by Rachel Hauck
“Hold on there, young lady.” Sassy gently pushed her back. “You ain’t going nowheres. You’re confined to your bed until the fever is broke. I’ll send Sir Michael to see you.” She plumped the pillows and spread a sheet over Esther’s thin gown. “I’ll bring up the broth. You need your nourishment.”
When Sassy had gone, Esther scooted out of bed to go to the window but found she was too weak to stand. Purple and blue spots floated before her eyes, and she reached for the bed as she collapsed.
“Esther, what are you doing up?” Father entered with the fragrance of pipe tobacco and gently righted her against her pillows.
“I wanted to see outside.” Esther closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath, the grip in her shoulder running all the way to her toes.
“My dear, you will have plenty of time to see the out-of-doors. First you must recover.” Father pulled a chair forward, then sat beside her bed with his pipe anchored on the edge of his lips. “My darling, what a fright you have given me.” He cupped his hand under hers. “What would I do without you?”
“I’m still here.” She searched his face, absorbing the devotion she saw there. “No need to look so worried. I heard you argue with Lieutenant Twimball.”
“He was careless.”
“He shot me, Father.”
“Did you see him? He claims Lightfoot played the coward and hid behind you.”
“I heard a shot, turned, and before my eyes, Twimball aimed his musket at me. Hamilton came to my rescue.” She had a faint memory of him speaking to her, lifting her from the ground.
“Don’t think on it, love. Just rest. We can sort out the matter when you are well.”
“But you are angry with Hamilton.”
“I’m angry with all the rebel rabble.”
“What has happened between us and the Lightfoots? Can we not make amends?”
“Here we are,” Sassy said as she entered with a tray. “Did you tell her, Sir Michael, it were Mr. Lightfoot what done brought her home?” She settled the tray over Esther’s legs. “Carried you all the way in his arms, he did. Like a real hero.”
“Sassy, please, you paint too bright a picture of the young man,” Father said.
Esther tried in earnest to sit up. “Yes, he carried me. I remember.”
“But now you are home, safe with me.” Father thumped his chest. “Father, daughter—the best of friends. Stay close to me, my girl, and my Brown Bess shall take care of anyone who tries to bring you harm.” Father’s eyes glistened. “I may be too old for this war, but not to be your warrior.”
“Father, of course you shall always be my warrior.” Esther hesitated, then said, “But please, if Hamilton comes, may I see him? He did rescue me.”
Father drew back and lit his pipe, drawing deep, loud puffs. “’Tis not a conversation for this hour. You must eat and rest. You lost a great deal of blood, and we must see to your recovery.” He kissed her forehead. “I’ve work to attend.”
“Father?” He turned at the door. “What has happened? You spend hours upon hours in the library bent over your ledgers, writing letters. Has something gone amiss?”
“Just the business of owning property and business ventures. Do not concern yourself at all—”
“You appear tired. Look in the glass. The crease between your eyes has deepened. You need a holiday, Father. A rest. It will do you good. Perhaps a week in Charles Town—”
“What will do me good is to work and see you on your feet again. Now, eat and I’ll come in to say good night.”
Esther finished her broth as Sassy entered to change her bandage. “If Hamilton comes, let him in, Sassy.”
“Don’t know about letting him in.” She pulled a slip of folded stationery from her pocket. “But I can certainly pass this along.”
11
CHLOE
Dressed in a sundress and flip-flops, her hair in a loose braid, Chloe descended the stairs from her bedroom into her apartment’s small kitchen. She poured a glass of tomato juice and wandered to the bay window overlooking the back lawn.
She’d lost her mind. Two weeks after the wedding she still chided herself for revealing so much to Jesse.
First of all, she didn’t know him. Second of all, she didn’t know him! Had she not learned her lesson? How many men must betray her trust for her to realize love and all its happiness may never be bound for her?
She’d tried and failed. Wasn’t the definition of crazy—madness—to keep doing the same thing over and over?
She was halfway home from his beach house when she realized he hadn’t asked for her number. She considered it a break in her cycle of infatuation, crushes, love, and heartbreak.
