CHANCE ENCOUNTER
Chapter Two

The gallery was warmer that Jack expected, and noisier. The thick walls of the museum kept out the worst of the heat, but the skylight allowed for some of the beastly hot air to beat down on the art lovers. Sounds of leather shoes scuffling along the parquet floor and the whipping of paper as people fanned themselves with guidebooks, made the room more distracting than Jack wanted. A few tourists whispered loudly among themselves, staring with glazed eyes at the ornately framed masterpieces.

"Really dear, why do you want to go and stare at a haystack?" said an exasperated voice. "Very well, Rose. I'll be over here in the corner. That nice still life is at least something even I could understand."

Rose. First the girl with the red hair on the steps. Now someone named Rose. Would the distractions never end? Jack made up his mind not to even look at his fellow museum goers. After all, he had come to see the paintings, not the people. And certainly not to be tormented by his own past.

Jack moved further into the gallery, threading his way among the crowd. Most everyone had gathered in the far corner of the gallery, where they were mesmerized by one of Monet's water lily paintings. Jack was familiar with that series and parked himself instead in front of the haystack in winter, transfixed by the blazing colors of the sunset. He felt the air moving near him, but he did not look except to glance at the floor, where he noticed a pair of stylish woman's shoes.

"Take it easy, Jack. Other people than you are entitled to look at the wall."

It was just that today he did not want to talk, nor hear. He only wanted to look, to lose himself in the art he so loved.

A piece of paper fluttered to the floor in front of him. Without thinking, he reached down and picked it up. A woman's hand was held out and she took it, but not without accidentally touching his. A jolt of electricity shot through Jack's body.

"I'm sorry for dropping that. Thank you," said a regal voice.

Without looking, Jack curtly replied, "Sure."

Rose had gravitated to the side of the room where the famous series of Monet's haystacks hung. He had painted them in different light and in different seasons. The one that really struck her eye was the scene in winter. The richness of the colors reminded her of Jack. Because he had loved the colors of Monet's paintings. If he could only see this one.

The space in front of the pictures was empty except for a well dressed man. He had a slim build and blond hair. His prominent cheekbones were visible from the side. Her heart began to pound. Not yet another person who reminded her of Jack.

"Face it, Rose. There are lots of tall blond men out there. You have to get a grip on yourself."

Yes, that was very true. But getting a grip on one's self whenever she saw a Jack look alike was not easy. Hopefully when this man turned so that she could she his face, his eyes would be black, his teeth uneven and his nose round and turned up. Not like Jack's stunning profile.

If she wanted to look at the picture, though, she had no choice but to move in closer to the man. She waved her little guidebook in front of her, in an attempt to dispel some of the stagnant heat that hung in the room. But one flick of her wrist was too strong and the little booklet landed on the floor in front of her. The man must have had eyes in the side of his head, for in one graceful movement, bent forward, picked up the book and handed it back to her, with only the briefest acknowledgement of her existence. She had not expected him to start a conversation and she had also not expected to feel a strangely familiar electrical sensation when his hand touched hers. Her own hand returned to her side, her fingers curling to the touch she could still feel.

She watched the man as in yet another fluid movement slowly turned his head to the side as he moved to look at another painting. At the same time, his right hand reached up to pull back his unruly blond hair. What was revealed to her, in that instant, rooted Rose to the very spot where she stood. Jack's tender mouth, his straight nose and deep set eyes all fit perfectly on this man's face. She closed her eyes, thinking she was not seeing clearly. As she took a deep breath, he turned his head just a little more.

Jack's concentration was interrupted by a sharp gasp beside him, then an odd, hoarse croaking sound. He looked to his left where the sound was coming from.

Her knees felt weak and her body felt like it would no longer support her. She reached out instinctively for the man's sleeve to steady herself.

"God help me if I make a fool of myself."

The sudden, unexpected pressure of the woman's hand forced him to look at her. Why was she touching him? If she was fainting, he'd better not let her fall. He extended his left arm to support her body and at the same time saw for the first time a curtain of red hair. It was the woman he'd seen before. No. Not now. Please not someone who reminded him of Rose now.

As her head fell back, she lifted his face to his, unprepared for what awaited her. For there staring down at her was Jack. "Jack?" It was half spoken, half whispered cry.

