November 4, 1961
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Tom Bukater glanced at the boy sitting beside him as he pulled up to a red light. The boy, fifteen-year-old Jack Dawson, avoided his gaze, staring silently at the street ahead of them.
Tom sighed inwardly, wondering what he was going to do with the boy now in his care and how he was going to explain to his wife and children that the boy was now a member of their family.
It had been sixteen years since Tom Bukater and Tom Dawson had seen each other. At first, they had written regularly, but just as Bukater had predicted, they soon became caught up in their normal lives, in their growing families and their careers, and the letters had become fewer and farther between. They had still managed to write a few times a year, and always exchanged cards and family photographs at Christmas, but the planned-for meeting had never taken place; their families had never met.
Then, on October twenty-ninth, Tom Bukater had gotten a call from the Dawsons’ minister, Reverend Dunlap, in Chippewa Falls with some tragic news—Tom Dawson, his wife, Katherine, and their daughter, Betsy, had been killed in a car accident on Friday night while on the way to pick up the eldest child of the family, Jack, from a high school football game.
Tom had been shocked and saddened at the news, but he was even more shocked when Reverend Dunlap informed him that Dawson’s will, to which he had been a witness, had named Tom Bukater as the legal guardian of Tom and Katherine Dawson’s children in the event that anything happened to the parents.
Tom had immediately gotten a flight to Minneapolis, the city with a major airport closest to Chippewa Falls, telling his wife only that an old friend had passed away. After reaching Chippewa Falls late that evening, he had gone to the home of Reverend Dunlap, who had explained as much as he understood from the will and referred him to the lawyer who had drawn up the will two years before.
He had gone to see the lawyer the next morning, confirming that he had indeed been named legal guardian to the surviving Dawson child, Jack. He had argued at first, asking if the boy didn’t have relatives who would be better suited to taking him in than a stranger. The lawyer had told him that there were relatives—a grandfather, an uncle, an aunt, and several cousins in northern Minnesota, plus a set of grandparents and several aunts, uncles, and cousins in Chippewa Falls and the surrounding towns.
When Tom had asked why none of them had been named the legal guardians of the Dawson children, he was informed that Tom Dawson had had a falling out with his relatives in Minnesota three years earlier, though the lawyer didn’t know why none of the relatives in Wisconsin had been named in their stead. He had told Tom that he could contest the will, but the boy’s fate would remain in limbo until the issue was decided. Tom knew a guilt trip when he heard one, but had agreed to take the boy. He didn’t know why Dawson had named him the legal guardian, nor why he’d never told him about it, but the boy had been through enough already—he wouldn’t make him suffer through a legal battle over who would take him in now that he was orphaned.
He had met Jack later that day—he was staying with an aunt and uncle in Chippewa Falls who, wanting him to maintain some semblance of normalcy, had sent him to school that day and had been infuriated when he had run away from school and, in spite of the late October chill, had spent the day hiding out near Lake Wissota.
Jack’s relatives had been surprised when Tom Bukater had shown up at their door, though they had been informed that Dawson had named an old friend as Jack’s guardian. Their fawning behavior had given him a good idea of why this particular couple hadn’t been named guardians—Tom Dawson had never had much patience with such behavior, preferring openness and honesty to the sly looks of Paul and Nancy Adams, whose conduct had shown him right away that they were wondering what they could get out of him in spite of their attempts to hide it.
The boy, Jack, had acted much like his father—stoic, and with the same stubborn set to his jaw that Tom Dawson had so often displayed during the war. Bukater had introduced himself, explaining to Jack who he was, but the boy had barely responded to the introduction and greeting. It was only when Tom had told him that he was his guardian and Jack would be coming back to Philadelphia with him that he had gotten a real response.
"Why?" Jack had asked. "I don’t even know you."
Tom hadn’t had a real answer for him. He didn’t know any better than Jack did why Tom Dawson had named him the guardian of his children, unless it was his long-ago promise to help if he ever needed it.
