The Love Letter

by Rachel Hauck

  His friend shouted from the bedroom. “You didn’t ask.”

  Jesse scoffed. “How would I know to ask? But, oh, what am I thinking?” He thumped the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I cannot trust you.” To Chloe, he said, “I didn’t know this was your father’s place.”

  “What happened to your place on the beach?”

  “Turns out the owner wasn’t away for a year. And Smitty, my former good friend, had no authority to lease it to me.”

  “Smitty?” Chloe echoed.

  “Chloe, good to see you.” Smitty emerged from the bedroom, arms wide.

  “You know her?”

  “You know him?”

  “We go back all of what, three years?” Smitty nodded at Chloe.

  “Something like that.” Chloe was good with facial expressions. Right now she was saying, I don’t believe any of this, without saying a word.

  “Yeah, sure, we met on set. A TV movie. I invited her to church.”

  Jesse turned to Smitty. “You go to church?”

  “Yeah, Expression58. Shawn Bolz. Great guy.”

  “I’ve known you for eight years, and never once have you mentioned church.”

  “Neither have you.” Smitty dropped down on a plush, leather sofa and stretched his arms across the top.

  “I didn’t know I needed to mention church.” He’d considered the institution of religion after Loxley died, window-shopped a few places in LA. But the moment he walked inside, he felt the judgment from those who were holier than thou.

  “Well, now you know.” Smitty stood. “I’m famished. Anyone for pizza?”

  “I’m confused.” Chloe stepped between them. “Smitty, were you here yesterday morning talking to my dad?”

  “You saw me and didn’t say hi?” He looked sincerely disappointed. “I wanted to see if Jess could move in here. I needed him O-U-T of Archer’s place ASAP.”

  “How do you know my dad?”

  “Yeah,” Jesse said. “How do you know Raymond Daschle?”

  “We go way back. I auditioned for him a few years ago.”

  “You auditioned for Raymond Daschle?”

  “Didn’t I tell you?”

  “No, but I suppose I should’ve asked.”

  Chloe smirked, shaking her head. “Dad let you borrow Mr. Crumbly’s space?”

  “Yeah, sure. Why not? Crumbly was okay with it.”

  “No, no,” Chloe said with a laugh. “You do not know Mr. Crumbly too.” She glanced at Jesse. “He’s an old friend of my father’s. A missionary. He stays here when he’s stateside. But he’s in South America for a year.”

  “Are you sure?” Jesse shot an icy glare at Smitty. “He said Archer was going to be gone for a year too.”

  “He’s gone.” Smitty sat confident and cocky, his arms stretched out like he owned the place. “I double-checked it. Called Crumbly myself.”

  “I need a flow chart to track everyone.” Jesse sat in the nearest chair, a comfortable gold leather recliner.

  “So, wait,” Chloe said. “Smitty, you know Dad, Mr. Crumbly, Jesse, and me? Did you know we knew each other?” She pointed to Jesse, then to herself.

  “I wondered.”

  “How did you wonder?”

  Smitty stood, patting his gut. “How about that pizza?”

  “I still can’t wrap my head around this.” Chloe regarded Jesse. “We both know Smitty? How have we not met before now?”

  “Timing is everything, kids,” Smitty said. “Now, about that pizza.”

  “Give us a second to digest here, Smitty,” Jesse said. “I meet Chloe at a wedding reception the day she reads for a part in my screenplay. Then I end up renting from her father. Last but not least, you lie to me about Archer, and now I find out you’re . . . religious?”

  “Well, when you put it like that. I never claimed to be perfect.” Smitty wandered into the kitchen, tugging open the fridge door. “Empty. You need to go shopping.” He returned to the living room. “What you need to ask yourself, Jesse, is why you don’t cross a church’s threshold?”

  “I’m not the church-going kind.” He glanced at Chloe. “Are you okay with me living here? If not, I can hole up in a hotel for a night or two until I find a place.” He grimaced at Smitty. “Without your help. You’re a horrible Realtor.”

  “What? I found you a great deal. Twice. Just because the first one didn’t work out—”

  A small knock resounded on the door. Jesse, Smitty, and Chloe called in chorus, “Come in.”

  Geez. Who’s place was this anyway?

