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.

Chapter Two
Stories