They hit it off. They kissed. End of story. Besides, considering her romantic track record—publicly documented, thanks to her parents’ fame and her stupidity—a romance with a fellow cast member would be in bad form.
Such liaisons rarely ended well, and someone usually got hurt. Usually Chloe.
Guests would be arriving soon. Every Saturday, the Daschles held a brunch—10:00 a.m. to noonish. Open door. Come as you can.
Since she could remember, Saturdays were fun, filled with surprises. Everyone from legendary actors to the lowest crew member, writers, singers, studio heads, stylists, photographers, neighbors, senators, athletes, and grocery store clerks had walked through the Daschles’ front door.
Kate met Rob, a British actor, at one of these brunches. He was in LA with Clive Boston on a promotional junket. Clive walked in with him, and Kate was a goner.
Love. Would it one day walk through the front door for her? She didn’t mean to be so focused on it. After all, twenty-nine wasn’t ancient, but ever since she could remember, she had a sense of destiny concerning the matter of love and marriage. Her own efforts to fulfill her desires had been disastrous.
On the edge of her windowed view, Chloe watched the gardener walk the perimeter of the pool, netting a scattering of leaves from the water’s surface.
From under the lanai, the maid hurried toward the guesthouse gripping a stack of linens.
Mr. Crumbly must be returning. Dad’s old friend from high school, a missionary, lived in the guesthouse when he was stateside.
Second only to Smitty, who introduced her to faith, Mr. Crumbly had the greatest impact on Chloe’s spiritual journey.
“Tell you what, just open your Bible,” he once challenged her. “Read and pray. You’ll find treasure. Trust me. Your heart will change.”
Humble and simple, he made her see God was accessible. Even eager to engage her. She was just so human in her efforts. Weak. Shamed. Guilty. How could God love her?
A squawk came over the intercom, an old tool that Mom insisted on using.
“Chloe, Kate and Rob are here. Aren’t you coming to brunch?”
She downed her tomato juice and hit the talk button. “On my way.” It was 10:01, and Mom was worried she wouldn’t be there. Like, when had she ever missed? Only if she was on set somewhere.
Despite the fact her parents never married with the hoopla and the vows, they were intense about family.
As she left her apartment and crossed the small patch of yard separating her from the main residence, she saw Dad in the guesthouse driveway talking to a short, lean man with a mop of black hair.
Chloe paused and leaned for a closer look, squinting through the midmorning California sun. Smitty?
“Hey, there you are.” Chloe’s sister, Kate, met her by the lanai furniture. “Rob and I wondered if you wanted to go to dinner later. We have—”
“Maybe. Who is Dad talking to?”
“Don’t know. Listen, Rob has a friend visiting from—”
“Oh no you don’t.” Chloe brushed past her sister, sniffing out their cook Glenda’s crusted French toast.
“No I don’t what? We just want an even number at dinner.”
“Ha!” Chloe greeted her father’s assistant, Becky, with a light kiss on the cheek. “Do you think I’m stupid, Kate? It�
�s a fix-up, and don’t you dare deny it.”
“Okay, fine, but he’s a nice guy. Gorgeous.” Kate collected a plate and started down the buffet line behind Chloe. “About as gorgeous as that man you were with at the wedding. Who was that? Rob, Glenda made her French toast.”
“He’s the screenwriter of Bound by Love.”
“The new movie you’re doing? So it’s a done deal? Rob, Chloe’s going to play a character who lives.”
Rob piled French toast onto his plate. “Well done, love.”
“I haven’t signed the contract yet, but Chip is working on it.” Chloe snatched a thick slice of hickory-smoked bacon. Glenda purchased it from a farmer near Bakersfield. “Kate, do you think I’m cursed?”
“Are you crazy? No. I don’t believe in curses.”
“But you can’t deny something goes wrong with nearly all of my films. My character dies and if not, then the film dies.”
“You’ve just had a string of . . . interesting luck.”
