"Why did everyone get quiet when I said my name?" Eva asked. It was the third time she had asked since she and Dylan started the walk back to her apartment. Each time she asked, he quickened their pace and found something else to comment on. "Dylan!" She grabbed his arm. He stopped. "What aren't you telling me?"
He sighed. "It's a long story, and I don't even know how true it is."
"What are you talking about?" She jammed her hand in her purse and began searching for a cigarette. "What could my name have to do with anything?"
He held out a cigarette. "Here," he said. "Just take this one."
When it was lit, she said, "So, explain."
He lit a cigarette of his own. "Look, I can't, really. It's the weird thing my family has. Well…it's just one of their weird things—"
"I like them," she said. "They're nice. They could be a lot worse. Believe me."
*****
Dylan didn't bother to knock on Lily's door. She never locked her apartment. There were always comrades needing a place to sleep or stray people she picked up on the street that she invited to stay indefinitely, and locking the door would mean having a key for all of them, so after the first ten keys, she gave up. "Lily!" he called. The group gathered around the kitchen table glanced up from their notebooks. He ignored them. "Water-Lily Dawson!"
The door at the end of the hall opened and a redhead appeared. "What?" Lily stepped out into the hall. "Why are you bellowing like that? Come in here and talk like a sensible person."
Dylan rolled his eyes. "You're one to talk about sensible." But he followed her into her room anyway.
"This is about tonight, isn't it?" she asked, pushing her window open. She sat down in the small seat next to it.
"Of course it's about tonight," he said. "Why didn't you tell—"
"I tried! You wouldn't listen. You didn't want to hear anymore, remember?" She lit a cigarette. "I knew what would happen. Why do you think I said that about her telling stories? I was trying to avoid it." He dropped into her desk chair with a sigh. "What did you tell her?" Lily asked.
"Nothing," he said. "What could I tell her?"
"The truth, maybe?"
"And what is that?"
"You know as well as I do. When—"
"—Mom and Dad met, she was engaged to someone else. I know. I heard the story, too, but I don't see what the big deal is if she happens to have the same last name as that guy."
"She doesn't just happen to have his name. She's his daughter. That's what I kept trying to tell you." She stubbed her cigarette out on the windowsill. "You know how they get when all of that is mentioned."
"Yeah, I know." Dylan grabbed a cigarette out of the pack on the desk.
"Those aren't cheap, you know," Lily said.
"Yes, they are. They're the only thing left everyone can afford," he said. "And if you didn't give all your money to the Party, you would be able to share," he said teasingly.
She rolled her eyes, but smiled. For a second, it felt like they were children again, sharing one of their secrets, but then it was over and they were adults, staring at each from opposite sides of a chasm.
"You haven't heard the whole story," Lily said. "There's a lot more to it than what they told us." She motioned with her head. "Look in the middle drawer."
Dylan opened the middle drawer and pulled out a stack of newspaper clippings. "What is this?" he asked. "Debutante dies in tragic sinking," he read. "Lily, what the hell is this?"
"Keep reading. And take a look at the photograph while you're at it."
Dylan's eyes widened. "That's Mom!" It was Rose like he had never seen her. Her hair was piled on top of her head. A diamond necklace glittered at her throat. Her dress was stunning; even in the grainy newspaper picture, the amount of work and money that had gone into making it was obvious. She was on the arm of an equally well-dressed man. She wore a large diamond ring on her left hand. "Rose DeWitt Bukater and fiancé Caledon Hockley at the Vicomte de Chagny's annual Christmas ball," he read quietly. He looked at Lily. "This is the guy Mom was engaged to before she met Dad?"
Lily nodded. "That's him. And from what I've heard, he's a right royal bastard."
"But…wait. This says she died on the Titanic when she was seventeen. That would have been April 14, 1912. She married Dad on April 20, 1912 in New York, so obviously she didn't die." His forehead wrinkled in confusion. "That was the ship they met on? They got married after six days?"
"Eight, actually. They met on the twelfth."
Dylan's head was spinning. "Okay. They met on this ship. It sank. And everyone thought she was dead after that?"
"Pretty much, yeah. Only a lot more happened. I heard the story same as you, but one time I heard them talking about this letter Mom had gotten from her mother. She had sent a letter back to her unopened, and I think Mom was upset about it."
