A LADY NAMED ROSE
Chapter Sixty-Eight

Rose set up her easel at a prime location on the boardwalk, close to a seafood restaurant. It wasn't open for business that early in the day, but she'd seen a crowd waiting to get in the door on the Fourth. Fishermen cast their lines between the planks below; they paid her no mind as she unfolded two chairs and carefully placed a hand-painted sign against the railing.

PORTRAITS 25¢

Jack had only charged a dime, but that had been ten or more years ago and she needed to account for inflation.

No one approached her at first. A handful of early risers out for a morning stroll or walking dogs eyed her curiously but did not break stride. As the day progressed, the hustlers running the shell game directly across from her saw a gradual increase in business, but still no one wanted their portrait drawn. The jar she brought along to collect change remained glaringly empty. Rose swallowed her shyness and began to call to passersby, attempting to entice them away from the con artists. She wasn't successful.

"Y'got any samples?"

Rose nearly jumped out of her skin. She hadn't seen or heard him approach, yet the tall Negro man stood close enough to touch her if he wished. He wore overalls and a wide-brimmed hat that kept part of his face in shadow. A banjo was slung along one shoulder. He grinned at her, revealing a wide gap between his two front teeth.

What a fascinating first customer, Rose thought. Before she could ask if he wanted to sit for her, he said, "You should have some samples of your work so folks can see how good you can draw."

Rose smiled sheepishly. "I'm afraid I don't have anything new. You'll be my first customer."

"Ah...but you can't tell nobody that, Miss—?"

"Rose," she introduced herself, and offered a hand.

The banjo player took it, somewhat surprised. "Name's Joe. You see all these bums on this here pier? They been out here for years, just like me. You got to set yourself apart."

She tried to coax more information from him, but he said he couldn't tarry...unless she was interested in hearing a song. She declined, not knowing how much he'd charge, but later regretted it; he was the only person to stop and talk to her that day.

Undeterred, Rose was back at the pier the following morning. This time, she had samples posted on plasterboard, which she arranged in a semicircle around her. And the banjo player's advice paid off; almost immediately a young newlywed couple stopped to have their portraits drawn. She collected fifty cents and was pleased to see her new friend making his way in her direction, even as another subject, a middle-aged woman, sat in the chair across from her. He hung back and took his time studying each sketch in turn, his eyes lingering on one in particular.

Rose suddenly made a connection, one so obvious she was amazed she hadn't thought of it the day before. She waited until her customer left, then, indicating the drawing he'd been staring at, asked, "Does he look familiar to you?"

"Maybe," Joe said. "I see thousands of folks out here every year. Damned if I can tell one from another."

"His name was—is—Jack Dawson. He used to draw portraits here, too, about ten, twelve years ago. You say you've been at this a long time. Do you remember him?"

She was certain she sounded too eager; surely he could see it in her eyes. But he only shrugged and took a seat opposite her. "Seen so many artists, musicians, jackleg preachers, and everything else over the years. That's a mighty fine drawing you did. You musta cared about him a whole lot. I want one just as good of me, y'hear? But hurry, 'fore somebody gets upset seeing us together."

Time passed quickly, bringing with it a steady stream of customers and a relentless sun. Although the heat had stolen her appetite, Rose took advantage of a lull in traffic past her stand to select an orange from the picnic basket she'd stored at her feet. No sooner had she lifted the lid than a seagull swooped down from its perch and grabbed the roast beef sandwich she'd so carefully prepared in its beak.

"Hey!" Rose managed to grasp the edge of the waxed paper wrapping, but the gull was hungrier and the two of them engaged in a mean tug-of-war before the bird gave up. Her victory was short-lived; the paper unraveled and bread and meat tumbled to the ground. In seconds half a dozen more birds joined the thief in a feeding frenzy.

A man was laughing at her. Laughing hysterically, in fact. Rose tried glaring at him, but couldn't help herself and soon dissolved in a fit of giggles.

She may have been less inclined to smile if he hadn't been so beautiful. Nearly six feet and muscular, his hair was blond and wavy, his eyes hazel, his teeth even, and save for a dotting of freckles across his nose, his skin was flawless. He was casually dressed, but Rose had an eye for expensive labels and this was no ordinary tourist.

"Must have been some sandwich," he said when he'd finally stopped gasping for breath. His voice was deep and melodious. "It's just as well. You can probably find a better one here."

"Well, I can't leave. Who'll watch my easel?"