“Cursed.” Chloe soaked her French toast—and what the heck, her bacon—in syrup. She didn’t believe she was cursed. Not really. She only felt like it at times. Didn’t her faith challenge her to believe otherwise?
“Chloe.” Dad cut in the buffet line, kissing her cheek. “Are you excited about your new venture?”
“Who were you talking to outside? Is Mr. Crumbly returning?”
“Raymond!”
Chloe peeked toward the door to see Claude Durance walking across the dining room, around the long, loaded table, arms wide.
“Claude!” Dad laughed and slipped around Chloe to embrace his old friend. “Why didn’t you call, say you were coming? What brings you to town?”
“Movie magic, of course.”
Chloe grinned. Like boys those two were, talking about movies.
“Your dad loves when Claude comes to town,” Mom said, nothing but an egg and fruit on her plate. “We won’t see either of them the rest of the day. So, you’re in Jer’s movie. So proud of you, darling.”
“Fingers crossed. Once I sign the deal I’ll feel better, but Mom, I think it has a real chance.”
“And your character lives! At last, justice.” Mom hated Chloe’s track record nearly as much as she did.
“What did you make of Stella and Ted’s engagement?” Mom rolled her eyes, walking with Chloe to the lanai where her friend Nicolette Carson waited with a tall glass of juice. “Her mother was shocked. She didn’t think Stella was all that into Ted. Hello, Nicky, we’ve missed you around here.”
“I-I think it’s great.” Chloe sat beside her mom, glancing to where Dad had talked with the man who looked like Smitty.
“Mom,” Kate said, dropping down next to Chloe. “Tell Chloe to go out to dinner tonight with Rob and me. His friend is here from England and—”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Chloe said, cutting her French toast and mopping up a bunch of syrup. She’d regret this later but for now, yum. “You’re telling Mom on me?”
“Chloe, why don’t you go?” Mom delicately ate her scoop of eggs. “You should . . . It’s been—”
“Mom . . . please . . . I know how long it’s been. But I don’t want to be set up, okay?”
“You’re the only girl I know who wants true love, then thumbs her nose at any chance.”
“Thumbs her nose? How am I thumbing my nose? Haven’t you seen me crash and burn in every one of my relationships?” Chloe stabbed at her French toast, her fork punishing Mom’s china plate. “And just how does someone thumb their nose anyway?”
“Okay, fine, then don’t go,” Kate said. “You know this sacred thing you have about ‘true love,’ whatever that means, doesn’t have to apply to every human on the planet. You could go just to have fun.”
“I could, but it applies whenever and however I want. And just because you never believed in true love and still found Rob doesn’t make you an expert on—”
“All right, girls,” Mom said with her gentle rebuke. “Nicky didn’t come here to see you argue.”
“Go on, this is inspiring me.” Nicolette twisted the cap from her bottled water. “My next film is about sisters. So, Chloe, you have a rule about true love?”
“Rule is a strong word. I just believe . . . that there is someone, one someone, for me.”
“Really?” Nicolette sat forward with a sly grin. “How’s that working for you?”
“Exactly!” Kate flipped her hand toward Chloe, nose in the air. “It’s not working. Never has. But still, she holds out hope. She’s made a disaster of her love life trying to find ‘the one.’” Big sister stuffed a bite of French toast into her mouth. “I’d die if I had to go through what she—”
“Kate.” This time Mom used her Mother voice, and Kate shushed instantly.
“Chloe, take heart. I’ve been there, done that. Even worse.” Nicolette arched her brow. “Be glad you didn’t go down my dark road.” The megastar had endured a sex-tape scandal right after she broke into film. “You’ll live. And, darling”—she pressed her hand on Chloe’s—“you will find true love because, well, I can see in your eyes you want it. Trust karma or fate, but—”
“God?”
“Yes, if you wish. Are you religious?”
So the conversation went, bantering over religion, movies, love, and dogs. Yes, Nicolette had temporarily given up romance after a nasty breakup with a screenwriter named Holt Armstrong.
“I bought a dog instead. Cutest thing ever.”