In the days that followed, Tom had tried to draw Jack out, but the boy had remained withdrawn, seldom speaking to him or anyone else. Even when Tom had asked about the art portfolio the boy carried with him everywhere, telling him that he had a daughter who was very interested in art, he hadn’t gotten much response. Jack had allowed him to look through the folder, pointing out which pictures had been drawn by his mother, who had been a cartoonist during the war and still drew cartoons for some magazines after she married his father, but hadn’t had much else to say. Tom had told him that the school he would be going to had an excellent art program, but even that hadn’t sparked much interest.
The funeral had taken place on November first, a closed casket service due to the damage to the bodies from the accident. Jack had sat at the front of the church with his relatives, still stoic, only occasionally reaching to discreetly wipe his eyes, as though embarrassed by any open display of grief. Tom had sat farther back, distracted from the funeral by the chest pains that had plagued him during times of stress the past couple of years.
After the second part of the service, at the cemetery where the three Dawsons would be buried, Tom had followed the other mourners back to the Adams’ home, where one after another of the boy’s relatives had thanked him for his kindness in giving him a home and advised him about Jack’s interests and what to do to bring him out of his grief, and once again Tom had wondered why his old friend had placed his son in his care when there were so many family members who obviously cared about him.
His question was at least partly answered when the lawyer arrived to read the will and came to the part about the care of the Dawson children.
"If Katherine and I should die before our children, Jack and Betsy, reach the age of majority, I place their care in the hands of Mr. Tom Bukater of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, whom I entrusted many times with my own life and whom I trust above all others with the lives of my children."
All eyes had turned to Tom then, wondering what his response would be, and Tom, who usually spoke smoothly and confidently in any situation, had stammered nervously, then accepted, realizing now why Dawson had placed the care of his children in his hands. It was a matter of trust. The bond they had formed during the war was still there, in spite of how little communication they had had over the past sixteen years. There was no way he could deny the trust his old friend had placed in him.
Two days later, Jack’s belongings had been packed for shipment to Philadelphia, along with numerous family photos, the last cartoon his mother had been working on, and a few items from each of his lost family members—the medals his father had won in the war, a ring that had been passed down in his mother’s family for generations and which would have been Betsy’s if she had lived, and a book about the Indians that Betsy had read until it was nearly falling apart. Everything else, with the exception of a few items promised to various family members, would be sold and the money put in trust for Jack until he turned twenty-one or until he went to college—whichever came first.
Now, as the light turned green and the car moved through the intersection, Tom tried once again to talk to Jack.
"We’re almost there," he told him. He gestured to an elegant old building set back behind a wide lawn, now winter-brown, and a dozen autumn-bare trees. "That’s where you’ll be going to school—Smithfield High School. It’s a private school. My oldest daughter, Rose, also goes there."
Jack looked at the school and nodded slightly, but all he said was, "Okay."
Tom suppressed a sigh of annoyance. He knew the boy was grieving, but he wished he’d be a little more open. This was going to be his home, whether he liked it or not, and Philadelphia had plenty to offer—if a person was willing to accept it.
"We’re almost home. There’s several guestrooms—I’ll have the housekeeper, Mrs. di Rossi, get one ready for you. Once the rest of your belongings arrive, you can arrange it to suit yourself."
"Sure."
Tom shook his head as they turned onto a wide residential street lined with mansions with sprawling grounds. He pulled into the long drive of one and drove into a large garage. After turning off the engine, he turned to Jack, who was looking around uncertainly.
"Here we are."
Jack quickly opened his door and got out, hurrying around to the trunk and waiting for Tom to unlock it so he could retrieve his suitcase. When Tom opened the trunk, Jack took his suitcase, then looked uncertainly at Tom’s larger, more expensive suitcase.
"Do you want me to carry that?"
