing the same songs over and over again. But, when you're singing it to someone interpreting the character just a little bit differently, it forces you to live in the moment and react creatively. It's partly why I love theatre so much – it's alive, it's vibrant. Plus, it's not every day that you nearly break a rib trying to hold in laughter as Anthony – who's usually one of the sailors – struts around like a peacock in his portrayal of Sir Joseph.

Since I have a day off tomorrow, I think I'm going to go walk around our – your - no, I do mean our neighborhood in Brooklyn. I'll visit the pastry shop from your drawing and pick up a Sfogliatella, maybe walk through Prospect Park a bit. I might even go to one of those secondhand shops on Myrtle Avenue to see if I can find any warm clothes and boots for my visit to Chicago.

I am counting down the minutes until I see you. And until I can talk to you on the telephone.

Love,

Rose

October 28, 1913

Rose,

I cannot put into words how awed I am to have spoken to you on the telephone. It was my first time using one, and I can only imagine the speed at which this invention will take off, now that I know the possibilities. I don't know how I managed to hold myself back from weeping the minute I heard your voice, loud and clear, in my ear.

Given the cost of using such a device, part of me regrets that I didn't have anything more profound to say to you. But, then again, I would pay any amount of money just to laugh with you, despite being hundreds of miles away. Maybe eventually we'll get to the place where we can use our phone calls to discuss more important topics. But, for now, I'm not sure I care much what we talk about, as I am overjoyed just to hear your voice at all.

I do hope the cold you're developing gets better soon. Tell Lydia that she has strict instructions from me to take good care of you. I'm tempted to get on a train myself, even if the only thing I would be able to do is bring you pastries or soup from Katz'. And, even then, I still don't think they'd let me bring it up to your boarding house. But, in case it helps you feel better, know that I love you from afar. In fact, I'll say it again.

I LOVE YOU.

You were perhaps clairvoyant going out to look for boots last week. We just had our first snowfall here in Chicago. We only got about an inch, but it fell a few weeks earlier than is usual for Chicago, at least according to Lawrence. I have to admit it makes me nervous for the rest of the winter. My walk to work is only about fifteen minutes, but I may soon come to regret not living even closer.

Lawrence has tried to warn both me and Harry about the cold winter to come. At least, that is, until Harry accidentally spilled the beans and let everyone know I grew up in Wisconsin. None of them know the whole story – our story – so Lawrence has gotten in a few well-meaning barbs about how I lost all my ability to handle the cold after my time in Europe.

He's not wrong – at least not entirely. But I'm wondering if you'd be willing to help me tell them everything while you're here? Harry, for one, definitely deserves to know. And even though I've only known Lawrence for a month, he is trustworthy and quickly becoming a close friend. I just – haven't had the strength to tell them on my own.

Besides (I'm hoping you get a laugh out of this, but I understand if you're upset with me) telling them the whole story might discourage Harry from his valiant attempts to set me up with the women of Chicago. I've of course never even considered taking him up on it, but I've never quite gotten the courage to tell him why I'm not interested.

In happier news, I finally got a chance to see more of Chicago last weekend. I meant to tell you all about it during our phone call, but that was before I knew just how unable I would be to form complete sentences over the telephone.

The first place I visited was the Field Museum, and I can't wait to bring you there when you visit. 

I also took a walk along the Chicago River. Lawrence told me a bit about the architectural history of some of the buildings that line the river, so it was very interesting to see them up close. It may not be the most pleasant place to walk in January, but, maybe if you come back in the summer, we can take a walk there together while you listen to me drone on about the buildings. It's very beautiful and, dare I say, romantic, regardless of whether or not we end up looking at any of the buildings.

I had every intention of going down to Lake Michigan to draw, and maybe even paint, on Sunday. But that was the day we got the first snowfall, and I wasn't quite feeling up to sitting out by the Lake. But maybe we'll have a day here and there that's nicer. I remember back home there was often one, random, warm day in the middle of winter, and those days were some of the most fun I had as a kid.

I love you dearly and I can't wait for your next letter,

Jack.

November 2, 1913

My love – Jack,

When I looked at the calendar to date today's letter, I could hardly believe it. It feels like we've been apart for years. But, one month ago today, on October 2, we woke up together in your apartment for one of the last times. I remember those last few days so fondly – even though we were both starting to get nervous at our separation, we really made the most of it.

I did end up going back to Bushwick last week – I stopped by our pastry shop and walked through the park. I also walked past the dance hall where we went on your last night here. Do you think we could go back there when you're in New York at Christmastime?

To answer your question, yes, I will help you tell Lawrence and Harry the whole story, just like you did for me. I will be there to help tell it any time, even if you want to tell them before my planned visit. Just say the word, and I'll come. I'm only a train ride away, and Lydia has been hinting she wants another chance to go on as Josephine...

(That cold I was just picking up when we spoke on the phone never really materialized into anything, luckily. Lydia helped take care of me, but I think she was privately a little disappointed to not have a chance to go on for me. She would never, in a million years, admit that out loud. But I certainly don't blame her for thinking it!)

Speaking of Lydia, she has been doing a good job keeping me entertained while you are away. I brought her to MoMA after our show last Sunday, and we saw the same painting that made me so uneasy before. You remember the one – the one where I saw a farm and you saw a clocktower? I stood there, in front of that painting for ages, trying to see the clocktower, only for Lydia to ask, casually, if I saw the lighthouse within the lines.

I have to say I'm still not really a fan of the work. It does still unnerve me, a bit, that I can look at the same painting as the two people I've been closest to my whole life, and yet, all three of us see different things in it. I know it's just a painting – and, in a way, the fact that this one is eliciting this kind of response from me means it's a very captivating piece of art. But, still, I'd rather look at something that's both beautiful and evocative. Not just a gimmick to get you to look at a painting of lines and make you see something different than the people you love.

Lydia has also graciously invited me to come with her to Baltimore for Thanksgiving. Do you have someone local to you to spend Thanksgiving with? If not, I'll repeat my offer – tell me you need me and I'll be there in twenty hours.

By the way, of course I'm not upset with you that you turned down dates Harry tried to set you up on. Is it weird for me to admit that there is a tiny part of me that is extraordinarily curious about what kind of women your friend thinks is right for you?

Sending all my love and kisses,

Rose

November 6, 1913

Rose,

I, too, can't believe it's only been a month since we've last seen each other. But, I have good news on that front. I just booked my train tickets to New York for Christmas. I'll arrive at Penn Station a little after 11 o'clock in the morning on Sunday, December 22, and I'll book a nearby hotel for that whole week. Would you meet me there after your matinee that day?

It may have been one month since we last shared a bed. But, with any luck, we can do so again in just about six weeks.

(Which also means it's only about six weeks until I can have another Sfogliatella from our pastry shop in Brooklyn. I suggest we head straight there as soon as we see each other again; I've been missing those pastries almost as much as I've been missing you. As soon as we've gotten properly reacquainted and then gone for pastries, the third thing we'll do is go back to that dance hall.)

But, before that, we have Thanksgiving to look forward to. For a while, I didn't think I'd have anyone to spend the holiday with, and I very nearly took you up on your offer. Spending Thanksgiving with you sounds like a dream. One that I had an exceptionally hard time declining.

Only a few days ago, though, I ran into an old friend from Chippewa Falls, randomly, on the street. Do you remember Philip Wells, the man who you met when you went to the courthouse there? His son, Teddy, lives in Chicago now, and I ran into him on my way home from the museum on Monday. We headed straight for a little Italian restaurant near his apartment, and we spent several hours catching up over pasta. He told me so many stories about what's changed since I left home and what some of our old friends have been up to. Teddy's brother Paul ran for mayor of the town last year (he didn't win, sadly), and I can't quite wrap my head around someone I used to play pond hockey with being old enough to run for mayor. But, I suppose I have been gone for nearly seven years now.

Anyways, Teddy and his fiancee Ada are hosting Thanksgiving at her family's house in Naperville. He invited me to join them – several of his family members are traveling in from Wisconsin – and I agreed to go.

I hope you, in turn, have a wonderful time with Lydia's family in Baltimore. I've never been there before, so you'll have to tell me all about it. And, if you see her brother, Jack, send him my regards.

All of that being said, I hope you and I can spend Thanksgiving 1914 together. We may have to do a little research to figure out how to cook a turkey. Or, we can forget all that and just spend the day eating a whole pumpkin pie together – forks optional.

In the meantime, Lawrence pulled me away from the Impressionist wing for a little bit today and he showed me some of the work he does in antiquities. There were a few pieces of pottery from Ancient China that blew me away at how perfect they looked, even though they were created thousands of years ago. I made sure to take copious notes so that I can show them to you when you visit.

Speaking of which, I'm glad you got to go to MoMA again. As soon as I read your last letter, I asked Harry if he'd ever heard of the artist who painted all those lines. He did recognize the name, but he doesn't think especially highly of him, so you're at least in good company! Harry showed me a few more of his pieces from a brochure we'd been sent and, you're right: most of them are sort of gimmicky just for the sake of being gimmicky. There's another one that I believe is meant to be some sort of Alpine landscape, with the mountains and the grass and a little stream. But everything is the wrong color. At first, it catches your eye, but there isn't really any deeper meaning (at least not that I can figure out!) as to why the colors are all wrong.

I love you and I can't wait to see you again,

Jack

November 10, 1913

My darling Jack,

First of all, I just wanted to say I'm missing you especially badly today. I realized last night that I can no longer detect any hint of you on your pillowcase, so I'm enclosing it with this letter, in hopes that it's taken on a bit of me. Will you send my old one back?

I also spent a little time this morning exploring pawn shops in Lower Manhattan. I had to try a few different ones, but, eventually, I found one that gave me a good price on one of the diamonds – so I'd say we're ready to have another phone call, wouldn't you?

The theatre is starting to get very busy – everyone always told me that November and December were the busiest months in the theatre, and they have all been proven right. We've been selling out almost every show, and a packed house just makes the whole room feel more electric. Maybe not quite as electric as the day I finally knew you were in the audience watching, but a very, very close second.

Bessie has been a bit distant with me recently, I hate to say. I think she doesn't totally approve of us still pursuing a relationship while living in different cities. I'm not entirely sure why – I asked her, but she wouldn't tell me. I'm disappointed, but I learned a very long time ago that I don't care what anyone else thinks about you and me. I love you – I love you from afar and I love you when you're close by.

I can't wait to hear all about your Thanksgiving with Teddy and your reunion with everyone from Wisconsin. I'm still looking forward to seeing your home town properly when you take me there next summer. Maybe one day you can even take me there in the winter and teach me how to play pond hockey?

I miss you so very much, my love,

Rose

November 14, 1913

Rose,

Thank you very much for sending the pillowcase. As soon as I opened it, I held it up to my face and breathed in your scent. It was simultaneously comforting and, dare I say, arousing. I'm enclosing the pillow case I've been using with this letter, in hopes it gives you even a fraction of the comfort and the—you know – that it gave me.

It's snowing quite heavily now, and I'll have to go out and shovel the steps up to my apartment as soon as I finish this letter. I haven't had to shovel snow in years – I remember my ma would always entice me to do it with a promise of hot chocolate when I was done – so I went out and bought myself some cocoa. It won't be quite the same now that I have to make it myself, but I'm sure it'll still be a comfort. In fact, I think that, once I finish shoveling snow, I'll make myself a cup of hot chocolate and go to bed early. I will neither confirm nor deny whether the point of that is to spend more time with the pillowcase.

It's been a busy month at the museum, as well. We finally got our first delivery of the Marie-Honore Bontemps pieces that I recommended we acquire my first week here, and they are even better in person. She has a really unique, modern point of view, and I think the paintings will fit in well with the rest of the collection.

Harry has also asked me to look into putting together a special collection for the spring. My first thought (tell me if you think this is a horrible idea – you're the first person I'm telling about it) is to put together an exhibit that puts paintings with plenty of color – you know, like the Monet you had? - up next to photographs that are just black and white. The photographs will of course be depictions of actual reality, but the paintings will be a reflection of the artist's vision of reality, rather than actual reality itself, and I think that might be an intriguing contrast to highlight. I basically want to ask the viewer to consider if an artistic reflection can still be vibrant even if it lacks the color of the real life source material? Can it still be realistic if the artist took some liberties with its appearance that a machine wouldn't have?

I also finally had a chance to set up a weekend portrait stand! We still haven't had one of those warm winter days like I remember, so I wasn't able to do it along Lake Michigan. Instead, the Field Museum hosted an indoor weekend artisan market, and I managed to book one of the stalls to draw portraits of visitors. I think they intend to repeat the event a few more times leading up to the holiday season, and I'm hoping I can do it again – I didn't make a ton of money, but it was really nice to once again sit there and draw anyone who happened to stop by, especially in such a festive environment. 

I cannot tell you how much I'm looking forward to our next phone conversation.

I love you,

Jack

November 21, 1913

Jack,

Talking to you on the phone yesterday was one of the most incredible experiences of my life so far. And I do mean that. I don't know how, but it genuinely felt like you were just in the other room, rather than hundreds of miles away. Hearing your voice made it easier to picture your face, Hearing your voice made it easier to imagine that you were truly right here, next to me.

After we hung up the phone, I have to admit it was so difficult to go back to my single bed in the boarding house. Every time I tried to fall asleep, I could imagine, so clearly, what it would be like if I was in a double bed and you were next to me.

Rather than trying, unsuccessfully, to sleep, I gathered up the pillow in the pillowcase you sent me and sat up, writing. I wrote down, on paper, everything I wanted to do with you. Everything I would do if you were, in fact, next to me in the bed. At first, I didn't think I'd be brave enough to actually share it with you. But, I'm sitting here in the broad light of day – more sleepy than I've been in a long time – and there's suddenly nothing I want more than for you to know my deepest, darkest thoughts. Even the wicked ones that come to me during the night.

So, I'm enclosing another sealed envelope, labeled as a Brie en Croute recipe. If you're reading this in public, you can say that's exactly what it is. But, if you're reading this alone in your apartment, you may open it any time you're feeling...hungry.

If you save the recipe until we next see each other, I promise you that I will fulfill everything I say I will do in it.

I love you, I love you with everything I have.

Rose

November 24, 1913

Rose,

I received your Brie en Croute recipe, and I have to admit that I am extremely eager to try it out, together, the next time I see you. I've written out my own recipe, which I'm also enclosing here. It's for a dessert we can have together after we share that Brie en Croute

If you bring it when you meet me at the hotel I have booked for Christmas, I'll read it out loud to you while I prepare the recipe as an early gift to us both.

Thank you, as well, for saying over the phone that you liked my idea for the special exhibit – and for your suggestions for improvement. I have some time scheduled next week, after Thanksgiving, to present my ideas to Harry formally. If it's successful, I should be able to mount my very own special collection exhibit sometime next spring. If it all works out, would you come see it?

Other than that, I've mostly been working to maintain the galleries. I know my job title sounds glamorous and, sometimes it is, but I also spent most of my day last Friday sanding, speckling, and repainting the wall after we moved a few pieces around, in anticipation of a few pieces the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston is loaning to us.

Harry and I are really looking forward to seeing the pieces they sent – they told us it was a few notable items they recently rotated off of display, but not too much beyond that. In exchange, we're planning to send them a few of our pieces that Harry thinks will complement some of their extensive portraiture collection.

Harry is also talking with the Tate Gallery in London, planning a similar exchange sometime next year. He asked me to get involved with it – both in picking out which pieces of ours to send and making requests for pieces of theirs that might fit in here. To use a word I've picked up from Harry – I'm chuffed about it.

I can't wait to hear all about your Thanksgiving with Lydia – I hope you have a really nice time.

I love you,

Jack

November 28, 1913

Jack,

I'm writing this from Lydia's family home in Baltimore, though I may not be able to actually send it until tomorrow as we'll soon have to rush off to catch our train back to New York in order to make it back in time for this weekend's shows.

It's been a whirlwind trip – Lydia and I took the first train down from New York yesterday morning and then we helped her mother and aunt prepare the feast (I tried to chip in where I could, but, for the most part, I just watched and tried to learn. They are marvels in the kitchen.) Even Lydia, who I've never known to be an especially confident cook, surprised me a bit with what she was able to do with the black-eyed peas.

This morning, Lydia took me around to see all the sites of Baltimore. It's a beautiful, historic city, with a bit of a flair for the macabre given all of the Edgar Allen Poe connections. I think I finally understand why Lydia was so interested in the ouija board. (I told you about that, right?) We also spent a bit of time downtown, along the harbor, and we ate at a lovely restaurant that specializes in local seafood and beer. I remember eating crab years ago at fancy dinner parties. But, even crab from the finest restaurants doesn't stack up to the hole in the wall local place that Lydia brought me,

Lydia asked after you, and I told her all about your successes in the museum. In return, she asked me to send you her regards. So, Jack, Lydia sends her best wishes your way.

I also met Lydia's brother Jack. He's very charming and definitely the life of the party. Let's just say, between Lydia's mother and her brother, I think she comes by her grit and her liveliness naturally. He spent a little time after dinner last night sharing stories of his and Lydia's childhood. I have to admit – it felt really, really good to laugh at these stories. Six months ago, hearing funny stories told by someone who shares your name would have been painful. But, now, I can laugh wholeheartedly, knowing you're alive and doing so well in Chicago.

Just between us, I think Lydia might be seeing someone. For the last few weeks, she's periodically brought up a man by the name of Gus. But, each time she does, she immediately turns away with a blush on her cheeks. I didn't think too much of it until she spent most of this morning's train ride peppering me with questions about how I knew you were the one for me and what made me decide to spend the night with you before we were married. I answered them as best I could but, I have to admit that I struggled a little to put some of it into words. I've never been an “older sister” to anyone before, and I've certainly never been asked for relationship advice.

But, even though I struggled to answer some of Lydia's questions in an eloquent way, I think I owe it to you to try to answer them for you.

So, I will say, I do know you're the one for me. There is not a single doubt in my mind about that. It's not just that we love each other. Of course we love each other. But we also trust and respect each other on such a deep level that there's no such thing as privacy between us. I'm okay with you knowing everything there is to know about me and you're okay with me knowing everything there is to know about you. I love you. I trust you. I feel alive and whole when I'm with you.

All that said, I haven't asked Lydia about Gus yet. I want to give her the space to see if she really likes him. But, either way, I'm really happy for her. Maybe, if she does end up feeling comfortable enough to tell me all about Gus in the next few weeks, the four of us can go on a double date when you're here in New York.

It's less than one month now until we can see each other. Until we can hold each other and kiss each other senseless. I can't wait.

Love,

Rose.

December 2, 1913

Rose,

My lips are sealed about Lydia's new man until such time as she chooses to tell me herself, at which point I will act positively stunned. I am happy for her, though. She deserves love just as much as you do.

Rose, I'm not just okay with you knowing everything there is to know about me, I want you to know everything there is to know about me, and I want to know everything there is to know about you, just like you said. I feel connected to you, even when we're hundreds of miles apart. I felt connected to you even when I thought you were dead for a year and a half. You are the only person I've ever loved and the only person I ever will, whether we're in the same city or not.

I'm glad to hear you had a wonderful Thanksgiving with Lydia's family. I also had a really nice time with Teddy and Ada and their families. They made the turkey – Ada said it wasn't too difficult, so maybe we can figure it out for ourselves next year after all – and they asked everyone else to bring something. I brought some roasted Brussels sprouts covered in cheese (these are Wisconsin people after all!) and most people seemed to like them.

This was my first time meeting Ada, and I think she and Teddy are a good match. She's a little timid, but he seems to bring her out of her shell. She seems to appreciate Teddy's sense of humor, even the occasional practical jokes I remember him being known for when we were kids. All night, I couldn't help thinking about how I wanted to introduce them both to you – they're very different from you – you, Rose Parker, may be a bit of a shock to their system, in fact, – but I think it'll only take a minute for them to really like you.

While I was there, I got to have a long conversation with Philip Wells. He told me a few stories about my parents that I had never heard before – apparently we come by our forbidden love affair honestly, as it seems my maternal grandparents were not too happy about my mother taking up with my father. I so wish you could have known them and they could have known you. But, based on what Philip told me, he thinks at least my grandfather on that side is still alive. I don't think I'm brave enough to go visit him on my own. But maybe we could try to go together when we visit Chippewa Falls next summer?

I also asked Philip if he remembered meeting you. At first, he didn't, but when I described you in more detail and said you had come to Chippewa Falls to try to get your name changed, he did. He smirked knowingly at me when I told him I found you again and that we were courting each other from a distance. He sent all of his well wishes to us both.

I can't believe that I will see you again in just a matter of weeks. Break a leg on all of the shows you have until then – I hope you keep performing in front of sold out crowds all through Christmas, but I also hope there will be at least one seat unsold while I'm there so I can see you perform again.

With all my love,

Jack

December 10, 1913

Jack,

I looked at the calendar in the dressing room before my show tonight, trying to find a date to suggest for our next telephone conversation, only to realize that we don't need one! Not right now, at least, because the date I looked at – December 20, is just two days before you'll be here! I'm so glad the door was already closed when I saw that, because I danced around my dressing room like a maniac. (If you can't imagine what that looks like, I'll be happy to demonstrate when we see each other!)

We're so close to seeing each other, Jack – my hands are shaking even at just writing that. We're so close to having THREE WEEKS together. I can't dance around like a maniac now – I'm writing this late at night in my boarding house with Flora asleep (not very soundly, I'm sure) right across from me. But, I'm certainly doing it in my head. Once again, maybe you can imagine that.

I remember last Christmas. I was out on the road – somewhere in the Carolinas, I think. I had had such trouble keeping track of exact dates, I didn't think I'd notice whether it was a holiday or not. But, somehow, I woke up that morning to an empty hostel and I somehow knew it in my bones that so many other people around the world were waking up that morning to family celebrations.

I have to admit that I spent quote a bit of time that morning feeling sorry for myself. I regretted missing some of the few happy bits I remember from my childhood Christmases, and then I felt guilty for missing anything about that life. I shed quite a few tears for what could have been, with us. But, mostly, I just felt lonely, more acutely lonely than I had all year. Even lonelier than when I took those first few steps onto dry land, without your hand in mine.

It only took a day for me to get back to normal and get back on the road. But, the memory of that one morning last year was the reason I volunteered so quickly when Mr. Wilson asked who would be willing to perform that week, this year. That way, even if I didn't have anyone to wake up with Christmas morning, I'd at least have a group of friendly faces to perform with.

All of that to say, I can't say how much I appreciate you using your time off to come here, even though I still have to perform for part of it. I know it's a blessing in disguise – that the time off I get in January in exchange for working over the holiday is the only reason I'm able to go back to Chicago with you – the only reason we get our full three weeks together. But there is a part of me – a secret part of me that I'll only share with you – that doesn't want to perform at all that week. That just wants to drag you off on some adventure into the unknown.

But, even if we can't have an adventure, I'm still so, so grateful that we'll wake up together this Christmas. I suspect we'll find ways to have little adventures, just in the city. And that, my love, is why we're so magical when we're together.

I should probably put the pen down – I have to get up early for our matinee tomorrow. But know that I love you and I miss you and I can't wait to see you. It's only a week and a half away, now.

Love and hugs and kisses,

Rose

December 16, 1913

Rose,

It's been a busy couple of days finishing up all my work at the museum and getting ready to leave. A few weeks ago, I maybe couldn't have imagined what you looked like dancing around your dressing room, but I certainly can now, as I've been doing the same thing all week. Even as I write this letter at my desk, over coffee, before I officially start work for the day, I'm staring at my train ticket on the desk next to me, and I want to scream with excitement.

