The Love Letter

by Rachel Hauck

  “Miss Cynical Goes to Hollywood. Come on, Chloe, it’s been three years since Haden.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s only been one since that stupid video resurfaced.” With the Internet, nothing ever died. Except maybe the truth.

  “I’m no therapist, Chloe, but one of these days you have to forgive yourself. What happened to your churchy-faithy thing—whatever you were into?” Stella wiggled her fingers and scrunched up her nose. “Wasn’t that supposed to make you new?”

  “New, yes, not perfect. And I can do without your sarcasm.”

  “Sarcasm? I’m just having fun, darling.” She kept her eyes fixed in the direction Ted had gone with Jesse.

  “Have it at someone else’s expense.”

  From the bandstand, a loud, single note rose from every instrument and hovered over the reception. “Ladies and gentlemen.” The band leader stepped up to the mike. “Please welcome your bride and groom, Mr. and Mrs. Dylan Stux.”

  The music exploded over the guests’ applause as Violet floated on her husband’s arm under a vanguard of white lights.

  Dylan twirled her onto the dance floor as the band began a classic standard, “It Had to Be You.” The female singer with a Marilyn Monroe figure wore a tight, black gown.

  “You know, Chloe,” Stella whispered, “you will never move on if you compare every man to Chris Painter, Clark Davis, Finley Farmer, and that wretched Haden Stuart.”

  Chloe faced her friend. “I don’t.”

  Okay, yes, she did. Sorta. But she was trying to put them behind her. Praying. Seeking a better way.

  “First you were the ‘it’ couple with Chris,” Stella said, holding up one finger.

  “Ten years ago.”

  “Followed by the press and paparazzi. Idyllic teens leading idyllic teens.”

  On the dance floor, Violet settled her head on Dylan’s shoulder, and he gently stroked her hair. Chloe felt his tenderness and yearned.

  “Then there was Clark.” Stella’s second finger popped up. “The cheater. How many times did he cheat on you?”

  “Is there a reason we’re rehashing my love life?”

  “After Clark came Finley.” She flashed the three fingers in front of Chloe. “Great guy, but oh so in love with his ex.”

  “They’re happily married now. I’m thrilled for them.”

  “Which leads us to Haden. Fourth, final, and fatal. He crushed you, that wicked soul.”

  “Oh, look, Ted’s waving to you.” Chloe shoved her friend forward. She did not need a reminder, on this lovely night, of her abysmal failures at love.

  From the bandstand: “Violet and Dylan invite the bridal party to join them for this next dance.”

  “Come on.” Stella reached for Chloe, but she withdrew.

  “I can’t. My groomsman is dancing with his girlfriend. Go. Ted is waiting.”

  Chloe retreated to the bridal party table. She needed a hit of Diet Coke to fortify her after Stella’s trip down ugly love-life lane.

  Across the dance floor, on the opposite side of the courtyard, Chloe saw her parents sitting together with her sister, Kate, and Kate’s boyfriend, Rob.

  Dad caught her eye, smiled, and waved.

  He was one good man in her life. And Smitty. She barely knew him, but she was grateful he walked into her life with a word of hope.

  “Can I have this dance?” Jesse appeared, bowing toward her, offering a thick, broad hand.

  “S-sure.” As she slipped her hand into his, a small flutter released in her chest and she instantly liked him. “I warn you, I’m a toe stepper.”

  “Good thing I’m not, since you’re the one without shoes.” Jesse collected her in his arms and moved her gently to the music.

  “The heel broke.”

  “Hate when that happens.”

  He moved with ease. Chloe peered up at him. “You’re a good dancer.”

  “Thank you, Miss Irene’s Ballroom Dance School in Boston.”

  “Dance lessons, wow.”

  “It was the only way my brother and I were allowed to play football. My mother insisted we attend dance class.” Jesse moved Chloe in a modified waltz as the band played a ballad.

  “You made me love you . . .”

  “Goodness. An actor, screenwriter, dancer, footballer.”

  His smile melted over her. “I’m a man of many talents. I won’t deny it.”

  “Humility being one.”

  “Yes, but low on the list.” He frowned, shaking his head. “Very low.”