  Raymond Daschle entered, smiling, wearing the aura and attitude of an . . . ordinary man. A father. “How’s everything? Getting set up? I see you’ve met Chloe.”

  “Dad, this is Jesse. You met him at Violet’s wedding.”

  “Right, of course.” Raymond crossed to shake his hand. “Welcome to Daschle Grounds.”

  “It was nice of you to let me rent this place.”

  “No problem. George Crumbly is gone for a year. I like to have the house occupied. Chloe’s got the apartment on the north side of the house, but Kate lives in West Hollywood. No need to have the place empty if someone wants to stay here.” Raymond walked over to the box on the kitchen table. “You’ve started to move in. Good.”

  “Well, I’m all moved in.” Jesse glanced at the boxes. A total of five this time. “I travel light.”

  “I like it. Possessions encumber a man. Weigh him down.”

  “Said the man with a ten-thousand-square-foot mansion,” Chloe scoffed.

  Jesse laughed. She looked pretty tonight, casual in her shorts and top. Like the kind of woman a man could build a life with.

  “I didn’t say me,” Raymond said. “I like my stuff.”

  Jesse agreed with his wisdom. Stuff encumbered a man. And he wasn’t looking to add stuff to his life. Even if she came with hazel-green eyes and the fragrance of summer.

  “I’ll say good night.” Raymond moved toward the door, pointing to the phone on the kitchen wall. “Pound nine gets the service staff. If they’re not there, leave a message. Use the pool whenever you want. You swim?”

  “I used to, in another life.”

  “Great exercise, swimming. There are towels in the kiosk by the lanai. Just toss them in the hamper when you’re done. The maid collects them.”

  “Thank you, Raymond. I appreciate it.”

  “Like I said, I like having someone here. At night I look out my bedroom window, and seeing a light on in here comforts me.” He paused in the doorway. “Sort of like, ‘All is well in the world.’ That’s what light does, you know. Says all is well in the world.”

  As Raymond left, Smitty ducked out behind him. “Know what, I remembered I have to be somewhere. Chloe, see you at church. Jesse?” He saluted him from the doorway. “See you in the movies.”

  The door clicked closed, and he was alone with Chloe.

  “This feels awkward.”

  “Why?” she said. “We met, had a good time—”

  “Shared a kiss.” An amazing kiss.

  “We’re adults. We can handle a kiss or two, right?” She tapped the edge of the box on the living room table, taking a small peek inside. “You really did not know this was our place?”

  “Nope.” Jesse surrendered his hands as if to declare his innocence.

  “You must really trust him.” She peeked in another box. Jesse didn’t mind. He had nothing to hide. At least nothing he could carry in a box.

  “I used to until he lied to me about the place on the beach. But he assured me he found the perfect place.”

  Chloe peered over her shoulder at him. “Did he? Find you the perfect place?”

  A twist of yearning tightened his chest. “Don’t know. We shall see.”

  She looked in one last box, then with a sheepish wince, started for the door. “I better let you unpack.”

  Jesse reached for her arm. “Don’t go.”

  “Why not?” But she didn’t move. Didn’t try to pull
away. “I-I have dinner with my sister tonight.”

  “Is it important?” Didn’t sound important. Sounded made up.

  “N-not really.”

  “Then how about dinner with me?” She moved him. Made him feel things he’d not felt in a long time, if ever. “Smitty gave me a stack of restaurant flyers.” He scooped them from the island and perched on the edge of a bar stool. “What’s your pleasure, Miss Daschle?”

  When he looked up, she glanced away.

  “I-I don’t know.”

  He shuffled through the flyers calling out pizza places, Chinese, Italian, Indian, sandwiches, and wings. Then set the pamphlets aside.

  “I still think of our kiss on the deck.”

  “We should both forget. We’re going to be in rehearsals soon. Then on set, filming. Jesse, I really need this film to go well for me. I want to give it my all. Not just for Jeremiah but for my future. I feel like this film could change everything for me.”

  “Agreed. I need this film to go well for me too. Its success could bring all kinds of opportunity—”

  “Could? No, Jesse, it will bring new opportunities. With directors and producers, studio heads.”

  “—and I don’t want to cause Jeremiah any headaches. I’m going to follow him around when I’m not in a scene.”