I've told Harry just enough so that he knows I'm going back to New York to see a girl, and he's been teasing me relentlessly about it – though he has stopped trying to set me up with the eligible women of Chicago. I remember you asked me once what kind of girls he was trying to set me up with, and I never answered – mostly because I don't actually know; I never really let him get far enough down that road to actually describe any of them. But, I have to admit, your curiosity got me a little curious, too. So, if you want, we can ask him when you're here – just for a laugh, of course.

Honestly, I really can't wait for you to meet Harry. I know I said I want to introduce you to Teddy and Ada – and I do – but Harry is the one who I think you'll really get on with.

If you'll allow me to be serious for a moment, I do want to thank you for urging me to come here and take this job. I know we've both felt the pain of separation – and maybe I'm only able to admit this because we're so close to a temporary respite from our separation – but I've been happy here. I love the museum, I love spending time with Harry and Lawrence and Teddy and Ada, I'm even starting to love Chicago the more time I spend exploring it (current weather notwithstanding, of course.)

I'm happy here, but I'm not complete.

And, on that note, I do have a question for you, Rose. I was going to wait until I see you to ask you about it, but I decided it was better to ask you in writing, to give you time to think about it. I don't need an answer anytime soon.

Rose, I was wondering if, when you come to visit me in Chicago next month, you would spend a bit of time exploring the city to see if you might want to live here? Maybe go around and look at some of the theatres? I know we agreed that we wouldn't make any sort of decision until next spring, and I want you to know I'm not asking you to commit to anything – I'm only asking you to start thinking about some of the options we have. Both of us living in Chicago is an option – a good option, in my opinion – but not the only option we have, which is why I'm asking if you'll at least start considering it while you're here.

I'm asking in writing because, if you're not ready to start thinking about that yet, I don't want to put you on the spot. I'm aware the whole reason we're in different cities right now is so that we can have time to make the right decision, and maybe not enough time has passed. I want a future with you – in whatever way we can have one, in whatever city we can have one. I want a future with you even if the best option ends up being that we stay in different cities for a little while longer.

The last thing I want to do is rush this decision. So, feel free to ignore this if you want. Whether or not you're ready to look at Chicago as a potential option for us both, I very, genuinely, want us to spend our three weeks focused on each other, here and now, in the present.

I love you, and I will see you soon.

Jack,

December 19, 1913

Just as Jack finished tidying up his desk – organizing the papers he'd need when he returned to the museum in a week and a half and gathering up any that he might need in the meantime, he heard the shrill ring of the phone in Harry's office down the hall.

Harry had already left for the day, and Jack was seconds away from heading out the door, so he decided that whoever it was could wait until after the holiday. But, as he made his way towards the stairs, the phone kept ringing and ringing, echoing throughout the long hallway. A sudden rush of guilt overtook him, and he stepped into Harry's office and answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“Yes, Jack,” came a voice from the other end of the line that almost made his heart stop.

“Rose?”

“I got your letter, and there wasn't time to write one back,” she said, and he could hear the grin in her voice. “Not before you left anyway. So I decided to call and say that yes, I will spend some time exploring Chicago and seriously considering it while I'm there.”

“You will?”

“Yes,” she said. “I want a future with you, too, Jack. I love you.”

He had read those words in her handwriting dozens of times over the last few weeks, but it had been nearly a month since he had heard them from her lips, over the phone. Even longer since he'd heard them in person.

“I love you, too,” he said. “More than anything.

“Good,” she said, still smiling through her voice. “Now go home and get some sleep. I expect we'll both want to be well rested when we see each other in less than forty-eight hours.”

Chapter Text

December 1913

Jack pulled back the curtain to see a growing crowd of people moving about Times Square. He watched the last minute Christmas shoppers, laden with bags and boxes, mingle with the families, bundled in their warmest clothes, off to the theatre or the ice skating rink.

A streetcar passed through, and twenty or thirty people disembarked, dodging pushcarts and newsboys as they made their way to the shops and restaurants. Even from his hotel room, several stories above, he could feel an anticipatory fever in the air, a festive excitement. It could only mean Christmas was a few days away.

From his vantage point, he could see several of the large, colorful advertisements that were just starting to be put up around the Square. In the light of day, they were turned off, but he could only imagine how bright and lively the view out the window would be once the sun went down.

But, then again, Rose would be here well before the sun went down, and he suspected that, with her around, the room would be plenty bright and lively, with or without the lights of Times Square.

As he turned his eyes back down to street level, he found himself subconsciously studying the face of each person who walked past. Even though he knew she wouldn't be done with her show for another hour, he was looking for Rose in the crowd. A momentary jolt – as quick as the flicker of a candle flame – ran through him as he saw a woman of a similar height and build. But when she turned, and he realized it wasn't her, he forced himself to let out a deep breath to calm his rapidly beating heart.

Maybe the coming holiday wasn't the only reason he could feel the anticipatory fever in the air, after all.

It had been two and a half months since he and Rose had been in the same room, and it would only be an hour or so until they would be again. But, now that she was only a few blocks away, instead of the seven hundred miles away she had been twenty-four hours earlier, her absence felt all the more stark. The empty hotel room somehow felt even emptier without her in it.

He turned away from the window, pacing the carpeted floor to release his nervous energy. He walked back and forth, back and forth across the small room until even walking itself was making him so antsy he could scream.

Halfheartedly, he opened his suitcase, hoping that unpacking it might distract him for a few minutes. He had only gotten through about half of what he had brought, though, when he gave up, feeling too jittery to complete the task.

He tossed the half-empty suitcase aside, and went back to pacing the room.

Jack thought, vaguely, about going down to the lobby for another cup of coffee. But he shook that idea off – the last thing he needed was even more nervous energy.

He hadn't slept much on the train last night. He hadn't really been expecting to – he'd booked the cheapest fare, preferring to spend the money on his time in New York with Rose rather than on the ride here. But the twenty-hour journey in the stiff, upright train seat hadn't done him any favors.

This morning, he'd drained several cups of coffee, in rapid succession, first on the train, then at a small cafe near Penn Station, trying to kill time, then, finally, in the lobby of this hotel while waiting for the room to be ready. The combination of the coffee flowing through his veins and his excitement at seeing Rose again was causing an almost-physically painful ache in his chest that pacing the room alone couldn't cure.

His hand caught the silver lighter in the pocket of his loose corduroy trousers – not the same one he had used on the ship, but one that looked remarkably similar – and he flicked it a few times, watching the tiny flame appear and disappear as he increased the pace of his thumb, trying to match the rapid beating of his heart.

He glanced over to the small clock mounted on the wall next to the door, to see that only four minutes had passed since the last time he looked at it.

He clenched his fists in frustration, trying to hold in a scream.

For so many months, they had been separated by distance. Now that the distance had been overcome, it seemed impossible that they could still be separated, this time by time. But there was nothing he could do to make the time go by faster.

In his head, he recounted the plot of Pinafore. He tried to imagine how far along in the show they'd be right now. He tried to imagine where Rose would be standing, what song she'd be singing. They must be nearing the end of the show by now, right? He had seen the show enough times that he could picture her, beaming, standing just off center stage as her character reacted to the big reveal at the end.

It was helping, a bit, to imagine where she was right now. He could picture her finishing the show, taking her bow, and walking the few blocks from the theatre to the hotel. It couldn't be that much longer.

Could it?

In a sudden rush of what might have been hope, might have been madness, he took one more glance at the clock. This time, it had only been two minutes since the last time he'd looked at it. Furiously, he strode over to the wall and tore the offending clock right off its hook. He let it drop to the floor, face down.

With nothing else to occupy him, he went back to pacing the room, occasionally stopping long enough to peek out the window, craning his neck to see if he could see anyone who looked like her on the street.

A sharp knock at the door made him jump several feet in the air, but he recovered in seconds, bolting over to the door and thrusting it open.

“Rose!”

But, instead, there was a man, tall and slender, with graying hair and a thin mustache standing across the doorway from him. He vaguely recognized this man as the hotel porter who had let him into the room, a little while earlier.

“Oh, uh, hi,” Jack said, a little flustered.

“Mr. Dawson?”

“That's me,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “What can I do for you?”“You've received a telegram.”

“I – I have? Are you sure it's for me?”

Jack accepted the paper, checking it over in confusion. There were only a handful of people who knew he was in New York, let alone at this hotel. And he couldn't think of any reason why any of them would be sending him a telegram. But, as he turned it over, he saw that it did, indeed, have his name on it, along with a return address he recognized in Chicago.

PLEASE CALL BOSTON ART IN THIRD CRATE ARRIVED DAMAGED.

-HARRY

Shit.

In the last few weeks, he and Harry had been working hard to ensure everything went smoothly with the materials they were loaning to the Museum of Fine Arts. They had put a lot of consideration into which pieces would fit in with their collection and, only a few days earlier, Jack had brought the last crate to the post office to send off.

He ran his fingers over the bridge of his nose, trying to remember which paintings had been in the third crate; he didn't think any of them were irreplaceable, but all the coffee was making it hard to remember for sure.

But, he reminded himself, as he remembered why he had drunk all that coffee, there was nothing he could do about it now. His work at the Institute had kept him away from Rose for two and a half months, and he had no intention of letting it get in the way today – not when she would be here any minute.

They both knew Rose still had a few shows to do while he was here – it was the only reason she was free to come to Chicago with him for New Years. He intended to see the show at least once, but didn't have much else planned for the rest of the time she'd be at the theatre. Maybe he'd go find a phone to call Boston when she left for her show on Tuesday night. But, until then, he wasn't going to waste a second with her.

As the man who had delivered the telegram retreated down the hall and the door swung closed behind him, Jack went straight back to pacing the room. His heartbeat, which had regulated a bit when he had the telegram to distract him, had once again accelerated to a frenzy.

He resisted every urge to look at the clock to see just how little time had passed. He resisted every urge to look out the window again, wondering futilely if any of the passersby were her. He just walked, back and forth and back and forth, from one end of the small room to the other, wishing for something, anything, to distract him.

Oh, you idiot.

The telegram, still clutched in his hand, stared back at him. If he called Boston now, he would not only have something to distract him while he waited for Rose, but, if he could find a way to make it a quick call, he could get it done without cutting into their time at all.

Without a second thought, he raced down the stairs, where he saw the same porter he had seen at his door a few minutes earlier, now back behind the desk.

“Is there,” he began, just slightly out of breath. “Is there a phone I can use here? I'm trying to reach Boston.”

“I'm afraid our phone won't reach that far,” the man said, apologetically. “You can try the library on 5^th Ave.”

Of course. The very same library where Rose had gone to call Chicago, only a few days ago. It was two and a half blocks away – long blocks, between the avenues – about a fifteen minute walk under normal circumstances.

He spared a glance to the clock on the wall in the lobby – it looked suspiciously like the one he had just removed from the wall of his room and carelessly tossed aside only a few minutes earlier – to see it was ten minutes after one in the afternoon. If his estimation about where Rose was in her show was correct, he thought she would probably get here about quarter to two. He would have to run, top speed, there and back, but he might just make it.

Making a quick decision, he asked the man at the front desk for a pen and paper, jotted down a quick note for Rose, and handed it back to him.

“I'm going to the library to make a phone call,” he said. “My, uh, wife—” it wasn't strictly the truth, and the word caught in his throat a bit, but it was the only way to avoid questions. “My wife should be here soon. If she gets here before I get back, will you let her into the room and give her this note with my apologies?”

He only waited long enough for the man to nod back at him in agreement, and then he took off running.

He felt the cold air hit him, deep in his chest, and he realized he hadn't thought to bring his coat. But he didn't dare go back for it now, not when he was on such a tight schedule. Besides, he'd be running the whole way, and running would keep him warm.

Suddenly, he was very grateful for all the coffee and all his nervous energy.

When he finally stepped into the small phone booth in the basement of the library he wondered, briefly, if this was the same phone Rose had used to call him. He wondered how many other people had used it in the few days since she last had. He wondered where she was now – was she still finishing the show? Was she taking her bow? Was she already on her way to the empty hotel room?

But, as the phone call finally connected to the Museum of Fine Arts, coincidentally, to someone named Charlie Dawson, he launched right back into art curator mode. Charlie explained that the parcel containing three paintings, all portraits by a local Chicago painter named Russell Ellsworth, had been mishandled in transit. The damage to one was extensive, but the other two could likely be repaired by skilled art restorer. Jack was disappointed to hear that one was likely damaged beyond repair, but he had to admit he was a little relieved it wasn't amore noteworthy piece.

It took a few minutes for Jack and Charlie to make arrangements for the paintings to be returned to Chicago for restoration, and for Jack to confirm that, without the three from the damaged shipment, the MFA still had enough work to mount the special collection.

Once all the business was settled, the two had a friendly exchange, taking a moment to appreciate their shared last name and mutual appreciation of art. They each wished each other well for the holiday. Jack almost asked Charlie if he was one of the Boston Dawsons, but thought better of it, deciding instead to thank him for taking care of returning the paintings and invite him to stop by the museum for a tour if he was ever in Chicago.

As soon as he hung up the phone, though, Jack was running, once again. He had no idea what time it was, no idea how long he'd been gone. He silently cursed himself for all the time he had spent that afternoon wishing time to speed up, because now he wanted it to slow down, to not go so fast that he would miss even a moment with Rose.

Finally, he saw the hotel looming in front of him, and he picked up his pace even more. He pulled open the front door, raced through the lobby, and then ran up the stairs, taking them two or three at a time.

His lungs were on fire, yelling at him to stop and catch his breath, but he ignored them. He turned the corner at top speed, relying on muscle memory alone to bring him to the right door. In one swift move, he pulled the key out of his pocket and flung the door open, breathlessly.

She was there. Sitting on the bed, holding the note he left for her.

As soon as she heard the door open, she looked up at him, and a broad smile stretched across her face.

“Jack!” She rushed towards him, arms outstretched.

“Rose,” he whispered, as he felt her crash into him and caught her, instinctually wrapping his arms around her in a tight embrace.

“Jack,” she repeated, so quietly that he nearly didn't hear it, even though her lips were just a breath away from his ear. In her one, quiet, syllable, he heard all the desperation, all the yearning, all the desire of their separation. And then, when she spoke his name a second time, he heard every bit of it evaporate.

Their lips, as if magnetized, were drawn together. Somewhere deep in his subconscious, he heard the click of the hotel room door swinging shut, and then he deepened their kiss, moving one of his hands up her neck and into her hairline, drawing her in even closer against his chest.

“I'm so sorry, Rose,” he whispered, his lips gently brushing her forehead as he spoke. “I'm so sorry.”

“It's okay,” she said, pulling back just long enough to look him in the eye and prove, wordlessly, that she meant it. “All that matters is we're together now.”

“I missed you,” he said, before stealing another kiss. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she said, into his ear, before catching his lips one more time to resume their deep, intimate kiss.

They were already impossibly close together, holding each other as tightly as they possibly could, but every inch of his body ached to be even closer. Without breaking the kiss, he trailed his hands down her back, until they came to rest on her backside. Gently, he lifted her up, and she wrapped her legs around his hips, leaning into his hands that held her steady.

This. This was what he had missed so much. He had treasured their letters and phone calls. But there was an inherent electricity that he only felt when she was right next to him. An inherent comfort in being warm and secure in each others arms.

After an afternoon watching the clock, time was suddenly meaningless. They could have been there for minutes, they could have been there for hours. All they knew was being there, together.

When they finally broke apart – well, mostly apart; they couldn't quite manage to release each others' hands – Jack felt a flush spreading across his face. The same flush he saw mirrored on Rose's face. Gently, he lead her over to the bed, where they sat down together, and turned to face each other, finally seeing one another clearly for the first time in months.

On the surface, Rose looked exactly the same. Her hair had grown out a bit, and he could see just a hint of red along her scalp, peeking out from underneath the black. She was wearing a bit more makeup than he was usually accustomed to seeing on her, likely remnants of heavy stage makeup she hadn't quite gotten all the way off.

“You look beautiful,” he said, tracing one of his thumbs over her cheek. “I was sure I had your face memorized, but my memory doesn't hold a candle to the real thing.”

“I can't believe you're here, Jack,” she said, cupping his own cheek with her soft hand, catching a stray tear that slipped down. “Did you, uh, did you get the art business sorted out?”

“Yes,” he said. “We don't need to worry about that. A few paintings we sent to Boston on loan arrived damaged, but it's nowhere near as bad as it could have been. I'll probably have to stop by a Western Union sometime this week to give Harry the update, but there's nothing else I have to do besides that. I'm sorry, again.”

“Jack,” she said, giving him a stern look. “I would be more worried if you hadn't gone to save a damaged masterpiece. I know you – I know how much your work and those paintings mean to you. I don't mind waiting five extra minutes so that you can go solve an art problem.”

“I appreciate that, Rose,” he said. “But I also want you to know you're more important to me than some dumb painting.”

“I know,” she said. “And I'm happy about that. But I want you to know that I don't have to be, at least not all the time. I love you and everything about you. I love that art is important to you.”

“It is,” he said, stealing a kiss on her lips. “But, right now, being with you is more important than anything. Right now, someone could throw the Mona Lisa in a fire right in front of me, and I'd barely even notice.”

She chuckled, reaching to take his hand once again. “I'm so glad you're here,” she said. “Lydia wants to see you, too. She said she wants to have dinner together and introduce both of us to Gus. But she was very clear that that should wait until we've had time to ourselves first.”

“And what would you like to do with that time to ourselves?” Jack asked, slyly.

“Oh, you know,” she said, casually, as she laid back on the mattress and brought him with her. “I've got some socks that need mending. A few bills to be paid. I have to get all my receipts in order to prepare for next year's taxes. That sort of thing.”

“I see,” he said, affecting a serious tone of voice. But, as he leaned over her, seeing radiance behind her eyes, he could no longer keep a straight face. Against her lips, he let out an involuntary, joyous laugh, and then closed the distance. “Perhaps I can help out?”

–

“Jack!”

He turned, in the hallway, trying to see who had called him name, when he saw a familiar face at the top of the stairs.

“Lydia!” He said, rushing over to greet Rose's friend. She met him halfway, in the middle of the second-floor hallway backstage at The Hippodrome, and pulled him into a companionable hug. “It's good to see you again.”

“Oh, so that's what you two get up to behind my back.”

As the familiar voice rang in Jack's ear, he turned around to see that Rose, still dressed in her costume and full hair and makeup, had appeared at the top of the stairs, just where he had seen Lydia moments ago. She wore the same broad smile she had for the curtain call. But, up close, it was even more captivating.

“You caught us,” Lydia said, pretending to look sheepish, but sending Jack a tiny wink. “We, uh, were going to tell you, I promise.”

“Well, carry on, then,” Rose said, feigning disinterest, as she waved an encouraging hand. “If you love each other so much.” But, even as she spoke, she was already moving towards them, and the big grin had returned to her face. When she finally approached, she pulled Lydia into a hug and planted a searing kiss on Jack's mouth.

“Ahem,” Lydia said, with her eyebrow cocked almost up to her hairline. “That's my man.”

“Sorry Lydia,” Jack said, taking full advantage of Lydia's joke, as he leaned over to kiss Rose one more time. “But I'm her man.”

“Speaking of your man,” Rose said, as their hearty laughter from Jack's remark died down. “Where's Gus? Isn't he joining us for dinner tonight?”

“He's waiting outside,” Lydia said. “He hasn't quite made it past George from security yet.”

Jack shivered at the mention of George, as images of that first night he knew Rose was alive, and the stern guard who stood between them, passed through his memory.

“My sympathies,” Jack said, with a slight chuckle.

“We can't have him waiting out in the cold,” Rose said. “And I still have to get out of all of this.” She indicated her costume and stage makeup. “Why don't you two go ahead to the restaurant, and we'll meet you there in twenty minutes or so?”

Lydia nodded and turned back down the stairs, as Rose took Jack's hand and dragged him into her dressing room. Even before the door had swung fully closed, he found himself flat against the wall with her lips on his, moving hungrily and passionately.

“I've been wanting to do that all night,” she said as she drew back. There was a vigor in her eyes, a fire that he had no idea how he managed to live without seeing for so long. “I usually can't see individual people in the audience, but, tonight, something drew my eye to right where you were sitting. Resisting the temptation to run off the stage and accost you then and there made this one of the more exciting shows I've had any time recently.”

She closed the gap between them once more, trying to share the intoxicating energy that was still flowing through her as a result of performing with him in the audience.

“Uh, Rose,” he said. “Not that I'm complaining.” He stole another kiss to prove it. “But, uh, aren't we meeting Gus and Lydia in twenty minutes?”

“We have plenty of time,” she said, as a tiny, sly look flashed across her face. “Watch this.”

She brought both her hands around behind her and tugged, very gently, at the dress she was wearing. In one rapid motion, the full, elaborate dress, with various sashes and other embellishments that made it look like a very complicated piece, fell to the ground.

“Magnets,” she said, as she picked up the garment and held it out for closer examination. “They're sewn into a secret seam in the back so I can make the quick change at the end of Act Two.”

He ran a curious finger over the fabric, still warm from the bright lights and from being against her skin, and then he looked up at her, in just her undergarments, with his own sly look.

“Do you, uh, think we could put magnets in all your clothes?”

“Jack!” But if she said anything else, her words were muffled by their lips coming together once more. But this kiss was infuriatingly short, as a knock on the door startled them out of the little world they were building for just the two of them.

“Uh, just a second,” Rose shouted in the direction of the door, as she grabbed for the simple wool dress she had worn to the theatre that day and hastily pulled it over her head. “Okay, Jack. It's safe to get the door.”

“Bessie, hi. It's good to see you again,” he said, as he pulled the door open to reveal one of the other women in the cast that Rose was close with. Too late, though, he remembered what Rose had told him in one of her letters – that Bessie had been more distant with her, recently, and she didn't know the reason.

“Hi, Jack,” she said, her voice not betraying her feelings about his presence. She turned her attention towards Rose. “I just stopped by to wish you a Merry Christmas and to invite you to dinner tomorrow. I'm hosting a few of us in the cast who don't have anyone to share the holiday with, but, uh, it looks like you do have someone.”

“I do,” she said. “But thank you very much for thinking of me.”

“I'm glad you could make it out for the holiday, Jack.” This time Bessie's tone was a bit warmer. “Be good to her, okay?”

“I will,” he said, as solemnly as if it were a vow.

“It's just—” Bessie began, and then stopped herself. She licked her lips, as if trying to decide if she was actually going to say something or not, and then began. “I'm really happy for you two that you're making the distance work. I mean that. I'm just a little worried about the day the distance stops working.”

“Bessie, Jack and I are already talking about that.”

“I just don't want you to have to resort to anything drastic,” Bessie continued, almost as if Rose hadn't spoken at all. “I've seen my fair share of talented girls throw it all away for a man. And you're one of the most talented I've seen in a while. I worry that it will go to waste if you follow him to Chicago.”

“Bessie,” Rose said, and he could hear the clear note of warning in her voice.

“I know,” Bessie said. “It's not my place. Just think about it, okay. I recognized from the first day I met you that you belonged on a New York stage.”

“Well, you're right that it's not your place,” Rose said. She was hiding her exasperation well, but Jack knew she was feeling it. “Neither of us intends for me to give up performing. And, frankly, if I were going to give it up, I would have just gone with him to Chicago last Fall. Jack and I are working on it, okay?”

“Okay, Rose,” Bessie said, clearly understanding she was being told off.

“Look,” Rose continued. “How about you and I have a nice long conversation sometime in January. Get back on track? I'll need all the friends I can get over the next few months while we figure all this out.”

“Rose and I are off to meet Lydia and Gus for dinner,” Jack said, sparing a confirmatory glance at Rose. “We can probably squeeze one more in at the table if you're interested?”