Tom shook his head, retrieving the suitcase himself. "I can do it." He turned to the boy. "You’re not a servant here, Jack. You’re going to be a member of the family."
Jack still looked at him uncertainly. Quickly, Tom closed the trunk and walked out of the garage, gesturing for Jack to follow. When they reached the front door of the house, he opened it, gesturing for Jack to go inside first.
Jack stopped inside the front door, looking around as though trying to take in everything at once. He had never been inside such a luxurious house before—the hallway at the entry was as wide as his bedroom in Chippewa Falls had been, decorated with antique furniture and fresh flowers in expensive vases. Fine works of art decorated the walls—some of which he recognized from the big art book his mother had kept on the coffee table in the living room at home. Beyond that, he could see part of a curving staircase, the banister freshly polished and gleaming.
Tom set down his suitcase and hung up his coat in the entry hall, nodding to Jack to do the same. He led him from the entry hall into a large living room, calling to his wife as he did so.
"Ruth? I’m home!"
A moment later, an elegantly dressed woman of middle years stepped out of another room that, from the glimpse Jack got of it, seemed to contain a long table, set as though for a party. "Tom! I was afraid you wouldn’t get home in time for—" She stopped, seeing Jack. "Who’s this?"
"Ruth, this is Jack Dawson, the son of my old friend Tom Dawson. I think you’ve seen a few pictures of him and his family."
She nodded, her brow furrowing in consternation. "Yes, but…Tom, why didn’t you tell me you were bringing a guest?"
"Ruth…I wasn’t completely honest with you, I’m afraid. Remember how I told you that an old friend had passed away?"
"Yes, but…"
"It was Tom Dawson who died, along with his wife and daughter. It was a car accident."
"But why did you bring his son here?"
"Tom specified in his will that if anything were to happen to him and his wife, I was to be his children’s legal guardian. Jack is a part of our family now."
"What?!"
Tom pulled Ruth aside, lowering his voice. "It was in the will, Ruth. It can’t be changed."
"Why didn’t you tell me?!"
"I didn’t know myself until I found out that Tom had died."
"Which was almost a week ago."
"Would you have been any happier if I had told you?"
"You could at least have given me a chance to get used to the idea!"
"Lower your voice, Ruth." Tom glanced at Jack, who seemed to be looking around the room, but the expression on his face told him that he’d heard every word.
"You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to take him in."
"Like I said, Ruth, it was in the will. No one has a choice in the matter."
"And what are we going to do with him, Tom?"
"We have plenty of space, Ruth. Have Sophia get a guestroom ready."
"Sophia is busy, in case you didn’t realize it. We have an important dinner party tonight."
Tom groaned; he’d forgotten all about it. "Well, just show him to a room and let him get comfortable. They’re ready for guests anyway, and all he has right now is one suitcase. The rest of his belongings won’t arrive until Monday."
"And what are we going to do about dinner tonight?"
"Just set an extra place at the children’s table. He can eat with the girls. You know the caterers always cook more than we need."
Jack listened to them argue about him. In spite of Tom’s effort to lower his voice, he’d heard everything they’d said. His spirits sunk lower each moment. Here he was, in a strange place, in the care of a man who had only taken him in because his father’s will had demanded it. His wife didn’t seem to want him there, either. Jack turned and looked longingly at the front door, wondering if there was any way he could get back to Chippewa Falls. Even living with his Uncle Paul and Aunt Nancy would be preferable to this.
At that moment, two blonde girls with their hair in braids burst out of another room, giggling. They skidded to a stop, staring, when they saw their parents glaring at each other and Jack standing near the entry hall, looking like he would rather be anyplace else.
Jack stared back at them. The girls looked exactly alike, right down to their identical outfits and braids. He couldn’t tell them apart.
One of the girls looked him over, then turned to her sister and giggled, whispering something in her ear. The other girl looked at him, then nodded in agreement, her laughter ringing across the room. Jack felt his face flame.
