LEGACY
Chapter Two

Impatiently, the butler swept open the front door, coming face to face with a very haggard, very tired young man.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes. I’m here to see Mr. Caledon Hockley."

He glanced at the boy oddly. What business could he have with his employer? "Mr. Hockley is very busy, young man. He cannot be disturbed at the moment."

"I can wait." The intensity of his words was unnerving.

"He probably won’t be able to see you for a couple of days yet. He is a very busy man."

"Please." Thomas nearly broke down. Did he have a couple of days to wait? "I need to see him. It’s urgent."

The butler hesitated. "Are you selling something?"

"No! Please. Tell him I must speak with him!"

"I suppose. What is your name?"

"He doesn’t know my name. Tell him my mother is Rose Dawson."

"I’ll see what I can do."

The butler exited, his footsteps soundless on the plush, carpeted stairs. In anguish, Thomas sat in the foyer, waiting for his future. His left leg began to throb. He thought he was going to pass out. Just as all reason threatened to leave him, the butler returned. "Mr. Hockley will see you now."

*****

Cal rested comfortably on an Italian leather-upholstered office chair, the taste of whiskey still present at the back of his throat. Before him the strewn papers and envelopes went neither organized nor diligently read. As of late, he found it easier to ignore them than face their harsh truths.

Hiding his apprehensions with a smug smile, he watched the gold handle begin to tentatively turn. In one swoop, the door was opened completely and the uncouth ruffian, as he had been described by the butler, stood before him.

Cal was taken aback. The haunted young eyes seared into his own as he took in the dark hair, the tall, trim body. It was uncanny. It was the very picture of himself in his youth, the very same brooding, cautious expression.

There, was however, one very obvious difference. He had her eyes. How often had those blue-green orbs tormented him in his dreams? How often had he wondered if they were really closed for all eternity at the bottom of the Atlantic? And now here they were, those very eyes before him.

"Come in," Cal commanded, skillfully hiding the tremor in his voice. The boy came forward, closing the door behind him. Cal noted that he walked with a prominent limp.

"I’m sorry I didn’t warn you first. I didn’t intend to arrive like this."

"I’m sorry. Who are you again?"

"I’m Thomas Dawson. Tom." The boy held out his hand. Cal didn’t move. Taking a deep breath, the boy lowered his hand, then asked more than stated, "You knew my mother?"

Still unmoved, Cal countered, "What exactly brings you here, Mr. Dawson?" The name was choked out. He never wanted to speak that cursed word again.

"Well, it’s complicated, really. I-I guess I came because I found these." Here the boy scrabbled in the inside of his coat and pulled out two newspaper clippings. One was creased, dated, and old. The other was newer. Cal took them, examining them closely.

The older one was the death notice of Rose DeWitt Bukater. It contained an article chronicling her painfully short life and the last picture ever taken of the girl--at a gala event in Paris, gazing into the camera with all the dread and sadness of a tortured soul. Her hand limply rested on the arm of her fiancé. Cal remembered taking the picture, and with awe he looked at himself standing beside the girl. Had he really been engaged to her? Had she really been his at some point? And then, of course, he remembered the rage when he found out Ruth had had the obituary printed. The last thing he needed was documented proof of his love’s demise, proof of his own failure to love and protect her.

Bitterly, Cal moved on to the next clipping. This one he recognized well. It was a story documenting the shaky profits of the steel industry, published, to his surprise, in a California regional paper. A picture, too, accompanied this article--him, just a month ago, obviously greatly altered from his younger photo, standing with one of the managers from the Pittsburgh plant.

"These were in your mother’s possession?"

"Yes."

"So, you came all the way out here just to find out more?"

"Well, I-I…um…well..."

"Yes?"

"I’ve researched you."

"Excuse me?"

"I know all about you. I’ve collected dozens of archived newspaper articles. You’re an entrepreneur. A legendary businessman. You took your father’s already striving business and made it into the biggest success on the East Coast. I couldn’t believe that my mother knew you."

Cal couldn’t help but chuckle. "Oh, she knew me."

"So…so you were close?"

"What are you getting at?"

"I j-just wanted to a-ask you, if-if..." A veil seemed to pass before Tom’s eyes, and he momentarily panted for breath. Then the boy’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and he collapsed before Cal’s desk.

Chapter Three
Stories