“Oh, that's okay,” Bessie said, with a dismissive hand gesture. “I'd better get home and get ready for the cast dinner tomorrow. You four enjoy yourselves. We'll talk after the holiday.”

“Merry Christmas,” all three said, in near unison, and Bessie turned to leave.

“You handled that well,” Jack said, quietly, as soon as the door closed.

“Thanks,” she said, reaching out to take his hand. “Like I said, I'm not all that interested in anything anyone else has to say about us.”

“Yep,” he said. “There will probably be all kinds of people with all kinds of opinions for the rest of our lives. But, in the mean time, it looks like we still have ten minutes before we have to meet Lydia and Gus. Shall we pick up where we left off?”

–

“Merry Christmas, Jack.”

They were both half-awake, wrapped in a warm embrace in the double bed at the hotel. Bright sunshine – there would be no white Christmas this year, it seemed – was streaming in through the window. But neither of them were tempted to move from where they were.

It had been a late night the night before, having spent several joyous hours talking and laughing with Lydia and Gus over a festive dinner. Jack told Lydia all that he had gotten up to in Chicago, and both he and Rose got to know Gus, who was a stagehand at another theatre. Lydia was sure to mention, with pride in her eyes, that he was also a playwright.

Rose was a little nervous when she first met Gus – he was clearly several years older than Lydia, and, at least at first glance, she thought he might be too dull for her lively friend. But it only took a few minutes of conversation for him to break out of his shell and not just fit in with the other three at the table, but keep up with their banter and laughter.

Gus was clever and open, with a comfort in his own skin that reminded her a bit of Jack when she first met him. From the way he talked, she could tell he had a genuine interest in Lydia – in her career, in her life, in her friends and family. From the way she talked, it was clear she adored him.

As they stood up at the end of the meal, Rose whispered her enthusiastic approval in Lydia's ear before turning to them both and wishing them well for the holiday.

The city was quiet as they left the restaurant, still feeling the high from their evening spent with good friends. The air was clear and crisp, just cold enough to feel festive and to give them an excuse to huddle close together as they walked, but not so cold that they risked any comparison to another, colder night.

Jack tossed a mittened hand around her shoulder as she leaned into his side, slowly making their way back to the hotel. Over the short distance, they gradually moved closer and closer together, radiating warmth and reveling in being together, until they fell together into the very same bed they woke up in this morning.

“Merry Christmas,” Jack whispered, eventually, against the crook of her neck, before pressing his lips to her skin there. “Would you like me to go down to the lobby to get us some coffee? Or maybe hot chocolate?“No,” she said, turning around to face him. “I'd like you to stay right here.”

“Ask and you shall receive, my love,” he said, as he gently kissed her lips. “It is Christmas morning after all. But—” He teased. “I can't give you your gift until we've had breakfast. That was always my ma's rule.”

“You didn't need to get me anything,” she said. “Being here is enough.”

“I know,” he said. “But I did anyway. This will be the first Christmas in a long time I have someone to give something to.”

“Didn't you and Fabrizio ever—?”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Rose met his eyes, wondering if she shouldn't have said anything. Before Jack left for Chicago, he had told her a bit more about his time in Europe with Fabrizio, as well as everything he knew about what had happened to his friend that night. It had been a painful conversation, not the kind to bring up again on Christmas morning.

Rose needn't have worried, though, as a grin broke across Jack's face.

“Nah,” he said, with a smile in his eyes. “We only had one Christmas together – the one in 1911. We were both missing home a bit that month, so we kind of ignored the holiday. Instead, we threw a big party for all the wanderers and lost souls of Paris. We ended up with forty or fifty people in our tiny loft apartment and tons of food and drinks and music. You would have liked it.”

“I wish I could have been there,” she said. “I spent that day alone with Mother, mostly just sitting stiffly in the living room, trying to pretend we were having a nice time. Cal stopped by for a few minutes, mostly just to give me some ludicrously expensive gift. I don't even remember what it was anymore,” she admitted, with a laugh. “I much prefer spending the morning here, with you.”

“Me too,” he said, leaning in to kiss her. “Maybe next year, you and I will host another big party. But, for now, I can't think of another way I'd rather spend the day than in this room, with you.”

–

“I got you two things,” Jack said, as he reached over to pull out wrapped packages out of his suitcase. “Why don't you open this one first?”

He handed her the larger of the two gifts. It was wrapped in white tissue paper with a thin, silver ribbon tied around it. He had written her name across the top and decorated it with little charcoal flowers.

“But we never had breakfast,” Rose laughed. “What would your mother say?”

“She was always willing to forgive rule-breaking the first time,” he said, with a wink. “As long as we do better next time.”

By the time they finally made it downstairs, it was well past the time for breakfast. But they did manage a late lunch, replete with both hot chocolate and mimosas. Now, though, they had returned to the hotel room and were sitting face to face on the floor, a tiny pile of gifts between them.

Rose turned the package he had handed her over in her hands, admiring the effort he had put into decorating it.

“It's gorgeous,” she said. “Thank you.”

“You haven't even opened it yet,” he chuckled. “Go on.”

Watching his face, she slowly peeled back the paper. Inside, there was a black box, and she turned it over, curiously.

“Oh,” she said, as she finally saw the label indicating what was inside the box. “You shouldn't have, Jack, it's too much.”

She pulled the Kodak Eastman camera, preloaded with enough film to take 100 pictures, out of its box and looked it over. Unable to resist, she pointed it towards him, and pressed the button to capture her first picture.

“I was going to get you a session in a photo studio,” he said. “So we could take a proper picture together. But this only cost a little bit more. And with 100 pictures, you can get a few of us, but there's still plenty more for other subjects.”

“Thank you, Jack,” she said, trying to hold back tears. It wasn't like her to cry over anything material, but as soon as the thought crossed her mind, she realized that wasn't what she was doing at all. “It's the most thought anyone has ever put into buying me a gift. Thank you, Jack.” He pulled her in for a quick kiss. “I got you two things also,” she said, as they separated. “You can choose which one you want to open first.”

He, too, had to blink back tears, as he looked at the two wrapped parcels in her hands. Other than the book Harry had given him, it had been years since anyone had given him a gift. He could hardly remember the last time anyone had gone to the trouble of wrapping something up for him – it might have been his fifteenth birthday in January of 1907, but that was so long ago now that he hardly remembered any details from the day.

He took the package in Rose's right hand, the long and skinny one, and tore into the paper excitedly, revealing a small box of paint and paintbrushes.

“I will always love your work with the charcoal,” she said. “But I remember you mentioned in yur letter that you wanted to try something new. You – you don't have to, if you don't want.”

“I do want to,” he said, picking up the paints to examine them more closely. “These are perfect.”

“I'll get you a proper easel and stretcher, too,” she said. “When we're in Chicago next week. I didn't think they would be too easily transportable.”

“Thank you,” he said, quietly, still looking at the new paint colors. “That gives me plenty of time to practice with regular paper. Will you sit for it?”

“Of course,” she said. “Just tell me when and where.”

“Later,” he said. “First, you have another gift to open.”

He handed over a small box, long and thin, wrapped in green paper and a big red bow. Slowly, she slid her finger under the paper, pulling it open to reveal a small jewelry box.

“Jack?”

“Open it,” he said, and she did as he suggested.

Inside, there was a thin chain with a silver pendant in the shape of the comedy and tragedy masks. She traced her finger over it, feeling the contours of each of the masks, before slipping her finger to the back, feeling something supple and nonmetallic, almost like resin. She turned the pendant over in her hands to reveal that there was, in fact, clear resin on the back. It was there to protect and hold in place a tiny piece of paper affixed to the back of it. A tiny piece of paper that contained a tiny drawing of the two of them.

“When I went to go pawn the diamond for our phone call,” he explained. “I saw that necklace on display at the counter and I immediately bought it for you. As soon as I got it home, though, I realized what an idiot I was – the last thing on earth you'd want is a necklace. I was going to bring it back to the pawn shop but I decided to experiment a bit with it, instead. I'm—” he hesitated. “I'm, uh, working on another project and I want to find a good way to affix paper to metal. Putting the picture on the back was a bit of trial and error. But, once it was there, I actually thought you might like it after all, now that it was a little more personal.”

“I love it,” she said. “You didn't get it for me so that I'd look extra pretty on your arm, you got it for me because you thought I'd like it. You got it for me because you know me well enough to know what kind of jewelry I'd choose to wear. The picture just makes it even better. Thank you, Jack.”

“You're welcome,” he said. “I'm so glad you like it. I was a little worried about it.”

“I love it,” she repeated. “Why don't you open your last gift?”

She handed over another small package, square and very thin, wrapped in several layers of tissue with a red ribbon tied delicately around it. As he peeled away the layers of paper, he saw that the gift itself was more paper – a newspaper clipping wrapped around two thicker sheets.

“It's tickets for us to go see a Chicago Cubs baseball game next year,” she explained. “I read a newspaper article about the new stadium they're building on the Northside, and I thought it would be a fun thing for us to do together next summer.”

“I've never been to a baseball game before,” he said. “Thank you.”

“With it,” she said. “Is a promise. A promise that, wherever we are after my run in Pinafore ends – wherever we live, whether it's together or apart, whatever city it's in – I will spend time with you next summer.”

“I can't wait,” he whispered.

–

Two days after Christmas, Jack woke up early. So early that the sky was still dark and the electric signs lighting up Times Square could be seen clearly right out their hotel window. Rose was still asleep, folded up against his side, and he could feel her breathing steadily against his bare chest.

Jack knew exactly why he was up so early. Mostly, it was in anticipation of the pastries they would finally be getting in a few hours, once the sun was up. But, he couldn't stop his mind from racing with thoughts of the future.

The day before, they had taken advantage of Rose's last day off from the show for the holiday to go for a long walk through the city. They stopped in a few shops and wandered through neighborhoods both new and familiar. And they talked. They stopped at a bench along the East River, looking across to Brooklyn, and they talked for hours.

They talked a bit about Chicago, and Rose repeated her promise to spend time evaluating it as a place to live. They spent a bit of time discussing everything Jack missed in Brooklyn – with the pastries from his old neighborhood bakery topping the list. They even planned a little excursion there, first thing in the morning before Rose's matinee, to get some sfogliatelle.

“You can't just say something like that and expect me to sleep normally tonight,” he'd said, with a wink. “Not when there are pastries to look forward to in, what, fourteen hours?”

“Maybe I can find a way to distract you while you wait?”

“Maybe you can,” he said. “I did bring that brie en croute recipe you sent me in the mail.”

“See? Maybe you'll get your pastry earlier than you think.”

“Maybe,” Jack said. “The only problem is that the recipe wasn't a recipe at all.”

“Oh dear,” she said, feigning outrage. “It's a good thing I also brought the recipe you sent me for dessert. We'll have to examine it closely to see whether or not it's actually a recipe.”

“It sounds like we have to get back to the hotel, then” said Jack. “Urgently.”

But, now, they were back at the hotel. The two pieces of paper containing the “recipes” were on the ground, surrounded by the clothes they had discarded the night before. And it was only a matter of hours until their wait for the pastries would be over.

It had been a wonderful few days in New York – they had a few more to look forward to before they went back to Chicago for the first week of the New Year. They had been so wonderful, in fact, that he was starting to worry that Chicago wouldn't be enough for Rose. He had no doubt in his mind that she would seriously evaluate it, as she had promised. But there was a tiny, nagging worry, perhaps triggered by what Bessie had said in the dressing room, that she would claim to like it more than she really did. He worried that she would move to Chicago because it would be the path of least resistance once her contract with Pinafore ends. He worried that she'd come to regret leaving New York in a year or two.

He glanced over to Rose to see that, at some point in the last few minutes, the blanket had become dislodged and was only half-covering her. He moved the hand that had been gentry stroking her shoulder to reach for the corner of the blanket and pull it back up over them both.

“Jack?”

“Sorry to wake you,” he said. “It's too early to get up yet.”

“I was already awake,” she said. “I could hear you thinking.”

“You could?”

“It was either that or your stomach growling,” she said. He could hear the smile in her voice. “Is it almost time for pastries?”

“Almost,” he said, kissing her forehead and doing his best to push his worries to the back of his mind.

“Maybe you can think of something we can do to pass the time?” She said, coquettishly, running a hand down his chest.

“Can I paint you?” The idea came to him from somewhere in the ether, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, they felt right. A thrill ran through him at the idea of trying out a new skill in such an intimate setting – a small hotel room in the predawn hours.

“Of course,” she said, as she sat up, letting the blanket he had adjusted moments ago fall back down, and turned to illuminate the small light on the night stand. It gave the room a warm, gentle glow, making it feel even more intimate.

He slipped out of bed and rifled through the pile of clothes for his flannel long johns. There was a slight chill in the air now that he was out of the warm bed. He picked up the soft wool sweater with brown and white stripes he had worn on their walk that afternoon and began to pull it over his head, before hesitating and offering it to her.

“It's a little chilly in here. You can borrow my sweater,” he said. “Unless you want me to do you like this?”

She raised an eyebrow. “I want you to do me like this,” she said, somehow managing to keep a straight face. “But maybe after the painting?”

A blush rose over his face, but he laughed, good-naturedly, anyways.

“Wait!” she said, just as he was gathering the paint and paper. “There is one thing missing, though.”

She slinked out of the bed, over to the small suitcase containing her belongings. Right on top was the brand new tragedy and comedy mask necklace Jack had given her that afternoon. She clasped it around her neck for the first time, letting the pendant dangle against her skin, safe in the knowledge that, on the back, there was a small picture of the two of them. Somehow, she had a feeling that, now that it was on, she'd only ever take it off when she was performing on stage.

She moved, slowly and deliberately, back to the bed and leaned against the headboard.

“Okay,” she said. “Now I'm ready.”

Chapter Text

January, 1914

Rose watched out the window as the falling snow illuminated the night sky, giving it an otherworldly glow. The deep, eerie silence that always accompanied heavy snowfall hung in the air, and a shiver that started in the tip of her toes pushed its way through her body.

She pulled the train blanket tighter around her shoulders, and a strange comfort replaced the chill. Because, even though the air in the train was a little cold, she was safe and warm in bed. Far from the reach of the snow falling outside.

Next to her, Jack, who had managed to doze off an hour or so ago, was sleeping soundly. But Rose lay awake, deep in her thoughts. She nestled closer into his chest, if such a thing were possible on the tiny train berth – they'd decided to splurge on the sleeper car since there were now two of them sharing the cost – and tried to absorb as much of his warmth as possible.

Last night, they'd rung in the New Year at the dance hall near Jack's old apartment in Bushwick. She kissed him, right at midnight, ushering in 1914 with a promise to love him always and to spend as much time as possible together this year. And then they spent the first few hours of the year making good on that promise, holding each other tightly as they spun around the dance floor.

This morning, they checked out of the hotel before meeting Lydia and Gus for a leisurely New Years lunch before they made their way, slowly, to the train station.

Rose felt a thrill course through her as they set foot in the train station. Ever since she had been a little girl, when travel had consisted of nothing more than being shuffled around to various tea rooms and boutiques, and even in the nine months she had spent riding the rails as a stowaway in 1912, she had always felt a jolt of excitement at the beginning of a trip. It often dissipated as she faced the reality of a long train journey with little to do. But, as they boarded the train and found their berth, her suitcase in one hand, Jack's hand in the other, she knew that this journey would be part of the adventure.

And it had been – they'd spent the evening quietly watching the scenery out their window turn from urban to rural, sharing private jokes and secret touches. They'd split a bottle of wine in the dining car as the sun set over upstate New York, and then huddled together in the small, fold-down bed, as the train turned West, through Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, and finally to Chicago.

Vaguely, Rose wondered if they had made it to Pennsylvania or if they had already passed it. In all her wandering over the last couple of years, she had passed through the state of her birth on trains a few times, but she had never set one foot down on Pennsylvanian soil.

A big part of her hoped she never would again.

Instead, she cast her thoughts to Chicago. Other than a brief hour spent wandering the city while waiting to change trains, a little over a year ago, she had never been to the city before. In his letters, Jack had painted a vivid picture of all the best parts of Chicago, and he was looking forward to seeing more of it.

Rose had meant what she'd said about evaluating Chicago as a place to live. But, even among all the excitement of exploring a new city, a city where she might get to live with Jack, she felt a sharp ache rise in her chest as she thought of leaving New York.

Rose had only lived there a year, but it had been the happiest year of her life – she had found the theatre, she had found good friends, and she had even found Jack again. She had always dreamt of exploration – of expanding her horizons and seeing more than just her little corner of the world. But New York City had grabbed her – in the year she'd been there, she didn't think she'd seen even a fraction of what the city had to offer – and she wasn't sure she was ready to leave it behind just yet.

Another shiver rocked her body, and whether it was from the cold air or the prospect of moving away from New York, she couldn't tell.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Jack's suitcase, propped open, with the brown and white sweater he had worn the other day, haphazardly folded on top. It was the same sweater he had offered to her before his first attempt at painting her a few days early – the result of which was also tucked, secretly, deeper within the same suitcase.

Moving as deftly as she could, so as not to wake him, she slipped out of bed and pulled the wool garment over her head. It was probably the most comfortable piece of clothing she had ever worn – soft and cozy and warm. It carried just a hint of Jack's familiar scent, and she breathed in deep, recalling all the nights she had breathed in the same scent on his pillowcase when he was far away.

But, now, he was right here, still fast asleep in the small bunk behind her. She thought about sliding back in next to him, but the snow falling outside caught her attention once again. She settled into the seat in front of the window and brought her knees up to her chest. Now that she had a better view, she could see the train was still traveling alongside Lake Erie, just as it had been for the last several hours.

There was a certain beauty to the heavy snow falling over the frozen lake, and she watched for a while, huddled in the warm sweater on the cold train, hurtling west.

She brought her fingers up to the pendant around her neck, bearing the tragedy and comedy masks. In the few days since Jack had given it to her, she had only taken it off for Pinafore performances, and it was already becoming a habit to trace the lines of the masks and the resin on the back when she needed comfort. Though, why she needed it now, in the cozy sweater with a beautiful view out the window and Jack asleep behind her, she wasn't sure.

No, she wasn't being honest with herself.

Deep down, she was nervous – nervous that she'd hate Chicago and nervous that she'd like it. Nervous for this same journey she'd have to take, in reverse, in a week's time, without him by her side.

Three months ago, it had all seemed so simple. They'd court each other for a few months from separate cities and then, in May, they'd decide their next move together. But, now, the calendar had turned to 1914 – May was only a few months away – and they were no closer to deciding what they wanted. Three months ago, she had known the separation would be painful, but she had, perhaps naively, assumed that, once the waiting was up, a solution would seamlessly fall into place. It had never occurred to her, until right this minute, that there might still be pain, even when they could be together again.

One of Jack's stray blonde hairs was lodged in the neckline of his sweater and, absentmindedly, she plucked it out and cast it aside. Six months ago, she would have cherished any piece of him she could hold, even a single strand of hair.

You're pathetic, Rose, she laughed.

But, really, as full as her life had been before he came back into it, it was even fuller, now. She loved him. She loved New York. And she knew, if she asked it of him, he'd move back there to be with her.

Because he loved her.

But he also loved Chicago and loved the museum.

And he had known better than to ask her, outright. No, he had only asked her to evaluate the city as an option.

She pulled the sweater up to her nose, breathing in his scent, one more time, and then she settled back into the small berth and wrapped both her arms around him.

Please, let me fall in love with Chicago, too.

–

Rose blew into her mittened hands, trying to warm them up, as she looked up at the imposing structure of the Art Institute. Twenty years earlier, it had housed part of the World's Fair, before being repurposed into one of the most renowned art museums in the country. The building itself was worthy of admiration, with its marble structure and arches lining the outside, though she was sure the art inside would be even more noteworthy.

As she started up the stone steps, a sudden pride overtook her – pride that Jack – her lover and her best friend – who was still a few days shy of his twenty-second birthday, was successfully choosing pieces to go into this museum. There was even a bit of pride that she got to be the one to love him back.

Rose pulled the heavy front door open to see that he was waiting for her, just inside. His face lit up as soon as he saw her, and then he slipped a casual hand into hers and whisked her away to his office in another wing.

“I'll give you the whole tour in a few minutes,” he said, as he shuffled a few papers off the chair opposite his desk so she could sit. “How was your morning?”

Early that morning, Jack stood by the bed, fully dressed, and kissed her goodbye. He had a busy morning scheduled for his first day back at the museum – he'd finally have to deal with the damaged paintings that had been returned from Boston – but he invited her to stop by in the afternoon so he could show her around the museum a bit. In the meantime, he said, pressing the spare apartment key into her palm, she should make herself at home in his apartment.

She had done exactly that. She tried, for a few minutes, to get a bit more sleep, but it didn't come. After the last week and a half of sleeping beside him every night, it was getting harder and harder to fall asleep without him there – a habit that she knew she would come to regret when she had to go back to New York next week. So, instead, she fixed herself a small breakfast in his galley kitchen, bundled up in all her warmest clothes, plus a borrowed pair of his wool mittens, and then headed out to explore Chicago.

She spent the morning wandering, mostly aimlessly, through Jack's neighborhood, through downtown Chicago, and, finally, in the small park next to Lake Michigan just near the Art Institute.

It was a very cold day and, while it wasn't actively snowing, piles of dirty, crusty snow from a few days earlier lined the streets. The wind whipped against her face, so she had to keep it mostly covered with her scarf, making it difficult to see too much of the city beyond the occasional window display or painted billboard.

Her first impression of Chicago was that it was metal and industrial – a train on the elevated railway rattled above her head, proving her right. And, while she was sure it had its own unique character somewhere – Jack certainly seemed to think it did – she hadn't found it yet.

The area by Lake Michigan was a bit nicer. A few dozen people – more than she had seen all day in the rest of the city – wandered through the small park. She joined in their ranks, finally pulling the scarf back from her face a bit as she turned away from the wind and took in the vast Lake. She didn't dare get too close to it – it wasn't fully frozen over, but patches of ice floated near the edges, and she wanted no part of that. Instead, she stood, at a distance, and imagined standing in the same spot, in the summer, with Jack, perhaps posing for another painting.

“I didn't do much except wander the city,” she said, with visions of summer still in her mind, now that she was in the warm museum. “I'm glad I'm finally here.”

“Me too,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. “My morning was a lot busier. Will you give me just a second to make sure I'm not missing anything urgent? Then I'll show you around the museum.”

She glanced around his office as he flipped through some of the papers on his desk. It was a little untidy – folders, groaning with paper and correspondence, were piled at the corner of his desk, a used coffee cup, a framed sketch of the two of them, and several pencils occupied the open space just to Jack's right, and a slightly disheveled pile of art supplies sat on a bookcase in the corner of the room. Despite the coat stand sitting empty by the front door, Jack's coat and scarf were draped over the chair she currently sat in.

The most interesting bit of his office, though, was on the wall directly in his line of sight from his desk. A painting of a man standing in the middle of a garden, with an easel in front of him.

“That's Renoir,” Jack said, glancing up to see what she was looking at. “Not one of his better known ones – it's a portrait of his friend Monet.”

“Oh, I see it,” she said, examining it closer. “I like it.”

“I do, too. We recently rotated it off display and I asked if I could keep it in here for a while. It's uh, sort of against protocol, but Harry let it slide this once.” He winked at her and held out his hand. “Are you ready to see the rest of the museum?”

“Of course,” she said, accepting his offered hand. They began down the hallway of administrative offices, and Jack pointed out where Harry and Lawrence worked, though neither was at their desk right now.

“I'll show you the art on display first,” he said. “And then I'll take you on the special tour, reserved only for people the Assistant Curator loves. I'll show you a few pieces off display and a few rare items that Lawrence is working on. We might even be able to see them get started on that restoration work. I brought the Ellsworth pieces over to the restoration folks this morning, so they may already be working on it.”