  She laughed and relaxed against his chest, sensing the heat of his skin through his white tuxedo shirt. “Was it worth it? The dance classes to play football?”

  “Initially, no. But as we got older, Dan and I were famous for our dance moves, and in high school the girls asked us to the dances.” Jesse swung her around, so she gripped his hand tighter and stumbled over her own feet. But he didn’t correct her or ease up. “Just . . . follow my lead. Don’t resist. There, okay, you got it. Easy now. You’re a natural.”

  “You’re disappointed, aren’t you? That I probably have the role of Esther.”

  “I don’t know enough about you to be disappointed.” He gazed down at her, sincere and honest.

  “You know I am the queen of dying.”

  “I trust Jeremiah. If he thinks you’re Esther, then you probably are.”

  “But you wanted Sabrina Fox for your first movie. Now you’re stuck with plain ol’ me.”

  “You know, self-deprecation doesn’t work on everyone. You should try believing in yourself.”

  “I believe just fine. It’s everyone else I’m worried about.”

  “Chloe, I’m happy you’re in the movie if you’re the best Esther. That’s all I care about. I’m lucky to be in this position. I don’t take it lightly.”

  “I only meant—” Who was she kidding? He knew what she meant. “I fell in love with Esther and Hamilton when I read the screenplay. I’m beyond lucky to get this part. I’d love to know your inspiration behind it.”

  The wind blew a loose strand of her updo over her eyes, and Jesse gently swept it away. “A letter.”

  “What kind of letter?”

  “A love letter. My grandfather’s. Well, great-times-six grandfather. Long time ago.” He drew her close, and on instinct she let him.

  “Must have been some letter.”

  The band director invited everyone to dance, playing the chorus of the song once again.

  “You made me love you. . .”

  “Hello, darlings.” Mom glided up in Dad’s arms, stunning, regal, and elegant. “Who’s your friend, Chloe?”

  “Jesse Gates.” She stepped out of his arms with a glance up at him. Would he assume the look, the one every man had when he met her mother, the stunning starlet? “This is my mom, Rachel Hayes. My dad, Raymond Daschle.”

  Jesse nodded, his arm tight around Chloe. “A pleasure to meet you both.”

  “Jesse Gates,” Dad said. “You’re the screenwriter. Jer Gonda’s directing and producing your story.”

  “The one you auditioned for, Chloe?” Mom said, light and lyrical, her charm so warm and easy. “How lovely. She’s a dynamite actress, Jesse. You just can’t tell because she dies in every major role. I blame Raymond for it, really, I do.”

  “Okay, Rach,” Dad said, spinning her away. “See you later, Chloe. Jesse, nice to meet you.” Then he whispered something to Mom, and she tossed her head back with a thin, controlled laugh. Then she whispered something intimate to Dad and he kissed her, holding her a bit closer.

  There. That was what Chloe wanted. Intimacy. A place where only those two lovers existed. For all eternity, only Dad and Mom would know and feel what transpired in that moment.

  But Chloe also wanted commitment. A ring and a date. Her parents never sealed their deal. Never took their love to the next level. After thirty-five years, they still “lived together.”

  “What’s this about your dad being the culprit?” Jesse said. “Of your queen-of-dying
moniker?”

  Chloe danced with him, feeling his movements before he made them. “He’s not really, but Mom likes to tease him. When I was nine he cast me as a child cancer victim in one of his biggest projects.”

  “And you got stuck somehow.”

  “Somehow. Yes.”

  The song ended, and the guests lightly applauded. Chloe backed away from Jesse as Ted, the best man, jumped onto the bandstand.

  “Good evening, everyone. I’m Dylan’s brother, Ted, and his best man.”

  Jesse reached to a passing server for two flutes of champagne and handed one to Chloe. “Can’t make a toast empty-handed.”

  “—so I quote the great poet Christopher Marlowe: ‘Come live with me and be my Love . . .’”

  Chloe breathed in the bubbles from her glass, listening to Ted’s voice rise and fall with each stanza. The sleeve of Jesse’s tuxedo brushed her arm, and she flushed with an intoxicating warmth.

