A LADY NAMED ROSE
Chapter Sixty-Four

If asked, many of the locals would say that the best flapjacks in Chippewa County were served by Katie Sheeley at the combination saloon/dining room she ran over on River Street. And if inclined to venture outside for breakfast in the aftermath of a blizzard, the Sheeley House was where many of them would be. But the garrulous widow was a close friend and confidante of Laura Cabot, so Rose took Anderson to the simply named—and discreetly distant from town—Lakeside Cafe.

What the small restaurant lacked in atmosphere it made up for in location. It was situated at the edge of a hidden cove, and from their window table Rose could view Lake Wissota in all its icy glory, with help from bare tree branches. The only other customer was an elderly fisherman whom Rose recognized. He lived alone in a cabin nearby and probably took most of his meals at the Lakeside. Hunched over at the counter, he paid them no mind.

Anderson devoured a healthy plate of hash browns, then started in on a stack of a half-dozen blueberry pancakes, pouring generous helpings of syrup every few minutes. He grunted his thanks without looking up when the waitress delivered a third refill of coffee. Rose watched him politely over her fruit bowl.

"Hungry, are you?"

He finally looked at her and grinned sheepishly. The fork was lowered and a napkin dabbed at his lips. "I'm sorry. I don't get fed this well at the hotel. It's hard to stuff your face in front of actresses."

"Don't I know it," Rose muttered.

That was the moment he chose to steer the conversation in a whole other direction, a skill he exercised frequently and completely without warning. Rose never saw it coming.

"So, what's your story, Rose?"

"My story?" To cover her nervousness, she reached for the pitcher of orange juice on the table between them; before her hand could reach its destination, he grabbed the handle and poured it for her, then smiled at her expectantly.

Those eyes.

Dammit, what the hell was she doing here with him?

He had first phoned her the morning after the overnight storm, interrupting a frustrated attempt at sketching. She'd wasted an hour gazing disconsolately out of her bedroom window, wondering how many inches this time--ten, fifteen, thirty-five? When the telephone jangled, she just let it ring a few times, believing it was Karl inviting himself over to shovel her walk. Only Karl would have given up after five or so rings. Sighing, she finally picked it up.

"Good morning, gorgeous! Splendid weather we're having, eh?"

"Who is this?" She knew, of course. Her hand trembled and she leaned against the table to steady herself.

"Forgotten me already? I'm hurt."

"I—I’m just surprised, that's all." Without even being conscious of it, Rose checked her appearance in the vanity mirror. She looked haggard, the result of a restless sleep frequented by disturbing dreams. "I thought you'd left hours ago."

"Well, I think Mother Nature had other plans. We'll be here for at least a week."

"Really?" Too excited. Rose made a second attempt, this time a bit more subdued. "Really? I'm sorry to hear that."

"Sorry about me being stuck here, or sorry that you're stuck with me?"

She flushed, and silently cursed herself for it, although no one could see her. "You're not exactly stuck with me, now, are you?" she tossed back at him. "You're in the hotel and I'm here, and there's about two feet of snow between us, so unless you have some really sturdy boots, I'm afraid--"

"Snow melts, Rose," he said.

And of course the thaw had begun that day, and with the warming temperatures came the plows to clear the streets. Anderson called daily. The next thing Rose knew, he was inquiring who served the best flapjacks in town, and she drove him to a place that served decent flapjacks and where no one would ask any questions.

"Your story," he was repeating now. "I mean, you can't be staying here because of the climate. You're looking for something."

Rose made a show of stirring sugar cubes into her coffee. "Peace and quiet, mostly. I realized that if I ever wanted to finish another painting, I would have to trade the city for someplace where I could clear my head."

"But why here? Your aunt and uncle are gone. Jack is gone."

With a clatter, Rose's spoon fell to the floor. Before either she or Anderson could reach for it, the attentive waitress was at her side with a replacement. She studied Anderson for a moment, and then an unabashed grin spread over her plain features.

"I knew I seen you somewhere!" she cried. "In one a them picture shows, over to Minneapolis." She was nearly hopping up and down with joy. "I couldn't stop talking about ya. My gal friends thought I was some kind of loon. Just wait till I tell ‘em!"

Rose was mortified. Soon it would be all over Chippewa Falls that she was spotted having an intimate breakfast with a bona fide movie star. Mrs. Cabot would fire her and then run her out of the apartment...maybe even out of town.

Anderson, on the other hand, was lapping up the attention, sharing tidbits about Mary Pickford and Fatty Arbuckle as if he knew them personally. For all Rose knew, perhaps he did. Eventually the hostess wandered over from behind the cash register and the chef even abandoned the customer at the counter to see what all the commotion was about. The fisherman, having finished his scrambled eggs anyway, tuned in as well. Rose realized with sudden clarity that not one of these people would remember she was there. It was refreshing.