"You heard something, and you didn't tell me?" Dylan gaped at her. "Why wouldn't you tell me?" He was more upset at discovering Lily had kept a secret from him than discovering Rose's mother, whom they had always been told was dead, was in fact alive.
"We weren't talking then. I don't remember why, but we weren't, so I didn't tell you. Anyway, you remember that week I spent in Boston circulating petitions?" He nodded. "Well, I was actually in Philadelphia." Seeing his confused look, she explained, "I stole the letter after they went to bed. Her mother lives in Philadelphia, and so—" She shrugged. "I went. I was curious."
"Find out anything?"
"Well, she wouldn't see me at first, but finally after hours and hours of sitting on her front steps, I got her to let me in." Her eyes widened. "Dylan, you should've seen some of the stuff she had! It was a bourgeoisie nightmare!"
"Finish the story," he said impatiently.
"All right. Fine. I found out the reason she and Mom don't talk is because Mom didn't marry that guy in the picture."
"Eva's father."
"Right. He was this rich as hell steel tycoon, and her mother couldn't get her married to him fast enough, which was working out fine until Dad showed up."
"And she married him instead."
"And he, in the words of our darling maternal grandmother, was a worthless vagabond who seduced her daughter and convinced her to give up everything. I'm not sure, but I think she didn't quite see the romantic side of a socialite running away with a penniless artist."
"But what does Eva's father have to do with this?"
"He didn't quite see the romantic side of it all, either."
*****
Rose carefully removed the pins from her hair and laid them on the table. She smiled as the sound of Jack's step reached her ears.
"Need help?" he asked, placing a kiss on the top of her head. He sounded cheerful, but she could tell part of it was forced. She didn't blame him.
"Please?" she asked, turning toward him. They both knew she didn't need help; she hadn't needed help taking care of basic tasks for years. "You're thinking about tonight, aren't you?" she asked as he began brushing her hair.
"How'd you know?"
"I can feel you thinking."
He leaned down and kissed her cheek. "Where would I be without you?" She just smiled. "I'm not really sure what to think," he admitted. "That was…" He gave a short laugh. "I'm not sure what the hell that was."
"Neither am I. You know, I never thought of him as having a wife and child," she said. "In my mind, he's still just as he was that night. I—I never thought about him going on with life. Isn't that strange?"
"He probably still thinks of us the same way." Jack set the brush down on the table. He ran his fingers through her curls. Those hadn't changed. "I can't believe his daughter is so…" He searched for the right word.
"Nice?" Rose offered. She stood up and crossed the room. "I think that's what shocked me the most." She stepped out of her shoes. "Could you unbutton this?"
"Sure."
"She and Lily go to Wellesley together," Rose said pensively. "And Dylan is in love with her."
Jack paused, his hands on the last button. "You think?"
"Couldn't you tell? It was obvious just in the way he talked."
"And the way he looked at her." He undid the last button.
She slipped out of the dress and tossed it aside. "I missed, didn't I?"
"You weren't aiming for anything, Rose Petal."
"Was it that obvious?" she asked, laughing. Her tone became serious. "We'll have to see him again. You will, that is," she added. "I'll just have to hear him, and if he gets too close, smell him."
Jack pulled her into a hug. "There won't be any getting close to you at all."
She laid her head on his chest. She breathed deeply; the air was filled with the scent of him—charcoal and paper, a hint of soap, cigarettes, something that reminded her of blooming trees, and underneath all of it there was a scent she never could identify except as him.
"I'm not worried about that," she said. "It's been twenty years. I don't want to see him, not for a moment, but I'm not the least bit afraid of him." She tilted her head up. "You're worried."
"He won't like this," Jack said. "You know that."
"I know, but if she wants…it isn't up to him. Or us, for that matter. It's up to them."
Jack cupped her cheek. "I had this thought tonight about what would've happened if you hadn't married me," he said softly.
She kissed his palm. "But I did."
He didn't say anything; he didn't have to. She could tell what he was thinking by the way his hand felt against her face. His fingertips gently stroked her cheek before his hand dropped to her waist. He pulled her closer. She was unbuttoning his shirt even before their lips met.