“Can we see Marie-Honore Bontemps first?” she asked, with lightness in her voice. “I've been dying to see the first pieces you acquired.”

“Sure, if you want,” Jack nodded. “They're in the second gallery, just over here.”

Eagerly, she followed his lead as he strode through the gallery where they were standing into a smaller one, containing mostly landscape pieces. Her eyes were immediately drawn to one of the larger pieces on the opposite wall, a snowy cityscape. Dropping Jack's hand, she rushed over to the painting to get a closer look.

From up close, she could see how the artist had incredible skill to depict both the fog and the falling snow, which somehow made the scene feel simultaneously more realistic and more dreamlike. The light brushstrokes made the city look blurry, like some of the Impressionist paintings she loved, but it also somehow made it feel like she was actually standing there, in the middle of a snowy city.

“Is this Chicago?”

Jack had now caught up to her, looking perplexed, but also slightly amused. “No,” he said. She could hear a casual smile behind his voice. “It's Edinburgh. Harry picked that one out right before I started. The artist is from somewhere near his hometown, I think.”

“Oh!” she said, lifting her hand to her lips and feeling suddenly ashamed. “Sorry, we were meant to be seeing the ones you picked out, weren't we?”

“It's fine,” he insisted. “Sometimes art calls out to us in unexpected ways. I'm glad you like the Edinburgh piece. But c'mere, the Bontemps pieces are right over here.”

The paintings Jack picked out were gorgeous, three medium-sized canvases, each depicting horses moving gently through a tranquil landscape. It wasn't quite what she would have pegged as Jack's usual style, but she couldn't deny the detailed brushwork was exquisite.

“I like them,” she said. “I love all the detail on the trees and the grass.”

“But you like the Edinburgh one better?”

She felt a blush creep across her cheeks. “A little,” she admitted. “I'm sorry.”

“You're allowed to have your own opinion on art,” he said, with a slight chuckle. “No matter who painted them, no matter who curated them.”

“It doesn't mean I'm not extremely proud of you for curating them,” she said, turning around to face him and gently moving her hand to the small of his back. “And maybe a little alarmed that you can read my mind so easily.”

“I can't quite read your mind, yet,” he said, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “But I do know you pretty damn well.”

“I know,” she whispered. “And that's not alarming at all. That's the most comforting thought I can imagine.”

She brought her lips to his, then, right in the middle of the gallery. If he minded, he didn't let on, as he pulled her in tighter and slipped his tongue into her mouth. She threw her arms around his neck, moving her fingers into his hair, while one of his palms came to caress her cheek.

“Oi! Dawson,” came a sharp, accented voice from across the room. “Do that on your own time, why dontcha?”

“Hi, Harry,” Jack said, sheepishly, as he pulled back and turned to face his friend.

“Besides, didn't you get enough of that with your New York girl last week?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, a mortified look spread across Harry's face. “Uh, I mean – uh, sorry, I was, uh, thinking of someone else.”

Jack was doing his best to keep a straight face, to let Harry continue to think that he had outed him in front of his Chicago girl, and to try to dig himself out of the hole. But he couldn't keep it up too long. Eventually, he, cracked a smile.

“Harry, this is Rose Parker,” he said, turning away so they could get a better look at each other.

“I'm the New York girl,” she added, with a wink, offering her hand to shake.

“Jack must have impressed you,” Harry said. “For you to come all the way out here. Where are you staying in Chicago?”

“I, uh,” she looked at Jack, not sure if she should admit to staying the week in his tiny studio. She had heard a lot about Harry from Jack's letters, but she didn't actually know him, and she had no idea how he'd react to that. Jack winked back, before stepping in to answer Harry's question.

“She's not staying,” he said. “She liked your Edinburgh painting more than the Bontemps ones, so I'm putting her on the first train back to New York tonight. Sure was nice while it lasted, though. Right, Rose?”

“Ah, so you're a woman of taste, then?”

“Clearly,” she said, now doing her level best to keep a straight face. “Though perhaps my taste in men leaves a little to be desired,” she said, poking Jack in the side.

“I like her, Jack,” Harry said. “Tell me when and where to show up for the wedding, and I'll be there.”

Neither of them flinched.

-

“It's nice to see you again, Miss Parker,” Harry said, as he opened the door to his apartment on the Northside. “Everyone's already here.”

The din of conversation in Harry's living room was suddenly audible as Jack closed the door behind them and they each hung their coats on the hook in the entryway. Before either of them knew it, Harry had pressed a beer bottle into each of their hands, clinking his own with each of theirs.

“Happy birthday, Jack,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the ongoing conversations in the other room, and then a dozen voices, in near unison, piped up and repeated. “Happy birthday!!”

“Happy birthday, love,” Rose whispered in his ear, as he threw an arm around her shoulder and led them into the party.

Two days earlier, As Jack finished showing Rose around the museum, Harry had tagged along for a few minutes, adding extra information here and there on top of what Jack said about some of the art and offering a few suggestions of things they might do in their time in Chicago before Rose had to go back to New York.

At one point, Jack excused himself in order to go get the keys to the storage room, and Harry offered to show Rose a few more things on the museum floor. Instead, though, she pulled him aside and asked for his help in planning a birthday celebration.

When Jack returned with the key, Harry begged off, giving Rose a tiny conspiratorial glance. Jack hadn't noticed, and brought around to see the rest of the museum's treasures, along with a few otherwise unnoteworthy pieces he just happened to enjoy.

They spent quite a bit of time in the Impressionist Wing, a little while in antiquities, and even a few minutes in a special, curtained-off gallery that contained lewd images – mostly Roman in origin, and mostly detailed depictions of group sex in some form or another. When they left there, Jack brought her to the storage room, where they kept artwork not on display.

They also spent at least a minute or two, up against a wall, doing exactly what Harry had expressly forbidden them to do while Jack was on the clock.

But now, the party had come together. It was nothing fancier than a simple gathering at Harry's apartment with food and drinks and all of the friends Jack had made in Chicago so far.

“You did this?” Jack asked, bending down to whisper in her ear.

“It was mostly Harry,” she admitted. “But I put him up to it while you went to go fetch that key for the storage room.”

“Thank you,” he said. “No one's done anything like this for my birthday in a long time.”

“You deserve it,” she said. “You deserve a lot more than a few beers at your friend's apartment.”

“It's perfect,” he said.

And then he took her around, introducing her to all his friends. First, she met his friends from Wisconsin, Teddy and Ava, then, his downstairs neighbor and a few other friends from the neighborhood. Finally, she got to meet the rest of his coworkers she hadn't met at the museum the other day.

“Lawrence!” she said, excitedly. “It's nice to finally meet you. Jack's told me so much about you and your work. It must be fascinating to work with so much history.”

“Oh, Miss Parker,” he said, smiling. “I've heard a bit about you, too. You're Jack's – uh – not fiancee, right? But he's seeing you?”

“We're together,” Jack said, simply, as he slid in beside her with a drink refill.

They spent a little while chatting happily with Lawrence about some of the rarer items he had found for the collection, as well as his vast knowledge of Asian art. Jack then pulled Ed, one of the art restorers, aside, and picked his brain about the Ellsworth piece and other works he'd restored.

Eventually, someone pulled out some playing cards and a few impromptu games of poker and gin rummy got started. Rose ended up at a table with Harry and two more of Jack's colleagues, while he ended up with Teddy and Ada and a friend from the neighborhood. Rose kept casting surreptitious glances at him, wanting to watch him in his element without him knowing she was watching, but each time, it only took a second before he looked her right in the eye and winked at her. Each time she looked over to him, the people at her own table would clear their throats until she returned to the game, looking embarrassed.

Eventually, Jack excused himself from his table and strode over to hers, standing behind her and resting his hands on her shoulders.

“Excuse you,” she said, pulling the cards into her chest to hide them from his gaze. Once they were sufficiently hidden, she craned her neck so she could look up at him, properly. Unconcerned that all his friends were watching, he pressed his lips to her forehead.

“She's got nothing,” he said, to the rest of the table, as he shot her a sly grin. “Five Deuce off suit.”

Ed, to Rose's left, tossed in a chip to raise the stakes, which Harry called, and she did as well. The first three cards the dealer turned over were the six of spades, the four of hearts, and the ace of diamonds. Harry checked, not raising the pot but not folding. Rose did the same. And then Ed did the same.

The next card to be turned over was the queen of diamonds, and it was Rose's turn. She shifted her eyes towards Jack, still standing behind her, and he shrugged. She tossed a chip into the pot with a shrug of her own.

Ed eyed her, up and down, trying to get a read, before tossing his cards away to fold. Harry was next. He, too, looked her up and down. He looked to his cards and then to the face-up ones on the table, then back to the pot. Then he looked back at her. After an excruciatingly long time, he tossed a chip into the pot to match her bet.

The next card to come down was the three of clubs. Rose pushed a medium-sized stack of chips into the pot.

“Dawson,” Harry said. “If you were telling the truth earlier, your girl has a straight. Were you telling the truth?”

Jack made a hand motion to indicate that his lips were sealed.

“You do know I sign your paychecks, right?”

“She has a pair of aces,” he said, completely casually. “Or maybe she has a ten seven. I'm not sure. It's a pity you hire folks with such poor memories.”

“Goddamnit, Dawson,” Harry said, as he threw his cards away, giving Rose the opportunity to take the pot. “I thought we were friends.”

“We are,” he said, “But I still like her better.”

“Did you have it?” Harry asked. “The straight?”

Rose made exactly the same my lips are sealed gesture Jack had only minutes ago, and she stood up from the table to pull him into her arms, just as an impromptu band, made up mostly of tipsy men pounding on whatever percussion instrument – or non-instrument, given at least one of them was banging on a cast iron kettle – they could find, started up in the corner.

Eventually, more people joined the makeshift dance floor. Rose and Ada – the only two women in the room, were in high demand and took turns dancing with anyone who wanted to, until they both made their way back to their respective partners – she with Jack and Ada with Teddy. When the quartet were reunited, the music slowed to a gentle waltz, still tinged with a heavy drum beat, and they danced, holding tightly onto each other.

“Thank you, Rose,” Jack whispered, as she twirled underneath his arm. “This has been the happiest birthday I've had in years.”

–

“Jack, will you help me with my coat?”

“Uh, sure,” he said, a little uncertainly.

Five minutes earlier, he had let them in to his small apartment after the joyous afternoon they had spent celebrating his birthday, and he had immediately collapsed on the bed in the middle of the room, exhausted.

He sat up, ready to cross the room to the front door to help her with the coat, but, it turned out, he didn't need to move at all. She had moved, so she was standing directly in front of him.

He unbuttoned the coat and pushed it off her shoulders, until she caught it and draped it over the bedpost.

“Will you, uh, help me with the rest of it?” There was a tiny, sly grin on her face.

He sat all the way up, now, moving his hands over the simple, dark blue, wool dress she wore, until they came to rest on the sash around her waist. Raising a sultry eyebrow at her, he gave it a little tug, and the bow came undone.

“Keep going,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“So demanding!” he teased, but his hands were already moving to the row of buttons down her back. “And on my birthday, too.”

Once his work on the buttons was done, he cocked his eyebrow up at her, one more time, as he released the garment, letting it slip to the floor. But, as it fell, Jack felt his eyes go wide and his jaw drop. Underneath her dress, she was wearing a short, tightly fitted, partially sheer negligee, adorned with lace details and held together with little ribbons along each side.

“Happy birthday, Jack,” she said, once again. She moved his hand to one of the ribbons on her side. “It's time to unwrap your gift.”

“This one's too pretty to unwrap right away,” he said, with a smirk, as he laid back, bringing her down on top of him. She kissed him, languidly, leaning into his lips and his chest, as his hands traced the lacy, silky fabric that didn't cover much. “You look beautiful,” he said. “Where did you find such an exquisite piece?”

She sat back, against his hips, so he could take in the whole thing once again. “Thank you,” she smiled. “There's a new shop in The Village that, well, specializes in lingerie. Lydia basically begged me to go with her a few weeks ago. It took me a long time to pick one out that would be up to your refined, artistic standards.”

He sat up, too, so they were face to face, and he kissed her once again as his fingers moved up her thighs, spider-like, until his palms came to rest on her hips, just underneath the fabric of the negligee. As she deepened the kiss, he moved one of his hands back to the bit of ribbon where she had put it moments ago.

“Rose?” he said, pulling back just long enough to ask her a teasing question. “Have you been wearing that under your dress all day?”

“Yes,” she admitted, with a hint of laughter in her voice. “I had to be sneaky about getting dressed this morning. I slipped it on when you were in the bathroom.”

“It sounds like you've been wearing it a bit too long. Perhaps it's time to take it off?”

“Ah,” she said, with a glint in her eye. “If that's true, then I have no choice but to point out that you have also been wearing those clothes all day.”

–

The wind burned against their faces, blowing tiny droplets of icy snow against their cheeks. Twenty minutes earlier, they'd set out for a walk with the wind at their backs, but, now that they'd turned around to go home, they were walking directly into the howling wind.

Jack took one look at how red Rose's face was getting, and opened the nearest door, pulling her in behind him.

It took a minute for her to adjust to the sudden warmth, but, soon, it spread throughout her body and she almost felt on fire. Relieved, she pulled the wool scarf and hat away from her face, giving herself a better view of the small, cozy cafe he had stepped into.

“Do you want to sit down and have a coffee? If the wind doesn't improve soon, we could maybe even have lunch.”

“Yes, Jack,” she said, as he signaled to one of the staff members. Moments later, they were brought to a small table near the window. From that vantage point, they could see across the park to the thin strip of beach alongside Lake Michigan.

“I can't wait to see the Lake for real next summer,” she said, reaching out to take his hand and absentmindedly twirl her fingers into his.

“Next summer,” he said, wistfully. “I know it's only four months away, but it feels like it'll be a year.”

It was Sunday afternoon. The last full day she had in Chicago before boarding the train back to New York the next day. The week in Chicago had flown by – they'd seen the museum, celebrated Jack's birthday, and, last night, they had even taken Harry and Lawrence and Teddy out to dinner and told them the whole story, just like they had done for Lydia and Bessie. Harry, who had known Fabrizio, stood up from his seat to clap them both on the shoulder and tell them to take good care of each other.

But, between everything else, Rose had indeed taken a bit more time to explore the city and evaluate it. There had been one warmer day where the city had been a bit more lively and interesting – with pedestrians and street vendors speaking several different languages. There even were little pieces of downtown, with the tall buildings pushed close together and the wrought iron fire escapes on the upstairs apartments that reminded her of New York.

Rose still wasn't totally convinced that she'd come to love Chicago, that she'd find its unique character and become a part of the city. The museum – with its warmth and camaraderie and beauty, was the closest she came to finding a place to belong in the city. And, suddenly, she realized why she felt so unmoored here compared to New York. She had never gone to look at any theaters – she had imagined herself walking the city, imagined seeing the Lake with Jack, imagined visiting Harry or Teddy, but she had never truly imagined all parts of her life here.

Bessie's words from a few days earlier – her concern over Rose abandoning the theatre if she followed Jack to Chicago – suddenly rang in her ears, deafeningly loudly.

“Did, uh, did you have a chance to do much exploring while you were here?”

“I though you said you couldn't read my mind yet,” she said, trying to push her concern aside with a joke.

He brushed a thumb over their joined hands, and flashed a grin in her direction, but he didn't say anything.

“I – I think I could live here,” she said, tentatively. “I'd have to come back and look at the theaters and make sure I could actually find something and—”

“Rose,” he said, seriously, meeting her eye. “All I asked was for you to look around a bit. I like it here, but I liked it in New York, too. Besides, I have experience now, I can see if the Met or the Brooklyn Museum have any openings I can apply for.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I don't want you to have to be the one to move by default.”

“That's not what I asked, love,” she said, letting a tiny, teasing smile cross her lips.

“I want to live in the same city as you,” he said. “What city that is is less important.”

“I agree,” she said. “Jack, these last few weeks have been—” She cut herself off as the words caught in her throat, and she shook her head. “I know we both had to work for parts of it, but I felt so much lighter knowing we'd be together every night. I – I want it to always feel that way.”

He squeezed her hand. “I love you, Rose,” he said. “Next week, I'll start sending some resumes to museums in New York. Would you maybe do the same with some theaters in Chicago? It'll all just be exploratory, seeing what's out there. We still have a few months to make a final decision.”

“You know,” she said, squeezing his hand back. He could tell from her face that she had just had a realization. “New York and Chicago are not our only two options. We have the whole world open to us.”

“We do,” he said. “I got on well with the man I met at the MFA who helped send the paintings back. I can reach out to him and see if he knows of any openings in Boston. Or we can go further afield if you want – Paris? Tokyo? Constantinople?”

“Okay,” she said, with a brilliant smile. “We'll both write out enough resumes to wallpaper the Flatiron Building, and then we'll send them out all over the world. We'll positively litter the world's top cultural institutions with resumes. But I'm going to start with Chicago, since I know how happy you are here.”

“Really?” He glanced out the window to see the snow and wind had only gotten worse in the time they'd been sitting here. “I'm going to start somewhere with better weather.”

Chapter Text

March, 1914

Jack folded, unfolded, and re-folded the letter in front of him, over and over again, trying to pretend it didn't say what it did.

The letter had been delivered to his office at the museum earlier that morning and, as soon as he saw the return address, his breath caught in his throat. Finally – finally – after three months of research into theaters and art museums around the world, after dozens of resumes sent, half a dozen auditions up and down the East Coast, and several Saturday afternoons spent working on his portfolio – they had a real, viable option.

A city they could both move to. A city where they would both have a job.

It all started about a week earlier, when Rose phoned him with the news she had been offered a new role. It was a brand new play, set to debut in Boston a few weeks after her run in Pinafore would end. Rose had been offered the lead role – a meaty and challenging role – a woman slowly descending into madness while living alone in a haunted house she inherited from her grandmother.

Jack was thrilled for her – and, he had to admit, really looking forward to seeing her portray a madwoman – an admission that elicited a trill of bright, wholehearted laughter from her end of the phone. And, suddenly, Jack found himself unable to do anything other than join in, and they laughed together – in celebration, in anticipation – from hundreds of miles away.

Moments after he hung up the phone, Jack dialed another number – the same number he had called from the library in New York over Christmas. When Charlie Dawson, at the Museum of Fine Arts, picked up, he remembered Jack immediately and they spoke easily for a while – about art, about museum life, and about the restoration process on the Ellsworth pieces. So, when Jack finally got around to asking Charlie if knew of any jobs, he responded enthusiastically. He had just heard about an open curator position, and he promised to send Jack a letter with the details.

But now, the letter had arrived, and the longer Jack stared at it, in disbelief, the more the words on the page seemed to taunt him.

Because, now, it was clear that Charlie hadn't quite understood what Jack was looking for.

He folded the letter, one more time, before giving up and crumpling it into a ball, casting it aside. He glanced at the new frame on his desk – a photograph that Harry had taken of him and Rose at his birthday gathering in January after she handed over her new camera. And, unable to help himself, he blinked back a tear, welling in the corner of his eye.

A few days earlier, as he ended the call with Charlie, happy tears had flooded his eyes when he'd looked at the same picture. He'd imagined celebrating his next birthday in Boston; he'd imagined Rose, as radiant as she looked in the photograph, by his side every day; he'd imagined hundreds more pictures, just like it.

But, now, the tears had taken on a different tinge. These were tears of longing, of desperation. Tears of frustration at yet another dead end.

Because Charlie had indeed heard of a job through the grapevine. He had indeed recommended his new friend Jack for it. But the job was not at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston.

It was a job one of his friends was hiring for, at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts. In Philadelphia.

“Oh,” Rose said, deflated, as he broke the bad news over the phone later that afternoon. “I can, um, try to audition in—” her voice cracked, but she hid it well. “In Philadelphia.”

“No,” he said, firmly. “It's just like DC all over again. You turned it down for me. You think I can't do the same for you?”

“It's hardly the same thing,” she said. “Besides, I thought we weren't counting tit for tat?”

“We aren't,” he insisted. “But that doesn't mean it's not the same thing.”

Six weeks earlier, he'd received a letter from Rose. Her usually prim handwriting was a bit sloppy, rushed, as if words had flowed out of her brain faster than her pen could keep up with.

In it, she gushed over a new role that had been offered to her in Washington DC – a role in a new musical, written by another woman about her same age. She would portray a painter trying to be the first woman accepted into the Royal Academy.

In her hurried pen, she raved about the role, about the score, about the subject matter, and Jack could practically hear her genuine excitement. Even from the page, he could sense her confidence – her relief – because, after all, there were dozens of art museums in DC, weren't there?

But, one week later, on their regular phone call, Jack couldn't help his voice from betraying his bitterness as he told her about the letter he got from Washington. One of the curators at the National Portrait Gallery had been very impressed – both with his own work and with his eye for finding unique and high-quality art to display. But, just as Jack was making plans to travel to DC for his formal interview, the museum realized he didn't have a degree, and they threw his application straight into the proverbial fire. A degree was, after all, a strict requirement not only at their institution, but at all of the other Smithsonian museums, as well.

“Oh, Jack,” she said, immediately sympathetic. “I'm sorry. That's bullshit. Those assholes will be sorry when you get the best pieces out from under their nose because they were too stuck up to look past some stupid strict requirement.”

“Thanks Rose,” he said. Her words had helped lift his mood a little – had helped bring him out of the desolation he'd felt since reading the letter – but he was sure that, even over the phone, she could tell he was still feeling rotten. “It doesn't mean Washington is off the table. You could do the musical and I could get another maintenance job. Or I could, uh, apply to college, I guess. If we could find a way to pay for it. Er, that is, I meant – If I could find a way to pay for it.”

“Washington is off the table,” she said, definitively. “You are not getting another maintenance job. I don't want to move somewhere unless there's at least a chance for both of us to find something. If the Smithsonian are going to be elitists, screw them. We'll find somewhere else. And, Jack?”

“Yes?”

“We are in this together,” she said. “And that goes for everything. If you want to go to college, we will figure out the finances, together.”

“Thanks, Rose,” he said, once again, as if they were the only two words he knew and, in a way, perhaps they were. “But, really, I'll be fine if you want to move to DC. It sounds like a perfect role for you. I'll find something.”

“I appreciate that,” she said. “I do. But the point of being apart now is so that we can find a way to be together without sacrificing our creative passions. I don't want you to give up the museum.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she said. “It would maybe be one thing if there was a chance you could find something a month or two down the line. But if literally everywhere in DC will require you to have a degree, then it's not the right option for us both, which means it's not an option for me. We still have a few more months to keep sending out resumes to find the right solution.”

“I love you,” he whispered, consumed, not for the first time, with love for this woman. Stunned, not for the first time, at just how much she loved him back.

“I love you too,” she repeated. And the words rang in his ears as clearly as if she had been right next to him, not hundreds of miles away, talking through a machine. “So much.”

But, now, a month and a half later, that same voice, strong and confident as ever, pulled him back to the present – the present where, yet again, a promising solution had fallen through.

“Jack,” she scolded, gently. “We couldn't do DC because there wasn't a job for you. There are definitely theaters in Philadelphia. I remember going to several of them when I was a little girl.”

“But won't it be hard for you? Being there?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “But I won't have you turn down a good opportunity before you've even had a chance to fully evaluate it because it'll be hard.”

“But what about your offer, in Boston?”

“I won't take it if there isn't a job for you.”

“Rose.” Now he was the one with the gently scolding tone. “The MFA isn't the only museum in Boston. I can try the Harvard museums. Or there's this kooky – er – eccentric – lady I read about – Isabella Gardner – who's trying to turn her house into a museum. I imagine that would be a fascinating project to work on.”