Anderson scrawled a cheery message on the waitress's notepad and they managed to extricate themselves. On the drive back to town, he admitted the place had its charms.

"If you're looking to settle down, I don't believe I saw a ring on that girl's finger," Rose teased him.

"Jealous?"

How did he do that?

"Actually, I'm glad it was you they fawned over," Rose responded defiantly. "I was recognized on the street a few times back east. I never quite knew how to handle it."

Anderson was sympathetic. "Nobody does, really." They'd come to a stop in front of the inn, and once again, Rose felt a twinge of regret. He was watching her, serious now. "Have you given any thought to my mother's invitation?"

"I did a few plays, Anderson. That hardly qualifies me for a film career."

"It more than qualifies you. The theater is much tougher, coming face-to-face with your audience night after night. I don't think I could do it."

She couldn't, wouldn't, allow him to sway her. "You'd better get inside," she reminded him. "I think I saw your mother at her window."

He looked as though he wanted to coax her again, but instead, after a long pause, he only said, "She wants to leave day after tomorrow. Helene's driving us both batty."

Upon disembarking from the vehicle, he tipped his hat in an exaggerated fashion, once again the jester. "What time shall I call on you tomorrow, Madame?"

"Tomorrow? Where are we going?"

"Wherever you like," he said.

*****

The road leading to the Dawson farm, being a county thoroughfare, was among the first cleared after the storm. Still, Anderson insisted he drive this time; there were likely to be some icy patches, he argued. Rose could have navigated it—she did it all the time—she kept that to herself.

They were quiet for a stretch, each lost in their own daydreams. Rose avoided thoughts of the next day, when Anderson would be gone, and instead tried to envision the finishing touches on her painting. There would be plenty of empty days ahead to wallow in her loneliness.

Anderson interrupted her musings, informing her that Helene had finally succeeded in bedding the Norwegian desk clerk.

Rose gasped. "She told you this?"

"She didn't have to. She just stopped complaining all of a sudden. And then I saw them together just now before I left." He chuckled, but there was little humor in the sound. "I know my sister."

"But what about her husband?"

"What about him?"

"She doesn't seem too concerned about him or her reputation...oh, there's the farm. Turn here."

He pulled into the drive, but it was immediately apparent that they wouldn't get far. A foot of virgin snow made further passage impossible. They left the auto, a late model Ford, parked as far off the main road as possible. Anderson offered Rose his arm and they trudged their way to the barn.

Rose saw it first. A portion of the roof had collapsed.

She gave a little cry and broke free of Anderson's support, stumbling ahead as quickly as her awkward snow boots would carry her. At her approach, a startled crow took flight from its perch above the sagging doorway, sending a clump of snow sliding to the ground, narrowly missing Rose's head. Anderson caught up with her and yanked her away before she could enter the structure.

"What are you doing? You could get hurt!"

"My...painting..." she gasped between breaths.

"I'll get it," he volunteered, and ignoring her objections, he was inside.

Remarkably, the easel remained standing in a corner of the barn the force of the storm had not touched. Reaching it, though, was tricky. Several support beams had given way and the floorboards in what was left of the hayloft dangled precariously overhead. There were gaping patches of sky in the ceiling.

Anderson reached for the painting and heard a noise behind him.

"Careful with that," Rose admonished.

"What the hell—Rose, get out now before this whole thing comes down on your head!"

"I couldn't let you come in here alone. It's my painting. Now, you take the easel."

He shook his head but handed her the painting as she commanded. As she started for the exit, the roof shifted and the barn groaned. Rose suddenly froze in place, her breath coming in short, staccato bursts. The painting slipped from her grasp; Anderson caught it in time.

"Forget the easel, okay? Let's go, now!" Her feet remained glued to the floor. Anderson moved quickly, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to safety.

Outside, she still appeared dazed. Anderson would later question his own sanity, but he went back for the easel, what remained of the paints and the stool, sitting her upon that while he loaded her other belongings into the car. When he returned with a thermos of hot chocolate, Rose was alert again, and quite embarrassed.

"I don't know what came over me," she apologized.

He knelt and took her hands in his. "It's okay. You were scared."

"I don't handle life-or-death situations very well."

"Rose," he said, and put a gloved finger to her lips. "Hush."

They were quiet for a while, trading the thermos back and forth and taking long sips. Rose finally broke the silence. "I suppose I'll have to find another studio."

"You can come back in the summertime," he said. "Set up your easel by the lake." When she didn't respond, he added, "I know. It won't be the same."

His azure eyes took on a hint of sadness, and he stood and gazed at what remained of the last building standing on his aunt and uncle's property. "Jack and I used to play in there. We'd hide up in the loft and wait ‘til Uncle John was standing right beneath us and then boom—we’d drop eggs on the ground all around him! We just wanted to scare him. We tried not to hit him or we'd be in store for a whipping we'd never forget, but there was this one time…" He began to laugh with the memory. "…my aim was off or something and an egg landed square on his head. You should've seen it, Rose. Uncle John's whole face went purple and the yolk was running down into his eyes..."

