New York, March 1918

Alan slowly wiped his glasses with a handkerchief before putting them on and turning to face Jack. "Stay here tonight?" he said, a trace of incredulity in his voice. "Again? Jack, you can't be serious. You need to get out more. You're young—"

"I'm twenty-six."

Alan held up his hands in mock horror. "Nearly thirty," he said. "So, I guess life gave up on me a long time ago, then, after all, I did turn thirty-eight last month. I should just start staying home all the time like you."

Jack frowned. "That's not what I meant," he said.

Alan dropped into the chair across from him. "Fine. What did you mean?" he asked. Jack looked down at the half-finished drawing on the table. "Oh, I see," Alan said. "We're not going to talk again. Okay. If that's what you want." Shrugging, he leaned back in his chair. "But whatever it is that's bothering you won't go away until you tell someone about it."

Slowly, Jack began to draw. His eyes narrowed in concentration; maybe this one would turn out right. So far, it was perfect, but they all started out well, not falling apart until near the end. Eventually, the weight of Alan's stare was too heavy. "Who said anything's bothering me?" Jack murmured without looking up.

"You've said it. Everything about you says it." Alan sighed. "I'm not your family, but I thought I was your friend. You showed up here, remember? I haven't seen you in ten years, haven't heard from you in five. I thought you were dead! And now here you are." Jack avoided meeting his eyes. Alan continued, his voice rising slightly. "You came here last month asking if you could stay for awhile, and I've let you. I didn't ask any questions. I haven't asked for money, though I could since you've finally gotten some, and you still owe me—"

Jack's voice was hard. "If it bothers you that much I'll pay you back," he said. His eyes were flinty. "I didn't realize how important money had become for you. Last time I checked you had more than enough. What happened? Your brother stop sending the checks?"

A mixture of shock and pain flashed across Alan's face. "No, he hasn't," he replied coldly.

Jack's features softened. "I'm sorry," he said. "That was—I shouldn'tve brought that up." He hunched his shoulders, covering the drawing with his hands. It wasn't going to turn out right; the shape of the face was wrong. The lines weren't forming the way they should. He pressed his hand flat against it, as if somehow that would transfer the image in his memory to the paper.

"You're going to get lines around your mouth if you keep frowning like that," Alan said.

Jack forced a laugh. "That's a concern for me," he said drily.

"You didn't frown this much before," Alan continued. "I won't ask again, okay? But something is wrong. I can see it. Anyone who looks at you can see it. You're carrying something, and it's making you miserable. And sitting around my house for the rest of your life isn't going to fix anything."

Finally, Jack spoke. "I loved her. I don't know why. It happened so fast…it's like she was always there, like there was this perfect space in my life, just for her, only I didn't know until I met her."

"What happened?"

"Does it matter?" Jack said, quickly getting up from the table. "She's not here, is she?" Without realizing it, he crumpled the drawing in his fist. "And before you say anything," he went on, "I've tried to get over it. I've been with other women." He spoke quickly, the words pouring out of him like water released from a dam. "But they weren't her. A year went by—it was a year before I tried, and I thought if I just found someone who wasn't like her. Who didn't look like her or talk her or remind me of her—if I could like someone that was nothing like her, than I would be alright. I would be getting over it, you know?" Alan just nodded. "Because it would mean I could love her, but I was still able to love someone else. Only it didn't work." He sighed heavily. "I couldn't stop thinking, Rose wouldn't like this. Or, Rose would go look at paintings with me."

"What did you do?" Alan pressed quietly.

"I decided to try and find someone more like her." A faraway look came into Jack's eyes. "I figured what I needed was a balance. Similar, but different enough so it wasn't crazy, so I wasn't just trying to recreate her. It'd been three years. I needed to move on, and I just didn't want to be alone."

New Orleans, November 1917

"You're doing it again!" Grace shrieked. She brushed past him and down the hall.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he protested, following her into the bedroom.

She slammed a suitcase down on the bed. "Yes, you do," she spat. "This isn't the first time—you've been doing it since we met! It's just been getting worse." She threw random pieces of clothing into the suitcase. "And I've had it. I don't want to live with a man and the ghost of his former lover. I didn't agree to that. That's not what you promised me!" Tears stung her eyes.

"Grace, I'm sorry," Jack said, taking her by the arms. "I care about you. I don't want to hurt you; I don't you to be unhappy. And I don't want you to leave."

"Well, I do. And I think it really is what you want, so then you can be alone with her. Why did you even bother getting involved with me?"

She moved to turn away, but he put his hand under her chin. "Because you made me laugh," he said. "You're beautiful. You like traveling as much as I do. I like being with you; we're good together."

"You aren't in love with me."

"I never said I was," he replied. "But maybe…maybe I could be."

New York, March 1918

"This'll be good for you," Alan said. "Just wait." Jack studied the posters hanging in the lobby. There was nothing extraordinary about them; they were standard portraits of each play's cast with the title at the bottom. The small lobby was crowded, and the sounds of laughter and small talk melded together into a pleasant hum. It was an obscure, off-Broadway theatre, but judging from the crowd it wouldn't remain that way for long. Jack's gaze moved around the room, a smile playing about his lips as he took in the mix of upper-class art patrons, adventurous middle class couples, and bohemians of various types. Maybe Alan was right; maybe it had been too long since he had gone out into the world.