“Okay,” she said. “But if the Pennsylvania Academy turns out to be your best option, I don't want you to not take it for sentimental reasons.”

The next day, he spent most of his lunch break staring at a blank page, trying to get in the right frame of mind to craft a response to Charlie and to the Philadelphia Academy. Half of him wanted to be rude – to burn the bridge and never look back, to remove any temptation of a move to Philadelphia. To close that door permanently. But another voice, one that sounded a lot like Rose, insisting over the phone that she would be fine, gave him pause.

Rose had spent so much of her life being amenable. Staying out of the way and not voicing her opinions. Never having the chance to make a decision for herself.

And Jack had vowed, from that first day that they strolled the ship's deck when she told him off for belittling her dreams, that he would never hold her back. Never assume he knew her better than she knew herself. Never take the decision out of her hands.

And she had told him, in no uncertain terms, that she wanted him to take the job if it was right for him.

But he also couldn't bear the thought of bringing her somewhere painful, all for the sake of a job.

“Dawson?” Harry's voice was a welcome distraction from his fruitless letter writing. “Did you have a chance to finish those – Oh, uh, sorry to interrupt.”

“You're not interrupting anything,” he said, holding up the blank page as proof. “What do you need?”

“I was just looking for the most recent accession and deaccession lists. I got a letter from a colleague at the brand new Museum of Science, History, and Art in Los Angeles, wondering if we might be able to lend them anything.”

“I'm almost done with those,” he said. “They should be ready in another few hours.”

“You're the best assistant curator I know, Dawson. Keep up the good work.”

“I'm the only—” Jack began, as Harry turned on his heel, heading down the hallway. “Wait, Harry?”

“Yes?”

“What do you know about the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts? I got a—”

Job offer had been on the tip of his tongue, but he stopped himself, just in time. He was pretty sure Harry suspected he was open to moving to a different museum in order to be with Rose, but Jack knew better than to brazenly announce it.

“I got a, uh, letter from them.”

“A letter?” Harry asked. “Do they want to borrow our pieces, too?”

“Something like that,” Jack chuckled, only slightly nervously.

“I think I might have gotten a marketing pamphlet from them a few months back,” Harry said, starting down the hall once again. “Let me look through my desk, see if I kept it.”

Two hours later, as Jack dropped the completed reports off at Harry's office, Harry pressed a tri-fold pamphlet into his hand.

“Pennsylvania Academy,” he said, without even a hint of an edge to his voice. But, somehow, Jack still worried that his boss, his friend, the one who had gotten him this job, knew he was looking elsewhere.

As soon as he sat back down in his chair and opened the pamphlet, though, a wry laugh escaped his lips. Harry had nothing to worry about.

“It's everywhere,” he said, later that afternoon, to Rose on the other end of the line. “At least half a dozen times on an informational pamphlet with maybe one hundred words, total. Mr. and Mrs. Hockley, benefactors.”

“Cal got married?”

“That's the most surprising part to you?” Jack's voice was light. As much as the name had shocked him when he first read the pamphlet, the shock turned to instant relief now that he suddenly had a very good reason to not take the job at the Pennsylvania Academy. Now that the prospect of Rose having to make a difficult decision had been taken off the table. “Based on what you told me about his taste in art, I thought he would have patronized, oh, I dunno, racecar driving or something.”

“He probably does,” she said, with lightness in her voice, too. “He'll throw money at anything that'll slap his name across the top. But, really, who did he marry?”

“Why, are you jealous? It could have been your name on the racecars and art museums.”

“Jack!” She squealed. “You are the most absurd man I know. But I love you anyway.”

“I hope you don't mind,” he said, ignoring her protest. “I wrote to the museum just before I called you, turning down the offer. I spoke to Charlie, too, and it turns out he is, in fact, a Boston Dawson. He doesn't work at the museum – at least not really – it's more of a hobby, taking care of the museum his father patronizes. Somehow, he'd heard of the role in Philadelphia through his social connections.”

–

As March wore on, the trees finally began to blossom, the sun began shining later into the night, and New York City was teeming with the promise of Spring. Rose and Jack still wrote to each other regularly, but the phones had been too tempting. Their monthly phone calls had gradually increased in both length and frequency, to the point where, now, well over a quarter of the diamonds from the chain had been pawned and they'd developed a habit of talking to each other nearly every evening.

They rarely had more than twenty minutes together – even if the cost of the call hadn't been inordinate, she would still have to tear herself away in time to make her six-thirty call at the Hippodrome. But six-thirty in New York was five-thirty in Chicago, so even if Jack picked up the phone the second he got off work for the day, which he often did, their time was limited.

But, quickly, those few precious moments became her favorite twenty minutes of the day.

When she wasn't talking to him, she spent her free time taking long walks through every neighborhood in New York – sometimes alone, sometimes with Lydia, sometimes, even, with Lydia and Gus, whose relationship was growing stronger by the day. The city was vibrant, even more alive than usual, as it emerged from its winter hibernation. People walked dogs and pushed baby carriages through the park, sometimes carrying their coats instead of wearing them.

The first waves of summer tourists were trickling in and, already, they were gravitating towards HMS Pinafore. Each of Rose's last three shows had all been sold out, which made the theatre feel lively and even more dynamic than usual.

So, perhaps it shouldn't have taken her by surprise when Mr. Wilson announced they were extending their run. Perhaps it shouldn't have taken her by surprise – but it did – when she received an offer to extend her contract, as well.

“What do you think?” She asked Jack on their phone call the next night. “Have you had any bites from museums in New York?”

“Nothing yet,” said Jack. “But if you want to extend, you should, Rose. I'll find something.”

“We've been over this,” she said, mostly feigning exasperation. “I'm not signing anything until we know it'll be a good next step for you, too. Besides, Mr. Wilson said I don't have to decide right away.”

“In that case, I'll send another letter to the Brooklyn museum,” Jack said. “Make sure they got my first one. But, well, one place that did get my letter was the Prado, in Madrid. And, at least initially, they seem interested.”

“Madrid? Jack, that's amazing! It might take me a little while to learn Spanish fluently enough to perform, but—”

“But I'm also not signing anything until you know it's a good move for you, too,” he said.

Over the next few weeks, they continued sharing every detail of their lives in their letters and phone calls. They shared news of their friends and the minutia of day to day life in Chicago and New York. They shared where they had sent resumes – Jack had sent a letter of inquiry to the National Gallery of Scotland after he'd read about the extensive theatre culture in Edinburgh. Rose, in turn, let him know that she was doing a little research into Oslo, given that both Ibsen and Munch had lived there recently.

But the most exciting news came right at the end of the month.

On a rainy Tuesday evening, Rose called Jack from her usual cubicle at the library. Earlier that day, she had made the decision to turn down the extension at Pinafore. It had been a few weeks and Jack still hadn't heard anything from the Brooklyn Museum, so it was looking less and less likely that anything would come of it. But, honestly, even if something had – Rose felt like she was ready to move on. After all the auditions she'd had for substantial, interesting roles she knew that she wanted her next move – wherever it was – to be something new.

Jack picked up the phone even faster than usual – before it had even finished ringing for the first time. And, even in his simple greeting – Rose? Hi – she heard a spark of excitement in his voice.

“My special collection is opening in three weeks,” he blurted. “Remember? The one I wrote to you about? Will you come see it?”

“Jack!” she shouted, instantly forgetting anything else she had on her mind, anything else she wanted to tell him. “Of course I'll see it. Tell me when to be there and I will.”

“Well,” he said, a little hesitantly. “That's the thing.” Most of the excitement that had been in his voice had dissipated, replaced with an unexpected, almost somber tone. “If you come for the opening, it means you'll also be here for the anniversary.”

“The—? Oh,” she said, suddenly realizing what he meant.

“Yes,” he said. “It opens on the fifteenth.”

“I'll be there,” she said, just as solemnly. She didn't add I promise, but he heard it anyways. “It's only right for us to be together that day. We can – talk.”

“Of course we can,” he said, a smile back in his voice – a reassuring, confident smile she could practically see, even though she wasn't looking at him. “And we can have a little fun, too. Do you think you could stay long enough that we could also celebrate your birthday? Your original birthday?”

“Yes,” she said. “I haven't been out of the show since January, so Lydia deserves a few days to go on. I'll book my train first thing tomorrow and write to you with the details. But I'll make sure to be there at least on the fifteenth and the nineteenth.”

April, 1914

Rose fished around in her handbag, growing increasingly worried each second she didn't find the key. She hoped – for more reasons than one – that she hadn't lost it.

In January, as they called for her train at Union Station at the end of her week in Chicago, she kissed Jack goodbye and gave him back the spare apartment key he'd leant her. But he pushed her hand away.

“It's yours,” he said, brushing his lips against her forehead.

“What if you have another guest?”

“If I have another guest, I'm not giving them free reign of my apartment,” he said, flashing a wry smile. “It's yours. You can use it any time of day or night, with or without prior warning.”

“Jack, I—”

“I know that it will probably just sit in a drawer in your boarding house. I'm not expecting a surprise visit or anything. I just want us both to know that you have it and that you can use it if you ever need it.”

Now, though, here she was, standing in front of his door, digging around in her bag for that very same key, hoping he really did mean any time of day or night.

That afternoon, her train had stopped, somewhere in the middle of nowhere in Ohio, for hours. At first, Rose didn't even look up from the novel she was reading. But, as the minutes dragged into hours and whispered rumors spread through the train – a tree had fallen on the tracks, another train had derailed, they had derailed – she felt her anxiety rising. Today's date – April 13 – wasn't helping her nerves, nor was the image she couldn't get out of her head. The image of Jack, arriving at the train station at 6:15 sharp to meet her, only for her not to be there to meet him.

Eventually, the train started moving again. But Rose's nerves were shot and, for the rest of the journey to Chicago she was on edge, unable to relax. Even as they pulled into Union Station a few minutes before one in the morning – it was the fourteenth, now – she couldn't shake the image of Jack standing there, hours ago, alone.

But, finally, here in front of Jack's apartment door in the middle of the night, her fist closed around the small key.

Phew.

As gently as possible, she opened the door to reveal Jack's familiar studio apartment, pitch black except for the gentle glow of a streetlamp outside the kitchen window. As her eyes adjusted to the dark they were drawn, naturally, to his sleeping figure in the bed. The minute she saw him, even fast asleep and barely visible in the dark, all of her nerves from the day lifted off her in waves. Relief spread, filling the gap left behind, and, suddenly, it felt as if the world had righted itself now that they were in the same room.

She set her luggage down, quietly so as not to wake him, and rustled around for her nightgown and toothbrush. Once she found them and started down the hall to the washroom, a sudden rush of exhaustion overtook her, and she wondered if Jack would mind terribly if she brushed her teeth at his kitchen sink.

Rose glanced over to the kitchen, where a few pots and pans she recognized from his Bushwick apartment, a few she recognized from her time here in Chicago over New Years, and a few she didn't recognize at all were stacked on the shelves. A vase of fresh flowers – her heart jolted as she realized he had probably brought them to the train station earlier that evening – sat on the counter next to the sink. Then she noticed his toothbrush, tucked away right behind the sink, and she couldn't help but grin as she wet her toothbrush in the sink, confident that he wouldn't mind.

Out of nowhere, Rose thought back to the first night they spent together after finding each other again. Then, they had been two near-strangers, deeply in love. Their courtship, explosive and all-consuming as it was, had really only been a few days bookending eighteen months where they believed the other dead.

Over the last five months' worth of letters and phone calls, they had learned so much more about each other – little details like how they took their coffee and if Jack minded if she brushed her teeth in the sink, and big details like what their future together would look like. How much they knew about each other grew and grew with each minute they spent together. And even though Rose already thought she knew him better than she'd ever known anyone else, she couldn't wait to learn even more.

She spit into the sink, helping herself to a clean water glass from the shelf above the sink to rinse her mouth, and then she slipped into her nightgown. She tossed the clothes she had been wearing – wrinkled and dusty from the long train journey – haphazardly into her open suitcase. Rose ran a hand through her hair, feeling how greasy it was. She'd need to do something about it tomorrow to make sure she looked presentable for the opening. But, for right now, she didn't care.

And, somehow, she knew Jack wouldn't either.

“Jack,” she whispered, touching his shoulder lightly. “It's me.”

“Huh?” he said, groggily, as he turned over and half-opened his eyes. “Rose?”

“Sorry to wake you.”

“Here,” he said, sliding over and lifting the bedspread in invitation. “Get in.”

Without hesitation, she obeyed, crawling into bed and bringing her body close to his. He kissed her, deeply, wrapping his arms around her and holding on tightly. It had been three months since she had last kissed him, and in this kiss she felt the longing ever present in their separation, but also the satisfaction in finally being together. She deepened it.

“Hi,” she whispered, as they separated, eventually.

“Hi,” he repeated, stealing one more tiny kiss. “What a nice surprise. I wasn't expecting you until morning.”

“You knew the train was delayed?”

“Of course,” he chuckled. “I went down to the station to meet you and they said there was some issue with the track and you'd be here first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, good,” she said. “I was a bit worried you'd be waiting there without news.”

“I wasn't,” he said, as his hand traced the lines of her back. “I was disappointed to not be able to bring you dancing tonight, just like we did two years ago.”

“I think we can still find a way to dance,” she said, pressing her lips to his.

–

“This is 47^th Street,” came the voice calling the elevated railway stop.

Rose shrugged – 47^th Street was as good as any other stop, she supposed, and she stepped off the train, ready to see what the Kenwood neighborhood of Chicago had to offer.

This morning, Jack's alarm had gone off far too early for her liking and she turned to face him, quietly asking him to go back to sleep, to forget the stupid museum, and to spend the morning lounging around with her, instead.

“I'm very tempted,” he said, before kissing her good morning. “I have a few last minute details to finish up for the opening tomorrow. But I think the weather is supposed to be good today. If you meet me at the museum around 5 we can have a picnic dinner in the park.”

“Okay,” she said, still a little drowsy. “Love you.”

“I love you too,” he said, pressing one more kiss to her forehead before sliding out of bed and starting water to boil for coffee. Once they'd each drained their cup, Jack left for the museum. Rose followed him out the door, headed for the nearest elevated railroad station, intent on seeing more of the city he loved.

Kenwood was a little posher than she expected. One of the large, stately houses she passed even reminded her uncannily of one that she had visited as a child – one owned by some friend of her mother – and she hurried away from it. But she still enjoyed her walk around the University campus and her stroll along Lake Michigan. For lunch, she tried her first slice of deep dish pizza, which Jack had told her about in one of his letters – and she couldn't wait to tell him she'd finally tried it.

Jack was right that the weather was nice – there was still a tiny chill in the air, nothing at all like the biting wind that she'd experienced in January – and the bright sunshine made it feel even warmer than it was.

After lunch, Rose wandered a bit more through the neighborhood until, by complete happenstance, she found herself standing in front of a theatre. The box office door was propped open, and she heard the din of indistinct chatter.

Called, as if by a siren, she walked though the open door and then through another, until she found herself in the house, surrounded by dozens of people milling about, practicing their lines.

Rose eavesdropped for a few minutes, recognizing a few lines here and there, until she realized it was all Shakespeare. She watched a couple of the performers getting ready, doing the familiar breathing exercises and vocal warmups that she did before each performance, and she felt her skin begin to tingle.

“What show are you rehearsing for?” she asked, quietly, to one of the performers warming up.

“This is just an audition,” he said. “It's for a few shows. Coriolanus, Much Ado, and The Scottish Play.”

She nodded, moving to sit in the auditorium and watched as several people, in quick succession, got up and read monologues. There were a few real standouts, but as more and more people went, she found herself thinking that she was just as good as any of them, if not better.

“Is there anyone else?” A voice from the front row of the auditorium called. Instinctually, Rose thrust her hand up in the air.

But, in the few seconds it took her to get from the auditorium up to the stage, she remembered her unkempt, greasy hair she still hadn't gotten around to washing. She remembered the bags under her eyes from the late night the night before. She remembered how lethargic she felt after the heavy pizza slice. And she remembered that she had no resume on her and absolutely no material prepared.

“Name?”

Shit. It was too late to back out now.

“Uh, Rose Parker,” she said. “Er, that is... Dawson.”

But, as soon as the name was out of her mouth, a sudden doubt washed over her. As much as she and Jack discussed over the last five months, as much as they learned about each other, she had never actually asked him if he was all right with her using his name as a stage name. She didn't think he minded. But, now, already feeling foolish for coming up here at all, she couldn't help second guessing herself.

“Rose Parker,” she said, finally, with a nervous laugh.

“Well, which is it?”

“My name is Rose Parker,” she said. “I use Dawson sometimes as a stage name. It's my—”

The word husband had been on the tip of her tongue, before she realized that wasn't quite right. Sweetheart was a bit more accurate, but far too saccharine and superficial to describe how she felt about Jack. Beau was a little better, but still not quite right.

They'd have to find a better word to describe each other moving forward. But, for now, with several expectant eyes staring her down, she said the thing that would lead to the fewest questions.

“It's my friend's name.”

“Very well, Miss Parker,” said the slim man leading the audition. “What role are you auditioning for today?”

“Uh,” she began, now feeling even more flustered, racking her brain, trying to remember which shows they even were holding auditions for. “Uh, Lady Macbeth,” she said, finally.

–

“I have a confession to make.”

“A confession?” Jack asked, as he reached for his glass of lemonade. “Did you spike this?”

When he emerged from the museum, at 5 o clock on the dot, the special collection finally complete, Rose had been waiting on the steps, picnic basket in hand. Her hair was down, freshly washed – he caught a whiff of his soap as he leaned in to kiss her – and she wore a radiant smile.

They walked through the park for a little while, hand in hand, until he led Rose to a little sandy beach along the Lake. They shuffled along, hunting for mussel shells while he listened to Rose tell him a bit of what she'd seen in Kenwood before coming back home to clean up and prepare the picnic basket.

But, just as she was telling him about the pizza, she cut herself off with a gasp.

“Sea glass!”

She dropped his hand and rushed over to the little green dot on the beach, bending over to pick it up.

“We call it beach glass here,” he said, with a tiny smirk. “'Cause it's from the Lake rather than the sea.”

“I've always loved sea glass,” she said. “Okay – beach glass. But just look at this. Isn't it gorgeous? Way better than any one of those diamonds they used to dress me up in.”

Rose picked up a few more pieces of beach glass as they continued down the beach, admiring each one and even pocketing a few to bring back to New York. After a while, the wind picked up, bringing with it a bit of spring chill. If they were going to have a picnic in the park, now was the time do to it before it got worse.

“What could I have possibly spiked it with?” Rose said, answering the question he had just posed with a playful grin. “I have no reason to poison you and I hardly think we have any need for an aphrodisiac. No, Jack. My confession is that I – uh – called you my friend today.”

“Am I not your friend?”

“You're the most infuriating friend I have,” she said, leaning up to kiss him. “But, really, I sort of had a – well, a surprise audition today.” Her voice was a little hesitant, so he wrapped an arm around her waist, bringing her in close. “I was really flustered – I gave them my real name and then remembered the stage name. Then I changed my mind and tried to go back to my real name. But when I explained why I gave them two different names I couldn't think of a word that I could use to accurately describe what we were to each other, so I said you were my friend.”

“We're together,” he said, meeting her eyes and squeezing her hand. “Simple as that. We can tell other people we're friends or lovers or soulmates or, really, whatever we want. But I think what we are to each other sort of defies definition.”

“Soulmates?” she said, pointedly. “Can you imagine? My name is Rose Parker, but I use Rose Dawson as a stage name because it's my soulmate's name and I'm here to audition for Lady Macbeth.”

“Sounds about right to me,” he laughed. “How was your audition?”

“Oh, it was horrible,” she said, with a jaunty, self-deprecating laugh. “I did it on a whim because I happened to be walking by, but I didn't have anything prepared and I looked like a total idiot.”

“That's too bad,” Jack said, resisting the urge to insist it had been better than she thought. Rose knew her own mind and the last thing she needed was someone who hadn't even been there telling her otherwise, even in encouragement. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” she said. “I'm a little disappointed to have maybe burned a bridge with the theater, as it could have been a good option in Chicago. But I'm more excited about the Goodman Theatre anyways – I wrote to them a couple of weeks ago. And I don't think I've told you yet – just before I left I got an invitation to audition for a theater company based out of San Francisco. Are there any worthwhile art museums there?”

“I'll check it out,” he said, taking another sip of his lemonade.

“Are you all ready for tomorrow?”

She meant the special exhibit. He knew she meant the special exhibit. But Jack couldn't help himself from hearing the question differently – as if she had asked it about the other thing tomorrow was.

And, perhaps, in a way, she had meant to ask about that, too.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I'm glad we'll be together for it.”

“There's no where else I could imagine being for it,” she said. “Now that we've found each other, we don't ever have to face tomorrow alone again, if we don't want to.”

“What did you do last year?” Jack asked. “For the first anniversary.”

“I had just started rehearsals for Pinafore,” Rose said. “I was glad to have something else to occupy my thoughts but, even still, I was so tense and jumpy the whole day. Jeremiah accidentally bumped into me during blocking and I – well I sort of screamed at him.

“When I finally got home to my boarding house, I opened a bottle of cheap wine. Then I finished the whole thing and opened another. When I finally made it to bed – falling down drunk but somehow still not drunk enough to drown out the memories – I couldn't sleep. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling until the night terrors came.”

Jack's hand hadn't moved away from her waist. He gave her a tiny, reassuring squeeze and started gently stroking her side with his thumb, reminding her he was there. Reminding her they were together.

“I got up early that morning and went on a long walk, all through Brooklyn,” he said. “I thought of you. I thought of Fabrizio. I thought of Tommy and little Cora and all the other friends I made. But mostly I thought of you.

“I don't know if you remember that it had rained a bit the night before. It made the morning feel dewy and peaceful and fresh and, in a strange way, calming.

“The longer I walked, the better I felt. I told you about the months long stupor I was in after the sinking, right? Well, by the anniversary, I was almost back to my regular self. I had finally started drawing again. I had the new maintenance job and the new apartment. And, for the first time in a long time, I was glad to be alive.

“But, as the morning went on and the rest of the city started waking up, this inexplicable feeling of dread started creeping up inside me, out of nowhere. I started rushing to get home, but I wasn't fast enough. As I turned the corner onto my street, I saw the newsstand – you remember the one, just outside my old front door? – had hung up the day's newspapers. And every single one of them had a picture of the ship on it.

“I don't know why I let it take me by surprise, but it did. In an instant, all of the morning's calm, all of my pride at how far I'd come had just – evaporated – and I screamed. I ran up all five flights of stairs in a rage and I punched a hole though the living room window. I couldn't bring myself to fix it until a few days later and, when I finally did, I wept the whole time.”

Rose looked up at him, sadly. In her eyes, he could see solidarity and understanding – a shared grief. She leaned her cheek against his chest and he wrapped both his arms around her. Neither of them said anything for a while, they just held each other close, hoping to heal.

Eventually, Rose reached into the picnic basket, pulling out the rest of the lemonade along with the sandwiches and sliced fruit she'd prepared that afternoon. As she refilled Jack's glass, and they both started picking at the food, their mood slowly improved. Gradually, they wiped their tears away, giving each other little touches here and kisses there, bringing themselves back to the present.

Conversation moved on – first to what Jack was most excited about in the special collection, then a bit more about where they might want to live when they made their next move. When they exhausted that topic, they turned to what they wanted to do with the rest of their time together this week in Chicago, including how they wanted to celebrate Rose's birthday.

“You and I can celebrate Rose Dawson's birthday together, this weekend, in private,” he said. “We'll have a bigger party for Rose Parker's birthday this summer.”

