by Rachel Hauck
“Smitty Barone?” Jeremiah sat back, arm resting on the back of the couch, his expression molded with concern. “Never heard of him. I’m not sure I like the idea of someone I don’t know pitching my script around.”
Chloe reached for her soda again, taking a drink to hide her nerves. “I-I hope it’s okay I called.”
The script had captured her from the first line. She felt Esther, as if they’d sat together on the L.P. rooftop in West Hollywood and talked through the sunset to the sunrise.
If Jeremiah would let her read, she’d give Esther every ounce of her twenty years’ experience.
“As a matter of fact, we just passed on Sabrina Fox for the role. She’s—”
“Too beautiful.” Chloe knew Sabrina. Talented, yes, but her striking looks proved to be a distraction. “She’s not a colonial girl, but I am, Jer.”
“We auditioned Marilyn West but passed on her too. We’ve been wondering where to go next.” Rising from the couch, Jeremiah slipped on a pair of glasses, then retrieved a copy of the script. A prodigy of her father’s, he’d risen to directorial greatness with the Oscar-winning King Stephen I and now the smash romance novel adaptation Someone to Love. One day he would be a legend.
“I get Esther Kingsley, Jer. I am Esther. A girl looking for love who doesn’t believe she’s worthy.”
He regarded her for a long, intense moment. “That brouhaha with Haden really messed with you.”
Understatement of the year. The last three years.
“Can I audition or not?” She scooted to the edge of her seat. “I’m tired of hiding. Tired of dying. I know, I know. I’m stereotyped and a risk, but if you give me a chance . . . Jeremiah, just let me read for it.” Chloe dug in her bag for the script and drew it out, flipping through the pages, eyeing her notes. “I loved this story. I can’t believe it’s from a new writer. There’s so much heart and truth in every word. It’s hard to believe he didn’t actually live in 1781, backwoods South Carolina.”
“Jesse Gates? Yes, he’s talented. Why do you think I’m making a movie of his script? He’s playing the part of Flanders too.”
“Who’s playing Hamilton?” The hero. Esther’s love interest.
“Chris Painter.”
Chloe collapsed against the couch back. “Ah, I see.” She kept her eyes averted. Painter was an old flame from her teen years when they both played on the TV show High School Follies. Chris grew up to be the current hottest actor in Tinseltown.
“Is that going to be a problem?”
Chloe found her bravado and leaned forward. “Is that a problem for you?”
“No. But I don’t want any drama on the set. I don’t want any romances among the cast. Clive Boston nearly cost me King Stephen I when he fell for one of the actresses playing a lady-in-waiting. It was chaos.”
“Done. Chris is with Ginger Winters, and I’m with . . . well . . . nobody.” She’d recently started a faith journey and was learning how to love God first, then others. Including herself. She’d need supernatural power to achieve the last one. “Trust me, romance is the last thing on my mind.”
At least for now. In this moment. And for the duration of this film, should she get the part.
“All right. Let’s see what you got, Chloe Daschle.” Jeremiah flipped open his script. “Oh, hey, speaking of romance.” He chuckled softly. “You going to the Steinbrenner wedding this weekend?”
“Of course. I’m a bridesmaid.” Violet Steinbrenner was one of Chloe’s best friends. Her father headed a major production company while her mother shuffled super talent through her boutique talent agency. “You all are going too?”
“Violet talked Laura into singing a solo.” Jer grinned. “She’s a frustrated Broadway star, you know.” He held up the script. “So, Esther . . . She is strong, and she needs a strong actress to play her.” His comment hung over Chloe in the form of a question.
Chloe stared across the room. “I have to do something different, Jeremiah. I can’t be the one who dies again. I feel like I’m becoming that girl, and it’s affecting every part of my life. I have to be, must be, the woman who lives.” She peered at him, shaking her head. “I don’t know, maybe it’s time to give up acting, do something else. Write. Direct. Teach.”
“I hate what this town can do to a person’s soul.” Sincerity gripped his confession. “Don’t give up, Chloe. You’re typecast, to be sure, but you’re also a talented actress.”
