August, 1928
Jack paused, his hand on the doorknob. He pushed it closed with a sigh. There was plenty of time to gather up her things, plenty of time to run his hands over her dresses and remember the way the fabric clung to her skin, to bury his face in the empty garments in hopes of finding a trace of her scent. And what did he plan to do with them, anyway? Throwing them away was definitely not an option. He would keep everything of hers; after all, there wasn't anything of his that she wasn't entangled in somehow, that she hadn't touched. The voice of the Irish judge who married them echoed in his head. "To share all of your worldly goods and possessions." Jack chuckled drily and started down the stairs. They had indeed shared everything. Except this. Rose had finally found a place they couldn't explore together.
He sipped his tea slowly. The mug was solid and warm between his hands. There wasn't enough sugar in it—or milk, either, for that matter—but he didn't care. It wasn't worth harassing what looked to him like an already over-harried waitress over. She did her best. She couldn't know he only liked tea with three spoonfuls of sugar and half a cup of milk. Only Rose knew that. He smiled as he took another sip. He saw her again, making tea. Her hands moved busily, stirring and pouring, and she sang softly. Curls fell around her face. One forgotten hairpin tried desperately to hold back a few, but it was already losing its grip. Rose's hair was like silk. It slid through pins easily unless there was just the right amount of force behind the hand doing the pinning. She never used that force. She wanted to leave her hair unpinned completely, but no employer would look twice at a girl with loose hair.
Jack stirred his tea, remembering the way her hair slid through his fingers when he kissed her, her body soft and warm against his. They made love until she couldn't anymore, until her body wouldn't let her. It was the only way she could sleep. She would gather him to her, their sweat-soaked bodies sticking together under the sheets, and hold him as tightly as she could. "I love you, Jack," she whispered. Even then there had been a note of finality in her voice. And I don't want to leave you. She never said it, but he heard it just the same.
It was a short walk to the church, and he had over an hour before it would begin. But he pushed the half-drunk cup of tea away and left anyway. He walked quickly, head down and eyes on his feet. The rhythm of motion was soothing. He didn't have to think about putting one foot in front of the other; his body just did it for him.
*****
"I'm fine, Jack."
Rose turned from the window. "I'm fine," she said again, more insistently this time. Jack moved the piece of charcoal between his fingers. "I know you feel fine now," he began. "But Rose, you're—“
"Don't say it." Her voice held the tremor of choked back tears. "Jack, please don't say I'm sick. If I was sick, I wouldn't be able to get up and live. I would be lying in bed waiting to—" She cut herself off, a stricken look in her eyes. It was the closest either of them had come to saying it out loud.
Jack cradled her face in his hands. "You're not waiting for anything," he said softly. "Nothing's gonna happen to you." He caressed her cheek with his thumb. "You just have to take care of yourself for a while."
"I am," she said. "I'm doing the only things I know how to do. I can't stop living." Not yet. The words hung between them, unspoken.
"I'm not asking you to," he said. "Just do this for me, okay? Just rest a little more, okay?"
"It's so hard to sleep," she said resignedly. "I'm exhausted, but I can't sleep." He pulled her closer. "I'll just have to try harder to tire you out," he said, kissing her. Their lovemaking was a temporary relief, a balm on the wound the truth of the situation had created.
*****
"Excuse me." The woman brushed past him without a second glance. Jack nodded without turning around. The church was empty and cold. "Of course it's empty," he murmured to himself as he made his way to the front. "I'm an hour early." The flowers were perfect. Orchids and tulips—her favorites—with one red rose in a thin glass vase at the center. He had tried to get water lilies, but they would have taken too long. Instead, he drew some for her.
Jack stopped just before he reached her. His heart pounded in his chest. A painful lump formed in his throat. He swallowed it and forced himself to keep going. "Rose," he whispered. "My Rose."
She was exactly the same, only not. She was smaller somehow, and there was something missing. She looked as though at any moment she would open her eyes and ask what was wrong, and yet she was stiller than she had ever been in sleep. The thing that made her Rose was gone. It had flown away, not to be seen again in this lifetime. He took a deep breath and pulled the drawing from his coat pocket. He tucked it between her cold hands. "I hope there are water lilies there."
*****
"Read another, Jack. Please?"
He flipped to a new page. "All right. It's a short one."
She smiled and resettled her head on his chest. "You say they're all short ones."
He cleared his throat and began to read. "Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl! And let me kneel, and let me pray to thee, and let me call heaven's blessing on thine eyes, and let me breathe into the happy air, that doth enfold and touch thee all about, vows of my slavery, my giving up, my sudden adoration, my great love!"
Rose sighed when he finished. "I wish someone loved me enough to write something like that." Her shoulders slumped. "But I suppose it just won't happen," she said melodramatically. She tried to slip out of Jack's arms, but his gentle embrace wouldn't budge.
