by Rachel Hauck
“You didn’t tell on me, did you, Kitch?” She rose up, dusting twigs and debris from her skirt, but kept her hand in Hamilton’s a moment longer.
The fourteen-year-old twisted an invisible key over his lips. “Nary a word. Nary one word.”
“Why is he looking for me? His nose was in his ledgers when I left.”
“Something happened in town. Big ruckus. A rider came blazing up to the house.”
There’d been talk of trouble. Captain Huck’s dragoons continued their reign of destruction in the colony. Actions that Father applauded. The Presbyterians, he said, must be silenced.
Hamilton stepped around Esther. “What trouble, Kitch?”
“Don’t rightly know. A skirmish in town.”
Hamilton swore low. “Could be Huck and his men. The local militia feared he’d head this way, the cretin.” He gathered Tilly’s reins. “Kitch, see Miss Esther home. Do not stop anywhere nor for anyone. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hamilton, wait.” She gripped his sleeve. “Take me with you. If there’s trouble in town, Father might have gone to check Whatham’s trading post or his furrier concern.”
“Go home, Esther.” He released himself, gently shoving her toward Kitch. “If there’s news, I’ll ride to Slathersby. Now make haste.”
Just as he mounted Tilly, another rider thundered down the road, a lamp swinging from his hand.
“Hamilton! Come quickly. We’ve been searching for you.” It was Ben Quincy.
“What is it?” Beneath him, Tilly shifted and pranced, tossing her head, whinnying to the night. “What’s happened?”
“Huck and his men . . . they . . . burned the church. Hamilton, your uncle was inside.”
“Ya!” Hamilton kicked Tilly into a run and disappeared down the road without a backward glance.
Ben peered down at Esther, raising his lamp high. “Get home, Esther. It ain’t safe.”
“Did they truly, Ben? Burn the church while Reverend Lightfoot was inside?”
“We’re hoping he made it out the side door, but as I rode out, there weren’t no sign of him. You best hope your pa wasn’t in on aiding the dragoons, or Slathersby Hill won’t last the night.” Ben’s words strained through his clenched jaw. “Tonight it’s better to be a Whig than a Tory.”
“Father wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.” But what truth had she? None. Only the confidence that her father, while loyal, was no murderer.
“It’s war, Miss Esther. Trust no one.” With that, Ben was gone.
“Miss Esther?” Kitch’s hand gently rested on her shoulder. “We best get home.” He reached for Gulliver’s reins.
“Surely they won’t burn Slathersby Hill. Father is a pillar in town.” Foot in stirrup, she pulled herself up and landed on Gulliver’s back. Kitch hopped on behind her. “We will be safe, won’t we?”
Kitch giddy-upped to the gelding and urged him up the road, opposite town. Opposite Hamilton and the treachery of war.
6
JESSE
The band finished another song. He parted from Chloe long enough to applaud. She glanced toward her table as if she might be done with him for the evening.
But he wasn’t ready to let her go. He felt cold where she’d leaned against him. Maybe it was just the mystical romance of the wedding, but he wanted to stay in her presence.
On the other hand, a wedding was a lot like being on a movie set. No realities. Everything would return to normal in the morning. So why not enjoy an evening with a beautiful woman? No strings. No expectations.
The singer began a melodic, enchanting rendition of “I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face,” and Jesse reached for Chloe’s hand. “One more?”
Without a word, she moved with him as if they’d danced a thousand dances. And she made him want things he’d not allowed himself to consider for a long, long time.
“You’ve mastered the waltz in a single evening,” he said, turning her to the music. “Dancing suits you.”
“Don’t be fooled. It’s all you.”
“I’ve grown accustomed to her face . . .”
Then the trumpeter rose for a solo, and the sound wove around them as if they were the only ones on the floor.
While Chloe made him consider love for the first time in ages, he was safe with her. First, she wasn’t his type. A full-figured redhead of average height. He liked his women tall. And lean. Yeah, lean. And . . . and . . . blond. Definitely blond.