  “You’ll learn so much from him.”

  “So we have to ignore this . . . this thing between us.” He read her expression, waiting for her to light up in agreement. “For Jeremiah, for the film. Besides, neither of us wants to start anything.”

  “For Jeremiah, yes. But this thing? What thing?” She queried him with a glance. “I only meant to say how good it will be to have a friend on set.”

  “Friends? Yes, exactly.” So the spark of something real was one-sided? “Being friends is a thing, right?”

  Never mind the way she curved into him the night they danced, how she fit together against him when they kissed, like pieces of a puzzle. The glow in her eyes afterward. The fire in his heart.

  Move on, man. Jesse held up the flyers. “You choose. I’m the new kid on the block.”

  She hesitated, then snatched the pamphlets. “Loved those boys. New Kids on the Block. They used to stay here when they came to LA.”

  “No kidding? I did a scene with Donnie Wahlberg once. It was a Boston thing.”

  “Look there, something we have in common. New Kids on the Block.” Chloe picked a pizza place. “800 Degrees.”

  Jesse hopped off the stool. “Let’s go. My treat.”

  She hesitated, as if she wanted to say something, then fell into step. “Chris and I have been rehearsing, Jesse. I love the way you wrote Esther and Hamilton and their love. But I always get the sense there’s more to the story. What were you thinking or going through when you wrote it? I’d love to read the letter that inspired it all.”

  “Lots of things.”

  “Are you ever going to tell me the rest of the story?”

  He studied her for a moment. She had a story she’d never told him. “Are you ever going to tell me?”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t searched the Internet. Just type in Chloe Daschle. It’s the first hit.”

  “I’d rather hear it from you.”

  She peeked in one last box on the table by the door. The one from Aunt Pat. The original letter was inside. Along with the articles about Loxley.

  “Is the letter in there?” Chloe snatched her hand away when Jesse moved the box. “Is it?”

  “Yes.” He closed the flap, setting the box aside. He didn’t care if she knew about Grandpa Hamilton and Esther Longfellow. But he cared, for now, if she knew about Loxley. “Who’s hungry for pizza?”

  “People are going to want to know, Jesse, about the letter,” she said. “It will be a part of the movie’s promo.”

  “I know. And it’s not the letter. You ready to go? I’m starved.”

  “If it’s not the letter, then what?” She tugged her phone from her pocket. “And yes, I’m ready. Let me text Kate . . . and you know, if we’re going to be friends, one of these days we’re really going to have to be honest with each other.”

  “Okay, but which one of us wants to go first?”

  CHLOE

  October

  Am I late?” The first table read of Bound by Love was at Jeremiah and Laura’s. Filming would begin in two months on location in Chesnee, South Carolina, where part of the crew was already stationed, prepping for production.

  “Chris is not here yet, so no.” Laura welcomed Chloe with an embrace, then led her through the house.

  The aromas from the kitchen were incredible.

  Laura recounted tonight’s menu. “Prime rib and duck. I told Jer this will be the fastest table read in history.”

  “Forget the table read, let’s eat.” Chloe stepped onto the lanai and was greeted by a chorus of hellos and affection. People she’d known one way or another throughout her Hollywood life rose to welcome her.

  Derrick Hall, another old friend of Dad’s, played her on-screen father. “My daughter,” he said, wrapping her in his slender arms. “I knew the truth would come out one day. You are Rachel’s and my love child.”

  Sir Craig Townsend, who was quintessentially British and playing General Cornwell, laughed. “In your dreams, Derrick, my good man. In your dreams.” The acclaimed actor had been named CBE for the queen’s birthday honors in the early nineties. He was kind and gentlemanly, perfect for General Cornwell, a General Cornwallis–like character. “I’m delighted to see you cast in a living role, my dear.” He kissed Chloe’s cheeks.

  “You and me both.”

  She moved on to Milka Hardaway, a rising, black actress cast as Millie, the house negro. “Excited to work with you,” Chloe said.

  “And I you. Plus, who can resist a Jeremiah Gonda film?”

  “I know, right?”

  She made her way around the table, greeting and talking. Felt like old-home week. Jesse sat at the end of the table, watching her, nodding when their glances crossed.

