Written by Snaily
Based on some situations originated by James Cameron.
It had been two years since that fateful night. Two years since the icy cold had bitten into her skin, holding her, refusing to let go. And two years since him. Now, Rose Dawson sat on the beach, near the pier in Santa Monica. At first, she hadn’t thought she would be able to get anywhere near the water again. But he had made her strong.
She sat on the beach in a swim dress that she had worked months to buy. She wished she could go back into the water; at least this would be warm. But she wasn’t ready for it yet. She couldn’t swim knowing that water had been what had removed her love from her. Rose soaked in the sun. She laughed as she remembered what her mother would have said.
"Rose, sit up. It is not proper for a young lady to sit on the beach with her legs sprawled out."
"Rose, put on a hat; save your complexion."
Save her complexion. It was too late for that now. Rose had been working as a seamstress--her mother would have screamed and fainted--for the past two years. Her once soft, smooth hands were now covered with calluses and worn from work. But she loved it. It made her feel like she was giving something to the world besides another pretty face to stare at.
Rose sighed and stared around the beach at other girls and boys. There were immigrant children, running around, their skirts flying, not a care in the world. And then there were the high society children, standing up or sitting in beach chairs. They wore layers of hot clothing and huge hats that made their heads droop. And they didn’t dare run, for fear of a punishment equal to the stocks.
That had been her life. Rose squealed and threw herself backward into the warm sand, her red hair fanned out behind her. She embraced the feeling, although she knew she would regret it later. The dress would need to be shaken to prevent future rashes or itching spells from the sand. Rose stood up, shook her skirt, and began walking up to the pier.
There were the normal array of shops that opened every morning, but here, now, there was a new stand. It was a tent with a curtain the pulled up front, and there was an artist in front. She knew it was an artist because of the multiple portfolios and charcoal pencils scattered on the table. Jack had carried similar items aboard the Titanic.
A woman walked up to the artist and asked to see one of the portfolios. The artist agreed and handed her one that resembled Jack’s. The woman’s eyes widened in wonder, and Rose knew what she was seeing. This artist, like Jack, drew nudes.
She stepped a little closer to hear some of the conversation.
"This one is very well done, sir. When was it done?"
"A couple of years ago."
"April 14, 1912," the woman read. "Was that not the day the great ship Titanic sank?"
Rose stiffened. She hated the memory. And she loved the memories before it as much. The artist seemed unnerved by it, too, but Rose could only see his back. So, she studied his movements to guess.
"This girl is very beautiful. I’ve never seen anyone with such talent before," said the woman.
"Yes. She was the most beautiful girl I have ever drawn," said the artist. "I’ll never forget her."
Rose unwillingly took another step closer. She was entranced by the things the artist was saying…they seemed so familiar.
The woman removed the drawing from the portfolio and held it up to the light. But just as she did, a breeze from the ocean whipped by, snatching the picture out of her hands. It raced down the pier, and right towards Rose. The artist leaped from behind his table and rushed after the picture. Rose couldn’t move as she saw the picture coming. Suddenly the wind died down and the picture skidded a few more inches before wedging itself firmly beneath her shoe.
She bent over and picked up the picture. Her breath caught in her chest the moment she looked at it, and suddenly the artist was in front of her. She couldn’t look into his face. For one thing, her eyes were attached to the drawing, and for another, she knew what face she would be looking into. And she didn’t think she could. But she had to, and she handed the artist the picture. She saw that her greatest dream had come true. She was struck with shock. The last thing she remembered was falling to the pier and seeing Jack’s concerned, shocked, and amazed face leaning over her.
Rose woke up on a couch that she wasn’t familiar with. But she also woke up holding a hand that she was familiar with. The warm sunset light streamed in through a small gap in the curtains. His face was only a silhouette. But she knew the profile.
"Jack?" she whispered. She clenched his hand to get his attention. His figure moved and lifted Rose into a sitting position.
"I thought you were…" they said at the same time. And then, in a rush, it all came back to her.
"Oh, Jack!" she said. She threw her arms around his neck and cried. She cried for love, cried for loss, and cried for happiness. And Jack let her.
"Rose," he said into her ear. He tightened their embrace, locking her head into his shoulder. And when she seemed to be all out of tears, he raised her back up and kissed her.
Jack Dawson and Rose DeWitt Bukater Dawson were reunited that day.
Love always wins.