Having reasoned this in his head, he relaxed, set his cheek on her hair again, and this time kept the lyrics to himself. That was embarrassing, singing, “I love you for sentimental reasons” right into her ear.
Nevertheless, he let the music have its way and held her a little closer.
When the song ended, she stepped away, and the cold creeped across his chest again.
“I didn’t mean to steal you from all the other ladies tonight.”
“I promised Ted I’d dance with his girlfriend’s friend.” He shrugged, shaking his head. “Somebody had to do it.”
She laughed and shoved his arm. “Stella begged me to dance with her boyfriend’s dorky friend. An ac-tor.” Chloe rolled her eyes, making a face.
Jesse laughed, wrapped his arm around her, and kissed her forehead. “We’re both saints, then.”
The intimate gesture caused him to freeze. What was that? The laugh. The arm. The kiss. Jesse moved left one step. Should he say something? “Just kidding”? “Oops, let me wipe that kiss away”?
“Yeah, saints.” She gazed toward the dance floor.
In moments like these he longed, with a capital L, for an actor’s brain. The kind fueled by emotion and the moment. The kind that could let an incident go. Instead, he functioned as an engineer. All the time. Sequential. Logical. Overthinking things, as he was right now. Stop.
“Ladies and gentlemen . . .” Dylan hopped up on the dais, motioning for Violet to join him. “My beautiful bride and I would like your attention.” The noise settled down except for the pianist playing a soft melody. “First, thank you all for being here and celebrating this great day with us. We couldn’t have done it without you all. Special thanks to our family and friends, who put up with us during this wedding Godzilla time.” Violet nudged him, feigning a pout while the guests laughed. “We love all of you.” His gaze drifted to Violet. “But we have agreed to share our night with someone.” Violet grabbed the mike. “Where’s Ted?”
“What’s this?” Chloe said, elbowing Jesse. “Do you know? Tell me. What’s Ted doing?”
“Got me.” He surrendered his hands. “Promise. I know nothing. But as the brother of the groom and the best man, who knows what he’s planned?”
“Stella, you come up too,” Violet said. “We want to give you guys a special gift for being so good to us during our wedding planning.” She leaned toward Dylan for a kiss.
Something popped in Jesse’s chest. Something weird and foreign. He pressed his hand against the bone, trying to make it go away.
“We wanted to give you these gifts as a token of our appreciation.” Dylan handed Ted and Stella two boxes wrapped in thick, white paper and gold ribbon.
“You guys . . .” Stella pressed her hand to her throat. Ted said she was a teacher, but Jesse wondered if she’d missed her calling. “You really didn’t have to do this. We love you and wanted to be there for you on your big day.”
“Open them.” Violet urged the crowd to cheer them on. An “open, open, open” chant bounced around the tables.
“You first, babe,” Ted said, tucking his box under his arm.
“I can’t imagine . . .” Stella pulled at the ribbon, letting it fall to the stage, then removed the paper. She faced the guests. “What do you think it is?”
“A million dollars,” someone shouted.
“Wouldn’t that be wild.” Stella giggled and tittered, removing the lid from a box. With a gasp, she retrieved a smaller box, glancing back at the bride.
“The old box-inside-
the-box gag,” Chloe whispered up to him. “Classic. Now all we need is a pie in someone’s face, and the night will be complete.”
“Ooo, cruel, Miss Daschle, very cruel.”
She winced. “I’m kidding.”
Jesse nudged her. “As am I. Lighten up.”
Stella opened the small box and took a step back, her long fingers covering her red lips. “Ted, what did you do?”
Slowly, he bent to one knee and reached for her hands. Camera phones flashed all over the patio reception. “Stella Eva Epstein, will you marry me?”
“You’re kidding me.” Stella pulled him to his feet, tossing a glance at the bride and groom. “Did you know about this?” Then back to Ted. “M-marry you? Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
Next to Jesse, Chloe moaned under her breath. “Unbelievable.”
