A LADY NAMED ROSE
Chapter Sixty-Three

"Mother, what are you doing?"

"I'm reviving her. What does it look like I'm doing?"

"With Eau de Funeral Parlor?"

Two voices. A man and a woman. Not from these parts, by the sound of them.

And then, perfume. An overpowering floral scent. Rose's nose and throat rebelled. She turned her head and gagged.

"See?" The woman, triumphant. "Better than smelling salts."

Who were these people? And for that matter, where was she?

"She's opening her eyes. Miss, are you all right?" His face, looming over hers, was a blur. One of them was holding a lantern; the glare made her squint.

Her lantern. She was in the Dawson barn. With Jack.

She bolted upright so suddenly her head struck the lantern, and the dull throbbing she'd sensed upon coming to took center stage, only now it ached all over, not just in the spot where it was hit.

She'd been attacked! In a rush of panic, she pushed aside the two intruders and scurried backward to distance herself from them. The man—

He looks so much like Jack, why does he look like Jack?

--and the woman, who was much older and smaller than he, climbed to their feet and gaped at her in disbelief.

"Don't come any closer!" Rose warned. "I'm from New York, I know how to defend myself."

"We can see that," the woman said dryly.

Rose visually searched the dirt floor for the rake, but couldn't find it.

"Are you looking for your weapon?" the woman needled her. "I hid it. You should watch how you wave things like that around, young lady."

"My weapon? What about yours?" Rose rubbed the back of her head.

"You mean this?" She held up her purse, a bulky accessory that weighed more than the valises Rose carried for overnight trips. "This is what I hit you with, dear. I'm sorry, my son was being threatened. I didn't stop to consider whether you were tender-headed."

"This is her studio, Mother. She was just trying to protect herself." The gentleman smiled disarmingly at Rose and attempted to approach her. "Let me get a look at your head."

"Stay back!" Seeking an alternative weapon, Rose settled for a jar of paint that was within reach and aimed it at him, hands trembling. Amiable as he was, there was something about this man that terrified her.

He roared with laughter. "I hope you don't take the lid off before you throw that. That's a fox coat my mother's wearing, and I'd hate to be you if you get paint on it."

His mother didn't look at all amused. "You know you're trespassing on private property," she accused.

There was something familiar about her, too. Though her regal bearing and clothing—full-length fox coat, hat and muff, high-heeled boots and tiny diamond earrings—screamed that she was most definitely not from Chippewa Falls, Rose still had the eerie feeling that she'd seen her before. It was the eyes, those steely blue eyes that honed in on her like a hawk's...

Rose decided she would not be intimidated. These two had invaded her working space and possibly caused her great injury to boot. "This isn't private property," she stated, injecting as much authority as possible into her voice. "No one's lived here in more than a decade."

The woman's jaw dropped. "No. It can't be." She withdrew a pair of spectacles in a gold case from inside her massive handbag and adjusted them on her nose. "You're Rose, aren't you?"

"Yes. How did you--"

"So you're the lovely young lady Laura was going on about. I wasn't sure if I should believe her." The older woman sniffed. "She forgot to mention you were mentally unstable, though having grown up under Joe Dawson's influence it's no wonder."

"I told you a gal with the last name Dawson won that fishing contest," her son crowed. "And she mistook me for Jack, just before you hit her." He rolled his eyes at his mother and turned back to Rose. "Have you heard from Jack? We've been trying to find him for—God, what's it been, seven, eight years?"

"Longer than that." His mother never took her eyes off Rose. "Perhaps you'd like to tell us what brought you to this freezing little burg after all this time?"

Rose folded her arms. The lady's imperious attitude was starting to gall her so much she momentarily forgot that her son not only resembled Jack, he knew him well enough to search for him.

"Perhaps you should tell me who you are first."

"You mean you don't know?"

"Of course not. I think I'd remember you."

A grin played about the edges of the woman's painted lips. "Pardon my rudeness. I assumed you'd recognize your Aunt Eleanor's twin sister." She extended a hand in a fur-lined glove. "Elizabeth Calvert."

Rose took her hand, and then her son's. He removed his glove and the warmth of his fingers was strangely comforting. He held on a bit longer than his mother had.

"Anderson Calvert, Jack's first cousin, on his mother's side. Pleased to meet you."

*****

Many a time since the sinking and the loss of her first love, Rose had envisioned the day she'd meet members of Jack's family. There'd be hugs and tears as she related what happened to him, and they'd welcome her into the fold as one of their own.

Even at her most fanciful, she'd never imagined they'd be anything like the Calverts.

Of course, she'd never really expected to meet any relatives of Jack's at all; he told her he was an only child and had no close kin in that part of the country. But he also mentioned an aunt in Los Angeles who'd taken him in, and a cousin who was like a brother to him. He didn't stay with them for very long. Rose sensed tension in his voice and he dropped the subject quickly. She didn't press him on it.

Oh, how she wished she had. Because these people knew more about the persona she'd adopted than she knew about them, and pretty soon they'd see through her charade, if they hadn't already. All because after all these years, she was still afraid to tell anyone the truth. Even now, as she told them both her parents and her fiancé were dead and she left a promising career in the theater to locate relatives of her stepfather's, the lies rolled so easily off her tongue she almost believed them herself. Fortunately, they seemed to accept what she said. Apparently neither Jack or his parents ever mentioned meeting Joe Dawson's wife and daughter, so Rose could get away with saying she only knew them through pictures.

