CHANCE ENCOUNTER
Chapter One
July 7th, 1919
Chicago, Illinois
The blistering July
heat seemed consistent with the reflections off the thick shop windows, the
almost metallic glow of the automobiles as they passed by lazily. The faces of
the people seemed to mirror this lackluster Saturday afternoon- casual smiles
and raised umbrella tips, the men tall and sweating slightly- the women stately
and refined, their hair pinned to perfection. The street stretched a long way
ahead, and every door seemed the same, as Rose smiled weakly towards the small
crowd she passed through. She took every chance she could to smooth her unruly
hair, feeling out of place with her loose locks, waving in the breeze that she
wished she could run and shout in. But that was out of the question. She took a
deep breath and looked down, watching as her black shoes slid across the
sidewalk.
"Rose, my
dear, you'll bump into something one day, I swear- if you don't watch where
you're going. What is it about the ground that mesmerizes you so?" Rose
bit her lip and brought her face up, smiling the best she could.
"I'm sorry. I
suppose....I'm just anxious to get to the museum, Maxwell. I won't run into
anything..." Rose fidgeted before weaving her left arm through his, gazing
across the street at a young performer who seemed to have attracted a crowd.
She could just make out a few brightly colored scarves as they flew through the
air, high above the heads of the lookers-on. The sound of laughter echoed through
Rose's ears, cutting into the blur of traffic and footsteps. She gazed
longingly at the happy faces for a few seconds, her eyes gleaming.
"Really, Rose-
I don't see how those people can waste their time with that. Can you?"
Maxwell Calvert's amused face crinkled gently, his gaze stretching to catch
hers, but she once again looked away too quickly. His deep brown eyes ran the
length of her, his stately posture never ceasing as they crossed yet another
lane. He tipped his hat several times, smiling brightly at the people they
passed.
"Rose you
haven't said more than a few words since this morning. I thought you'd be happy
that we were coming here? I cancelled a very important meeting this morning, to
take you to this place." Rose finally met his eyes, finding it so hard not
to smile when she saw his genuine concern. But behind that, she could have
sworn she sensed some annoyance.
"Maxwell,
trust me. I'm fine. I've never been to Chicago- I just want...to take
everything in." Rose lifted her chin, her fingers curling tightly around
in a fist. She truly did want to see everything, hear everything. But like so
many other times, she felt odd, pulling her very conservative, and often times
extremely unenthused, fiancé around. To the places she found so interesting
herself. Looking around at this bustling place, she found it so hard to even
control herself. The shops and streets so full of life- she wanted to join in,
to explore all she saw.
"Oh, Rose.
Alright then, I think we're on our way- it should be coming up rather
quickly." Maxwell lifted his head to look ahead, noticing the large clock
that hung only a few blocks from where they stood. The sign read State Street-
Even from here, it could be seen clearly. Its stately design and bronze
backing- the round shape so familiar. His eyes lit up, and in hopes of cheering
up a somewhat low-spirited Rose- he motioned towards it.
"Darling,
there it is- the clock I was talking about. Marshall Field and Company- that's
the department store just ahead a bit. It's somewhat of a landmark here, I
believe," he nodded at an attentive Rose, "and if you ever get lost-
if you ever lose your way in the city, just ask for directions to the
clock." He looked down at her grinning, but she searched his eyes, her heart
sinking as she recognized the fatherly tone in his voice. As if he were talking
to some child. But maybe she was simply having a bad morning, and there was no
reason to take it out on him. None at all, and in fact, she decided she must
try to make this little trip work.
"I'll remember
that I think." Her eyes opened wide and she leaned toward him.
"In fact, if
we do become separated at some point, we'll meet at the clock. How does that
sound to you?" Maxwell stared down from his large height innocently,
watching as Rose's soft face contorted in what seemed like pain. He watched as
her full lips trembled, and the color in her cheeks drained away.
"What is it,
Rose...Rose..."
Rose closed her
eyes to the traffic around, centering gravity in her mind. Meet at the clock. Meet
me at the clock. Maxwell's simple statement had so much power, but he could not
know that- he had no idea, because she had never told him...
She could still see
his handwriting so perfectly- the gentle scrawling that had changed her life
forever. The words strung together in her memory- etched like some unchangeable
image, into Jack's beautiful, curved letters; his message.
"No, I can't,
not today, Rose..." She screamed silently to herself, fighting with
everything within her to open her eyes and resume normality. "He didn't
mean anything, he doesn't know," she thought to herself, dropping her arm
from his.
"Rose, Rose,
we're here. Please open your eyes dear- I can't stand that." Maxwell
sighed as he attempted to grab her attention without causing a scene. The stone
steps of the Art Institute stretched before them, and he had no desire to climb
them. But this morning, Rose had, and now he wondered- just what was wrong with
his red-haired fiancée.