  “Raise your glass to the bride and groom, Dylan and Violet.”

  Chloe raised her flute, but before she could take a sip, Jesse hooked his arm around hers. “To the bride and groom.”

  “To the bride and groom.”

  Chloe took a sip, then unraveled her arm from Jesse’s. “You don’t need to stay with me.”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “No, just letting you off the hook. I know Ted and Stella thought we’d pair up tonight, but—”

  “But now that I know who your father is, I think I’ll stick around.” He hid his grin with another taste from the crystal flute.

  “Finally, an honest actor.”

  “Indeed, a rare breed in LA.”

  “As long as we’re confessing, I don’t date actors. They’re arrogant and self-absorbed.”

  He made a face. “But actresses are . . . ? Sugar and spice and everything nice?”

  “Okay, so we have our flaws, but nothing compared to our male counterparts.”

  “Duly noted, Miss Daschle.”

  The band started another song. Jesse remained next to her, staring ahead.

  “Are you mad?”

  He glanced over at her. “Why would I be mad?”

  “Just checking.”

  He set his champagne glass on the bridal table and reached for her. “I love this song. My grandma used to play it on the piano when we were kids.”

  The wedding singer crooned, “I love you, for sentimental reasons.”

  “Just so you know,” he said. “I don’t date actresses.”

  “Really?” Chloe frowned. “Why not?”

  “They’re fickle, self-absorbed, insecure, and forget ever asking one out for pizza.”

  “I like pizza.”

  Jesse’s laugh rolled over her as he drew her into him, their dialogue fading, his cheek resting against her hair. After a moment, a soft, low, Mel Tormé kind of voice sang in her ears, each note, each word sank straight into her heart.

  “I love you for sentimental reasons.”

  Tears spotted her eyes. Hold on to yourself, Chloe. Jesse was just singing the song his grandma used to play.

  “I’ll hope you do believe me, I’ll give you my heart.”

  His breath brushed her skin, and for a moment, she lost all sense of herself. Heaven help her, every lyric he sang felt like it was meant for her.

  5

  ESTHER

  She waited under the willow as the June sun slowly disappeared beyond the dark line of the western horizon. For the fifth night in a row, she was meeting Hamilton here.

  Each meeting, while brief, allowed them to get reacquainted. Perhaps tonight they could bypass shallow exchanges for more confidential dialogue. Perhaps, if Hamilton were willing, they could speak of how they felt about one another.

  So far, they’d talked of London, the seasons, being presented at court, and Esther’s voyage home.

  “I’m never leaving South Carolina again!”

  Hamilton had rehashed details he’d penned in his brief and few letters. Quill Farms was surviving. Aunt Mary and Uncle Laurence were well, save for Uncle’s gout and now, perhaps, the sugar disease. And, praise God, he was not enlisting with either army.

  When she’d asked why Father and his uncle Laurence were at odds, he’d confessed he was unclear.

  “Uncle is angry at your father, over what I cannot say, other than one is a Whig and the other an ardent Tory. I know your father does not care for Uncle’s preaching as of late. But he has not forbid me from Slathersby Hill. Nor you from Quill Farm. Not that I have to obey him. I’m twenty-two.”

  “As am I, but I try never to go against Father. He must have his reasons for being cross with your uncle.”

  “Yet here you are.”

  She’d batted her eyes and leaned into him. “Yet here I am.”

  Would he say it? The words she longed to hear?

  “I’ve missed you. Don’t ever leave again.”

  Yet tonight he was late. Esther peered around the tree and down the road. Surely he was coming. He’d not sent word otherwise. Behind her, a few feet away, the creek flowed with the force of spring rains, fat trout flipping along the current.

  Esther knelt on the bank, wishing she had brought a fishing line. Trout made a fine meal. But if she returned with a line of fish, Father would quiz her over her afternoon wandering, and she could not lie to him. ’Twas not her gift, to fib. She tried once, and he gave her the strap.

  Not that she worried about being discovered away from the house, secretly meeting Hamilton. Father remained distracted, confined to the library, poring over his books, scribbling correspondence to Lord Whatham, sending Kitch into Ninety Six to meet a postal rider.