“You really don't mind?” she asked. “That I use your name?”

“Of course not,” Jack said. “The first time I said those two words together, aloud – it was after that first show, when I was standing outside your theatre begging the security guard to let me in – it took my breath away. Rose, I—”

He bit his lip. He had come so close to saying more. But a memory flashed in his mind – a memory of the first night in his Brooklyn apartment when there's more than one way to become a Dawson legally had slipped out. She had been gracious and understanding, as usual, but he promised himself then and there that, when he eventually did it for real, it would be intentional. Not a slip or a spontaneous decision, but a true reflection of the commitment he wanted to make to her.

Neither of them had any doubt in their mind that their love was permanent. They had both talked about getting married one day, and they had both used when not if. They hadn't been ready last autumn, but Jack was starting to think the day they would be ready was getting closer and closer, if it wasn't already here. And the more that thought consumed him, the harder and harder it became to not say anything.

But, at least for another month, they lived in different cities. And, despite their best efforts so far, they were no closer to a solution for living in the same city in a month's time.

“What?” she asked, with a brilliant, but expectant look on her face.

“Nothing, Rose,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I just love you.”

He thought she probably knew, or at least suspected, what had been on the tip of his tongue. But she didn't press him further. Instead, she tilted her face up towards him and pressed a kiss on the spot where his chin met his throat. Before she could do it a second time, though, he bent down to catch her lips. Of their own volition, their fingers intertwined, building up electricity as they deepened their kiss.

A trenchant cough from a passerby cut through their increasing passion. Rose turned away, resting her forehead on Jack's shoulder to hide her growing flush. But he, confidently, pulled back just long enough to remind the kind gentleman to mind his own goddamn business, and then he turned right back to face her.

“Where were we?”

“Jack!”

He kissed away her mock exasperation.

“You know,” he said, with a sly smile, so close he could feel her breath on his lips. “I'm glad we have the opening tomorrow to distract us from the bad memories. But, I, for one, also have some good memories of this afternoon, two years ago. Do you?”

“Nope,” she said, smiling widely. “I only remember this incessant man who wouldn't stop kissing me. Wouldn't even give me a moment's peace. At one point, I thought he had finally learned some manners – he opened a car door for me and asked me politely where I wanted to go. But then, well, Jack, you won't believe where he kissed me.”

“You're right,” he said, almost managing to keep a straight face. “I may need to see it to believe it. Why don't we call a taxicab to get home and then you can show me?”

–

The room was packed – far more crowded than Jack ever would have expected or dared to imagine. He observed, surreptitiously, as people read the little plaques with the descriptions he'd written next to each painting and photograph. He scanned the room, watching visitors looking at the art, scrutinizing their faces to see if he could tell whether they were enjoying the special exhibit.

His eyes landed on one visitor in particular – her black hair stuck out to him just as much as if it had still been fiery red. She stood in front of one of his favorite pictures in the collection, speaking animatedly with his friends Teddy and Ada, with a glass of white wine in her hand. The plain black dress she wore, paired with her comedy and tragedy mask necklace and a pair of opal earrings, made her look simply and effortlessly elegant.

Even from a distance, Rose's confidence and comfort in the space was evident. But that was who she was – she fit in just as well here as she did drinking beers in Harry's apartment for his birthday. She fit in just as well in his tiny studio apartment as she did commanding the stage, wearing a full, decadent dress.

About an hour before the official opening, he'd snuck her in for an unofficial, private showing. He showed her the art, whispering in her ear little secrets that hadn't made it onto the official plaques – along with a stray flirtatious comment here and there. Rose ran her fingers, almost reverently, over his name on the sign for the exhibit in the entryway. She pulled him in for a congratulatory kiss. But, just as he began to deepen it, Harry interrupted them, clearing his throat as a warning that the first visitors would start arriving any minute.

Now, as he strode over in her direction, Harry stopped him once again, this time with a gentle grip on his elbow.

“You ready for your big speech?”

“My...what?”

“You know, the speech I asked you to prepare giving everyone a bit more background information on the museum and the art you selected?”

“Uh—Harry,” he began. “I'm sorry, but—”

As his heart rate began to accelerate in panic, his eyes involuntarily scanned the room for Rose's. He knew her gaze would calm him down. He knew, if he kept his eyes on her, he could do anything. Even speak extemporaneously in front of a packed room at his very first special exhibit opening.

When he finally caught her eye, there was a twinkle of laughter in it.

“She put you up to this, didn't she?”

A half-smile spread across Harry's face.

“It was Teddy's idea initially,” said Harry. “She convinced me to actually go through with it. But, uh, Jack. It may not be the worst idea to get up there and at least introduce yourself and thank everyone for coming. Everyone I've spoken to has really enjoyed the collection and would be interested to know who put it together.”

“Uh, okay,” he said. He steeled himself, making sure to move quickly so he didn't lose his nerve, and then he picked up a glass of champagne from one of the caterers and tapped it with a spoon.

“Uh, hi everyone,” he said, as the din of voices quieted. Dozens of faces turned in his direction, but one in particular stood out. Rose looked mildly shocked, and he wondered if she thought he was actually going through with a long speech. He shot her what he hoped was a teasing look, and then looked away, abruptly, trying to take in the whole room.

“Hi,” he repeated. “My name is Jack and I put this collection together. I wanted to explore the difference between imagination and reality, through the media of colorful paintings and black and white photographs. I'd like to extend a thank you to Harry Chapman for his support and guidance as I selected the pieces. I'd also like to thank Rose Parker, my, uh,” his eyes shot back over to look directly at her. “My friend.” Her eyes grew big and he shot her a clandestine wink. “She was a big inspiration behind this exhibit. Finally, thank you all for coming. Please come find me if you have any questions on any of the art.”

“I deserved that,” she laughed, as he reached her side after his little impromptu speech. “But at least you didn't call me your soulmate.”

“You would have deserved it,” he said, planting a tiny kiss on her lips. “Because you are.”

“Ooh, that's too bad,” she said, pretending to wince. “Because you're my friend.”

“I'll have to write to Lydia,” he said. “We'll compare notes. See who's a better friend.”

“You'd better,” she said. “I wouldn't want either of you getting the wrong idea. But, really, Jack. Whatever we are to each other – friends, lovers, soulmates, spouses, eventually – I'm just glad to be together. I love you.”

Their lips met, once again. Jack wondered, momentarily, how many of the dozens of eyes that had just been on him were now getting an extra special show. But he didn't care enough to worry about that for long, and he pulled her in close.

When they eventually separated, he noticed her wine glass was empty, and he excused himself to go get a refill for them both. He made his way through the crowd, accepting the occasional brief compliment or head nod. As he approached the bar, ready to order two more drinks, though, a man – who almost looked like Fabrizio might have if he had ever been able to reach his 50s – Jack shook the thought away – approached him.

“Mr., uh, Dawson, is it?”

“Sure am,” he said, casually. He had a glass of wine in each of his hands, so he couldn't reach out a hand to shake.

“I'm Michael Lozcano,” he said. “I'm with the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I was hoping to take down your contact information so we could speak sometime in the next few weeks about a job opening we have.”

Chapter Text

April, 1914

“Thank you, we'll let you know.”

Rose stepped off the stage, trying to keep her face neutral enough to hide her thrill at how well she'd just performed. But, even still, she couldn't stop the corners of her mouth from curling up in just a hint of a smile.

She'd just finished a callback audition for a role in a new musical – a dark comedy about a female bank robber who, after having to seduce her way out of trouble after nearly getting caught one time, gets addicted to the thrill of seduction and starts taking bigger and bigger risks with each job.

The audition had been fun – she'd had the opportunity to try out new skills, including sultry dancing, and flex acting muscles she hadn't been able to in Pinafore. And she could only imagine how much more fun the real thing would be, in full costume and with the full orchestra. When there would be a raucous audience laughing at the jokes.

And, perhaps, one of those audience members laughing along might just be extra familiar to her.

A little over a week earlier, at the end of the opening for Jack's special collection, long after all the guests had left, she'd found Jack locked in deep conversation with an older man he introduced to her as Michael Lozcano, from The Met.

The whole way back to Jack's apartment, Rose had been so excited she was skipping more than walking. She told him – practically gushed to him – how excited she was for him. Not just for the successful opening, but also because it might lead him to bigger and better things.

“Bigger and better things like New York?”

“Well, yes, that would be a perk,” she said. “But, mainly, I'm just glad someone is finally recognizing all your talent.”

“It's just exploratory, Rose,” he said. “It's entirely possible nothing comes of it at all.”

“So what? Even if it doesn't go any further than a conversation, someone from The Met saw something in you. And I'm proud of you for that.”

“Oh? How proud?”

And, like that, all talk of museums was off. They spent their next four days in Chicago having simple fun together. No talk of job hunts or the next looming separation. No stressing about where they were going to live or what would happen if they couldn't figure out a way to be in the same city.

Until, that is, they kissed each other goodbye on the platform at Union Station, just after Rose's train was called.

“Goodbye, Jack,” she whispered. “I'll see you—”

She hesitated. The last several times they had parted, they had at least had a vague idea of when they would see each other again. They could depart, knowing how many days to to count down until their reunion. But, this time, neither of them had any idea when they'd next see each other.

“I asked Harry for some time off next month,” he said. “I want to be there for your last show.”

“Really?”

“Of course,” he said. “I'm still waiting for Harry to confirm it's okay for me to be out those dates, but I can't see how it would be a problem.”

“If you hear more from The Met,” she said. “Maybe we can use some of that time to check out the museum.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But don't get your hopes up, it's just—”

“It's just exploratory,” she said. “I know. But one of us has to get excited about this, and if it's not going to be you—”

“Last call!” A voice blared in the distance. “Last call for the 20^th Century Limited to New York Pennsylvania Station, making all intermediary stops.”

“Go,” he said, pressing his lips to hers. “I'll see you next month.”

“I love you,” she whispered, stealing one more kiss.

“I love you, too,” he said. “Call me on Wednesday?”

“Wouldn't miss it.”

And, with one last kiss, she rushed onto the train.

But, now that she'd been back in New York for a whole week, the prospect of Jack being here too – okay, maybe being here too, it was only exploratory, after all – was feeling more real by the day. She'd immediately dived back into auditioning for New York shows. She'd already been to three, though she was by far most excited about the bank robber one. And, even in the first few minutes after leaving the audition, time that she usually spent recapping her performance in her head, second guessing half the choices she'd made, she was feeling cautiously optimistic about having a new role to learn this summer.

Rehearsals were scheduled to start the first week of July, giving her a bit of time off after the end of her run in Pinafore. And, if Jack interviewed at the Met in mid-May – between the time it took for them to get back to him and his notice period at The Institute – he, too, would likely be starting in early July.

So, by her calculations, if she went straight to Chicago after her run in Pinafore ended, they'd have more than a whole month together while he wrapped up his work at The Institute.

Then, they'd go back to New York full time. They'd go back to New York together.

And they'd never again have to count their time together in minutes or days or weeks or months. But in a lifetime.

And, before that, they'd have time to do whatever they wanted. They could see the Chicago Cubs baseball game she'd gotten him tickets for. Maybe they could even take a weekend to go up to Wisconsin and try to track down Jack's grandfather. They had both been invited to Teddy and Ada's June wedding in Naperville, and, at least up until now, Rose hadn't thought she'd be able to make it. If everything did end up working out, though, she very likely would be in Chicago in June, and she would love nothing more than to see her two new friends get married.

“Rose! Over here!”

Lydia's cheerful voice brought Rose back to the present, and she looked up to see her friend beckoning her over to a table for three. Gus hadn't arrived yet, either, but Lydia had gone ahead and ordered a large bottle of soda water and three glasses.

The small cafe in Harlem, Gus and Lydia's favorite, was lively with activity on this, the first truly warm day of spring. The windows were open, carrying the sounds of the city awakening after the long winter in on the gentle breeze. Inside, dozens of patrons sat, laughing and chattering over food and drinks. Rose rushed over to embrace Lydia, and then she took her seat.

She hoped it would be a long lunch – they all had a lot to catch up on and she had nothing to do for the rest of the day until her scheduled phone call with Jack and the evening performance of Pinafore, immediately afterwards.

“Ooh, seltzer,” Rose said as she took her seat. “I haven't had that in ages.”

“I would have ordered champagne if not for our show tonight” Lydia said, only a tiny bit sheepishly.

“Oh? Are we celebrating something?”

“A few things,” Lydia said. “My new job, for one.”

“Your new—? You're leaving Pinafore, too?”

“Just the opposite, actually,” she said, with a huge grin. “I was offered your part full time after you leave.”

“Lydia! That's amazing” Rose shouted, drawing stares from several of their fellow diners. She lowered her voice, but only a touch, as she raised her glass and spoke a line from the show. “Now give three cheers!”

“I am the monarch of the sea!” Lydia said, finishing the line. They clinked their glasses and each took a long, celebratory sip.

Only a few minutes later, Gus arrived, pressing a kiss to the top of Lydia's head and taking the third seat at the table. Lydia immediately filled his glass with the rest of the seltzer from the pitcher.

“Though, I suppose you could have the champagne,” she winked at him. “Since you don't have anywhere else to be tonight. And, well, since you finished your new show.”

“Gus!” Rose very nearly spit out her drink as Lydia's casual comment registered.

“That's the second thing we're celebrating,” Lydia added, with a sly grin on her face.

“I finished the re-writes on the book a couple of weeks ago,” he said. “But one of the songs in Act 2 has been giving me trouble. I had a bit of a breakthrough this morning, though, and now I can say the book and lyrics are complete.”

“That's wonderful,” Rose said. “What's the show about, if you don't mind telling me?”

“It's set in Ancient Greece,” he said. “It's love story, between a god and a mortal – very loosely based on the myth of Eros and Psyche. Do you know it?”

“I don't,” Rose admitted.

“Psyche, the mortal, is the most most beautiful woman in the land – so beautiful, in fact, that Aphrodite herself is jealous of her beauty. Aphrodite sends another god, Eros – sometimes known better by his Roman name, Cupid – to punish Psyche by making her fall in love with a monstrous man. But when Eros goes down to earth to fulfill his mission, not only can he not go through with it, he falls in love with Psyche himself.

“The only issue is that, because Eros is a god and Psyche is a mortal, they are not allowed to see each other without grave consequences. Eventually, Eros works out a way for them to speak without seeing each other, and, quickly, they fall in love. There's a lot more to the story, including a prophecy from the Oracle of Delphi and some meddling from both Aphrodite and Psyche's sisters. In the end, Aphrodite makes Psyche face three impossible tests – including traveling to the underworld to drain the beauty from her face – to prove her love for Eros so that they can be together, eternally.”

“Oh,” Rose said, half intrigued, half teary-eyed at Gus's description. “How does it end?”

“In the actual myth,” Gus said. “The rest of the gods band together and help Eros save Psyche from the underworld, and they live together in a castle full of flowers. But, well, my version of it has a tragic ending. Eros goes down to the underworld to save Psyche, but they are caught and Hades demands one soul to keep. Eros trades his soul for Psyche's and she gets to go free.”

“Oh,” Rose repeated. Now, the tears won out over the intrigue, and she had to drain the rest of her glass in one long sip to distract from the tears streaming down her face. Lydia, too, tried to cover for her by signaling to the waitress for a refill on their pitcher of soda water.

“Sorry to react like this,” Rose said, as she managed to mostly compose herself, reaching for a napkin and dabbing her cheeks. “Lydia told you about me and Jack, right? How we met? How we found each other again after a year and a half?”

“Yes,” he said, sympathetically. “I promise I had the story drafted and even partially written before I ever heard the story. Besides, there may be elements of similarity, but it really is a different story.

“I know,” Rose said. “I think you just caught me on an emotional day. We –” Rose lowered her voice, almost afraid to give voice to the tantalizing thoughts that had been occupying her head all week. “We may very well be only a few weeks away from our own ending. Our own not tragic ending.”

“Does that mean Jack has heard back from The Met? Do we have a third thing to celebrate today?”

Even as Lydia asked the question, her eyes went wide with anticipation.

“Not yet,” Rose said. “It's still exploratory. But I've been auditioning in New York again, just in case.”

“Oh, Rose!” Lydia said, louder than necessary, once again drawing disdainful eyes from other tables. “I'm so happy for you. Do you think he'll move back to Brooklyn?”

“Nothing's confirmed yet,” she said. “So I'm trying not to plan too far ahead. But I have to admit I have been imagining it a bit. Brooklyn is so far away from the Met, though, so I'm wondering if we might try to find somewhere a little closer. If we move even a few blocks further East from where I am now – to Murray Hill, perhaps – I'd still be within walking distance of the Theatre District and he'd be close to the train that would take him directly up to the museum.”

“You're looking together?”

“We're not looking at all, yet,” she said. “He's still only had the one conversation. But, well, yes. We talked about it a bit and if everything works out, we do intend to live together. It, uh, might be a little unofficial. He might rent a place on his own and I'll just casually move out of the boarding house without giving details about where I'm moving to. But there's no reason for us to live separately if we're in the same city.”

“I really am happy for you,” Lydia said, just as the waitress brought their second pitcher of seltzer, along with the food they ordered. And, eventually, they fell back into casual, happy conversation about their summer plans and Lydia's excitement for her new role. By the time dessert came, they had been laughing heartily for some time, in open anticipation of the time, maybe only a few weeks from now, that their trio might become a foursome.

–

“I'm going to be there on Wednesday,” Jack said, over the phone, only a few hours later.

“Wednesday? Jack, that's so soon,” she said, excitedly. “I wasn't expecting that at all!”

“Neither was I,” he laughed. “It – well – I really am sorry, but it does mean I probably won't be able to make it out for your last show. Two New York trips in four weeks is probably a bit too much to manage. But, well, I made arrangements to stay the whole weekend, so we can have some time together. Er, that is, as long as you don't mind asking Lydia to cover your shows.”

“She'll be thrilled,” Rose said. “We both will. Though, perhaps I should still do the Friday one? That is, if you don't mind seeing it for – what – a sixth time?”

“Wouldn't miss it.”

It was Jack's second call of the day. The first, only an hour earlier, had been from The Met, inviting him to a formal interview this coming Thursday.

“I think I'll stay in the same hotel as before,” Jack said. “It was a pretty nice room for the price.”

“It was nice, wasn't it? Plenty of room for us both.”

“And it's a decent location. Not too far from the train to the museum.”

Rose chuckled, heartily, from her end of the line.

“What's so funny?”

“Nothing,” she said. “It's only – do you remember our first few phone calls? We could hardly string two words together. Even once we finally got used to it, we could hardly manage anything more than telling each other how much we love each other over and over again. And now we're making small talk about your hotel.”

“Exactly,” he chuckled. “I guess that's what happens when we start having phone conversations as often as we do.”

“I wouldn't change anything, though,” she said. “I loved reading and re-reading your letters – I still do. But I can see why the phone will be the communication device of the future.”

“How many diamonds are left?”

“Some,” she said. “I've had to start staggering which pawn shops I go to to avoid any questions, so I haven't always gotten the best price, but I think we should have enough for daily phone calls for another two or three months. Maybe four if I get better at haggling.”

“Okay,” he said. “Just as long as we're not suddenly cut off cold turkey. Now that I'm used to talking to you almost every day, I don't think I can go back to once a month.”

“No, me neither.”

“So let me know if we're starting to run low. I'll steal something from the antiquities collection to sell if I have to. Though don't – er – don't tell Lawrence or Harry I said that.”

“My lips are sealed,” she said. “But, now that I know you can steal from the museum, I have a few requests for my next birthday. The July one.”

“You do? What happened to the girl whose love couldn't be bought?”

“We're not talking about buying,” she reminded him.

“Very well,” he said, affecting poshness. “One stolen masterpiece coming up. Would a Grecian urn do?”

“Maybe not from antiquities,” she said. “As much as I did love that beaded, quetzal-feathered Aztec headdress. No, I think there are a few paintings from that Impressionist room that would work well in our apartment in Murray Hill.”

–

“Mr. Dawson? A note came for you, sir.”

Jack looked up at the hotel porter, only mildly surprised at the formal address. Even after six months of working at the museum, it still often took him by surprise when other people deemed him worthy of a sir. And, sure, this hotel was far more than he ever could have imagined affording a few years ago, but it was far from The Ritz.

Besides, he'd just come in from the rain with damp hair and mud-speckled clothes, hardly a look befitting a sir.

“Thanks,” he said, only remembering at the least second to fish a couple of coins out of his pocket to give to the porter in exchange for the envelope. Then he rushed up to his room on the third floor, in search of a bath.

Ten minutes earlier, he'd dropped Rose off at The Hippodrome stage door after they'd spent the afternoon together, walking through Central Park. They'd stopped, for a while, in front of a row of artists in the park and Rose, excitedly, pointed out the landscape artist she'd seen a few months earlier and written to him about. Jack had to admit that she was very talented – the finesse with which she painted the seascapes even rivaled some of the artists whose work he collected for the museum – and a fragment of an idea took root in the back of his mind.

When they peeled themselves away from the art stands, he told Rose all about yesterday's interview at The Met. It had been an all day affair, starting with telling six different curators about his museum experience and his own art, followed by a formal lunch with two members of the Board – he'd been reminded, uncannily, of the first class dinner party – then, finally, a tour of the museum. It had been extraordinarily interesting to see the museum collection, both on and off-display, but he had still felt like he was being watched – he still felt like he was expected to be impressive – and he hadn't allowed himself to fully relax and enjoy the art.

But, now, walking through the park in a light spring drizzle that invigorated more than inhibited, with Rose's hand in his, he was more relaxed than he'd been in a long time.

They stopped periodically – up against a tree or underneath a bridge – to kiss or touch or slide a teasing finger underneath a layer of fabric. It was during one of those moments – lips locked together, Rose's hand trailing up his back – that the rain picked up.

A year ago, rain like this would have sent them both immediately indoors, minds racing with images they'd rather not see. But, now, the only thing rainstorms reminded either of them of was the night they were reunited, in a torrential downpour outside The Hippodrome.

So, as the artists rushed to cover their work, as families and dog walkers dashed back indoors, they remained as they were, huddled together against the plinth of the Hamilton statue, getting drenched. When they eventually separated, the skies had darkened over the nearly-empty park and, all of a sudden, they realized they'd now have to rush in order to make it to the theatre in time for Rose's call.

Hands clasped, they took off in a run, uncaring about the mud that was splattering onto their clothes. At one point, Rose slipped on a patch of wet grass, managing to bring them both down with her, though she got the brunt of the mud. Jack's laughter at her expense only lasted until she brushed up against him, spreading mud across his back, before adding a stripe across each of his cheeks, for good measure.

A little over a mile later and just in time for Rose's call, they stood outside the theatre, catching their breath.

“I'll see you up on stage,” Jack said, pressing a kiss to her lips. “I'm sitting on the left side of the auditorium this time. Look out for me.”

“You can come in if you want, Jack. The house doesn't open for another half hour, but I wouldn't mind the company while I get ready.”

“Aw, c'mon, Rose. I've gotta go clean up. I can't go to the theatre like this.”

“Says who?” To emphasize her point, Rose flicked a wad of mud off her own elbow that landed squarely on Jack's chest. He was about to send one right back to her, when a male voice stopped him mid-aim.

“Parker! You're late! Get upstairs and get all that crap off of you, now.”

“Says him, I guess,” Jack said, only loud enough for them both to hear.

“Sorry, Mr. Wilson,” she said, squeezing Jack's hand as she turned into the theatre. “Jack, I'll see you in house left, looking squeaky clean.”

But now, he'd finally had the much-needed bath and was in his hotel room, getting ready to leave for the theatre, when the note caught his attention. The note the hotel porter had handed him as he came in and that he'd set on the bedside table and hastily forgotten about.