Rose flinched
before opening her green eyes, which now sported a few stray tears. "I'm
sorry, I..."
"Don't
explain, Rose," Maxwell shook his head and held up his gloved hand,
"I know you well enough, to realize that you're not about to tell me
what's really on your mind. Now were you?"
Rose breathed
heavily, emotion filling her throat, but resolving itself just before it
escaped. "Maxwell, let's enjoy this. I've heard great things about the
Institute," and she once again planted a grin on her face, taking his arm
again, "and we don't have long, do we?" Her bright, shoulder-length
curls whipped around her face as she turned, the collar of her cream-colored
blouse, catching a thick strand of it.
As others continued
to walk around them, Maxwell looked to the sky, trying to compose himself. His
polite smile reinstated, he simply nodded, signaling to Rose that he was ready
to walk again. He admired her profile as she led the way, taking her time,
seemingly retracing some steps as she walked forward.
As much as she
tried, sometimes these days consumed her very being. Usually, she could find
the energy to answer Maxwell's never ending questions, or listen to his
intellectual ramblings. And often, she even found that she enjoyed them. But
once in awhile, like today, she felt imaginary reigns tightening around her, held
together by Maxwell Calvert's well-meaning eyes. He tried. He always tried, and
he certainly listened to her fanciful notions enough, or stopped to watch
something that caught her eye. But the mild-mannered man from Cedar Rapids,
Iowa lacked anything resembling excitement. His attitude, his outlook stopped
somewhere in the pages of John Locke's essays. His home was the quaint, tidy
used and antique bookstore he owned with his sister Agnes, who had accompanied
them on this jaunt to Chicago. But fortunately, she had chosen to stay at the
hotel today, probably at least partly because of the pleading look Rose had
shot her earlier this morning. If she and Maxwell were to be married, she
needed time with him, not a gray-haired chaperone who looked down through wire
rimmed reading glasses. Somehow Rose had convinced herself that was all she
needed- time. But time passed so quickly, and her life was spinning so fast-
plunging forward and she had to move with it. Living her life in a constant
state of "what if" could not last forever, and although Jack Dawson
was permanently embedded into the most cherished places of her heart, she had
to try. Try like Maxwell was trying. She wanted a family, a place where she
belonged. As her feet slid up the smooth steps of this museum, she felt herself
lifting from the ground. Maybe all of this could disappear for awhile, as she
gazed at the beautiful paintings. Maybe she could just be with Jack for a an
hour or so...
"Rose, do you
want one of these guidebooks?" Maxwell's sincere voice traveled- through
her ears, and she looked at him for a moment, studying his pressed jacket and
ornate pocket watch. So different from Jack. So different from what she had
once known. But in a way, could anything ever hold a candle to him, to the man
who had saved her and loved her when her entire world had fallen into pieces?
"No, Rose, no
comparisons," she thought to herself, silently berating that thought. Had
Jack come into her life, and set such a standard for love, that nothing would
ever even come close to the high she experienced those three days aboard
Titanic? Had she already experienced what would be her one, and only, true
love?
"Yes."
Her voice was shaky and emotional, and she reached for the booklet Maxwell
handed her.
"Where should
we start?" Maxwell held the heavy door for Rose, taking one more glance at
the stone columns before he followed.
"At the
beginning." Rose whispered softly, placing a strand of hair behind her
ear. What was she doing to herself...questioning her future when she had no
other plan but to marry the man that stood next to her. What would she do,
besides that? Go back to California, to her mediocre success as an actress, to
waiting tables at one of the local cafes? Maybe Maxwell's reigns were good for
her, maybe they would protect her...
"I want to see
Monet." Rose's eyes shot upward as she spoke, surprising herself with the
words she uttered. She had come here to admire art- something she loved,
something that made her feel incredibly close to the man she had lost seven
years ago. But was it wrong to want to escape to that? She just didn't know-
"Monet, Rose?
Is he a painter?" Maxwell's naive question made Rose smile, despite the
confused expression on his face. A slight giggle escaped her lips, and she
grabbed his hand. She began to walk down hallway, past the large oak desk at
the entrance, breathing deeply, admiring the velvet drapes that hung above
them.
"Quite a
painter, I promise. Even you will appreciate this." Rose hesitated only a
second before leafing through the guidebook she held, searching for directions
to the Monet exhibit.
"His
landscapes..." she whispered under her breath, a single tear lining her
eye.
"We're going
to make it, Rose..." Jack's voice those last few minutes, as the water had
grown closer, closer still. The feel of his strong hand on hers as the cold
surrounded them. Stealing the only real thing she had ever known...
