TITANIC: A STORY TOLD
Chapter Forty-Four
1912
The beautiful, opulent woodwork and satin
upholstery of Rose’s suite overwhelmed Jack for a moment. He set his sketchbook
and drawing materials on the marble table.
Rose switched on the lights. "Will this
light do? Don’t artists need good light?"
Jack responded in a bad French accent.
"Zat is true, I am not used to working in such ‘orreeble conditions."
He saw the paintings. "Hey...Monet!"
He crouched next to the paintings stacked
against the wall.
"Isn’t he great...the use of color. I
saw him once...through a hole in his garden fence in Giverny."
Rose went into the adjoining walk-in closet.
Jack saw her go to the safe and start working the combination. He was
fascinated.
"Cal insists on lugging this thing
everywhere," Rose told him, turning the dial.
Jack didn’t want to have to deal with Cal.
"Should I be expecting him anytime soon?"
"Not as long as the cigars and brandy
hold out."
With a clunk, she unlocked the safe. Glancing
up, she met his eyes in the mirror behind the safe. She opened it and removed
the necklace, then held it out to Jack, who took it nervously.
"What is it? A sapphire?"
"A diamond. A very rare diamond, called
the Heart of the Ocean."
Jack gazed at wealth beyond his
comprehension.
"I want you to draw me like your French
girl. Wearing this." She smiled at him. "Wearing only this."
He looked up at her, surprised.
*****
Rose drew the butterfly comb out of her hair.
She shook her head and her hair fell free around her shoulders.
*****
In the sitting room Jack was laying out his
pencils like surgical tools. His sketchbook was open and ready. He looked up as
she came into the room, wearing a silk kimono.
"The last thing I need is another
picture of me looking like a china doll. As a paying customer, I expect to get
what I want."
She handed him a dime and stepped back,
parting the kimono. The blue stone lay on her creamy breast. Her heart was
pounding as she slowly lowered the robe.
Jack looked so stricken, it was almost
comical. The kimono dropped to the floor.
"Over there...on the bed--I mean, uh,
the couch," Jack stammered, staring at her.
"Tell me when it looks right to
you."
She posed on the divan, settling like a cat
into the position from the drawing...almost.
"Uh...just bend your left leg a little
and...and lower your head. Eyes to me. That’s it."
Jack started to sketch. He dropped his pencil
and she stifled a laugh.
"I believe you are blushing, Mr. Big
Artiste. I can’t imagine Monsieur Monet blushing."
Jack was sweating. "He does
landscapes."
His eyes came up to look at her over the top
edge of his sketch pad. It was an image she would carry the rest of her life.
Despite his nervousness, he drew with sure
strokes, and what emerged was the best thing he had ever done. Her pose was
languid, her hands beautiful, and her eyes radiated her energy.