"Oh, you want a poet, do you?" he asked. His tone was serious, but his blue eyes were light and teasing. "I could write poetry."
"Could you really?"
Jack thought for a moment. "No," he said with a laugh. "I'm afraid all I can do is draw." He kissed her temple. "But if I could write a poem for you, it would be better than that one. I'd write a whole book of poems better than anything Keats wrote."
"Better than Keats? You love me that much?" she teased. "Are you sure?"
He nodded solemnly. "I love you more."
They made it through all of Keats, Eliot, and Yeats before moving on to fiction. They read Fitzgerald, Joyce, and Woolf. Jack drew pictures to go with everything they read. He tacked them up in the bedroom so Rose could always see them. When spring came, he filled the room with flowers from the fields around the house. He moved the bed so Rose's side faced the window. It didn't compare to actually going outside, but it was the best he could do for her. By then, Rose was so weak she could only sit in bed and watch the world go by. She lived through what she saw out the window and the stories Jack told her.
*****
Now the people were filing in. They walked slowly, avoiding each other's eyes. No one looked at Jack. He stood at the front, hands in his pockets, staring calmly at the crowd gathering before him. He was torn between being grateful they had all come and wishing he could tell them all to go away. Most of them were curiosity seekers. They wanted to see how he would hold up; they wanted to see if he could make it through the day without crying or flinging himself into her grave. They would all be disappointed. Some would interpret his calm as a lack of feeling, but he didn't care. He couldn't cry anymore. His eyes were dry and burned when he blinked. He didn't have any tears left. Rose's curls had soaked them all up.
His artistic success paled in comparison to the interest the public had in his and Rose's private life. Some days he wondered if it was his art that was really being bought or the chance to get a glimpse of him.
The church was silent when the door opened and Ruth slipped in. She moved quickly, her eyes darting around the room. Her dress was plain and black. She wore a jet brooch at her throat and a velvet and feather hat. Her gaze landed on Jack, but she didn't meet his eyes. She looked through him as though he wasn't even there. There were a few murmurs when she came in, but silence soon returned.
It moved quickly, and before Jack knew it, all the words had been said and everything had been read. He watched the crowd file past. The bolder people looked straight at him and then down at Rose, but most just glanced furtively in their general direction before hurrying on. Ruth was last. She didn't even look in his direction. She stopped when she reached Rose. Her chin trembled. Her mouth puckered. Her pale green eyes were red-rimmed. But she didn't cry; she didn't even make a sound.
When she was finally gone, Jack turned to Rose for the last time. He touched her hand, a lump forming in his throat at the coldness of her skin. "She isn't…" But he leaned down and kissed her cheek just the same.
Ruth was standing on the church steps when he came out. Her back was stiff, her hands firmly clasped. "Thanks for coming," he said. She nodded at him curtly. "It means a lot to Rose," he went on. "I know it does."
"Don't you mean meant?" Ruth's voice sliced through the air like a cold knife. "Nothing can mean anything to her anymore."
"No, it can," he said. "She isn't gone forever. She's just in a different place now."
Ruth snorted quietly. "I'm sure you're about to tell me you did everything you could for her."
Jack ignored the accusation in her voice. "I love her," he said simply. "I did everything I could to make her happy right up until the moment she—" His voice faltered. "She died in my arms."
*****
"There isn't any more pain," Rose said. She laid a hand on Jack's wrist. "I don't need any."
He slowly put down the bottle of morphine. "You sure?" he asked.
She nodded. "I'm sure." She covered his fingers with hers. "Come hold me."
She was light in his arms. She hugged him with all the strength she had left. "Our hearts are beating in unison," she said.
He stroked her curls. "They always have been," he said.
She tilted her head up. "I love you, Jack."
He cradled her face with one hand. "I love you, Rose."
She looped an arm around his neck and kissed him. "I'm just going to close my eyes for a moment," she said. She settled her head on his chest. "Just for a moment."
Jack pressed his lips to her forehead. He sang softly. "Oh, say, let us fly, dear…"
*****
He didn't even notice where he was going. Somehow, his feet knew to carry him home. The house was silent and dark. He left it that way until he reached the bedroom. He stood in the doorway, his hand still on the light switch. The window was still open; his drawings were still on the walls. The bed was unmade. There was still an indention in Rose's pillow. To the Lighthouse still lay open on the table. His knees threatened to buckle as he took the first step forward. He ignored it and kept walking. He kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the bed with a heavy sigh. The sheets smelled like Rose. It was hot, but he curled up in them anyway. He hugged her pillow to his chest and buried his face in it.
The sun was rising when he woke up. He opened his eyes slowly, reaching for Rose. And then it all came back. His arm dropped. His fingers brushed the cover of the book. "Want me to finish it?" He lay on his stomach with Rose's pillow as a prop and began to read. "Part Three: The Lighthouse…"
The End.