She closed her eyes
and clutched the book, feeling immediately the weight of her engagement ring.
* * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Jack Dawson stood
at the corner of Michigan and Adams, staring across the street at the great
edifice that housed the Art Institute of Chicago. While the building itself was
rather plain, one could not help but notice the sculptures at the front of the
building. Planted firmly on either side of the wide front steps were two bronze
lions. They stood solemnly and silently day and night, guarding the treasures
inside, somewhat like the Sphinx of Egypt. They were as much a Chicago landmark
as the famous Marshall Field’s clock he’d seen this morning.
Tourists and
students scurried back and forth across the wide street, dodging automobiles,
trucks, and the very occasional horse drawn vehicle. Grinding and honking
sounds filled the sultry air. On this typically warm Midwestern summer day a
haze could be seen to the south where the fires of the steel mills burned
twenty four hours a day. Only if one stood perfectly still was it possible to
feel an occasional subtle breath of a cool lake breeze. That breeze from the
lake carried with it a distinctly fishy smell.
“Maybe I’ll take a
walk down by the water, after I’ve seen the museum,” Jack thought, wrinkling
his nose. He was here really only to see the large collection of Impressionist
paintings that belonged to this famous museum. It was a collection that was
growing yearly. Famous Chicagoans such as the Potter Palmers had given many of
the paintings over time.
Jack let his suit
jacket hung casually over his shoulder, using his finger as a hook. He had only
dressed up because he was in the big city and that was how people dressed in
the downtown business areas. He was though, hot and sticky and uncomfortable.
Perhaps he would find relief in the cool marble interior of the museum.
He had been
planning this trip for some time, but he had been waiting until he had sold
those last two pictures before he could make the trip. When he had left home in
1907, he had stopped off briefly in Chicago, but with almost no money at all,
he’d just camped out in Grant Park, walked along the lakefront and caught a
train to the West Coast. Now however, things were a bit different. He had a
small but steady income. The money he earned from his pictures, were enough to
support him, to pay the rent on a tiny apartment in New York City and to
finally take this trip.
In the fall, he
expected that things would get even a little better. He had managed to secure a
job at one of the settlement houses teaching drawing. It was by a stroke of
luck that he had found that position. The woman who had purchased a painting of
his last spring was on the board of directors for an immigrant’s organization
and she knew they were looking for an art teacher. The trouble was that they
couldn’t pay much and everyone they had asked had turned them down. When Jack
said yes, she was delighted and told him he could start in September. The fact
that he knew nothing about teaching had not deterred Jack. He would learn along
with his students. Mostly he was overjoyed about having the chance to get
others excited about art.
Jack drew his other
hand across his forehead in a useless attempt to wipe some of the perspiration
off his brow. The temperature was stifling and dressed in these clothes made it
all the more miserable. He decided that his first stop inside would be a
drinking fountain.
He moved to the
corner and waited until there was a lull in the traffic before crossing. As he
stood watching, his eyes were drawn to a group of four girls walking up the
museum steps. His heart was in his mouth as he focused in on one of them. She
was of a little taller than average height, with a lush figure and wild coppery
colored hair. Every time he saw someone that reminded him of Rose, he died a
little more. And it happened not infrequently. Today it was enough that he was
going to see some Monet’s. She’d had several of his paintings casually
scattered around her suite on Titanic. Rose too had been a lover of his work.
He didn’t need a double reminder of her. He held his breath while the foursome
turned in his direction and asked a stranger to take their picture. The girl
spun around, her hair swinging around her head, so that her face was the last
feature to be seen. What if is was she? What if she had been saved? He saw the
young woman’s features and of course it was not Rose. Rose with the green eyes
and full sensuous lips. This person had a wide nose, a narrow pinched mouth and
small eyes, set deep in her face. He shook his head. Why did he even ever think
it was possible that she would turn up? She was gone, dead. He had to tell
himself over and over to get over it, move on. In his heart though, he knew,
that she would live with him forever. Haunt his soul, in fact, until he joined
her.
He glanced from
side to side, not wanting to be run over by the frantic mid day traffic on this
busy thoroughfare. When a break came, Jack walked leisurely across the street.
In this heat, he had no desire to get even warmer and more drenched.
As he approached
the steps, he noticed the details on the lion sculpture. They portrayed an
animal with a rather bland expression, hiding well the ferocious personality
that lie within. “I suppose I am kind of like that lion,” he thought, shielding
his eyes from the sun overhead. “My face shows nothing of what I feel inside
now. And I guard what is within of me with a strong will, never to be hurt
again.” Once, when he and Rose had been together, he would go back to his cabin
at night, and he could see the reflection of their feelings for each other in
his eyes. Now he felt they looked flat and expressionless. What they’d had for
those short hours was so special. He knew it would be futile to even try and
love again.