The woman's voice swam around his head, mingling with the stale heat.

Her hair fell away from her cheeks, and Jack saw the rich red lips and clear green eyes, that could belong to only one person.

His eyes widened, pausing in disbelief as her own eyelids fluttered once, twice, and then reopened. Jack's mouth contorted as it attempted to form a word, and a low, throaty gasp escaped his lips. Suddenly he felt so much pressure on his head, his chest, and he stepped back, his hand still on the small of Rose's back.

Her green eyes stared back at him with shock. He could feel his own body shaking, and the warm trembling of her back. Before him swam the images of the painting he had just studied, and the uncanny resemblance between it's vibrant colors, and the bright red of Rose's hair. Rose. Rose. The word would not leave his mouth, but was stuck somewhere in his throat, and he closed his eyes firmly, reopening them to discover the beauty he had thought must be some sort of cruel joke.

"Rose." There he had said it, and just as he did, he felt his own heart beat increase drastically, pounding indescribably, so quickly, racing against the emotions he could no longer control. His hand dropped from her side, and for a moment, both stood in silence, examining the other with amazed expressions. Rose could feel the heat of the cameo necklace she wore, boring into her chest as it almost heaved forward. The control over any mobility was lost in the eyes, the oceans of deep blue that kept her transfixed like nothing she had seen in seven long years. Her hand involuntarily let go of the thick guidebook she held, and it crashed to the floor, thumping against the parquet with one quick sound, that echoed through their ears. Jack flinched and looked down, and to the side, the sound somehow strangely bringing him back to reality.

"Rose? Rose say something." Every word that left his mouth added more weight to his throat it seemed, and his hands contorted in front of him, his feet sliding towards her.

"What...HH.." She tried to speak, but the meaning of her fumbling voice was lost before it hit the air, and all she could do was cling to his sleeve, which her right hand still clutched so tightly. The heat made her weak, and one look into Jack's handsome face, and all ability was gone.

Jack didn't know what to do, how to do it, and how odd that seemed. So many times had he rehearsed this impossible moment in his mind, wishing and longing for this forbidden chance. The warmth of her delicate grasp penetrated his sleeve, traveling directly to his skin. This had to be the explanation for the electricity he had felt before. His knees felt as if they would buckle soon, and with the hope he could feel flowing through him, he stepped even closer to her, ignoring the clicking footsteps he heard approaching behind them. His eyes locked on hers, searching the depths of them. He searched mercilessly, watching her reaction as he gazed into her soul once again. The flames, the embers of the fire he had always known, seemed to be more present than ever in her crystalline eyes. The vivid hope that she was trying to transmit to him, the relief and wonderful amazement she felt, was reflected there under no uncertain terms. His mouth opened as if to say something, and he could almost see the corners of her full lips curving into a smile. The traces of tears in her eyes were probably in his own as well.

He was bothered by the presence behind him, the uneasiness he could feel coming upon them. But that was impossible- what could it be.

The clearing of a throat seemed as if to stain the magical moment of reunion, and Jack saw Rose's eyes drop considerably. He turned to look, his straight hair flying over his forehead. And none other than Maxwell Calvert stood before them, his eyebrows creased in concern.

"Rose dear, are you okay?" The older man looked down on Jack, worry in his eyes.

Confusion reigned on Jack's expression, and Rose flinched when she saw the sliver of hurt in his glorious eyes. She tried desperately to catch his gaze again, but had no time before she was forced to remove her hand from the comfort of his arm. Her heart was fluttering wildly, and she turned toward her fiancé with weakened eyes.

"Maxwell, I..."

"Are you okay? What happened...I glanced over here and saw you nearly fell." His pointed nose moved with his dark eyes, examining Rose and the blond young man, their nearness so apparent.

"I'm...I'm fine. The heat...must be getting to me." She could not look back at Jack, and lowered her eyes, so much guilt suddenly in her heart. Why did he have to ruin this, why did she have to see that disappointment in the face she had dreamed of for so long.

Jack took this time to run his eyes along Rose, taking her in all at once. Her light summer dress revealed the wonderful figure he had always remembered, the luscious curves embedded so into memory. She was perfect, it seemed, the same. Until her left hand came into view, and the familiar sparkle of a ring caught Jack's eye. He held back a choking gasp he could feel coming, shifting his gaze quickly. This couldn't be happening, not again...