Rose was mesmerized. Her Jack had once been a devilish little boy, and he'd played pranks on his father in this very barn.

"We hid out for the rest of the day, but eventually we got hungry and we had to come home for supper. And when Uncle John asked who threw that egg, Jack didn't hesitate." Rose waited. "He just pointed at me." Anderson roared. "We both got the switch, and that wasn't the first time or the last, either."

Anderson's memories had brought him to life, and in an instant he was dragging her downhill to the lake. "Come on. I want to show you something."

She followed him along the shoreline until they came to a sturdy oak that must have been two hundred years old at the least. One branch extended over the frozen water like a beckoning finger. Anderson appeared to be in awe that it still existed.

"There was a giant rock here, at the edge," Anderson described, "and one summer Uncle John tied a length of rope to that branch, and we'd swing out over the water and let go."

Rose closed her eyes, and she could see Jack, a towheaded youth of about ten in dirty overalls, swinging away from the rock, grasping the rope for dear life until it burned his palms, then letting loose with a shout of pure joy.

A mound of wetness struck her in the back of the neck. "Hey!"

"Sorry." Anderson laughed. "You looked so lost for a minute there, I had to bring you back."

"Why, you..." And a full-fledged snowball war was on. They chased each other through the woods, pelting one another until their outer garments were soaked. Rose managed to get the better of Anderson and he raised both hands in surrender, only to be struck one last time, full in the face. She hollered until she was doubled over. Anderson only smiled and bent over, scooping up a large handful. Rose turned tail and he pursued her back to the old oak.

He caught her, spun her around, and as she cringed, waiting for the coup de grace, he gently took her face in his hands and kissed her.

His gloves were cold and sopping wet, but his lips were warm and tasted faintly of chocolate. Rose saw no choice but to respond, and respond she did, with an eagerness that surprised them both and encouraged the kiss to deepen, Anderson pressing her back into the tree. Her arms encircled his shoulders.

He removed his gloves and loosened the scarf at her throat, his mouth tasting the exposed skin. His bare hands became entangled in her hair. A heat she thought she'd forgotten spread through her body...

"Rose, what are you doing to me?" he murmured.

She remembered where they were, and just like that, her body went limp.

He felt the change in her, and it was as if a spell had been broken. He was instantly apologetic; she told him there was no need to be sorry, but they both knew it wouldn't happen again. Rose concealed her disappointment.

They went back for the stool and the thermos, and to take one last look at the old homestead before leaving.

"Do you know...how it happened?" Rose asked softly.

"The fire? Not exactly, but my father said the sheriff told him it looked suspicious."

Rose stared at him. "You don't think it was arson?"

"I don't know, but we never told Jack. He was in California visiting us at the time and we just brought him on back after the funeral and tried to move on with our lives. No need for him to dwell on how close he'd come to being killed."

*****

With the exception of April 14, 1912, that night was the longest of Rose's life. Sleep was out of the question, so she sipped hot tea laced with brandy and finished her painting by candlelight.

At three AM, she made a decision.

Laura Cabot answered a knock at her door shortly after sunrise and was alarmed to find Rose standing there, bearing a large and mysterious package wrapped in heavy cloth.

"My goodness," she exclaimed. "Not ten degrees out and here you are, up with the chickens. Is something wrong, dear?"

"No," Rose answered, and in that moment, she looked the happiest Mrs. Cabot had ever seen her. "Nothing's wrong at all. I've just come to give you a gift, to show my appreciation for all you and your family have done for me."

When she'd gone, the Cabots unwrapped her gift. It was a watercolor painting of Lake Wissota in winter, the initials RD etched in one corner.

Back at her apartment, Rose packed the last of her belongings and gave the tiny rooms a cursory glance before shutting the door behind her. She was paid ahead on the rent, so she owed the Cabots nothing; still, she didn't want to linger and let it sink in how much she would miss them.

Once upon a time, early on a morning almost as cold as this, she'd chosen to jump rather than stay on the safer course. Her leap of faith had nearly killed her, but she survived and she never regretted jumping, not once. Now it was time to jump again, and once she did, she couldn't turn back...

She narrowly missed them. When the Daimler Benz arrived at the inn, his car was pulling away from the curb. It moved at a fast clip, too, as if he were in a hurry to leave the town behind.

So Rose leaned on the horn, loudly enough to wake every guest in the hotel.

The Ford braked, backed up. She could see Lizzy and Helene peering out at her, irritation on one face, raw anger on the other. But when Anderson climbed onto her sideboard, he was smiling.

"I hope you got a good night's sleep," he said. "It's going to be a long drive."

Chapter Sixty-Five
Stories