The Love Letter

by Rachel Hauck

  “When Haden saw me, he jumped up like he’d been touched with fire. ‘Chloe?’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’ I smartly replied, ‘I was going to ask you the same thing.’ Marilyn turned red as the sunset and said, ‘You told me you two broke up.’ She started to leave, and he chased after her. That’s when it went down. I lost my mind. I went berserk, whacko, cuckoo. ‘You’re on a date with Marilyn? You’re cheating on me?’ Didn’t help I had dated Clark Davis, who perpetually cheated on me. So I stepped on Haden’s foot and socked him in the face. I screamed. Cussed him up one side and down the other. Then Marilyn got involved. ‘No wonder he’s done with you.’ Then, oh, it was on! A cat fight like you’ve never seen. So irate and hurt, I didn’t see the cell phones coming out.”

  “So the cameras were there.”

  “About fifty of them.”

  “Man.” Jesse shook his head, stretching his legs long. “I was horrible to Loxley. When I got down on one knee, she gasped, started crying, looking around at her also-gasping girlfriends, and reached for the ring. She stared at it for a moment, frowning. I’m all Hee, hee, hee, this is so funny, waiting for her to get it.” He mocked himself, the anger in his tone real. “Then she gave me a look that could’ve killed. ‘What’s this?’ I snickered, ‘Your ring, m’lady.’ She shot me blue daggers. ‘Jesse Gates, what’s going on? Are you proposing or not? Where’s the ring I picked out?’ Right then and there, I knew my error. Big mistake. She freaked. ‘Do you seriously mean to propose to me with this cheap, hideous bleep, bleep, bleep ring?’ And suddenly I’m not smiling anymore.”

  “Haden broke up the fight with Marilyn and unleashed on me. Called me all sorts of wicked names.” Her tears bubbled up again. “I wish he’d struck me instead. Even now, two years later, I can still hear each nasty name and the tone of his voice.”

  “Lox slapped me silly and stormed off, steam coming out of her ears. I caught up to her, tried to apologize, but she was livid. ‘Do you mean to marry me or not?’ In light of everything, I had to be honest. ‘No, well, not right now. I’m only twenty. Dan and I are starting a business.’ She spit in my face and demanded to know if I loved her. ‘Not like that,’ I said. ‘I wish I did, Lox, but I don’t. I think there’s someone else for me.’” He huffed. “To this day I don’t know why I said that.”

  “You had to be honest.”

  “Yeah, but I never imagined there’d be someone else for me. The words just came out.” He sat up to bear the burden of his past.

  “I went off on Haden, striking him over and over. Four-letter words flying.” She batted her hands in the air, demonstrating. “Finally he pinned my arm to my side and said, ‘Chloe, it’s over. You’re so fixated on the stupid idea of true love you can’t see we’re not right. I don’t love you. You’re not a girlfriend, you’re a leech.’”

  “A leech?” He couldn’t see it. Never. She was so giving and gentle. Beautiful. The perfect remedy to any man’s bachelor life. “Chloe, trust me, you are no leech.”

  “Be grateful you’ve never been my boyfriend.” She laughed, but he knew it wasn’t real. “But it wasn’t enough for me that he told me it was over in front of fifty smart phones. Nooo. I had to start crying, wailing, pleading with him to stay with me. Work it out.” Chloe pressed a throw pillow to her face. “Ack, it makes me sick to think about it.”

  “Loxley ran off. Down the beach. Hollering for me to leave her alone. I knew she needed to process, so I went back to the house and our stunned friends. But I was convinced if she thought about it, she’d realize she didn’t love me either. Not enough for marriage. She just wanted to check off her list. Her dad was a cop, her mom a nurse, her brother a professor, her sister an international financier.”

  “But no human heart should ever have to hear ‘I don’t love you.’”

  “I regret my words, trust me. But if I didn’t tell her—”

  “Haden’s confession popped my own idyllic bubble.”

  “Why was it so important to you? To be married? Besides the incredible ideas you have about the institution.” He still mused over her confession that night on the deck of the Santa Monica house.

  “I can’t really explain it.” Her tears spilled freely. “I’ve wanted it ever since I could remember. I think I was born with the longing.”