“What?” Jesse said. “That one guy is proposing during another guy’s reception? Maybe it’s a bit tacky, but they are brothers. I’d let my brother propose at my reception if he asked. I think.” Not that he’d ever have a reception. Jesse voided all thoughts of marriage when Loxley died.
“Babe,” Ted said, squeezing Stella’s hand. “You’re making me nervous. Will you?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Yes, of course I’ll marry you. Yes!” She flung herself into his arms, visibly shaking when he slipped the ring onto her finger.
The guests of Dylan and Violet’s wedding applauded for Ted and Stella.
The band begin to play “Blue Suede Shoes” as the couples embraced, and the applauding guests returned to the dance floor.
“Now that you’ve mastered the waltz, want to learn swing?” Jesse bent to see her face. “Chloe?”
“She doesn’t really love him.”
Jesse leaned closer. “Come again?”
“She doesn’t really love him.” She stabbed her finger into his chest. “Seriously, you didn’t know he was going to do this?”
“He never said a word. What do you mean she doesn’t love him? Did she tell you that?”
“Not directly, but in so many words. Didn’t you see how she flirted with you when you came in?” Chloe brushed past him toward her table. “Marriage . . . love . . . they’re not games, something to win or lose, toss aside when you’re bored and want to play something else.” She reached for her shoes and handbag.
Something was eating her. But what? “Who said they were?”
“I know women who would walk on hot coals to get a man like Ted. But to Stella, he’s just next on a list of things to do. I’m not kidding. She flirted with you on purpose. To see which one of us you’d choose. She wanted to keep her options open.”
“She was joking.”
“No, she wasn’t.” Chloe released a long breath and pressed her fingers to her forehead. “Sorry . . . this is none of my business. It’s been a long day, and I’m tired and hungry.” She glanced toward the back of the mansion. “I don’t know when they’re going to serve dinner, and well, I think I’ve had enough dancing and romance for one night.”
“I know a great place at the beach.” Jesse offered his hand, tipping his head toward the parking lot. “Do you know a girl who’d like to get a pizza?”
She chuckled, shaking her head and pointing to herself. “The one with the pie on her face.”
“Why are you the one with the pie on your face?”
“Because I’m the only one—” She stopped and pinched her lips together. “Pizza sounds good.”
“Right this way.” Jesse reached for her hand, then drew back, stepping around a dancing couple. As they left the Greystone Mansion together, he forced himself to let go of the feeling in his chest. A small, unwelcomed yearning for love.
7
CHLOE
I’m not jealous, you know.”
“Ah, she speaks.” Jesse dropped a large veggie pizza between them on the bench seat as he slipped behind the wheel. Loosening his tie, he headed down Santa Monica Boulevard toward Ocean Avenue. She liked that he drove a truck. Not a status car, like that capped-tooth poser from the other day.
“Sorry, I needed to process.” She’d been quiet since they’d left the reception. Time Jesse used to call in their pickup order.
“You really think she doesn’t love him?” Jesse powered on the radio, tuning it to the same classic standards the reception band had played. He lowered the volume so the sounds accompanied their conversation.
“You’re an old soul, aren’t you?”
He laughed, the light from the dash accenting the bold lines of his face. “My mom says so, yes.” He peered at her. “What makes you say it? The music?”
“That and just . . . you. My mom says I’m an old soul too. A throwback.”
“A throwback? Nice.” He rounded the corner off Ocean onto Highway 1.
“You really do know of a place on the beach?”
“I wouldn’t lie to you. So, what’d you conclude during your musing?”
“I don’t know.” She shifted in her seat. “I shouldn’t judge. Stella has been known to say one thing and do another. She may well love him but acts all whatever about it, covering how much she cares. I guess we’ll see if she can go the distance.”
“Does anyone know if they can go the distance when they start out? Did your parents?”
“No. They met on a set. It was Dad’s first job as the DP and Mom’s first major role. They made a pact to have an on-set romance only. When filming ended and they returned home, their relationship would be over. Instead, they fell in love. It’s been thirty-five years.”
