Make You Feel My Love

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  “Nice view, isn’t it?” Liam asked.

  She glanced at him, glad that he’d thought her only interested in the scenery beyond the window. “Beautiful. I’ve always felt at home in the forest.”

  “Me too.” He moved to the window, looking out. “Don’t get me wrong. I love the ocean, and I can’t complain about the weather in California. But this? This is home for me.” He looked down. A moment later, he closed the journal and set the Bible on top of it.

  Had he guessed what had drawn her attention? She hoped not. “Maybe we should go back. Aunt Rosemary must think we got lost by now.” She headed for the door.

  “Before we do . . .”

  His words stopped her, drew her around again.

  “I wanted to ask a favor.”

  “Of course. If I can.”

  “There’s a chance I might start a new film in the near future. Not sure when. My agent’s setting up a meeting with the director.”

  The news made her breath catch. Not that she was surprised. Only that she disliked his going. Dreaded it. Despite everything.

  “Anyway, if it all works out”—his gaze dropped to the dog now seated at his side—“I’m not sure what to do about Chipper.”

  “You don’t want to take him with you?” Had she misread him? Would he abandon his dog when he returned to California? Was he that kind of man?

  “Sure, I’d like to take him. But I’m not sure he’d enjoy being shut up in a crate while we fly back and forth. I’d rather he’d be able to stay with people who care about him when I’m away.”

  “When I’m away.” His words echoed in her heart, easing some of the tension. He didn’t mean to abandon Chipper. She hadn’t misread him.

  “What I was hoping is that you might agree to keep him when I’m gone. You’re good with him, and he likes you. It’s a lot to ask. If I get the part, I might be gone for weeks at a time before I could fly home for a quick break. I don’t know anything about where the filming will be done or how long a shoot they expect it to be. It could be on location in the South, which would make it even harder to fly home on a regular basis.”

  She lifted a hand to let him know he didn’t have to convince her. “I’ll be glad to keep Chipper when you’re away.”

  “Maybe you’d better check with Rosemary first.” He took a step toward her. “Chipper kind of takes over a house.”

  “I’ll check, but I already know what her answer will be.”

  As if understanding what had transpired, the dog got up and trotted to Chelsea’s side, bumping her leg with his muzzle, then sat, pressing tight against her.

  “You know,” Liam said dryly, “I’ve got a feeling I’m not going to be missed. At least not much.”

  Looking down, Chelsea stroked Chipper’s head. “Time will tell. Huh, boy?”

  But she knew, even if the dog didn’t miss Liam, she would.

  Liam's Journal

  For the first time in a long while, I’m liking the thought of making another film. Nothing is for certain, but the chances are good. And just as this comes up, I find myself thinking more and more about Chelsea Spencer than anything else.

  How crazy is that?

  If Jacob were here, he’d have a good laugh at my expense. He wanted me to make movies with more depth, and it looks like that’s what this film will be. But he also wanted me to find somebody to love. I don’t know if that’s what I’m feeling for Chelsea. Something close to it, I think. Or the start of it.

  Why’d they both have to come up at the same time? I’m thinking one might cost me the other if I’m not careful. And I’m not sure what I’d hate most to lose.

  Liam's Journal

  Talked to Dad. Told him I knew about Mom. He said there was more to it that he thought I should know.

  More than Mom having an affair? If there’s more than that, I don’t think I want to know. Seems like plenty already.

  We’re told the truth will set us free. I’ve wondered if, the way most people use it, that verse from the Bible is taken out of context. Does the truth always set us free? I need to do a study on that. Figure it out. Because it seems to me some truths imprison people. Maybe that’s their own fault. Maybe it’s a mistaken truth.

  Right now, the truth about Mom that I already know feels like it’s weighing me down, not setting me free. How will the next round of truth leave me feeling?