"Rose, this is ridiculous, this silence. Tell me who this is." Maxwell demanded politely, his face expressionless. Jack sighed, for he knew all too well what was coming.

“I, well, Maxwell.” Rose struggled to talk, to try and make sense of this most awkward situation. What could she say now to the man she so desperately loved and had lived for during these seven long years? A man that was supposed to be dead? And what explanation did one give to a staid and proper fiancé, who had given her another chance to build a life?

“Rose, here, let me hold on to you,” said Maxwell, moving her away from Jack.

Jack watched the familiar scenario and cringed inside. He had seen the light go out of Rose’s eyes, when this man approached. For him, her face had lit up like a thousand suns. However, for the Maxwell person, Rose seemed to be playing a part. Her reactions were stiff and automatic.

“I, ah, Maxwell, this is so extraordinary. Imagine, I was overcome by the heat, and the kind man who saved me from collapsing right to the floor, is an old………..” Rose hesitated. She knew the word she had to use, but calling Jack a friend was the farthest thing from the truth. “An old friend of mine, Jack Dawson. We met a long time ago. We, we,” she sighed and tried to connect again with Jack’s eyes. “We both found we had an interest in art, right Jack?"

He could see her lips twitching slightly as if to send him some hidden signal. “Oh, yes. Yes, we did,” said Jack, his eyes piercing Rose’s in an attempt to say that he had gotten the message.

“Jack, I’d like you to meet Mr. Maxwell Calvert.” Rose stopped and took Maxwell’s arm. “My fiancé.” Her voice dropped and Jack did not miss that fact that the word fiancé stuck in her throat.

Calvert stood up a bit taller, proud of the fact that his fiancée was someone as lovely and respectable as Rose. He studied Jack somewhat suspiciously, wondering if friendship was the only connection he had with Rose. But then, it was awfully warm in here and he had come up and startled her. Maybe that was all there was to it.

“Pleased to meet you, Jack,” said Calvert. He offered his hand to Rose’s friend and nodded his head cordially. Then he turned his attention to Rose. “My dear, you look a bit pale. I think I should get you back to the hotel where you can lie down and Aggie can look after you. Come along now.” He started pulling Rose away with him and he could feel that she was resisting. Before they were more than a few feet from Jack, she wiggled her arm free.

“I forgot.” Rose put on her most charming smile on and batted her eyes at Maxwell. “I’ve got Jack’s guidebook. Let me just hand it to him.” Maxwell reluctantly stopped and waited as Rose walked a few steps back to Dawson. He turned his head briefly looking for the closest way out. Maxwell suddenly felt the need to remove Rose from the presence of the young Dawson man, as soon as possible.

Jack stood helplessly with his arms at his side. He had watched this scene with Rose and Maxwell play out in front of him, while his insides were torn apart. She was taken from him again, as she had been that night seven years ago. Just when he had thought there was no hope, Rose said something to Maxwell and she was here in front of him with confusion on her face. She looked like she was pleading with him to say something, anything.

“Think, Jack,” he thought to himself. “She is giving you a chance here. Think, dammit."

“I believe this is yours,” she said, handing him her guidebook. She had seen the edge of Jack’s copy tucked into his pocket and she was sure that Maxwell had not noticed. “It was good to see you, Jack.” Rose spoke slowly and deliberately, trying to buy time. It was obvious that she wanted Jack to say something.

Jack reached for her hand, his back now to Calvert. He bent his head down and drew her hand to his mouth kissing it. Softly he whispered, “The clock, Field’s clock. Four. Be there.” Gently he released her hand and stepped back. He could see her lips quivering.

Rose moved away, hoping against hope that she did not look like her heart was going to soar right out of her body. Maxwell had stepped close to her again, impatient with the delay. There was little she could say now. “Jack, it was a pleasure. Perhaps we can meet sometime again.” She took hold of Maxwell’s arm and allowed herself to be led from the gallery. Only Jack saw her left hand at her side holding out four fingers, watching her as her head moved almost imperceptibly up and down.

The room and its paintings suddenly became a blur to Jack. The whole place turned into an upside down crazy kaleidoscope of color, spinning as wildly as his heart.

Chapter Three
Stories