"I could," he offered. "Better yet, why don't you allow me to share my lunch?" She hesitated, and he didn't wait for her decision, removing the wrapping on a sandwich she hadn't even noticed he was holding. Ham, pastrami, Swiss and provolone cheese, lettuce, tomato, and pickle slice on a hard roll. Rose could see the dressing that oozed from under the bread and despite her lack of an appetite five minutes ago, her mouth watered. The sandwich was already sliced and she accepted one half gratefully.

As she fumbled around for her pocketbook, the man removed a brown paper bag from underneath his shirt, where he'd concealed it in the waistband of his pants, and took a swig from whatever was inside.

"How much do I owe—what is that?" Rose asked.

"Please, a portrait would be more than enough," he said, sidestepping her second question and seating himself opposite her. "I like the one you did of Ol' Joe. He told me all about you, Rose."

"You know Joe?" She was unnerved that he knew her name, but hid it.

"Certainly. Everyone on the pier knows Joe."

"You must come here often. Where do you get the beer?"

He grinned. "I brought it from home. Don't tell anyone, okay, sugar? I'm supposed to be on the wagon."

"You and the rest of the country. May I have a taste?" The words flew out of her mouth before she could rein them in. He raised his eyebrows but handed her the bag without a word. She tipped it back, savoring the ice cold liquid, and reluctantly returned it to him. "If a cop comes along I thought it was soda pop." He laughed.

His face was angelic. She tried not to stare, but she had a nagging feeling that she knew him from somewhere.

He was pleased with his drawing, and before walking away he insisted on dropping a quarter into the jar. "You should be charging more." The clanging of the streetcar momentarily distracted him. "Well, I've got to catch the trolley. Thanks for trusting me, Rose."

She was caught off guard by this statement and he was several steps away before she remembered to ask his name.

"Call me Terry," he replied over his shoulder, and was gone, blended into the crowd.

She knew him. But from where?

*****

Fritz Geisel took ill that Saturday and the theater was closed. When Rose informed Anderson, he invited her to dine with him and his mother, saying that he had a couple of surprises for her. This intrigued her, but she wasn't looking forward to dinner. She'd spent her first night in town in one of their guest rooms, where the only sounds were the ticking of the kitchen clock and the cicadas outside her window, and had lain awake for hours in utter dread of the morning ahead.

The house was clean to the point of being antiseptic, and while Anderson and Lizzy were much more relaxed without Helene—who insisted on leaving for her own home the day before—the maid tiptoed around as if afraid of her own shadow. Lizzy offered Rose the use of the guesthouse out back, but rather than risk any further scrutiny from the woman, Rose moved into the Geisels' boardinghouse that day. She rarely returned in the months that followed, and then only at Anderson's invitation. He had his own apartment, but occasionally stayed with his mother to help her cope with the loss of her husband.

Built in 1905 shortly after they first moved to Los Angeles, the Calverts' home was modest by Beverly Hills standards, but, as Anderson once explained to Rose on a Sunday drive along Sunset, it was one of the first houses to go up in the neighborhood. Therefore, the plot of land on which it stood was larger by far than those surrounding it.

"There was nothing but orange groves as far as the eye could see," he'd said. "Now they're all being cleared for...that." And he'd slowed the car to show her the latest monstrosity whose construction was almost complete, a faux antebellum Southern mansion, complete with pillared veranda and armless statues on pedestals. "Wanna guess how long it'll take to crumble in the next big earthquake?"

In contrast, the one-story yellow frame house on Doheny Street that Lizzy Calvert had called home for the past fifteen years showcased no gaudy displays of wealth; bougainvillea and her prized rose bushes were the only decorations in her yard. But the house was set far back from the street and was surrounded by tall hedges, giving it an air of grandeur and mystique.

Anderson picked Rose up at 6:30 and they arrived a little before seven. He could have just walked in, but as he'd brought a guest he rang the doorbell out of respect. A lilting voice answered, "¿Quien es?"

"Es la policía. ¡Abra la puerta!" Anderson barked.

Esperanza, Lizzy's housekeeper, opened the door, laughing, and reached up to plant a kiss on Anderson's cheek. "Such a joker you are, mi hijo. Ah…Rosa, good to see you again."

"¿Cómo estás, Esperanza?"

"Bien, bien, gracias," she responded, accepting the bouquet of daisies Rose had brought as a centerpiece for the dinner table. "I see someone's been practicing their Español. Very good. You'll need it here."

They crossed the foyer to the dining room, where the table was set for five. "Are we expecting more guests?" Anderson asked.

"Sí. Your mother says Helene and her husband will join you."