  Chapter 16

  There were directors whom actors worked with, knowing the films would be great but the experience would be somewhat less so. Grayson Wentworth wasn’t one of those directors. All reports were that his films were great and he was terrific to work with. Meeting him in person the following Friday, Liam could see why the reports were all positive.

  In his fifties with a laid-back demeanor, Grayson had a kind of easy charm. He answered Liam’s questions about the script without any sign of holding back or wanting to keep information to himself. He made it clear that, yes, he did want Liam in the starring role. He mentioned details from several of Liam’s past films, praising him in some areas and telling him how he would have done other things differently if he’d directed the scenes. But even in that, he didn’t seem to be criticizing the actual director. It was merely an exchange of creative ideas.

  After a couple of hours on Liam’s front deck—Chipper moving between actor, agent, and director for attention—Grayson got up, stretched, and asked if Liam would show him around Chickadee Creek.

  “Not a whole lot to see. You probably noticed that on your way through town.”

  “Must be something worth seeing if this is where you plan to live year-round.”

  Chelsea’s image popped into Liam’s head, but he forced himself to think of other reasons for his choice. “My family roots go back in these mountains for more than a hundred and fifty years. I didn’t give much thought to it when I first built this house. I like the mountains, and when I was a kid, this was where we came a lot. But I’ve gained an interest in the Chandler family history since staying here. Been doing some research on the internet, reading books and old newspapers. I’ve had help from some of the locals too.” Again he thought of Chelsea, this time picturing her inside the old antique store.

  “Intriguing,” Grayson said, interest in his eyes.

  “The woman who owns the general store in town thinks I should write a book about Chickadee Creek.”

  “Who knows? Maybe you will.” Grayson’s eyebrows lifted. “Or a movie script. Was one of your ancestors an outlaw? Could be a good story there.”

  Liam chuckled as he shook his head. “Nothing as colorful as that. At least not that I’ve come across.”

  “Well, let’s have a look at Chickadee Creek. One never knows where a story awaits.”

  Kurt stood, his phone in hand. “You two go on without me. I’ve got some messages I need to reply to and a couple of phone calls to make.”

  “Okay. I’ll leave Chipper with you, then.”

  Kurt motioned agreement with his hand before turning toward the front door, already typing something on his phone.

  Before heading into town, Liam drove his pickup along a narrow road to the location of the old dredger. The dredger itself was long gone, but evidence of its one-time presence remained along the banks of the stream.

  “From what I can tell,” Liam told Grayson as they stood beside the truck a short while later, “dredging made a mess of the surrounding terrain. You can’t see it as much anymore. It’s mostly overgrown. But there are still signs.” He pointed to some large piles of rocks and gravel. “Owen Chandler, the first Chandler to come to the Boise Basin, made his fortune while there were plenty of gold nuggets in these streams. Easy pickin’s, as they say. Preston Chandler was my great-great-grandfather. He inherited the land and money from his cousin Owen. He wasn’t anywhere near as successful with dredge mining, but he diversified and did well through investments as well as in sheep ranching and logging.”

  Grayson walked around the level parking area, looking at the remains of
an old building, a battered container up against a rock wall, and the mountain rising sharply to their right. “People move around in the modern world. Families don’t stay in one place. They lose their roots. It’s something that your family stayed in Chickadee Creek for a century and a half.”

  Liam motioned with his head, and the two men got into the pickup before Liam corrected Grayson’s assumption. “We’ve owned land in Chickadee Creek all these years, but I’m the first Chandler to live up here since my grandparents moved to Boise about fifty years ago. My mom and dad had a vacation cabin up here, but the old Chandler mansion was torn down in the late seventies.”

  “A mansion, huh?”

  “I’ve got copies of the floor plan back at my house. It was definitely big.” As he turned the truck in the direction of town, he added, “I’ll take you to the site now. I recently bought the property from my dad. I’ve even thought about building a resort on it.”

  “A resort?”

  Liam shrugged. He couldn’t share details, even if he wanted to. The idea was too new to him.