  He claimed that when the war ended, he’d look into establishing an organized postal service such as the one the wiseacre Ben Franklin developed for the rebels.

  The breeze rattled the branches as the sunlight dipped lower. What was keeping Hamilton? Back at the tree, Esther leaned against the trunk, listening to the song of the evening birds.

  Now home a week, she’d reclaimed her position as mistress of Slathersby Hill. She’d taken over the household accounts and would soon ride into town with Sassy to bargain with the traders.

  The chickens were producing well this year, as well as the cows. They had eggs, butter, and cream to spare.

  “There you are.” Hamilton dropped next to her with an exhale, slapping his tricorne against his legs. “I feared you’d tired of waiting for me.”

  One look into his eyes reflecting the golden evening sky and she knew she’d wait forever.

  “I feared you’d forgotten me.”

  He stroked her cheek. She cupped her hand over his, bringing it to her lips.

  “Hamilton, I must ask. Did you not miss me at all? Your letters, infrequent as they were, contained nothing but a salutation, your daily chores, and a brief closing with your signature.”

  “What did you want to hear?” He released her hand, settling against the tree.

  “How you missed me. How you feared I’d been persuaded to marry a fancy, rich English nobleman.”

  “How the war might keep you away?” He slipped his hand into hers. “You demand hard things from me, Esther. The secrets of my heart.”

  “So you did miss me?”

  He grinned. “I missed you. Terribly.”

  She scoffed, laughing, shoving him away. “A fine paramour you make, Hamilton Lightfoot. I declare, how do you expect to win my favor with so few words? If you cannot speak them, why not write them? A love letter—”

  “A love letter?” His blue gaze examined her. “For all the world to see?”

  “Not all the world—only me.”

  “I dare say speaking my innermost thoughts is one thing, but writing them down? I’m not sure I could ever, well, how could I, the words . . .” Blushing, he peered toward the creek, tossing his hat onto the grass. “Just because I didn’t write my affections in a letter doesn’t mean my heart is devoid of them.”

  “The
n I am comforted.” She rested her cheek against his shoulder.

  “Do I disappoint you?” He angled forward to see her face, inspiring a familiar but disruptive flutter. He’d kissed her once. On the cheek. After a town social. She had practically floated home, fell asleep smiling, and woke up the same.

  “I don’t think you could ever disappoint me.” She raised up, gazing into his eyes. “But one day, Hamilton, won’t you tell me truly how you feel?”

  His kiss came quick and firm, his warm lips touching hers with a promise of more. Esther exhaled and rested her arms about his neck. She was as light as the breeze, as blazing as the sunset.

  But all too soon he broke away.

  “There,” he said, tapping his forehead against hers. “Now you know how I feel.”

  “Yes, I believe I do.”

  One day he would declare his love. One day.

  This was where she belonged. Not in London drawing rooms vying for some nobleman’s attention. She belonged in the upcountry. She belonged in Hamilton’s arms.

  I love you, Hamilton Lightfoot. She soared, catching the current and spreading the wings of her heart. Oh, may this moment never end.

  “I’ll write you a love letter one day,” he said, lacing his fingers with hers. “I promise.”

  “Will you? Really?”

  “Would it not please you?”

  Esther sat up, turning to him. “What can I do to please you, my love?”

  “Marry me. I’ll figure out this angst between Uncle and your father, and we will wed.” He kissed her forehead with warm, sweet lips, the gesture descending slowly down her cheek.

  Esther drew a breath with each rising sensation. So this was what the poets lauded so gracefully.

  “Miss Esther!”

  She jerked away from Hamilton at the sound of Kitch’s boisterous call. She felt tossed about and torn, robbed of something beautiful.

  “Miss Esther? You round here? Sir Michael’s been looking for you.” Kitch’s dark face appeared around the broad trunk of the willow, leading the horse Gulliver. “I seen you sneak out here every night. How do, Mr. Hamilton?”

  “Evening, Kitch.” Hamilton stood, dusting leaves from his trousers. “Esther, you must go to your father. Let us not fuel his anger.” He offered Esther his hand.