“Do you think you can sell me to the studio? I-if you like me for Esther?” She ran her fingers against the edge of the script.
She’d auditioned hundreds upon hundreds of times. She knew the routine. If the studio, in other words the money, didn’t like an actor, no matter how brilliantly he or she played the part, it wasn’t going to happen.
“I have some leeway here.” He motioned to the script. “Let’s read.”
Chloe flipped to the emotional scene where Hamilton visited Esther to tell her he was going off with the South Carolina militia.
Closing her eyes, Chloe rolled back time to 1781, to an unsettled land, a rough log cabin where the scent of baking bread nearly made her stomach rumble. In the barnyard, chickens scratched and the dogs bayed. A horse peered from a stall window. Cattle wandered the winter hills.
The war for independence had moved south and settled in the colony where classic backwater folk were farmers and hunters, traders. Hardworking, raw people carving out a life for themselves.
ESTHER: You cannot go . . . not with the militia. Father will speak to General Cornwell. You may join his troops.
HAMILTON (With heated emotion): You’ve heard what Huck and his men did at Hill’s Ironworks . . . the raids on the Presbyterian churches. From York to Ninety Six. Can I just sit by like a coward? Must I remind you what those redcoats did to my pa?
ESTHER: I’ve not forgotten. But you should aim to do some forgetting—a bit of forgiving. Riding off into the battle will not bring him back. Nor will it ease your pain. I think he’d thank you kindly to live a long life and give him grandsons to carry on the Lightfoot name. Dare I ask about the pledges we’ve made to one another? Do I not matter? Do I not have a say?
HAMILTON: Am I going back on my word? Have I made a promise I am now breaking? If I sit aside and watch my countrymen, yes, my American countrymen die, how does that speak of me as a man, as a friend and neighbor?
ESTHER: Yes, you go back on your word when you join a fight that cannot be won. What if you find yourself at the end of a Tory musket or bayonet? How can you marry me if you’re dead, rotting beneath the ground? And for what? A few tax dollars? A cup of tea? Independence from our homeland that has been so good to us?
HAMILTON: England? My homeland? Nay, Esther, the soil in which you claim I’ll rot be my homeland. My heritage is here, in the upcountry. What of England? A land I’ve never seen. Nay, I say: what of America?
ESTHER: Your friends and neighbors fight for the Crown. You dare raise your musket against them? Against my father? Against my family? You may as well aim at me.
HAMILTON: I cannot help which side they have chosen. They fight for tyranny. But I speak for myself and my family. We fight for independence.
ESTHER (Glances about, lowers voice): Speak not of this treason in my father’s house. There’s no more devoted Tory in the colony. Have you forgotten he loves you like a son? If you join the militia, you will break both of our hearts!
HAMILTON (Reaches for her): Now you break mine. How will I resolve this conflict of love and war?
ESTHER (Falls into his arms weeping): Choose me, Hamilton. If you love me as you say, choose me.
Chloe lowered the pages with a glance toward Jeremiah, who stared at his script without expression.
Falling into his arms . . . begging him to stay.
She’d lived that scene with Haden Stuart. In fact, she felt certain Esther’s last line was taken from her viral video. Had Jesse Gates seen it? Hard to say, but when the video reached twenty million views, Chloe gave up hidi
ng out and defending herself. She stopped resisting the truth that her crushing humiliation had become a part of pop culture.
“Well . . .” Jeremiah sighed, tossed the script to the table, reached for his water, and took a long drink.
“What?” Chloe said. “I overplayed her, didn’t I? Let’s read it again. I can tone her down. I wasn’t sure on the accent. More British or more Southern? Geez, I don’t want to do a Scarlett O’Hara. That’s not right.” She forced a smile. “I’m so used to the drama of dying and . . . Know what?” She stuffed the script into her bag. “It’s okay. I don’t regret trying. Thank you for reading with me, Jer. See you at the wedding.”
“Sit down.” Jeremiah pointed to her chair, using his director’s voice. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Chloe stumbled back, tripping down into the chair, a jittery flip-flop tumbling through her.