“So love can work out when you least expect it.”
“For some.” Probably not for her. Given her abysmal track record. “What about you? Love in the picture for old soul Jesse Gates? The guy who wrote a love story based on his grandfather’s love letter.”
“I think I’d rather write about it.”
“Ah, the man evades the question with a safe, reveal-nothing answer.”
“We’re here.” Jesse turned into the tight driveway of a three-story, glass-front house on the edge of the beach.
Stepping out on the passenger side, Chloe angled back to see all three stories. “Man, I really need to start writing screenplays.”
“Come on, it’s better from the inside.” Jesse gently tapped her arm, the fragrance of warm dough, bubbling cheese, and hot tomato sauce luring her forward.
After walking through the main-floor kitchen, where Jesse grabbed plates and napkins, they traipsed up three flights of stairs, walking out of a high-ceiling, glass-walled living room onto a wood-and-iron deck.
“This is incredible. Seriously, your first screenplay had to go for top dollar.”
“It’s a studio project. So, yeah, I was paid well.” Jesse lit the gas fireplace, even though it was August, and flipped on a string of round, white bulbs running from one deck corner to the other.
“This is beautiful.” Chloe leaned against the railing, lifting her face to the ocean. “I think the pie is melting from my face.”
“I still don’t know why you’re the one with pie on your face.” Jesse set the pizza on a glass-and-teakwood table.
“Because I was surprised by Ted’s proposal, that’s all. So, paid well? Good for you.”
“Except the money has to last a long time. Who knows when the next job will come along. In the meantime, I’m renting this place. The owner is out of the country for a year and wanted someone to keep an eye on things. My friend Smitty hooked me up. The rent was too much, rather, too little, to pass up.”
“You have a friend named Smitty?”
“Yeah, why?” Jesse dropped a slice of pizza onto one of the blue china plates he’d snagged from the kitchen and handed it to her.
Chloe sat on the upholstered two-seater. “I have a friend named Smitty.”
“It’s not all that uncommon of a name. Pizza! Nice and hot.”
Jesse filled his own plate, then sat next to her.
“Do you sleep with the doors open?” she said.
“I love the ocean, but at night it’s so dark and eerie. A mysterious abyss beyond the horizon with only the cold, distant stars as its beacon.”
“I don’t sleep with the doors open. I try not to think about how dark and deep it is out there.” Jesse jumped up, angling for the rooftop bar. “What do you want to drink?”
“Anything. Water. Diet Coke. Tea.”
He returned, tossing her a bottle of water—somewhere in the night she’d lost her bridesmaiding thirst—and took up his pizza again.
For a long while, the only sounds on the deck were the whoosh and growl of the waves, the clang of distant wind chimes, and the sighs of hungry people being satisfied.
Chloe reached for a third slice of pizza. Tomorrow she’d diet. Get ready to play Esther Kingsley. How thin were women in up-country South Carolina in 1781?
“So,” she said, removing a dollop of tomato sauce from her thumb. “What happened with your grandfather and this woman he loved?”
“Don’t know.” Jesse ate his pizza New York style. Rolled in half.
“Don’t know? Then why’d you write about them?”
He swallowed, sitting back, washing his food down with a long swig of water. “You know how, oh, I don’t know, someone’s grandparents or great-grandparents never went to college, so the descendants work hard to be the first ones to graduate? Or the first ones to move out of poverty? There’s something about the past that needs to be settled, or changed, or answered.”
“Do you think your grandfather and Esther needed an answer?”
“He proposed to her in a letter that he never sent. He married his wife in the 1780s and—”
“So you do know some of the history?”
“My aunt Pat is the family historian. She’s the one who gave me the letter. She was looking for answers herself. Hamilton married a woman named Lydia, but we don’t know much about her. They had a son. However, the only correspondence we have is an unsent letter to a woman named Esther where he confessed he loved her and asked her to marry him.”
Chloe regarded him, chewing. “Unsent?”
