New York
September 14, 1920
Jack Dawson beamed as he watched the patrons scan his gallery for new additions to their painting collections. Almost ten years it had taken Jack to open his gallery, and now he was here. He had never felt happier and all of the years of hard work seemed to have paid off. His talent was something he was born with, not something which he had studied, as he had never had the money to attend a college or university, but he had helped out other young artists developing their skills and was happy to do so for free. After surviving the sinking of the Titanic in 1912, he had turned to art more than ever. It was one thing he did to express his emotion and put it onto paper. Over the years, he had built himself a small but steady business. He finally felt content in his life. He had photographed or drawn for Broadway shows and actresses in the area. Drawing was one thing he loved, but in recent years he had learned to love photography. It started out when he took pictures for a friend’s wedding, but then he began to get more offers. He had photographed the main characters for the summer play at the local Hippodrome, which took place each year from May to September.
The building which housed his art was plain. Tourists and students scurried back and forth across the wide street, dodging automobiles, trucks, and horse-drawn carriages. Grinding and honking sounds filled the air. He came here to showcase several of his own works of art, which he had had the inspiration to draw over the last few years. Since arriving in New York in late April 1912, Jack had spent his time devoting himself to his one and only love—art. He had fought in Europe during the war and had returned a changed man, more determined than ever to make his life count. A crowd of three men stood around Jack’s paintings. He had attracted quite a few collectors and was largely proud of his work. All of his art was on show at the gallery—some simple charcoal drawings and three oil paintings. Santa Monica pier was one of them, the ocean in the distance. Just by glancing at the painting, memories of the time he and Rose spent together came flooding back to him. Loosening the top button of his shirt, Jack began to make small talk with the gentlemen admiring his work. They were of middle class, he would say, dressed smartly, around their mid-thirties. It was around three when admirers seemed to cease, and Jack thought of packing away for the day and heading home. He wanted nothing more than a cold beer to finish off the lovely day. He was happy enough, had encountered flocks of admirers and decided it was a success. He felt happy and smiled to himself a little, not that it was noticeable to the customers.
A small, middle-aged man with gray hair smoked a pipe as he glanced at a photograph Jack had taken last summer for the Hippodrome. Jack hadn’t seen him in these parts before. Usually, he had regular visitors, but this man, he knew, was a newcomer. Jack pondered how to approach him, whether to just say hello or…
“Hello.” Jack broke away from his thoughts to see the man approaching him. He was around fifty or so, with a round body and amusingly bushy eyebrows. “Quite a collection you have here.”
Jack smiled. “Thank you, sir.” He was used to the compliments given to his work, but he still appreciated every single one of them. He was proud of what he had accomplished, especially since the war.
“Is this all of your work?” he asked, taking a drag from his pipe. Jack leaned against the beam and nodded.
“Yes.”
The man turned to a few charcoal drawings Jack had done years ago. Jack didn’t care too much for them. He felt that since the war his art had got better, and when he looked back at the drawings he made after the Titanic, he remembered how glum they were. Rose was the subject of most of the drawings he made around that time. Of course, he kept them private, not even glancing at them nowadays. He wanted to close the book on that part of his life. “I like this in particular.” He examined the paper. “It’s from the heart.”
Jack wondered who this man was, whether he was an artist himself, or maybe a collector. He seemed to know some stuff about art. “Art is my life, sir. I put everything into it.” He could sense a sale coming, but he still wasn’t sure what sort of thing this man was looking for.
“I particularly like the photographs. You can see the emotion in them. Not just from the actors, but the way they were taken…” He pointed to one in particular. “Do you light the scene yourself?”
“Yes, I do. I felt it needed a romantic mood. Especially for Romeo and Juliet, which ran at the Hippodrome a few months back.”
The man knew he spoke from his heart. He had a lot of knowledge in this area. He was just the type of person he was looking for. “Say, son, do you have a name?”
“Jack. Jack Dawson,” he told the man, wondering why he had taken such an interest in the actual artist. Usually customers would purchase something and then leave.
“My name is Derek Johnson,” he said between puffs on his pipe. Jack eyed this man. He was dressed immaculately in a tuxedo, almost as though he was off to an opera or something. “I have just arrived from Los Angeles.” He stopped for a moment. He pondered a few seconds, taking in Jack. This boy was in his mid-to-late twenties, he would guess. His eyes traveled to his wedding finger—no ring. “I am an agent for a movie company out there.”
“Right.” Jack raised his eyebrows. He wondered why a movie agent was in his gallery. He hadn’t been to California since 1910, after his folks had died. He could never return, knowing the place would hold memories of him and Rose. He shook his thoughts free from his head. Why was he thinking of Rose again? Eight long years since she had stolen his heart and eight long years since she had died.
“I have a young, virtually unknown actress out there who is about to star in her first movie.” He grinned. “How would you like to come out there and meet her?” Derek spoke the words as though he was making a child’s dream come true. Jack responded meekly. He frowned. Why would he want to meet an actress?
“I don’t quite understand.” He shook his head. What did this man want from him?
“Look, son. I need talent. I need a man who can capture this movie and make it a hit.” He sounded excited. “I need some publicity photographs to be taken and I think you could be just the man.”
Jack was taken aback. Was he serious? “I could?”
Derek patted Jack on the shoulder. “Of course. I like what I see here.” He indicated the gallery. “You have talent in every aspect of your art, and that’s what I need brought to the screen. Would you be at all interested?”
Jack paused for a moment. He hadn’t been to California in some years. He hadn’t imagined himself ever going back there. He shook his mind free of that and saw the man in front of him. He seemed genuine enough. “I could be.”
Derek clapped his hands. “The pay would be good, of course. I wanted to hire a professional.”
Jack was astounded that this stranger thought his art was good enough to photograph an actress. He guessed she wasn’t very famous, but if she was going to star in a movie, then she could be the next Lillian Gish. Why me? he wanted to ask. Had he searched all around and thought Jack was the best, or had he just turned up here and picked the first man he found? Jack found that he didn’t care. Maybe he had to return to California at some time or another to face his fears. All of these years, he had run away from Rose’s memory, but maybe he needed to dip his toes in the Pacific Ocean and move on from that period in his life. After all, this was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and he would get some good money doing what he loved. “Count me in.”
Jack held out his hand to Derek, who shook it happily. They exchanged details and Jack was told to arrive in California by the following Tuesday. His accommodation would already be paid for and all he had to do was take the train there. It was only after, when he lay awake that night in bed, that Jack couldn’t help think there was a reason behind all of this. Surely Derek hadn’t just picked Jack to do this job randomly. He felt like he had a reason to go back to Los Angeles and maybe even to Santa Monica. He had ghosts there. Every night, he dreamed of what his and Rose’s life could have been like. Would they have married? Perhaps even had children? He sighed heavily, tears pricking his eyes. The memories were still very much fresh, even though he had lost her so long ago.