“I can’t believe I didn’t audition you. Wow, Chloe. You are so much better than you know. Better than I knew.” His eyes glistened as he spoke.
“I-I . . . What? Really?” She smiled. “You want me for the part?” A carnival with trumpets and balloons paraded through her. “H-how will you explain me to the studio?”
“You let me worry about the studio.” He offered his hand. “Welcome to Bound by Love, Chloe Daschle. I’ll e-mail the offer to your agent. Chip Mac, right?”
“Yes, the lovely and endearing Chip Mac.” She started to leave, then turned into Jeremiah with a hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I won’t let you down, Jer. I’m going to act my heart out. Just you wait and see.”
Outside, the sky seemed bluer, the birds’ song clearer. This movie was going to change her life. She felt it in her bones.
2
JESSE
He never thought he’d live by the ocean. Looking out over vast amounts of water set him on edge.
But eight years from the day he arrived in California, after countless romcoms, TV movies, and failed sitcom pilots, he’d finally struck gold. Hollywood gold. Not as an actor but as a screenwriter, with a script inspired by his family lore and a one-page letter from a colonial ancestor.
A year later, after many rounds of notes and revisions from the studio head all the way down to the janitor—so it seemed—Bound by Love got the coveted green light. Filming started in late fall under none other than Jeremiah Gonda, one of the best directors in La-La Land.
Jesse faced the Pacific’s salty breeze as it blew over the third-floor deck of the Santa Monica beach house he was renting. A sweet deal brokered by his friend Smitty Barone.
Jesse was blessed. Given more talent than one guy could handle. But he’d also shouldered his share of sorrow.
Yet to sell his first screenplay within a year of writing it? Gold. Pure movie magic.
Of course, he had none of the gold in his pocket. Yet. The luxury beach house was magic too. The owner of the house had wanted to rent it for cheap while he was away for a year on business.
Inhaling the fragrance of the salty beach, Jesse willed the cobweb of his memories to break away. In good times it was best to forget the bad. His recent good fortune was almost enough to make him believe he’d paid the price for the past. That Loxley, while never forgotten, was behind him. And, if such a thing were possible, had forgiven him.
“Here’re your keys.” Smitty popped him on the shoulder. Hailing from the Bronx, he was short and lean with dark eyes and a quick smile. An Italian Jew by his own description. Jesse had met him in acting class—or was it on his first paid gig? He couldn’t remember. His first year in LA, he was still very raw and broken, wounded, and nursing a dark soul.
He tucked the keys into his pocket. “Where’s the lease? I’m ready to sign.”
“Right this way.” Smitty motioned inside to the glass-and-chrome coffee table.
The house had three levels with a bedroom, bathroom, and living area on each floor. The kitchen and a sunroom were on level one. A media room on level two. An office and den on level three. And every wall was pure ocean-viewing glass.
“Now look, Archer Doyle is an exacting man, so take care of the place.” Smitty took a seat on the chocolate-colored suede sofa and handed Jesse a gold-plated pen. “I told him you were trustworthy, and all he said was don’t ruin his quartz countertops. Ha!”
“I wouldn’t even know where the kitchen was if I hadn’t passed it on the way in. His countertops are safe.” Jesse scanned the lease for legal details. “When did you say he’d be back?”
“A year at least. Maybe more. He’s starting some venture in Asia.” Smitty waved his hand over the lease. “All standard, trust me. I’d never do you dirty.” His smile was wide. “So, my man, my man. A screenplay with Gonda Films and Premier Studios? Lucky dog, lucky dog. Hey! You think there’s a part for me?”
Smitty was a caricature, a Bronx stereotype. And Jesse loved him. He’d proven to be a good friend.
“You know writers have no say in that, but have your agent call casting.” Jesse signed the lease, then passed the paper and pen to Smitty. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“You’re the best, my friend. The very best.” Smitty sank back into the curved, leather sofa. “So, the MIT grad makes good in Hollywood.” He snorted. “What say we write a geek screenplay together? Computer nerd hooks up with nerd-nerd.” He pointed to himself, sporting a wide grin. “They throw a big party to meet chicks—”
“A geek-and-chicks film? Talk about cliché. Forget it. Come on, help me unload.” Jesse jogged down to his car to haul in the first of four boxes and a suitcase from the back of his truck. He traveled light.
