September 13, 1916
Santa Monica
The sunlight spilled through the large window in Rose's bedroom, causing Jack to squint heavily. He placed his right hand over his eyes in an attempt to shield them. It looked like another beautiful day. Memories of the night before came rushing back to him. He and Rose had made love, been close and naked together. This day felt like the happiest one in his life. He didn't know what this meant for him and Rose—if she returned his love, or simply just had feelings for him. Stretching slightly, he found the bed empty. Squinting his eyes, he ran his fingers through his disheveled hair and called out to Rose, with no reply. Pulling himself out of bed, he found his clothes scattered on the wooden floor. He found his pants and shirt and pulled them on, running his fingers through his hair once again in an attempt to neaten it but to no avail. He called to Rose again; leaving the room, he checked the hallways before descending the stairs. He wondered where she had gone. He didn't know the time, but it wasn't afternoon. The night before he had slept soundly, knowing Rose was beside him in his arms. He knew from that moment it was where he wanted to be forever. Smiling, remembering the details from last night, Jack found himself in the parlor. The glasses of wine which they had started to drink last night sat untouched on the coffee table. The wooden floors were cold against Jack's bare feet, and he wish he had found his boots to wear.
Entering the dining room, he called Rose once more. On the table sat a piece of paper with writing on it. From a distance, Jack guessed it was from Rose. Wandering to it slowly, he took a seat at the table they had all dined at the night before and read the note.
Jack,
I do not know how to begin to explain this to you, but I am sorry. Those words I do mean. Last night was amazing, but I had to leave. You would have no life if you and I were involved in any sort of way. I have a child and I am not yet divorced. I don't want to hurt you.
Please understand my reasons.
Rose Hockley
The words were like a bullet to Jack's heart. She had gone? She had left him? To go where? The letter did not explain anything. Tears welled in Jack's eyes; the amount of pain he felt was indescribable. Angrily, he screwed the paper into a tiny ball and threw it across the room. He felt foolish for loving her, for thinking she had feelings for him, too. How could she know how he felt, what was best for him? Try as he might, he could not bring himself to hate her, or think badly of her in any way, for last night they had shared each other's heart and soul. Now he knew just how meaningless it was to her. The whole house held her scent, and memories of the night before. The way they had kissed on the couch–for the first time in four years, he had kissed her lips. God, how he had longed to do that. Over the years he had envisioned them kissing, and then it had become a reality. How could she have just left? Please understand my reasons, she had written. How could he possibly understand? Lizzy was a gorgeous little girl. He never saw her as any sort of a barrier, or felt put off. Dejectedly, Jack glanced around Rose's empty room. Even her wardrobe was bare, as was Lizzy's.
Jack's eyes were the window to a broken man. Tears fell from them rapidly. Glancing around, he felt he did not know what to do, where to go. A photograph of Rose on the mantelpiece caught his eye, and hesitantly, he touched the glass which held the picture. It was Rose, smiling, dressed in an evening gown, her hair long and twisted into a sophisticated braid on top of her head. Anger built up inside Jack and he threw the photo frame against the mantelpiece. The photograph of Rose fell out onto the wooden floor next to his feet. Absentmindedly, he knelt down and picked up the photograph. He folded it in half lengthways and shoved it into his pocket. Finding his boots, Jack wiped his face and brushed his hair away from his eyes. He needed to get out of the house, out of Santa Monica. He needed to get away from any reminders of Rose Hockley. Why he had taken the photograph, he didn't know. It was something he wouldn't know for a long time.
June 20, 1917
New York
A small wail was heard from the far bedroom of Rose Bukater's New York apartment. Just three days before, she had given birth to a beautiful baby girl, Olivia Grace Bukater. Rose had legally changed her surname to Bukater after her father once her divorce was finalized in January. She had also named her youngest daughter Bukater, keeping Lizzy's surname as Hockley. The baby lay asleep peacefully in her mother's arms, and Rose could do nothing but stare at the miracle in awe. The year before she had been told by doctors in Philadelphia that she would never be able to conceive another child, but here she was, cradling her daughter. Lizzy was overjoyed to have a sister, and as she gently stroked the tiny blonde curls on Olivia's head she sang a song her mother had once taught her.
“Come Josephine, in my flying machine, and its up she goes, up she goes.” Her voice was small and in tune. Rose smiled lovingly at her eldest daughter, who was wonderful with her younger sister. The song she sang was one Rose and Jack had sung aboard the Titanic just before they had shared their first kiss. The memory was still very much fresh in her mind, even though it was now over five years ago. After the initial shock of learning she was pregnant wore off, Rose had embraced her pregnancy. Jack Dawson did not know of her whereabouts, or that he had given her a beautiful child, but she was grateful to him.
“She is so small, Mommy,” Lizzy pointed out to her mother. Her hands touched Olivia's tiny fingers, as if examining them all. Her large green eyes were curious. She could not keep her eyes away from her sister.
“I know, darling. You were once this size. She will grow into a big girl like you, Lizzy,” Rose assured her. She adjusted the blanket around Olivia, and slowly, as if disturbed by her mother's movement, she blinked her tiny blue eyes open, the eyes she had obviously inherited from her father, and gave a small yawn. Her tiny body stretched beneath the blanket and she gazed upward at her mother. Rose touched her tiny button nose, feeling her baby soft skin.
“Mom, does Olivia not have a daddy? Like I don't,” Lizzy asked, ever so innocently. The question brought tears to Rose's eyes. Removing her right hand from beneath Olivia, she gently touched Lizzy's jet black curls, the curls she had inherited from her mother.
“Oh, my dear girl. Both you and Olivia are my children, and no one else's. I love you both dearly and equally and that will never change, my darling.” The answer was enough for Lizzy, as she gently kissed her mother's cheek and stroked Olivia's tiny face one last time before falling to sleep beside her mother.
Minutes later, Olivia, too, was fast asleep in her tiny blanket. Rose could not help but think how blessed she was–two beautiful, healthy daughters and a small apartment which wasn't the most extravagant place to live, but suited her. During the nine months she had lived in New York, Rose had adjusted to city life. The one thing Rose thought of was Jack. The way she had simply left without any sort of good-bye had haunted her for months, and she could not bear to think of him awaking alone that morning after such a beautiful and passionate night together. But Rose had too much to think of now–her children and to find herself some sort of income.
Lowering Olivia into her crib, Rose watched over her for a few seconds, her tiny chest rising and falling as she breathed. Rose's eyes filled with a few unshed tears as she turned to her small balcony. Opening the doors, she felt the cold wind hit her face. Her waist length hair billowed in the wind and she wrapped her nightgown around her body to shield herself from the chill. The stars overhead were amazingly bright. The only night they had been this beautiful was the night she and Jack had shared their first kiss aboard the Titanic. Jack. She wondered where he was now, what he was doing, and if he thought of her endlessly as she did him. But she knew it would be impossible for them to be together. Rose knew she could not marry again. To be treated as she had been again, especially with two children, would be terrible, and Rose knew she would have brought him down in every way possible. He was a drifter, a bohemian. He lived from day to day of his own free will and that should be how he would remain. Wrapping her arms around her waist, Rose felt a single tear fall down her porcelain cheek. “Good night, Jack, wherever you are,” she whispered softly into the wind, hoping that wherever he was, he was happy.