  “I don’t know about marriage but . . . I’ve never confessed this to anyone . . . I knew from a young age there was someone special for me. Sometimes I imagined I could see her.” His gaze lingered on Chloe’s face, and when his heart thumped, he looked away.

  “I’ve dated four men, thinking each was ‘the one.’ Surely they would love me because I loved them. But all I got in return was dismissed and crushed.”

  “I was too much of a geek to date before Loxley.”

  “Geek or not, Jesse, have you looked in the mirror?”

  He grinned. “I’ve changed since coming to Hollywood.”

  “You got a new face? Hair implants?”

  “No, but . . . Let’s just say a stylist can do wonders.”

  “But Loxley saw beyond the awkward, poorly styled man?”

  “More like awkward, poorly styled boy, but yes.” He shook his head, remembering those early days. “She was the opposite of me. Outgoing, with a wit that could flay a man in one word. When she set her sights on me . . . I surrendered.”

  “I cried myself to sleep that night. After Haden. I hid in my apartment for the weekend. My friend Stella—well, you know Stella—called nonstop. Came by, knocked on the door. I never answered. My sister finally came over Sunday evening. When I saw her face, I knew something horrible had happened. ‘You’re all over the Internet, Chloe.’ I couldn’t believe it.” She drew her legs to her chest and curled her toes into the sofa cushion. “I’d just auditioned for Twist and an amazing role in an ensemble film. Two days later my agent called. Both producers passed. I knew, I knew . . . it was the fifty videos of me battering Haden and cursing like a wicked witch.”

  “Our section of the beach was private, owned by a small, beach neighborhood. We had the place to ourselves. Night came. Still no Loxley. I was worried. Wallowing in guilt. So we went looking for her. Dan and I, our friends Hugh and David, Melanie, who was Loxley’s best friend, and Gena, David’s girlfriend. Couldn’t find her. I sat up all night, kept the fire going, walked up and down the beach every twenty minutes or so. Melanie assured me she was fine, just ticked and making sure I paid. She didn’t answer her phone . . .”

  “Dad tried to run interference for me,” Chloe said. “But in today’s world, if a producer thinks you’re going to be trouble, they cut you a wide berth.”

  “Lifeguards found Loxley on the beach the next morning. About a half mile from the house. Drowned. Near as they could figure, she got caught in a riptide.”

  “Oh, Jesse.” Chloe sat up, pressing her hand on his arm. “You’re kidding. She . . . died? I’m so sorry.”

  “Worst feeling in the world is to call a girl’s parents and tell them their youngest kid isn’t coming home. All their hopes and dreams, their future regarding her, gone. Her talent and ability, her light, all doused.” His gaze lingered on the Christmas tree. “There was an investigation, of course, and afterward I tried to hang around Boston for a year, but . . . I had to get away. Escape. I moved out here the next summer.”

  “Dad spent thousands of dollars trying to rid the Internet of those videos. But as you know, it’s impossible. I saw five seconds of one and . . .” She pressed her hand to her middle. “I couldn’t believe it was me. Every six months or so, the stupid things resurface. I make some kind of best-of or worst-of list. Then it gets shared on Facebook, thus the world, all over again.”

  “Her parents started the Loxley Brant scholarship foundation. When I sold Bound by Love, I sent them ten thousand dollars.”

  “Jesse, that’s wonderful. See, you’re moving on. Being forgiven. Forgiving yourself.”

  “They sent it back.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s
okay. I understand. You know, renting the house in Santa Monica was my attempt to move on, put the past behind me. First time I’d been to the ocean in eight years.”

  “But look, you ended up here.” She swung her hand toward the breadth of the lanai.

  His gaze blended with hers. “Look, I ended up here.”

  “We’re a pair, aren’t we?”

  “Quite.”

  Chloe slid over next to him, lifting his arm around her shoulders and cradling herself against his chest, resting her cheek over his heart, and together they sat in silence and simply breathed.

  18

  HAMILTON

  Hannah’s Cowpens

  South Carolina Colony

  January 16, 1781

  It was an eve like none other. A victory at dawn could very well turn the tide of this tense conflict.