As for the Calverts, they hadn't been to Chippewa Falls since Elizabeth's twin died in 1907. But now they were back in the Midwest for another funeral: her husband's. A month earlier, Andrew Calvert, pioneer motion picture director, had demanded from his deathbed that his family drive thousands of miles to his hometown near Chicago so he could die in the place where he grew up. Elizabeth, Anderson and his older sister Helene obliged him, as everyone always had. After his passing, Elizabeth decided that since Wisconsin was on the way home, she wanted to see her sister's and brother-in-law's graves one last time. The detour wasn't popular with her children, especially Helene, who was at this moment stewing in their suite at the same Norwegian-owned inn where Rose stayed her first two weeks in Chippewa Falls.

"Always the diva," Elizabeth sighed. "Perhaps you've heard of Helene Masterson?"

"Have I?" Rose had seen every one of her films since the nickelodeon days. "I've studied her work," she gushed.

And then Anderson spoke the words she'd been dreading. "Why don't you come by the hotel tonight and have dinner with us? She's much more entertaining in person." His mother gave him a stern look, at which he quickly added, "Mother's too bashful to mention this, but she's an actress too, from the New York theater. You two should have a lot to talk about."

When Rose hesitated, Elizabeth stepped in. "What, you have other plans? There can't possibly be anything exciting happening here. These people go to bed at sundown."

"I don't know. This is the Rotary Club's ice fishing champion." Anderson grinned impishly at her, and Rose felt the heat of a flush creeping into her face. His eyes were nearly identical to Jack's. She looked away.

She had more of a chance to study him, surreptitiously, over supper. Aside from the eyes, he resembled his cousin in many ways, but was different in many others. They were the same height, but where Jack was thin, almost malnourished, Anderson had a thicker, muscular build; Rose would later learn he lifted weights in a gymnasium. Where Jack's hair had been unruly, Anderson's was recently cut and well-groomed. He had a strong jaw line and a deep, gruff voice, and there was a little hardness to his features that Jack, not much more than a boy, had not shown. But his hands were softer, his nails trimmed and neatly filed, and when he spoke casually of a recent trip to "the continent," his tales were not of sleeping under bridges but of fine hotels that Rose herself had known in another life.

Anderson was a sometime actor, but was now branching out into writing and directing his own films. It appeared to Rose that he had the same sense of humor as Jack, the same hunger for adventure, the same love of life.

So why didn't Jack stay with his family?

They didn't talk about Jack at dinner. Helene dominated the conversation. Rose understood why Jack never mentioned being related to her; she was alternately the aloof movie star and a crude, malicious gossip who'd downed three drinks by the end of the first course. She didn't once mention her matinee idol husband, who for some reason hadn't made the trip.

"This is some vacation," she griped between tiny bites of salad. She wrinkled her nose. "I should've asked for the dressing on the side. I can't taste anything else."

"Maybe you should try real food for a change, dear," Elizabeth suggested caustically.

"I actually tried to have a conversation with the desk clerk a little while ago," Helene continued, as if her mother hadn't spoken, "and he could barely speak English! What kind of a place is this?"

"What difference does it make what language he spoke?" Anderson said. "All you want is to get into his pants."

Before Helene could make a comeback, Elizabeth snapped, "Enough, you two! We have a guest." She nodded at Rose. "Rose has worked on Broadway in a Cinderella play directed by none other than the great Hugh Pollard, Helene."

Helene's eyes widened. Someone had finally managed to impress her. "My, you must have the patience of Job. The only person with a worse reputation in the business was Daddy."

Elizabeth ignored her. "Have you considered a career in the movies, Rose? With your parents gone, California may be the best thing for you. There'd be plenty of work, and well, the climate is fabulous. Works wonders for the lungs."

"You just have to watch out for the snakes," Helene quipped.

"The troupe I used to be with relocated to Los Angeles," Rose said. "I wasn't sure I wanted to travel so far from home."

"But you came here," Helene pointed out. "And there's nothing here. All we've done is look at graves."

"Helene! Show some respect for the dead!"

"Like Daddy?" Helene challenged her mother. The two locked eyes for a frightening moment, and then Anderson quickly stood.

"I don't know about you two, but I'd like to get an early start tomorrow. Folks say there's a big storm coming."

Rose had to admire the way he diffused the tension at the table. Helene bid Rose a frosty goodnight and lurched upstairs. Elizabeth was considerably more polite, scribbling her address on hotel stationery for Rose, in case she changed her mind about moving to Los Angeles, and correcting her when Rose called her Mrs. Calvert.

"It's Lizzy, darling. Lizzy and Ellie, that's what everyone called us twins."

That left Rose alone with Anderson. She agreed to let him escort her the three blocks home, mainly because he wouldn't take no for an answer, but also because part of her did not want to see him go.

"I apologize for Helene," he said as soon as they left the inn's lobby. "She's having a hard time coping with our father's death."

"I'm sorry to hear about that."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear about your losses. And so close to each other. How do you manage, being on your own?"

"It's not easy, but I have plenty of friends." Rose changed the subject. "That's an unusual name, Anderson. Where does it come from?"

"My father wanted me to have his name, naturally, but Mother was dead set against it. She thought it would jinx me to turn out like him." He chuckled; the laugh had a bitter edge to it. "So they compromised. My mother loves fables and fairy tales, so she named me Anderson, as in Hans Christian."

Rose had to smile at that.

They reached the hardware store; tonight it looked like the loneliest building on the block. With the greatest of ease, Anderson gently took her right hand in his and lifted it to his lips, never taking his eyes from hers.

"I hope you'll take my mother up on her invitation, Rose. It would be a pity if we didn't have a chance to get better acquainted."

And with those words, he might have walked out of her life forever, had it not been for the snowstorm.

Chapter Sixty-Four

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