“There you go, Chloe, get a dog.” Kate, for one final dig.
Chloe mopped up the last of the syrup with her bacon and headed to the kitchen. Was she foolish to still hope for true love? The one? She’d seen examples of it in her life, but perhaps they really were the anomalies. Could love merely be “the luck of the draw”?
She set her dish in the sink and stared out the window toward the guesthouse. As much as she tried to dislodge the longing in her heart, it remained.
Since her childhood, she’d known she was destined for a special love. A voice whispered to her heart, Wait.
Yet in her youth she ignored it. Dismissed it. And the evidence of her folly lived in her soul and on the Internet.
Now she’d changed her ways. She determined to wait. Listen. Trust. And not surrender so easily to the charm and kisses of a geek turned actor named Jesse Gates.
HAMILTON
A week had passed since he had delivered a note to Slathersby Hill. He’d found Kitch in the field and pleaded with him to carry it to Esther.
How do you fair? I pray all is well and you are healing. Send word by Kitch if you can. Hamilton
Perhaps her silence proved his scheme had not succeeded. Did she believe he’d shot her? Had Sir Michael convinced her of a lie?
At his desk, the candle flickered low as his quill hovered over a pristine sheet of paper. A spot of dark ink dropped to the corner of the page. But he refused to start over. Let him write what he must, then copy it with his neatest hand.
Despite the hours of his youth spent in the fields, Ma, then Aunt Mary, insisted he study. Nightly by the fire he’d work his figures, read of biology and science, and practice his penmanship.
My dearest Esther,
Hamilton rested his forehead in his hand, staring at the page, a thousand words racing through his mind. Then, at once, there were none at all.
She wanted a love letter. A request he had every desire to fulfill, but how? With what words? He raised the desk’s top and removed the book of Shakespeare sonnets, then flipped through the pages.
Such eloquence he did not possess. The letter he sent to Slathersby via Kitch was succinct, saying no more and no less than required.
In truth, he dared not write more. What if Kitch chose to read it? Or hand it to Sir Michael instead of Esther?
My dearest Esther,
Hamilton replaced the quill and shoved away from the desk. Gazing out the window toward the night sky, the stars on glorious display, he must figure a way to see he
r, to speak rather than write, tell her of his plans, reassure her of his affections. After all, her father now knew of his intentions
Confessing his love with his lips did not concern him. But to write of such things with pen and paper, well, he felt rather silly. Vulnerable.
Rumors raced about Ninety Six that he’d shot Esther. A notion only the wicked Loyalists believed. Yet she lay wounded in her father’s house because she had tried to save him.
In his quiet moments, Hamilton did not blame Sir Michael for his father’s anger. But if he would only listen . . .
A light knock against his door startled him.
“Still awake, I see.” Aunt Mary peeked inside, dressed for bed, her long braid falling over her shoulder.
“Taking care of a few details.” Hamilton stood beside his desk, obscuring his letter.
“You leave in the morning?”
“At first light.”
Her eyes welled up, and her weak smile left him cold and ashamed. Could he really go to war while his aunt needed him?
“Aunt Mary, perhaps I should delay—”
“Don’t worry, my boy, I’m made of hearty stock. Mrs. Reed will come every day, and Ox and Moses are nearby. If I whistle, they will hear me.”
“I’ll only be gone three months, then home in time for the harvest.”
“Three months.” She leaned against the plastered wall. Uncle Laurence spent the better part of twenty years fixing up their home, honoring his promise to build her a “palace” if she left Virginia for the wilderness of South Carolina. “Is that enough time to excise your vengeance?”
“Vengeance?” He reclined against the side of the desk with a sigh. “Nay, I fight for the Cause. Captain Irwin brought me round to his way of thinking.”
“Then your pa and uncle will be proud.”
“Esther will not.”
“Hamilton, can I give you some advice? Do not be distracted by things you cannot change. She is a lady of noble breeding.”
“She was raised not two miles from here.”
“I’m surprised she returned from her society debut in London.”