Since arriving in LA, he’d rented small, furnished places. Kept his wardrobe to the bare necessities. Acquired nothing he couldn’t move in his ten-year-old Dodge RAM.
After handing Smitty a box, Jesse collected his laptop, which served as his TV, then lugged his suitcase over the tailgate.
Another two trips and they’d emptied the truck, stacked one box in the bathroom, and put the rest in the third-story living space just off the master bedroom. The room was long and bright. Jesse’s few belongings made little impact on the space.
“I’m outta here.” Smitty smacked him on the back. “Keep your ear out for a part for me, buddy.”
“Thanks for everything, Smitty.”
“What are pals for?” The man regarded him for a long moment, his brown eyes clear, intense, almost radiating.
Jesse shifted from one foot to the next. “E-exactly.”
At times, Smitty seemed to see beyond the here and now into something the five senses could not see, hear, taste, or touch. But then in a flash, he was back to himself—quick, kind, and lovable.
“Catch you later, friend.” The distant slap of the front door closing as Smitty left echoed through Jesse, and the familiar friend of loneliness pulled up a chair.
No . . . no . . . Old friend, I don’t need you wrapping your tentacles around me.
Jesse shook off the sensation and reached for the first box. He missed home. His parents, his brother, his grandmothers, aunts and uncles, his friends. But going home made him remember. Everyone tiptoed around him—even after eight years—trying to discern his mental and emotional state without directly asking.
Pushing back the box flaps, Jesse retrieved a lamp and the old iron Mom had given him, which he used on occasion.
Next he pulled out a recent package from Aunt Pat. The chance to rent on the beach came up so suddenly he hadn’t had time to open it.
He felt the loneliness ease away as he settled onto the sofa and peeled off the packing tape of an old shoe box.
Aunt Pat was the family historian. She drove around the country collecting genealogies and artifacts, old diaries and cookbooks, paintings, furniture, whatever she could to piece together about the Gates-Williams-Fuller-Lightfoot family tree.
This box contained a small, framed pencil sketch of Grandpa Hamilton Lightfoot, the inspiration for Jesse’s screenplay.
Found this among my brot
her John’s things. God rest his soul. I thought of you when I saw Grandpa Hamilton’s face. You look like him. Also, enclosed in the envelope is the original letter. Since you wrote a screenplay based on Hamilton’s life, I thought you deserved to have it. Be mindful of it, take care not to handle it too much. If you need to read it again, use the copy I sent you. I’m in awe every time I read this, knowing I’m hearing from an ancestor who lived two hundred and fifty years ago! Remember we have a long, distinguished family heritage. Proud of you, nephew. Love, Aunt Pat
Carefully, Jesse removed the letter from the envelope, barely pinching the edges, squinting at the long, loopy script. The distinct handwriting confirmed the letter had been written by Hamilton Lightfoot.
Aunt Pat verified it with records showing Hamilton’s pension request for time served in the Revolutionary War.
The letter was of thick, linen stock with Grandpa’s name embossed across the top—Hamilton George Lightfoot. The paper had yellowed with time and the edges were frayed, but the writing was clear.
June 12, 1802
My Dear Esther,
I heard of your Husband’s recent passing. How my Heart is with you in your Grief. You are in my Prayers. May the Lord’s Peace sustain you.
My Lydia died in childbirth, and I’ve been raising John Hamilton Lightfoot with Aunt Mary’s help. She dotes on the boy, spoiling him terribly. Though I dare say I rather indulge him too. He’s Named for my Pa and is the image of his Mother.
But as time passes, I find myself thinking of you, missing you. I Pray I am not out of line for my Declarations.
I am Honored to have fought in the War. But wrestle with Regret on how the Conflict tore us apart. What would our Lives have been had I not gone to Cowpens? ’Tis of no matter now. We made our Choices.
I Trust you and the children are well.