  Hamilton warmed himself by the fire, the cold settling in his bones. The men with him, Georgia militiamen, said little as they stretched their hands toward the flames, shivering, perhaps more from fear than cold.

  Next to him, Ralphie Standish, no more than a youth of seventeen, stared into the darkness, breathing into his cold, cupped hands. “Do you think we’ll sleep tonight?”

  “We should try.” But Hamilton doubted he’d catch one wink. Not the way his adrenaline ebbed and flowed.

  Other than the small stand of trees where he and the others sat, Hannah’s Cowpens was open ground. Perfect for cattle grazing. Perfect for battle.

  The field appeared to be level, but a survey revealed the terrain sloped just beyond the maple swamp. General Morgan had built his strategy accordingly. Earlier that day he’d declared, “On this ground I will defeat the British or lay my bones.”

  Hamilton had cradled his rifle in his arms, the barrel resting on his shoulder. Morgan made his duty, along with the other skirmishers, most clear.

  “Let the enemy get within killing distance . . . fifty yards . . . then blaze away, especially men with epaulets.”

  Imagining how he’d execute his duty, Hamilton felt at once both old and young. At twenty-two, his life stretched before him. Yet this may well be his last night on earth.

  He reached into his haversack for his stationery and the stub of a pencil he’d brought along.

  In the firelight, he began.

  My dearest Esther,

  But his thoughts drifted to Pa and Ma, to Betsy. To Uncle Laurence and Aunt Mary. To the Twenty-Third Psalm.

  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

  He wished for the eloquence of the psalmist David to express his longings. But he was a warrior. A deviant. Sweetness was far from him.

  After the Christmas confrontation with Sir Michael at Slathersby Hill, he wrote to Esther, asking her to meet him at the willow. This time she declined. Hamilton didn’t blame her. Not when he added it all up. His contemptuous attitude toward her upon his return from King’s Mountain and his rude intrusion on Christmas Day.

  Sir Michael sent Aunt Mary a lease—a lease!—allowing her to rent her own farm from the Whatham holdings for ten pounds a month. Ten pounds! ’Twas free and clear before his shenanigans.

  Hamilton stirred, kicking another log onto the fire. Just thinking about it made him boil. When this battle was over, he’d devote every waking moment to discovering the truth.

  Wilson Howard joined the circle. “Am I the only one wondering what we’re doing here facing a bunch of trained redcoats?”

  Bradley Holmes, from Ninety Six, was a man of virtue and courage. He fought like the dickens at King’s Mountain yet did not participate in the murder of surrendered troops. “You were at King’s Mountain, Howard,” Bradley said. “We defeated trained redcoats there and then some. Isn’t that right, Lightfoot?”

  “Do not remind me.”

  The voice of General Morgan brought the men to their feet. “Hello.” Hamilton’s letter drifted to the ground as the officer emerged from the trees.

  “Be of cheer. You can do this, boys,” the general said. “Just hold your heads up and fire three shots. Then you’re free. When you return to your homes, the old folks will bless you, and the girls will kiss you for your gallant conduct.”

  Around the fire, he shook each man’s hand before indicating Hamilton should follow him. When they were out of earshot, Morgan said, “Colonel Pickens tells me you fought valiantly at King’s Mountain. Assures me you’re a fine shot.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The general knelt and took a map from his pocket, reading it by the distant yellow firelight.

  “You’re one of them. They’ll listen to you. Don’t let them break rank, Lightfoot. They must fire three shots. Stay among the trees, but do not retreat until the call is made.” He ran the edge of his knife along the land’s contour lines. “While you reload, another man steps forward to fire. Three volleys. That’s all I ask. The Continental regulars and Virginia militia will be here.” He tapped the map where the lines indicated a slope. “Colonel Tarleton will expect you boys to run the moment they return fire. But we’re going to outsmart him.” The general clapped Hamilton on the shoulder. “I’d like nothing more than to prove that old butcher wrong.” The British colonel was renowned for his savagery. “Can I count on you?”