Tom and Ruth stopped arguing and turned to look at Jack and the twins. Ruth’s eyes narrowed as she looked at her daughters.
"What were you two doing in there?" She looked from them to the room they’d exited, the library.
"We were just reading," one of them replied.
"Reading what?"
"Um…"
"I’d better not catch you reading those dirty books again."
"We weren’t," they chorused innocently.
Ruth narrowed her eyes, about to say something more, but Tom came to the twins’ rescue. "Lucy, Julie, this is Jack Dawson. He’ll be staying with us now."
"Why?" one of them asked.
"He lost his family recently and his father, who was an old friend of mine from the war, wanted him to live with us."
"So, is he supposed to be our brother or something?"
"Something like that, yes." Tom turned to Jack. "Jack, this is Lucy…" He pointed to one girl. "…and Julie." He pointed to the other, glancing at their right hands as he did so. "They’re both twelve years old."
Jack wondered how he could tell them apart. "Uh…hi."
The girl he’d identified as Lucy shook her head. "No, I’m Julie, and she’s Lucy."
Tom looked at them sharply. "Girls, that’s enough. Don’t try to confuse him. Jack, the way you can tell them apart is that Julie has a mole on her right hand and Lucy doesn’t. There’s also Rose, and then there’s my son, Tom, Jr., who is in the Navy and isn’t here very often, though I’m sure you’ll meet him eventually." He looked around. "Where’s Rose?"
"She’s upstairs," Lucy volunteered. "She’s working on a new painting."
"I’ll get her," Ruth said, heading for the stairs. "Rose!" When there was no response, she called again, louder. "Rose!"
Ruth marched up the stairs, heading for her eldest daughter’s bedroom. As she approached it, she could hear the sound of the record player.
"Rosalind Sarah DeWitt-Bukater!" She threw open the door.
Startled, the girl turned to look at her mother. "What?"
"Did you not hear me calling you?"
"No."
Ruth strode across the room to the record player, lifting the needle from the record. Joan Baez’s voice came to an abrupt halt.
"Rose, you’re going to hurt your ears by playing that so loud. Now, your father brought someone home and you need to come meet him."
"Another politician?" Rose complained.
"No. As you know, a friend of your father’s passed away recently, and it seems that his will stipulated that his child be placed in your father’s care. You have a new…brother."
Rose looked from her mother to the project she was working on. "I’ll be down in a few minutes. I’m almost done with this part…"
"Now, Rose."
"But Mom, I’ve got the colors just right."
"Rosalind…"
Rose knew better than to argue when her mother called her by her full first name. "I’m coming. I’m coming." Looking longingly at her painting, she set the brush in a container of water to keep the paint from drying on it and turned to follow Ruth.
It wasn’t until they got downstairs that Ruth noticed what Rose was wearing. She shook her head in embarrassment at her daughter’s paint-spattered smock. "Rose…"
Rose saw what her mother was looking at. "You didn’t give me a chance to take it off," she complained.
Jack turned to look at her, seeing her messy smock and realizing that this was the daughter Tom Bukater had talked about, the one with an interest in art.
Rose saw him and stopped, brushing a red curl out of her face and leaving a streak of blue paint in its place. "Oh. Um…"
Tom stepped in. "Rose, this is Jack Dawson. He’ll be staying with us from now on. Jack, this is my oldest daughter, Rose. You’ll be going to school with her." He looked at his daughter, then did a double-take. "Rose…"
The twins looked at her and started giggling. Rose just stared at them, confused. "What?"
Jack tapped his cheek, showing her what the problem was. Her hand flew to her face, coming back with a fresh blue streak.
"Oh…" She tried to wipe the paint away, but succeeded only in smearing it further. Looking from her mortified mother to her giggling sisters, she made one last swipe at her cheek, then smiled at Jack sheepishly. "Um…hi…"
In spite of himself, Jack couldn’t help but smile a little. She was the most down-to-earth person he had met so far.