Jack made it to the
top of the stairs and shoved his arms through the sleeves of his jacket. He
pulled open the heavy museum doors and stepped into the dim and musty foyer. In
the center there was a huge mahogany desk where two old women as dim and dusty
as the museum itself, sat on high stools. Beyond the desk was a narrow opening
where several guards stood, eyeing people as they entered the exhibition area.
He stopped at the
counter and asked if there was a guidebook for the exhibits. One of the elderly
women smiled a vague smile. Her face was so lined that Jack was afraid that her
parchment thin skin would crack. He waited patiently while her shaking hand
reached under the shining wood top for a pamphlet. She pulled out a long,
narrow booklet covered in dark green cardboard. As she placed it before him, he
could see the ivory pages and the dark printing. The woman explained where to
find information in the book. “Restrooms downstairs, lunchroom downstairs,
exhibits upstairs and on this floor. No smoking,” she told Jack with a
suspicious tone to her voice. He figured that since he was young she just
assumed he was one of that wilder generation.
He leaned forward
to ask her a question. “Where are the Impressionists, you know Monet, Degas? Oh
yeah, and a drinking fountain.” She blinked her eyes, shocked that someone who
looked like Jack would have even this much knowledge or even be interested in
such a thing.
She took her
gnarled finger and held it so it pointed up. In a whispery weak voice, she
answered, “Second floor. Take the stairs and turn left. Third gallery for
Monet. And if you want water, there is a fountain just past the entrance. There
are cups to use.” She clicked her tongue in disapproval at the casualness of
these young people.
He nodded, thanked
her for the book and hurried away from the desk at a speed the woman considered
inappropriate for someone visiting an art museum. “Young ones,” she complained
to her companion. “Always in a hurry.”
When Jack reached
the atrium where the great staircase was located, he arched his head back and
let his jaw drop. He craned his neck from side to side to try and take in the
beauty of this area. Skylights lighted it from above. The wide marble steps
were worn on the sides, where hundreds of visitors a day marched faithfully up
and down to pay their respects to the world of art. Several tall potted plants,
softened the corners of the room. It was the kind of space where art should
begin. Light and bright, open and empty, like a canvas, before the artist began
his work.
He approached the
stairs, his leather shoes making clicking and scuffing sounds on the marble
floor. The acoustics of the room made every sound more brilliant than usual. He
could hear the soft murmuring of voices, clearing of throats, the swish of the
women’s skirts and the soft jingling of men’s watch chains. For some reason,
Jack felt his senses keenly alive, ready for something, some experience, but he
did not know for what. Maybe it was just the anticipation of seeing the great
works of his favorite artist.
Jack opened his
guidebook to the page on Impressionists. He started up the stairs, his mind
eager to absorb as much as he could today. He looked ahead of him up the stairs
and his heart sank as he saw the red haired women again. Now she seemed to have
deserted her girlfriends and she moved regally up the stairs with her hand on
the arm of a middle-aged man. She was dressed in the typical light colors of
summer. Here in the bright light, her clothing seemed more delicate than they
had when he observed her in the shadows of the entryway, her movements more
genteel. Her straight skirt and sheer blouse were ivory in color and he could
make out some small earrings dangling from her ears. He closed his eyes and the
memory of Rose on his arm walking into dinner, shot through his head. Was he,
on this day, going to be driven mad, thinking about Rose? He only wanted to go
to a museum and study the art he loved so much. Now just the glimpse of a
perfect stranger had taken his insides and shred all his feelings to pieces.
Would he never have peace from the tragedy of Titanic?
He puffed his
cheeks and blew out a breath, ruffling his still unruly blond hair. “Come on,
Dawson. Put one foot in front of the other. Just concentrate on what you came
for. Monet.” At the top of the staircase he paused, confused for a moment. He
looked to the left, then the right. Yes, to the left. That was where he had
been told to find the Impressionists. Now the woman had disappeared in the
crowd. Relief flowed through him. Maybe he could get his tortured thoughts
pieced back together. “Jack,” he told himself sternly, “pull yourself
together.”
He shook his head
and moved along the narrow corridor. Off to the left were openings to the
various large galleries. He counted one, two, three. Jack poked his head in the
doorway. This was it. On the three walls visible to him there was nothing but
Monet. The haystacks, the water lilies and Giverney! He walked in eager for a
closer look. His breath was taken away by scenes of sunsets and dawns in winter
and spring. This was a place where he could spend the whole afternoon, lost in
his own little world. A place where there was only him and his love of art. A
place where no red-haired woman would intrude on his already melancholy state
of mind. Perhaps after a few hours in these serene surroundings he might even
heal a bit. It was certainly worth a try.