  “Indeed you can, sir.” Hamilton dabbed the warm perspiration from his cold brow. The sensation was familiar, haunting. An echo of his father crying out for mercy floated through him.

  Then he imagined Uncle Laurence, burned and charred. And Esther, pistol-shot and collapsing under Twimball’s bullet. His senses tasted revenge.

  “You’re a good man, Lightfoot.” The general rolled up the map and returned to the fire. “Fill your bellies, boys, then rest. Tarleton prefers a dawn attack. Remember, three shots. Then lead those blasted redcoats into our trap.” He looked each one in the face. “Fight with courage. For your families. The Almighty is on our side.”

  Hamilton sat on the log by Ralphie.

  “Your stationery.” The boy handed him the stiff, folded pages.

  “Thank you.”

  “What’d the general want?”

  “For me to make sure we each fire three shots before retreating to where the Continentals wait. Can I count on you, Ralphie?” Hamilton settled his stationery on his knee.

  “Yes, sir.” Ralphie motioned to the letter. “Do you have a girl, Hamilton?”

  He tapped the paper with his pencil. “I’m not sure.”

  “How is a man not sure? I know I don’t have a girl, and I’m glad of it. I’d hate to wonder what she was feeling now. It’s bad enough I know my ma is wearing through the floorboards with her pacing.”

  Hamilton roped his arm about the boy’s narrow shoulders, sensing a slight shiver. “But won’t she be proud when you return home a hero?”

  “I want to be brave but—”

  “Bravery is fighting in the midst of your fear, not in absence of it.”

  Ralphie grinned. “You sound like Pa.”

  Hamilton stood. “Come on, let’s try for sleep.”

  Stretching out on his bedroll next to Hamilton, the boy was asleep within moments. But Hamilton lay awake, hands cupped behind his head, listening to the sounds of the night.

  Creeping to the fire, he kicked another log into the smoldering embers and closed his eyes, letting his heart speak instead of his head.

  Hannah’s Cowpens

  January 16, 1781

  My dearest Esther,

  My recent actions have not Demonstrated my sincerest affections. I seek to Remedy any confusion now, on this Eve of Battle. Remember me as Before. When my Deeds, if not my Words, proved my Heart.

  I love you. ’Tis no other Truth.

  Affectionately Yours,

  Hamilton Lightfoot

  CHLOE

  Chesnee, South Carolina

  January

  Long hours with the hairstylist and makeup artist transformed her into Esther Kingsley, daughter of a Loyalist upcountry man.

  Jeremiah had rented a large, old estate
for the Kingsley home. Coming down the stairs for her first scene, she imagined the real Esther, whatever her station in life, might have dwelled in something similar.

  She wore a blue dress with a cream-colored scarf tucked around the scoop neckline and black buckle shoes. The stylist fixed Chloe’s real hair—she had plenty of it—into an array of tightly coiled drop curls.

  Heading into the dining room, running lines in her head for the first scene, Chloe bumped into Jesse dressed as Flanders in fringed buckskin and knee-high moccasins.

  “Oh—” She lost a bit of her breath. “Hello.”

  Since the night on the lanai, they’d become friends. Good friends. When he departed for his Christmas holiday, she missed him. And now that he stood in front of her, she trembled.

  “I wondered when I’d see you,” he said, smiling, tempting her to kiss him. Just . . . kiss him!

  How many times had she gazed toward the guesthouse hoping to see him? Surprise, I came back! She was such a sucker for the unexpected, for romantic gestures.

  When he called on Christmas Eve, she lay on the floor under the family Christmas tree, her new slippers—Mom always gave the family slippers on Christmas Eve—dangling from her toes as Bing Crosby crooned in the background. They talked and talked and talked until the first hour of her California Christmas morning.

  He’d framed the original Hamilton Lightfoot letter and given it to his parents that night. His mom cried and his dad choked up. They loved it. Best gift they’d ever received.

  “You’re welcome,” Chloe had said. “I told you.”

  “I owe you one.”

  But the distance also gave her time to think, consider their relationship, and raise her guard. Which seemed to crumble at the sight of him.

  But he’d made no indication he wanted anything more than friendship. After hearing Loxley’s story, she didn’t blame him.