The last time he'd received an unexpected note in this hotel, three paintings had been damaged and he'd had to run at full speed to the library to make a phone call. He didn't have enough time to do something like that now, not without missing Rose's show, so he hoped, whatever it was, it would be mundane.

But, as soon as he turned the envelope over and noticed the printed logo in the upper lefthand corner, just above his name, handwritten in the middle, he knew that wouldn't be the case.

It was a logo he'd seen dozens of times yesterday, at his interview and on his tour. The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

“Moment of truth,” he muttered, to himself.

He moved his thumb to the seal, ready to tear it open. But, before he could, he hesitated.

At first, he imagined it being good news. If it were, he could go sit down for Rose's show assured of their future together in New York. He imagined rushing up to her at the stage door, wrapping his arms around her and whispering in her ear that he'd be moving to New York – the outcome that he was pretty sure she was secretly hoping for.

But then, he imagined it being bad news. Then, when he sat down for the show, he'd be unsettled. He'd have to watch her smiling, radiantly, on the stage, the whole time knowing in the back of his mind that he had news that would wipe that smile off her face.

He thought of all the support she'd given him during this interview process – from her initial assertions that he'd get an interview despite his own doubts, to this afternoon, listening as he recapped how it had gone. She'd even sat up with him, late into the night, the night before the interview, helping him polish his answers.

He set the note aside. Rose deserved to be there when he opened it.

But that didn't mean he was any less aware that their fate was sealed. He was nervous and jittery for the entirety of the short walk over to The Hippodrome. His hand shook as he passed his ticket to the usher. And his heart pounded as he made his way down the aisle to his seat.

It wasn't until he sunk into his seat and opened the program to see Rose's name that he could finally breathe a sigh of relief. Seeing her name – her stage name – Rose Dawson – there in black and white, relaxed him like nothing else could.

Whatever the note said, they would still be together. They would still find a way to be in the same city – whether that was New York or Chicago or Edinburgh or Oslo or Madrid or San Francisco. In a few short minutes, the lights would go down, the first few notes of the famous HMS Pinafore overture would play, and the only woman he would ever love would walk on stage and start singing.

And, as soon as she did, he forgot all about the note waiting in his hotel room.

When she took her bow, he stood up, clapping and whistling, until he managed to catch her eye. From the stage, she sent him a special, private smile. One that he shot straight back at her.

“Best yet,” he said, a few minutes later, as she opened her dressing room door to let him in. She was still in full costume, clearly wanting the give the muddy clothes from earlier – that Jack now saw hanging over a chair – a bit more time to dry. “I can't wait to see you as a bank robber.”

“I don't know if I've gotten that one yet,” Rose said. She'd turned back around to face the mirror, and began pulling the pins out of her hair.

“You did,” Jack said, wrapping his arms around her from behind. “I know you did.”

“You really know how to encourage a girl,” she said. “Have you ever thought about hiring yourself out?”

“Maybe that can be plan B if the museum business falls through.” He bent his head down, kissing the crook of her neck. “But, well, speaking of the museum, when I got back to the hotel before the show, there was a note for me. From The Met.”

Rose's head shot up in surprise. Still in his arms, and with half her hair still up in its elaborate twist, the other half flying free, she turned around to face him.

“What did it say?”

“I don't know yet,” Jack said. “I wanted to wait to open it until we were together.”

“Do you want the job?”

“What do you mean?”

“It's a simple question,” she said, with a sly smile. “Do you want the job or not?”

“I want to move back to New York to be with you.”

“That's not what I asked,” she said. “We've already agreed that we're going to find a way to live in the same city, whichever one that is. But I do want us both to be happy in that city. Will you be happy at The Met if they hire you?”

“Yes,” he said, taking both her hands in his. “Yes,” he said, once again, almost as if he was trying to convince himself of that as much as her. “Maybe not quite as happy as I am at the Institute – the job would be a slight step down in responsibility, and probably in salary, too, though I don't know for sure. But their collection is massive – three or four times the size of ours – and every single piece I saw yesterday was breathtaking.”

“If I wasn't here,” she said. “And they offered it to you, would you take it?”

He didn't say anything for a long time. Rose could see him thinking, and she didn't press him. She just held his hands and let him weigh his options.

“It doesn't matter,” he said, finally. “You are here.”

It was still raining by the time they made it outside, but they hardly noticed. They spent the short walk back to the hotel in companionable silence – the note that would be waiting there for them not far from either of their minds.

Rose gave Jack's hand a squeeze as they stood outside the hotel room door and he slowly let them in. They sat down together on the bed, both trying to look anywhere other than the night stand where the envelope sat, looking about three times bigger than it actually was.

“I have to tell myself it's going to say no,” Jack said. “That way I'm prepared.”

“If it does,” she said. “We just start looking at Chicago again. You'll go back there on Tuesday and I'll join you in a few weeks and start auditioning. Or, who knows, maybe something will come of all those other letters we sent out? Maybe we'll move to Norway after all.”

At some point, Jack had reached for the envelope and had turned it over and over in his hands so many times that he was almost surprised he hadn't worn through the outer layer of paper. He breathed in deeply, willing his hands to relax and the envelope to steady. He slipped one thumb underneath the flap, taking Rose's hand with his other and holding on tightly.

She gave him a tiny, questioning look, and with his silent approval, she slid over and sat right next to him. She watched over his shoulder as he unfolded the letter and held it up for them both to read. But they only needed to read one word – the one that immediately jumped out at them both, from the top of the page.

Congratulations.

Rose took his face in both her hands and kissed him, soundly and deeply. Jack let the note he still held in his hand fall to the ground as he responded, splitting her lips with his tongue and dipping it into her mouth. She, in turn, pulled him in close to her chest, trailing her fingers up into his hair, deepening their kiss even further, trying to tell him with her lips alone just how proud she was of him. Jack laid back, gently coaxing her to fall down on top of him, and he moved a hand to the row of buttons down the back of her dress.

“Not so fast,” Rose whispered, only for Jack to raise an eyebrow in concern. “I do want to,” she smiled. “But, first, I want to read the rest of the letter. I want to hear all the nice things they said about you.”

“Fine,” he said, feigning exasperation as he adjusted them both into a sitting position and picked up the letter. “Here goes,” he cleared his throat, dramatically. “We were impressed by your clear passion for and knowledge of the collection, as well as your enthusiasm and great skill when it comes to your own craft.”

“Jack!” She shouted, as she gave him an excited little smack on the shoulder. “That's amazing! Keep reading.”

“There's a bit about the pay and hours,” he said, as he skimmed the next little bit. “It's more or less the same as what I get now. They want me to start July 1, just like I thought. Oh—” His eyebrows knotted, and his eyes narrowed.

“What is it?”

“It's just a 6-month contract,” he said. “July to December. After that, they may or may not offer a renewal, depending on the needs of the museum.”

“Oh,” she said, her own face suddenly falling. “Shit.”

“It's fine,” he said. “It's probably just a precaution. They want to make sure I'm up to snuff.”

“Jack,” she said, skeptically, and with a hint of warning. “You don't have to pretend everything is okay. Not with me.”

“I know,” he said. “I don't think that's what I'm doing.”

She tilted her head, glaring at him so skeptically that he thought her eyes might catch on fire.

“Okay,” he admitted. “Maybe I am a little bit. But, Rose, this is exactly what we've been waiting for. I have an offer, in my hand, for a good job in the city where you live.”

“What will you do if they don't renew your contract in six months?”

“I'll apply at the Brooklyn Museum again. Or MoMA. Or I'll apply to college so I can work in DC if another job comes up for you there.”

“You won't have to worry about any of that if we go to Chicago. Your job there is permanent. It's secure until you resign.

“But what will you do there?”

“Theatre,” she said. “I haven't even explored half the theaters yet. I only went to one, shitty audition. I promise you that something will come through eventually.”

“I don't see how that's different than what my position might be in six months,” he said. “Mind you I said might. We still haven't considered the possibility that the Met loves me and wants to keep me on forever. Besides, you have that bank robber opportunity here, and I won't have you give it up for me. Not again.”

“Is that what you want, Jack?” She took his hand and stared into his eyes, as deeply and seriously as she could muster. “I'll repeat my question from earlier. If I wasn't here, would you take this job?”

“I'll repeat my answer,” he said. “You are here, so it doesn't matter. Being with you is more important than where I'm working, so there's no point in thinking about the hypothetical.”

“Yes,” she said. “But I don't have to be here. Maybe let's change the hypothetical. If I didn't have to worry about finding a role. If I were just a housewife or something. And you had the choice between staying at the Institute or moving to the Met, knowing I would follow you to either one, which would you choose then?”

“The Institute,” he said. His voice was soft, as if he were ashamed to admit it. “But it still doesn't matter. You're not just a housewife.” Neither of them said anything for a while, not quite sure what to make of what he had just said. Eventually, he spoke again. “Besides. I can ask you the same question. If I was just your – oh, I don't know – unemployed bum that you drag around – and I would follow you anywhere, would you stay in New York or move to Chicago.”

“Oh,” she said. “I hadn't really thought of it that way. Maybe you were right before, Jack. Maybe there isn't a solution to this with a perfect little bow on it. Maybe one of us will have to make a sacrifice.”

“It's hardly a sacrifice, for me,” he said. “Yes, with all else being equal, I would choose The Institute. But I liked The Met, too. Besides, it's not like I've never taken temporary jobs before. Do you think those squid fishing boats were offering me guaranteed contracts?”

“It might not be a sacrifice for me at all,” she said. “We've just been assuming I get the bank robber job, but I still don't know anything for sure. What was it you said – it's exploratory? There's a decent chance I'd have to spend the next month or two auditioning regardless of whether we're in New York or Chicago.”

“But it will still be easier for you, here, won't it? There are more theaters and you already know some people.”

“Probably a bit,” Rose admitted. “Yes.”

“So it sounds like we have two good, but imperfect options. That's an enviable position. Why don't we talk it over, logically?”

Rose nodded, sliding away from him a little bit so they could sit across from each other. But she still kept his hand in hers.

“Option one,” Jack began. “We live in New York. I work at The Met and you do the bank robber—”

Rose opened her mouth to protest.

“Yes, I know,” he said. “It's exploratory. But you got it. I'm sure you did. And, if by some catastrophe – some gross miscarriage of justice – you don't, well, you can keep auditioning. It only took you a few weeks to book Pinafore, right?”

“Right,” she said. “But I was also lucky that Pinafore was successful and lasted the whole year. Lots of shows close after only a month or two. If that happens with whatever my next role is and The Met, by a gross miscarriage of justice, doesn't extend you, we could both be out of work by the end of the year.”

“If that happens,” he said. “We'll just go somewhere else. Head off into the horizon.”

“Or there's option two,” Rose said. “The more stable option. You stay at The Institute and I audition in Chicago. The fact of the matter is, I will always be subject to temporary contracts and having to audition to find my next role. But you can stay at the museum as long as you want – we can still head out into the horizon, but we'd do it when we want, not because we don't have work.”

“Geez,” Jack said. “I have no idea.”

“Where can you picture yourself happier?” She asked. “Close your eyes. Think of collecting beach glass on Lake Michigan. Think of beer in Harry's apartment. Think of our little pastry shop in Bushwick. Think of dinner with Lydia and Gus.”

He did exactly as she instructed. He thought of all his favorite parts of New York and he thought of all his favorite parts of Chicago. But the only thing he could envision was the time they spent together in both cities. Love and admiration for the woman holding both his hands in hers eclipsed all other thoughts.

“I don't give a shit,” he said. “And I mean that. You said maybe I was right that one of us will have to make a sacrifice? Well, I think you were right. I think the details will sort themselves out and the important thing is being together.”

“So, just like that?”

“Just like that,” he said. “They gave me a week to get back to them. So, why don't we forget all this for the rest of the weekend and just enjoy our time together? Then, we'll both spend the next few days thinking it over. Making sure we're honest – first with ourselves and then with each other – about what we really want. If our letters from Norway come back or if either one of us has an epiphany about really wanting to be in one city or the other before the week is up, then our decision is made. If not—”

“If not,” Rose continued. “We'll flip a coin. What was it that guy said at dinner a few years ago? All life is a game of luck?”

“Deal,” he said. “In the meantime, do you have any ideas of how we might enjoy our weekend together?”

Jack shifted position so his face was only inches from hers, and his hand had returned to the buttons on the back of her dress. He leaned in to claim her lips, but before he could, a mischievous look spread across her face.

“Have you ever heard of something called Minsky's?”

“Nope,” he said. “What is it?”

“It's a show in one of the theaters near the Hippodrome. It's mostly dancing, and I think a reel or two of film. But it's meant to be rather risqué.”

“You're inviting me to a burlesque show?”

“The best burlesque show New York has to offer.”

“Lead the way.”

Chapter Text

May, 1914

The sky out the train window was just beginning to brighten, and Jack sighed, shifting against the hard train bench, looking for a more comfortable position to get another hour or two of sleep.

But who was he kidding?

Ever since he'd said goodbye to Rose in the terminal at Penn Station the night before, his mind had been racing. Instead of sleeping, he'd stared out the window all night, turning their options over and over in his head. As the train raced through small town after small town – the names of which were growing increasingly familiar with each trip back and forth – he imagined their life together in Chicago, where he had a steady job he liked, and their life together in New York, where they both had promising, but unconfirmed options.

Life together, of course, were the two most important words. But, even so, they had to live somewhere, and they owed it to each other to be honest with themselves about what mattered most, and to take it seriously.

And he had. He'd spent the night asking himself probing question after probing question, interrogating himself about whether he wanted to live in Chicago or New York or somewhere else or if it truly didn't matter to him where they lived as long as they were together.

How would you feel leaving The Institute? Leaving Harry ?

How would it make you feel if she gave up New York and wasn't happy? Isn't it worth giving up Chicago to make sure she doesn't feel that way?

But, then again, how would she feel if you gave up Chicago and ended up regretting it?

After each and every question, though, the only answer he could give himself that rang true was that he would gladly live in any of these tiny, Upstate New York farming towns the train was passing through – he would gladly live anywhere – if it meant he could be with her.

But – he was being honest with himself, after all – with all else being equal, deep down he was a tiny bit more excited about the prospect of being together in Chicago than being together in New York.

And he was almost positive she felt exactly the same way, only about New York.

Perhaps it would come down to a coin flip, after all.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin – a very special coin – and turned it over in his fingers a few times. Vaguely, he wondered if Rose had any idea he still had it.

He hadn't even known he still had it until a few months after the sinking. It was when he'd been at his lowest – broken and hollow and living on the streets, surviving on a diet of whatever he could scrounge and half wishing that each cough from his still-lingering pneumonia would be the one that killed him.

Then, early one morning, he picked up a nickel off the street – not enough for a square meal, but perhaps enough for a cup of hot coffee – and dropped it into his pocket, only to realize there was another coin in there.

After several months of catatonic grief, the momentary jolt of excitement he had at the idea of eating better than usual felt foreign, and he quickly tamped it down, letting guilt rush in in its place. Because who was he to be excited about anything when Rose wasn't there to share it with him?

But when he pulled the coin out of his pocket and actually looked at it, the jolt he got this time wasn't quite one of excitement. Instead, every feeling, every proper, genuine emotion that he hadn't allowed himself to feel since that afternoon in the White Star office when they so casually informed him that Rose was dead came rushing back in an instant.

It was terrifying and wonderful and infuriating and astonishing and inconceivable and tantalizing, all at once. And, in an instant, the stupor was shattered. In an instant, Jack remembered he was alive.

And that thought made him want to scream. Because feeling, it turned out, was the only thing worse than not feeling.

His hand trembled somewhat as he stared down at the very object that had caused the rush of feeling. One of the very last physical items Rose had ever touched.

The only thing she'd ever given him.

A dime, teasingly tossed his way as payment for the best portrait he ever drew.

A dime that, somehow, had survived in his pocket through everything.

A dime that had unlocked every emotion buried deep within him and reminded him that he, too, was a survivor. A dime that, once, had given him the courage to go through with the drawing and that – maybe not today – but someday, might give him the courage to rebuild his life.

In the time since, the coin had indeed brought him comfort and courage, scarcely leaving his pocket as he found the apartment in Brooklyn and began drawing again, as he found Rose and then moved seven hundred miles away from her. He'd spent countless hours on this same train – every time he went to see Rose and every time he left her – turning it over and over in his hands, trying to feel connected to her.

Well, maybe this dime's work bringing them together wasn't done yet.

“Heads New York, Tails Chicago,” he muttered to himself. And then he tossed it.

As soon as it was in the air, though, Jack realized that he didn't care where it landed. He would be overjoyed no matter how it fell because, heads or tails, New York or Chicago, it would mean he'd never have to leave her on the train, ever again.

He reached out to catch the coin as it reached the top of the parabola and tumbled back down, only for it to slip through his fingers and land, with a brief wobble, heads up on the table in front of him.

–

“Begging your pardon, miss,” the attendant at the ticket booth said, apologetically. “I'm short on dimes, but if you'll bear with me a moment I'll go check if we have any in the other register.”

“Take your time,” Rose said.

Rose wasn't totally sure this was a good idea. She had spent nearly every waking moment over the last few days trying to imagine their life together in New York and trying to imagine their life together in Chicago, and she was worried that coming here – to The Met – would cloud her judgment. She worried that wandering the halls of the museum where Jack would work if he did move here might make it so she could more concretely imagine their life together in New York, tipping the scales in the direction she was already more tempted by.

Last night, she had lain awake, wondering how Jack would react if she asked him, point blank, to move to New York for her – something she was sure he'd do in a heartbeat, job or no job. And once the idea took root, it only grew more tantalizing, becoming clearer and clearer in her mind with each minute that passed. And, by the time the sun rose fully in the sky, she had very nearly made her decision.

But she needed to be sure.

So, after a single cup of coffee in her boarding house, and a momentary diversion when Flora handed her two envelopes from the mailbox – one with a local return address she couldn't quite place and one with the familiar postmark from Chicago that meant it could only be from Jack – she was off. She stuffed both the envelopes into her bag to read later and made her way uptown, to The Met.

Because she needed to reassure herself that she wasn't asking too much of him. She needed to see the museum for herself and make sure that she could actually imagine him being happy here.

But, as she handed over the money to pay for her ticket, doubt crept in.

Shouldn't you let him decide that? She asked herself. Shouldn't you trust what he said when he said he'd be happy here? Wouldn't he take you at your word if the roles were reversed?

And she very nearly made a run for it. She very nearly shouted at the attendant, whose back was still turned as he rifled through the register on the other side of the small, enclosed room, to forget the whole thing.

But before she could, her eye was drawn to the narrow desk where the attendant had been sitting before he got up. Scattered pamphlets and museum maps and ticket stubs, even a few coins, ready to be given as change, littered the desk. Just in the center, though, was the paper that had originally caught Rose's attention.

The paper wasn't anything extraordinary – just a list of typewritten names, in two columns. But, third from the top of the second column, a name – a very familiar name – jumped out at her.

Her name.

Her stage name.

Rose Dawson.

“Uh, sir,” she said, trying to get the attention of the attendant.

“One thousand apologies,” he said, formally. “I'll only be another moment.”

“Forget about the change,” she said. “Will you tell me what this list is?”

If the attendant heard her, though, he didn't acknowledge her question. Instead, he turned around, coins jangling in his hand, and walked back over to face her.

“Thirty-five cents,” he said, dropping a nickel and three dimes into her hand. “Would you like a pamphlet explaining our current special exhibits?”

“Can you tell me what this list is?” Rose asked, again, ignoring the pamphlet he held out on offer.

The attendant narrowed his eyes at her, blinking a few times in confusion.

“That list,” Rose said, pointing directly to it. “Please?”

“Oh,” the attendant said. “That's just the comp list. You know, people we can let in for free. Mostly museum employees' family members and that sort of thing. Why, do you know someone?”

“Uh no,” Rose said, quietly, as she took her ticket and pamphlet and hurried away from the desk, feeling suddenly uneasy.

Jack, what did you do?

–

“Any updates on the restoration of the Ellsworth pieces?”

“Last time I talked to Ed, they were making good progress. They're done rebuilding the backing and frame and just need to re-mount it so they can assess and repair any cracks in the gesso base.”

It was a Friday afternoon in late spring – a rare quiet day at the museum – and Jack and Harry had spent most of the day in Harry's office, catching up on work and on life. Harry shared news of his family back home in Yorkshire and told a few funny stories about a disastrous date he'd went on the night before. Jack, in turn, told Harry all about his recent trip to New York – leaving out the interview at The Met, of course – but making sure to mention the landscape painter they had discovered in Central Park.

That led to a bit of shop talk – they discussed the next special collection Harry wanted to mount and a few new up-and-coming artists whose pieces they might want to collect. There was a new abstract sculptor Jack had read about making waves in Eastern Europe, and Harry had heard rumblings that a former student at the art school affiliated with The Institute was starting to make a name for herself and might be on the brink of making it big.

“O'Keeffe, I think her name is,” he said.

Jack wanted to ask more about her work, but the shrill ring from the phone on Harry's desk cut him off before he could get a word out.

“Art Institute Curatorial Department,” Harry said, into the receiver. “Chapman speaking.”

After a beat, Harry raised his eyebrow in Jack's direction and handed the receiver over to him.

“It's for you,” he said, as he stood up and made his way to the door of his office. “And, I – uh – forgot. I have a – uh – a thing.”

As the door closed behind Harry, Jack held the receiver up to his ear curiously. As part of their promise to be honest with themselves, he and Rose had agreed to wait a few extra days before their next phone call to give themselves time to really think it over properly, so he didn't think it would be her on the line. But he couldn't begin to imagine who else might be calling him.

“Hello?” He said, tentatively, into the phone.

“Hi Jack.”

It had been a few days since he'd last heard her voice, on the train platform in New York. And hearing it now, even on the other end of the phone line, made him realize just how starkly he'd felt the absence of their usual calls.

“Hi Rose,” he said. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” she said. “Sorry to call so unexpectedly. But I just—”

“I know,” he said. “I'm glad you did. But to what do I owe the call? Did you have an epiphany about where you want us to live?”

“Epiphany might be too strong a word” she laughed. From her tone alone, he could tell she was in a good mood. “But I do have some, well, news, that I want to talk to you about.”

“News?”

“Mmhm,” she said. “And I'll get to it. But first, I think I should explain that I went to The Met this morning.”

“You did?”

“I did,” Rose said. “And, right at the front desk, there was a list of names of people who could get in for free – family members of employees. And, well, my name was on there – or, at least, my stage name was on there. Was that your doing? Did you accept the job as some sort of noble sacrifice or something?”

“What? Rose, no. I would never do that without talking to you first. We're in this together, remember.”

“Yes, Jack,” she said, the relief in her voice making her sound even more light and happy than she had a few minutes ago. “Though it doesn't answer how my name did get on there.”

“We have a pretty common name,” Jack said. “It might not be—” He felt himself blushing as he realized his mistake. “I mean I have a pretty common name.”

“You just said we're in this together,” Rose teased. “Doesn't that mean I have some claim to the name?”

“Of course you do,” he said. “As much claim as you want. But, really, what was this news you had for me?”

“Well,” she began. “I received two letters this morning. I thought one of them might have been from my lover in Chicago, but I was wrong. Neither of them were.”

“I wrote you one!” Jack said. “I posted it first thing this morning.”

“If you insist,” she teased. “I'll wait around for it, so I can read how much you love me and how much you miss me.”

“Are you sure you haven't received it? That's pretty much exactly what it said.”

And, as he heard her hearty laughter, he suddenly realized what news had been in those letters. He suddenly realized why she was in such a good mood.

And, suddenly, he, too felt lighter.