"Well, I guess that's three surprises," he said to Rose. "I might as well give you mine before they arrive. Wait here. I'll be right back."

Esperanza went into the kitchen, leaving Rose alone. Lizzy was presumably getting dressed. Anderson returned shortly with a bound sheaf of papers, which he handed to her.

The title on the cover page read A Wisconsin Summer.

"It's your script!" Rose cried. "You're finished already?"

"Yes, and I'm having a meeting with two executives at the studio on Monday." Like his father, Anderson had a contract with MGM. "I'm hoping they'll green light it sometime before winter sets in so I can take another trip back to Chippewa Falls and shoot some footage. I forgot my camera last time."

He paced the floor, excited. "This will be the first project I bring to them on my own. They even told me to type up a treatment with casting suggestions." He stopped pacing and grasped her shoulders. "That's where you come in, Rose. I want you for the female lead."

"Wh-what?"

"You'd be perfect. And this would be just the right opportunity for you to get your foot in the door."

"But I work for the Geisels. I—I can't just abandon them to do a moving picture."

"Bravo," came Lizzy's voice from the doorway. "Someone out here has some loyalty. Although you should consider it, dear," she added, making her way to the table. "Integrity doesn't pay the bills. Oh, what lovely flowers!"

And the subject was changed. They didn't have a chance to come back to Anderson's film, as the doorbell rang and the air in the room tensed. Rose, nervous at the prospect of meeting Helene's famous husband for the first time, checked her reflection in her plate.

Helene swept in first. It was her first encounter with Rose since they arrived in LA and they were none too pleased to see each other again, but they pecked one another on the cheek just the same. Out of the corner of an eye, Rose glimpsed the man shaking hands with Anderson and froze.

"Rose, this is my husband. You've heard of Terrence Masterson, of course?"

Terrence.

She turned in slow motion and offered her right hand to the man from the pier. Terry, he'd said his name was. Inwardly, she kicked herself for not recognizing him from the wedding photo in Lizzy's parlor, if not for the twenty or so films she'd seen him in.

The expression of shock on his face must have reflected her own, though he recovered quickly and replaced it with a warm smile. Refusing her hand, he drew her close, hugged her, and planted a kiss on each cheek. "Good to meet you, cousin. Call me Terry."

This must have been normal behavior for the man, as the others, except for Helene, ignored it. "So, how was the spa?" Lizzy asked him. As Rose understood it, he'd needed a break from show business and had been vacationing at an exclusive resort for several months, and this was why he missed his father-in-law's funeral. But Helene had fabricated a story for the press that involved him shooting a mystery film in a mystery location and taking time off to attend the service for her father. It didn't make sense, but everyone else played along, including the gossip columnists, who were devoting much of their space now to the elopement of Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks.

This was the current topic of conversation at the dinner table. Hollywood's royal couple had returned from their long honeymoon and taken up residence in a mansion they called Pickfair. Helene was already trying to get herself invited to a party there.

Throughout the meal, Rose could feel Terry's questioning eyes upon her, wondering, she was sure, why she hadn't recognized him at the pier, or maybe he thought she was pretending not to? What if he told them about it? She didn't know why that should worry her; she had done nothing wrong, but worry her it did.

He and Helene left after a little over an hour, Helene saying something about brunch with friends the next day. Terry invited Anderson to go for an early morning run. Anderson declined, using as an excuse the script treatment he had to type. Rose sensed there was more to it, but was just relieved he said no. She knew what Terry wanted to talk to him about.

Esperanza had the rest of the weekend off and Anderson offered to drive her home to her family. At his urging, Rose stayed behind to read the script. While Lizzy dozed off in her favorite chair in the parlor, Rose settled down at the dining room table and became engrossed in the story of a fifteen-year-old from a big city who spends a summer with his aunt, uncle, and cousin, who's the same age, on their farm in Wisconsin. Anderson wanted her for the role of the aunt. She had just reached the part where the farmhouse caught fire when a photograph slipped from between the pages and fell face up on the floor.

She reached for it and her heart rate doubled.

The picture was of two blond boys, about eighteen years of age, standing with their arms about each other's shoulders in that very yard. They were nearly identical in looks, except that one was taller and the other wore a veil of sadness over his eyes.

They had all told her they had no pictures of him, except from early childhood. This must have been Anderson's second surprise.

She gazed at the face that had been imprinted in her memory and memorized it all over again, traced it with her fingertips, and finally crushed the photo to her chest, daring to whisper his name.

"Jack," she sighed, and let the tears come.

Chapter Sixty-Nine
Stories