  Since their pizza date, she hadn’t seen much of him. They crossed at the pool one Saturday afternoon. He’d been in Vancouver for three weeks shooting a small part in a romcom.

  “Got to work when you can get it.”

  “You can enjoy your success, Jesse,” she said, across the back lawn one Saturday morning.

  “I want to keep working. Never know when it’s all going to end.”

  “Do you have a fear of things ending?”

  “Don’t you?”

  That was the most honest moment she’d ever had with her new friend.

  Jesse stood when she made her way to the table’s end. “Good to see you.”

  “And you.” She gave him a shy smile.

  Jeremiah tapped his glass with a fork, drawing everyone’s attention. Chloe sat in the vacant seat next to Jesse and faced her director.

  “When Chris decides to grace us with his presence, we’ll get started. Has everyone met Jesse? Chloe, why don’t you introduce him.”

  “Me?” She glanced around. All eyes were on her. Waiting. “Y-you discovered him, Jer.”

  “Yes, but he’s your neighbor.”

  Chloe peered at the screenwriter-slash-actor-slash-MIT-grad. What could she say? Broad shouldered and winsome, wearing jeans and a fitted, gray T-shirt with his hair clipped and styled, he looked . . . good. Amazing, to be honest.

  She swallowed. “Well, he’s . . .” Settled. Content. And never far from her mind. So much so, she prayed about it this morning. Please scrub him from my thoughts. One kiss and a pizza dinner did not warrant this sort of budding preoccupation. “Smart.” The rest of the table watched and waited. “Graduated from MIT with some engineering degree.”

  “Jolly good.” Sir Craig, helping her along.

  “Wrote Bound by Love based on a letter his great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather wrote.”

  “Good golly, how many greats is that?” Sir Craig again.

  “Six,” Je
sse said, winking at Chloe.

  “He wrote this screenplay to finish a love story his ancestors never could.” He nodded at her, and the warm familiarity she felt every time she was with him passed through her.

  “This is his first movie, and I’m so honored to be in it.”

  “Here, here,” echoed around the table.

  Jesse squeezed her hand under the table.

  Jeremiah rose from his seat, holding up his phone. “Painter is not here, no surprise, and not answering my calls or text. Let’s get going. Jesse, why don’t you read Hamilton’s part? Someone give Chloe the fresh pages. We’ve rewritten the first scene again—refined it.”

  “Don’t you want to wait for Chris?”

  “No. And if you don’t start reading for him, I’m going to rethink his role in this picture. Let’s go.” Jeremiah flipped open his script and read the scene setting. “‘Upcountry South Carolina, Kingsley estate, 1780. Esther sitting at her desk in the library with a book and microscope.’” He peered down the long table toward Chloe and Jesse. “Action.”

  ESTHER: Hamilton . . . you startled me. How did you get in here?

  HAMILTON: Millie. Though she assured me you’d not want to be disturbed. (Walks to the desk, picks up a book.) Isaac Newton, Method of Fluxions. So you enjoy a bit of casual reading?

  ESTHER: You mock me, sir.

  HAMILTON: Nay, rather, I hide my ignorance of such studies. What have you under your microscope?

  ESTHER: A poor deceased butterfly. Peer through the lens. Such beauty and detail. The finest scientific minds cannot design such a creature.

  HAMILTON (Peers briefly through the microscope): It’s as beautiful as the one gazing at it. Esther, I must speak with you.

  ESTHER (Moves to the chairs by the fireplace): You sound so serious, Hamilton.

  HAMILTON: You know of recent events, do you not? The church burnings. The attacks on women and children. I’ve joined the Cause. I cannot—

  ESTHER: What? You promised me you would not. What of us, our plans and our future? War is not child’s play. ’Tis not you and Flanders running the hills, playing with sticks and stones as guns and bullets.

  HAMILTON (Takes hold of her arm): I’d trade all my possessions for this revolution to be boys at play, but ’tis not possible. It’s governments with skilled, trained soldiers. It’s militiamen fighting to preserve the fruit of their toil. I am the best sharpshooter in the upcountry. May God forgive my hubris. They’ve asked me to come along, to make myself useful, attacking the British far behind the line. It could change our advantage. I go to protect you, Esther. Can I have your assurance you will pray for me, stand by me?