“You got the bank robber role,” he said, his voice nearly cracking with emotion. They had done it. They'd found a way to be in the same city. “Congratulations, Rose. As soon as we're off the phone I'll call up The Met and accept the job. Get your name on the list for real.”

“Jack,” she said. “Not so fast.”

“Rose?”

“I spent all morning at The Met.”

“Rose?”

“Let me finish,” she said, and he could practically hear her grin through the phone. “I spent all morning at The Met, and it was just as you said. Every single piece on display was a masterpiece. More than once, I found myself so engrossed in a painting that I was sure I could stare at it for hours, only to be immediately drawn to another masterpiece, across the room. I was so excited that you'd be working there.”

“I—”

“Jack,” she scolded, and, once again, he could practically see her teasing glare, even though he wasn't looking at her.

“Right, let you finish. Sorry.”

“The longer I stayed, though, the more worried I got. I tried so hard to imagine you taking me through the galleries, whispering little secrets about the art in my ear, pushing me up against a gallery wall and kissing me senseless, just like you did in Chicago. But I couldn't quite imagine it. Yes, the art was amazing, but the atmosphere was so – stiff and austere – so unlike you. Hell, I even saw someone there wearing an outfit so reminiscent of my mother's taste that I could have sworn both the hat and the dress came directly from her closet. And I found myself wanting, desperately, to protect you from it. I found myself wanting to make my own noble sacrifice.”

“Rose,” he said. “I wouldn't want you to do that any more than you'd want me to.”

“I know,” she said, with a smile in her voice. “You told me you'd be happy there, and you've never given me any reason to doubt you. And I'd never, not in a million years, want to make a decision for you. But, even still, my mind was a bit muddled. Because, well, all week I'd been trying to find a way to justify asking you to move to New York, but seeing the museum made me doubt my conviction.”

“Say the word and I'm there, Rose,” he said. “And it will be my decision to take the job. It's funny how my tolerance for snobbery goes up the better the art involved is.”

“Jack,” she said. “You don't have to take the job. Not unless it's what you really want.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I got home,” Rose continued. “Well, to the boarding house. I've – I've been struggling to think of anywhere as home if you aren't there,” he could practically hear the blush rising up her cheeks. “When I got back to the boarding house, I finally got around to opening the two letters I got this morning. I started with the one with the local return address.”

“And, you were partially right. It was news about the bank robber role,” she continued. “But I didn't get it. At least not entirely. I got a part in the ensemble and was offered the chance to learn the bank robber track as an understudy.”

“I'm sorry, Rose,” he said. “I'll still be there to see you opening night. And I'll be in the front row the first time you go on as the bank robber. Just tell me whose leg I need to break to make that happen.”

“Jack!” She practically squealed. “But, really, in a way, it was actually a bit of a relief.”

“It was?”

“Yes,” she said. “I came home thinking that you had taken the job at The Met, and I wasn't sure if you did it as a noble sacrifice or because you really wanted it. But half getting the role suddenly meant that either one of those options would be okay. Because if you did really want the job, I would still enjoy being in the ensemble in that show. But if you didn't, an ensemble role would be much easier to walk away from than a principal one.”

“Rose, if there's any part of you at all that wants it, you should take it. You've already turned down so much for me.”

“I will take it if you want the job in New York,” she said. “But, remember how I said neither letter was from my lover in Chicago?”

“Mhm,” he said, casually.

“Even though it wasn't from you, one was from Chicago. Do you remember that horrendous audition I went to a few weeks ago at the Chicago Shakespeare Company?”

“Mhm,” he said, again. This time his voice was much more anticipatory.

“It must not have been as horrible as I thought,” she said. “In fact, they thought that the audition I gave – where I was flustered and greasy and exhausted – made me the perfect fit to play Lady Macbeth, so you may get to see me as a madwoman after all. I was offered a yearlong run, starting later this summer.”

“So, you—”

“Yes,” she said. “I have an offer for a good job in Chicago, and I'd like to move there and take it, unless you object.”

“You're sure?”

“Positive,” she said. “It might be different if I had been offered the bank robber full time, or if The Met had been as good a fit for you as The Institute. But just a few days ago, we agreed that the important thing was being together and that we had two good, but imperfect options. And, well, the chips fell where they did and now we have one imperfect option and one good option. And it didn't require a noble sacrifice from either of us.

“Rose,” he said, hoarsely. All of a sudden, he felt every inch of their seven hundred mile separation. Now that he knew she would soon be here, in Chicago, with no deadline, no looming separation, his body physically ached at his inability to wrap his arms around her. Knowing that, soon, that space would be filled and would never be empty again, he was brought to tears. “Rose,” he repeated.

“So you're happy?”

“Yes, I'm happy,” he said, wiping away a tear with a shaky hand.

“I'm happy, too,” she said, her own voice cracking with excitement. “I have three more weeks in Pinafore, but as soon as that's done, we'll be together in Chicago.”

“Three weeks,” he whispered. “Rose, I can hardly believe it.”

“I can't wait,” Rose said. “There is one problem, though.”

“Oh?”

“I don't have anywhere lined up to live. Would it be too forward of me to ask if I could move in with you?”

“Of course you can, Rose,” he whispered. “I want us to live together, like we talked about. But you've seen my apartment. I'm not sure it's big enough for two people.”

“It's hardly smaller than the room in the boarding house I've been sharing for the last year and a half. And I have no doubt you'll be a better roommate than Flora,” she said, with a grin. “But, really, I think we can manage. As long as you won't get sick of me.”

“I'll have bigger problems than living arrangements if I ever get sick of you,” Jack teased. “But if you're sure, I'll just need a roommate reference letter and a check for your half of the rent, pronto.”

“Fine,” she said. “But, in exchange, the least you can do is get my name on the comp list at The Institute.”

“Consider it done,” he said. “I just need your name and place of residence. What'll it be – Miss Rose Parker, resident of Chicago, Illinois? Or, if you prefer, I can use Daw—”

Jack cut himself off, abruptly, as the sound of a door creaking open startled him so much he practically jumped out of his seat. Jack had been so caught up in the conversation that he managed to forget he was still on the clock. He'd been so caught up in the conversation that, once again, he'd very nearly said more than he intended.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Harry said, poking his head through the office door. “I just realized I need my notes for the—”

“Don't be,” Jack said. “I'm the one making a personal call on museum time, and in your office, no less.” He turned his attention back to the phone. “Gotta go, Rose,” he said. “I love you, and we'll talk soon.”

“I love you, too,” she said, on the other end of the line, before it clicked closed.

“Did I hear that right?” Harry asked. “She's moving out to Chicago?”

“Yes,” Jack said. His voice was feeble, as if he could hardly believe it himself. “She is.”

“Well good on ya,” Harry said, clapping Jack on the shoulder. “Now shoo. Finish your work so you can enjoy one of your last free weekends.”

Jack chuckled, reaching into his pocket for the dime in hopes that it would help him keep his composure enough to make it through the rest of the work day.

“Thanks, Harry,” he said, as his thumb traced the face of Liberty on the head side of the dime, where it had landed after he tossed it the other day.

–

Despite Harry's insistence that he enjoy the weekend, Jack went home that night and cleaned every inch of his apartment. He stayed up well past midnight, washing every window and scrubbing every surface, dragging the rag into every crevice, until the apartment looked brand new. On Saturday, he re-caulked the kitchen sink that leaked now and then and replaced the coat closet door that never quite closed properly.

He spent Sunday repainting the walls, choosing a cool blue-grey color to make the room feel a little larger than it was. Then, he hung a few paintings on the wall to give the room a bit more color, making sure to leave at least two full walls open, so that Rose could decorate them if she wanted to.

Early Monday morning, despite getting only a couple of hours of sleep, Jack pulled himself out of bed and went to the secondhand furniture store, where he selected a few pieces, including a new sofa to replace the single armchair, a proper dining table, and a new dresser, large enough for two people's clothes.

New purchases in tow, he rushed home. And, despite knowing it might make him a few minutes late for work, he installed the new dresser, placing all of his clothes to one side and leaving the rest empty and expectant. Ready to be filled with Rose's belongings.

He was tempted to do more – he envisioned painting the new dresser white and detailing it with little painted flowers, but this wasn't just his apartment anymore. He wanted to make sure she had room to make it her own as much as she wanted.

Satisfied, he glanced around, before yawning once and shuffling off to the museum, more than thirty minutes late.

He snuck in as discreetly as possible, making sure to not draw attention to the fact he was so tardy. Quietly, he made his way to the hallway that contained all their offices which, by some stroke of luck, was completely empty this morning. Not a soul had seen him come in late and, for a moment, he thought he got away with it.

“Oi! Dawson! May I have a word?”

“Hi Harry,” he said, a little sheepishly. “Sorry to be late. I was working on—”

“Late?” Harry glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Oh, yes, I suppose you are. Do try to be more punctual in the future. But I have another matter to discuss with you. Will you come into my office?”

–

Rose had no plans today – no auditions, no research into theaters or art museums around the world, not even a call scheduled with Jack. Pinafore, too, was dark on Mondays. And while she spent many of her days off with Lydia, even that wasn't an option today, as she and Gus had gone Upstate for a few days to celebrate his completed manuscript.

Having so much free time felt strange – it almost reminded her of her youth, when the days stretched out endlessly with nothing to do but gossip. But, no, she reminded herself, it wasn't like that at all. Now she was free to spend her time doing whatever the hell she wanted.

So she did.

First, she dashed off two letters to Chicago – one to Jack, where she spent several pages trying to put into words everything she was feeling about finally having a plan to live together. Her words fell short, but she thought Jack would appreciate reading them, anyways. The second letter was addressed to The Chicago Shakespeare Company, formally accepting the role and confirming that her paychecks should be made out to Rose Parker, but that she'd like to be listed in the program as Rose Dawson.

And, this time, she was doing it with his blessing and encouragement.

She dropped both envelopes in the box in front of the Post Office on 8^th Avenue, pressing her lips to the seal of the one addressed to Jack before sliding it into the slot, and then she went and enjoyed New York.

She stumbled upon a matinee of a weird, experimental play staged in a basement – it was bold and sexy, with music unlike she'd ever heard before. It blurred the lines between theatre and performance art, and she loved every second of it.

Afterwards, she bought herself an ice cream and ate it while walking through The Village, stumbling into an outdoor flea market and a few shops here and there. A free ballroom dance lesson was taking place along the shores of the East River, and Rose joined in in the back, partnering with another woman who had also come on her own, taking turns leading each other through the tango. She even made her way across the river, and spent a few hours wandering Brooklyn before popping into the Brooklyn Museum to admire some of their more unusual exhibits.

As she left the museum, Rose mused a bit about leaving New York. A few weeks ago, the thought would have made her nervous – even if leaving meant she got to live with Jack. A few weeks ago, Bessie's words about giving up her career for a man would have haunted her. A few weeks ago, she might have held out hope that there was an equally good option for Jack in New York. But now, after seeing the pretentiousness of The Met up close and now that she had booked a good role in Chicago, she knew she was making the right decision.

There were, of course, things she would miss about New York. As good as the theatre scene in Chicago was, she didn't think she'd just happen across something as unique as what she saw this afternoon. But there were also things she wouldn't miss – Flora, for one, and the dingy boarding house they shared.

But as she made her way back across the Brooklyn Bridge, subconsciously comparing it to the Wacker Bridge, her thoughts turned to what she was looking forward to in Chicago. Living with Jack, of course, was a given. But there was so much more. Jack had told her about a number of Chicago's culinary specialties – Italian Beef, Paczkis, even Chicago Style hot dogs – and she couldn't wait to try them all. She was also looking forward to spending more time with his friends – even making some of her own as she made inroads into theatre in Chicago. And, perhaps most of all, she was looking forward to this summer, where they'd have time together to do whatever they wanted – they'd go to the baseball game she'd gotten him tickets for, they'd stroll the shores of Lake Michigan, maybe he'd even take her up to Wisconsin for a long weekend.

Lost in her thoughts, Rose continued to wander aimlessly through Lower Manhattan until the sky began to darken around her. She sat down on a bench for a moment of rest, only to look up to see the Statue of Liberty directly in front of her, blanketed by a sunset that rivaled the one she had completely ignored the first time she kissed Jack.

The whole time she'd lived in New York, Rose had never made it down to Battery Park to see the Statue. At first, she'd avoided it intentionally, to avoid dragging up any painful memories of the last time she'd seen it. Over time, as she rebuilt her life and got busy with theatre, it got easier and easier to forget the statue even existed, and memories of it, painful or otherwise, never even crossed her mind.

Now, though, staring up at it, she wondered if she might finally be in the right frame of mind to think about that night, two years ago. The night she knew she would finally be free to start her new life. The night she should have seen it with Jack.

With a jolt, she realized they still could see it together. She'd just have to bring him down here next time he came to visit.

But, with another jolt, she realized that Jack wouldn't be in New York anytime soon.

Because, as much as they were both hoping he'd be able to make it out for her last show, it wasn't looking likely that he'd be able to make it away from the museum again so soon after the trip for the interview.

It hardly mattered, though, because right after her last show, she would be getting on a one-way train to Chicago.

And, then and there, after so long spent trying to picture the different paths their future could take – their life in New York, their life in Chicago, their life somewhere else – it finally – finally – hit her.

She was leaving New York, permanently.

In order to be with Jack, permanently.

The future that had been so fuzzy just days ago – the future that, even as she broke the news to Jack over the phone a few days earlier, still felt like a dream – was now all of a sudden clear. She could picture herself giving the out damned spot monologue to a packed house at the Chicago Shakespeare Theater. She could picture walking up to the ticket office at the Art Institute and saying Rose Parker, Chicago resident – or, hell, maybe even Rose Dawson, Chicago resident – and being let in for free. And she could picture coming home to a small apartment after a long day and crawling into bed beside the man she would always love.

Even the idea of it made her blink back a tear of joy.

Because it hadn't been easy. More than once, they'd both had their doubts that they would find a way to be together. But they'd done it. Jack had found the perfect job for him and she'd found a way to allow him to keep it without sacrificing her own creative passion.

And, suddenly, the words she had written to him in her letter felt wholly insufficient. Not being right next to him felt wholly insufficient.

So she stood up, letting her feet carry her without much input from her brain. And, before she knew it, she was sitting in the little cubicle in the library, holding the phone to her ear.

“Rose?” Jack said, picking up the phone almost as soon as it connected. “I was hoping you'd call.”

There was an odd, subdued tone to his voice, one she couldn't quite place. He sounded exhausted, but she thought that might not be all.

“I was out on a walk,” she said. “And I wanted to hear your voice. I missed you.”

“I've—” But whatever he had been about to say was cut off when he yawned, loudly. “Sorry, Rose. You'll have to forgive me. I was up too late last night.”

“Forgiven,” she laughed. “But, really, Jack, is everything all right?”

“How can you tell?”

“I know you,” she said, simply.

“Everything is fine – well, maybe not fine, but it's nothing devastating. It's – that is – it's the reason I'm glad you called.”

“Jack?”

“I got some news today. Some of it is good news. But there's some – not quite bad – but, um, complicated news that goes with it.”

Rose had to admit that she was both anxious and curious to hear what the news was. The last time they had spoken, just a few days ago, they had left the call giddy and overjoyed, finally having a plan to live together. What news could Jack have received since then that would make him sound so bereft? After everything, could yet another wrench have been thrown in their plans?

She knew better to press him, though. She had no doubt that he would share the news with her – the good news and the complicated news – when he was ready. So she simply said I'm listening, and then let him continue at his own pace.

“The, uh, good news,” he said, after a beat. “Is that I will get to be at your last show after all.”

“You will? Oh, Jack, I'm so glad.”

He made a noise, deep in his throat, that she thought was somewhere between a wry chuckle and a nervous release of breath. And she suddenly remembered the complicated news.

“What's the other news?”

“Well,” he said. “Harry has been in communication with a few of our colleagues in France – at the Louvre, the Orangerie, and the d'Orsay. They're growing increasingly nervous about the political situation over there and, well,” he started to trail off, but then he drew in a sharp breath and continued, sounding much more confident than he had. “The reason I'll be in New York on the 17^th is because the museum is sending me to Paris to help bring some of their treasures back to Chicago for safekeeping, in case war does end up breaking out. I have to be there to—” and then his voice was suddenly quiet again. “Board the ship.”

Neither of them spoke for a few minutes, as they absorbed the news. Silence – silence that was costing two dollars a minute – overcame them. But Rose didn't care. She was happy to listen to his breathing and know that, somewhere on the other end of a wire, he was there, thinking the same thoughts she was.

“Harry should know better,” she said, finally. “Now that he knows the whole story. What on earth was he thinking?”

“He was going to go himself,” Jack said. “But then his brother in Yorkshire got called up to the army, and I think it scared him. I think he's nervous that, if he's over there, they won't let him come back.”

“So instead, he makes you do it?”

“I had the same thought,” he said. “And I very nearly said no. I very nearly told Harry to grow a pair and do it himself. But he gave me some time to think it over, and I realized a few things. First, if there is going to be a war, it will engender a lot of ugliness, and this is a unique chance to counteract that – to make sure that some of the beauty that we do have stays safe – and I'd like to take that chance. Secondly, I remembered how excitedly we talked about living in Oslo or Madrid – and I know we never got far enough down that path to consider what the actual move would entail, but it made me wonder why I'd presumably by okay with that, but not with this.”

He was right, of course. They had talked so much about seeing the world together – they had shared so many of their dreams to see far off places. To make art and theatre on every continent. But even though she was sure they both knew, deep down, the implications of their dreams of traveling outside North America, they had never allowed themselves to talk about how they would get to all these places – at least not with actual words.

But, still, there was one glaringly obvious reason why it would be easier for them to move to Madrid than for him to go to Paris for a week.

“Well, for one thing,” she said, “We'd be facing it together.”

“Funny you should say that,” he said, wryly. “Because there's one more thing.”

“What?”

“Harry very strongly implied that the museum will be paying for one stateroom for me, and that they won't be scrutinizing the names of anyone else in the room very closely. Would you, maybe, want to come?”

“Oh,” she said, involuntarily bringing her hand up to cover her gasp. “I—I will if you want me to.”

“I would love to see Paris with you,” he said. “And, to be honest, I do think I'd feel better facing the voyage if you were there. But it is your decision, no matter what. I know exactly how terrified I am about getting on the ship, and I know exactly how much I'm asking of you. And no matter what your answer is, I promise I'll be there in the audience for your last show.”

“Can I think about it?”

“Of course,” he said. “I think we have pretty much up until the day before departure to decide.”

“I do want to see Paris with you,” she said. “It's just—”

“I know,” he said, steadfast. “Take as much time as you need to make sure you're making the right decision.”

–

For the second time in as many days, Rose sat, silently, on a bench in Battery Park and stared up at the Statue of Liberty.

Less than twenty-four hours early, she had been struck by a cavalcade of emotions as she realized that her wish to see the Statue with Jack wouldn't come true, but only because they had a plan that meant they were done going back and forth for good.

But, now, he would indeed be in New York one more time. Maybe when he was here, she'd have a chance to take him down here to see the Statue, after all.

Maybe they'd even see the Statue, together, from the deck of an Eastbound ship.

The single, fat raindrop that hit her arm as soon as she had that thought heralded in a memory. The very memory that she'd been trying to avoid by staying far away from this Statue the whole time she'd lived in New York.

“Dawson, Rose Dawson,” she said, before lifting her gaze to see the Statue. The metaphor was almost too perfect – so perfect that she probably would have rolled her eyes at how heavy-handed it was, had she been in the proper frame of mind to feel any emotion whatsoever. But, instead, she was nearly brought to tears by how profound it was to speak her new name – the one she had used to liberate herself – and immediately look up to see a 300-foot-tall symbol of... liberty.

The name had only lasted a matter of hours, of course. But, then again, it had also persisted up until now. Because even though Rose Parker had been the one to leave Ellis Island two years ago, even though Rose Parker had failed in her mission to get her name changed, legally, Rose Dawson's name was still printed nightly in the Pinafore program, and would continue to be after she moved to Chicago. Rose Dawson's name, however it got there, was on the comp list at The Met and would very likely soon be on the comp list at The Institute.

The rain picked up, threatening a torrential downpour, just like the one on the night they had found each other again. Just like the one the following night, when he'd accidentally let slip that there's more than one way to become a Dawson legally.

And how many dozens of times had one or the other of them made a similar slip in the time since that night? How many dozens of times had they casually spoken about the future they wanted with each other? How many dozens of times had they reassured each other that they were in this together, that they'd never have to face anything alone, ever again?

So there was something inherently wrong about one of them having to face something like an ocean voyage without the other.

But he wouldn't want you to do something like that just to make him comfortable.

But you wouldn't want him to have to do it without you.

No. From the moment they decided that living together in the same city was their priority, they had worked so hard to find a way to make it happen. And, now that they had, it was time for them to do just that – be together.

Forever.

–

Early the next morning, even before the library opened, Rose stood outside, stroking the head of the stone lion – ironically named Patience – who flanked the front entrance.

She'd been up most of the night, her mind racing with thoughts of every moment she and Jack had spent together on the ship and what it might be like to board a different, eastbound ship with him. Briefly, she imagined what it would be like to see him off, alone. But that thought was far worse, and she blinked it away.

Instead, her thoughts turned to all the time they'd spent together over the last eight months and all the time they'd spent apart. She thought of all the time they still had, ahead of them. And she thought about how committed they'd both been to finding a way to ensure they'd be together for that time they had ahead of them.

And, sometime around three or four in the morning, she'd made up her mind.

The moment the library door opened, she raced inside and down the flight of stairs that lead to the familiar phone cubicle and, guided mainly by muscle memory, she picked up the phone and asked to be connected to Chicago.

“Jack,” she said, relieved to hear his voice, relieved that he had picked up despite the early hour. “Before we get into it, you know how I've been pawning diamonds from the necklace's chain to pay for these calls?”

“Good morning to you, too, Rose,” he laughed. “But yes, I know you've been paying for the calls with the diamonds. Are we running low?”

“No,” she said. “But I do want you to know that I'm not touching the money I got from selling the diamonds to pay for this call. The necklace isn't paying for this call. Cal isn't paying for this call. Every penny I'm spending on this call is one that I earned, on my own.”

“Rose?” His voice was tentative, almost nervous.

“I've thought it over,” she said. “And I will go to Europe with you. As long as—”

“As long as what?” Jack asked. “What's your condition?”

“Not a condition,” she said, a tiny smile breaking through her lips despite the serious topic. “A, um, proposal – a suggestion for a way it might be a little easier.”

“Okay,” he said, gamely. “I'm all ears.”

“We're in this together,” she said. “Just like you said. Together. We're going to have the life together in Chicago we worked so hard for. And, Jack, it's going to be such a good life. But it doesn't stop there. I want us to go to France together. Hell, I want us to go everywhere together. Adventures far and wide that we'll go on together. But—”

“But?”

“But I don't want any trouble at Ellis Island.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, beaming. “That when we come home from these adventures we'll take together, I intend to come through immigration as a Dawson. A Chicago Dawson. And, this time, I want it to be for real.”

“Rose” he said. “Are you—?”

“I've known I wanted to marry you for a long time, Jack,” she said. “And the more and more I thought about it – the more I thought about everything we did to ensure our future together, how committed we've been to each other, even from afar, and how much we love and trust and respect each other. The more I thought about how I can't bear the thought of either of us facing anything alone, ever again – the more I realized that we're finally ready.”

His stunned silence cut through the line.

“Jack? Will you—?”

“Of course I will,” he said. “I've been thinking we're finally ready, too, and I have your ring right here. I've been waiting for the right time to give it you to. But you, my love, you beat me to it.”