"What play are we seeing again?" he asked as they filed into the theatre.

"I can't remember the title," Alan said. "It's something about women—mothers and daughters, money—" Settling into his seat, he opened the program. "One of the actresses wrote it, or at least that's what I've heard. You never know with theatre rumors. A first time writer will say anything to get people to come see their show."

The hum of voices faded as the lights went down. Jack leaned back in his seat, letting himself relax. The curtain rose, and his heart stopped. There she was, standing in the spotlight, looking out at the crowd—at him, or so it seemed. Jack moved forward, his hands curling around the back of the seat in front of him. "Jack, are you alright?" Alan whispered. Jack didn't hear him. He touched his shoulder. "Jack?"

It was little more than a ragged whisper. "Rose."

Jack watched the first half of the play, but he didn't see anything but Rose. He heard her voice, but focusing on her words was almost impossible. Her presence was too overwhelming. How was it possible? She died. Didn't she? Where did she go? Jack stood up as the lights came on. Applause filled the air around him. He moved toward the door, suddenly filled with a need to find his way backstage. "Why couldn't I find her?" he asked himself.

The backstage area was a maze, with set pieces everywhere and what seemed like dozens of people all moving at once. He quickly moved through the crowd, ignoring the puzzled looks cast his way. Finally, at the far end, he saw a series of doors marked "Dressing Rooms." He resisted the impulse to throw open every door, settling instead for loud, insistent knocks. It took four tries before the right voice answered.

"Millie, we have another ten minutes," Rose called. "And I need them!" Slowly, his hands beginning to shake, Jack opened the door. Rose sat with her back to him. Her head was down, an open script on the table in front of her. "Go ahead and come in," she said. "Just, please, close the door." Jack gently pushed the door closed. He tried to speak but couldn't. "This is more difficult than I anticipated," Rose said, flipping through the script. "You know, when I wrote the play I didn't intend to actually be in it. Why are you just standing—" she began, turning around. The words caught in her throat. "You're wearing glasses," Jack said softly.

She nodded. "I need them to read. I haven't had them very long."

Jack took a step toward her. "You—" A series of rapid knocks cut him off.

"Rose?" Millie called. "You go back on in five minutes."

Rose's voice shook. "Alright," she called back. "I'll be there." She stood up, taking off her glasses. "I have to go," she said. They moved toward one another. A soft cry escaped her throat as her hands touched his chest. "You're real," she said, as if to herself. His arm curled around her waist, pressing her closer; her hands moved to his neck. His skin was warm. His pulse thudded comfortingly beneath her fingertips. She lightly traced the outline of his lips with her thumb and was rewarded with a kiss on her palm. "And you're real," he said. "I—"

A fist pounded on the door. "Rose, what are you doing?" a male voice yelled. "The curtain was supposed to go back up five minutes ago! Get out here!"

"I have to go," Rose said. "I have to finish…I can't just walk out in the middle…"

"I—I know. I'll go watch the rest. And we'll talk when it's over."

"Yes."

"And you'll still be here then."

"And so will you."

"And you'll be my Rose."

Tears filled her eyes. "Yes," she said, pressing her lips to his hands.

"There you are !" Alan exclaimed when Jack reached his seat. "I was starting to get a little worried, what with the way you just ran out before."

"I had somethin I needed to do."

"Apparently, so did our cast. Intermission has gone over by almost ten extra minutes. I don't really care, but everyone else seems to. This Rose Dawson sure knows how to get people talking, that's for sure."

Jack couldn't believe his ears. "What did you say? Rose what?"

Alan stared at him. "Dawson. It's right there in the program. Is she a relation? It's not an uncommon name, is it?"

So, that explained it, or at least, part of it. But hadn't he looked for her under that name? Was it possible she hadn't started using it yet? Jack pushed all the questions aside as the curtain went back up.

….

He was standing in the wings when she left the stage for the last time. "I don't have any idea what it was about, but I loved it," he said.

She laughed. Taking his hand, she headed for her dressing room. "I thought you were watching?"

"I was, but all I saw was you."

Once the door was closed behind them, she sank into her chair. For the first time, Jack noticed how tired she looked; her stage make-up was smeared, and her hair was coming unpinned. But she had an air of accomplishment about her. He dropped to his knees and took her hands. "You're even more beautiful like this."

"Jack, we need to talk," she said.

He nodded. "I know," he said. "There's a lot to talk about. But before you say anything else—"

"No, please, Jack let me go first. I—" She searched for the right words. "You—"

"Don't tell me you're married," he joked. "Anything but that."

She smiled weakly. "No, I'm not. But-"

"Well, what is it?"

The door burst open before Rose could respond. "Mama!" the girl cried happily, running to Rose.

"I was supposed to meet you at home, darling," Rose said. "Did Marie bring you?" The girl nodded, her reddish-blonde curls brushing Jack's cheek. "Did she bring you straight back here?" She nodded again. "Good," Rose said. Her eyes met Jack's as the child turned toward him. "Mama, who's that?" she asked.

"I told you we needed to talk," Rose said with a fearful laugh.