  Grayson chuckled. “You really don’t mean to return to LA to live, do you?”

  “Not full time. I may keep a place to stay, for when I’m filming on a lot. At least for now. I guess I’ll see how it goes.”

  “If this film turns out the way I think it will, Liam, your career is about to change dramatically. You’ll be in more demand than ever.” Another pause, then, “Are you ready for it?”

  Liam didn’t answer at once. He mulled the question around in his mind. Am I ready for it, Lord? He was convinced one reason God had brought him to Chickadee Creek was so he could get his life back on track, so he could learn to put first things first. For many months, he hadn’t been sure he would ever go back to acting, but God had nudged him about Grayson Wentworth’s film. He’d felt the Lord open that door and gently push him to go through it.

  “Yes,” he answered at last, “I think I’m ready for whatever comes. But for now, I’ll focus on this one film and not what the future’ll bring.”

  “Kurt said you were levelheaded.”

  He laughed softly. “Sometimes.”

  * * *

  “Aunt Rosemary? Look at this.” Heart racing, Chelsea stared at the sheet music in her hand. The paper was yellowed with age, a little wrinkled, and torn on the edges in a couple of places. But the print itself was still easy to read.

  “What is it, Chelsea?”

  She stood and walked to her great-aunt, seated in her chair near the shop window.

  Aunt Rosemary waved a fan in front of her face. “It’s so hot today,” she said as Chelsea drew closer. “We should close the shop and go home. No one is going to want to purchase anything today. Tourists have all gone to seek relief in the water somewhere, and our neighbors have more sense than to come shopping on a day like this.”

  Chelsea knelt beside her great-aunt.

  “What do you have there?”

  “It’s some old sheet music. Published in 1936. It’s called Freedom’s Sonata. But look who wrote it.” She placed her finger beneath the name near the title.

  “I don’t believe it. Cora Chandler.” Aunt Rosemary looked up to meet Chelsea’s gaze. “I had no idea she composed anything. I’m not musical myself. Can’t look at the notes written on a piece of paper and hear it in my head like some folks can. Can you?”

  “Maybe a little, but not really. Not something this complex.”

  “I’d like to hear it. Who do you suppose we should call?”

  Chelsea frowned in thought. “Karen Bishop gives piano lessons.”

  “Yes, I’m sure Karen could play it if we asked. No. Wait!” Aunt Rosemary’s face glowed with delight. “Cora played the violin. We should get Anne McNalley to play it for us on your violin. On Cora’s violin.” She clapped her hands once. “I’ll go with you to your lesson next week.”

  Chelsea felt her own excitement increase. “That’s a great idea. Although maybe Anne would like to practice the piece before she plays it for us.”

  “Could be. But she’s very talented. I’ll bet she can play it well enough we’d get the gist of it.”

  Chelsea sank back on her haunches and rested the sheet music on her thighs. She wasn’t sure she wanted to “get the gist” of the melody. She would rather hear it the way Cora intended, the way she must have heard it in her own head when she composed it.

  “Freedom’s Sonata,” she read softly before looking up again. “Why do you suppose she called it that?”

  “Have no idea. But it’s intriguing, isn’t it? Maybe it’d be worth going back through some of the history books to try to figure out.” Her great-aunt leaned to the side, looking down toward the sheet music in Chelsea’s lap. “Although I’m much more curious about that composition. Why haven’t I heard anything about it before? Was that the only song she wrote and published? Do others know about this, or has it been forgotten over time?” She shook her head as she clucked her tongue. “Heaven knows what else might be in this old shop. A valuable violin. Now that sheet music. Gracious. I’ve got no business running an antique store. I don’t even know what I’ve got to sell.”

  Rising to her knees again, Chelsea kissed the older woman’s cheek. “I’m glad you have the shop, Aunt Rosemary. It’s like a daily treasure hunt.” She got to her feet. “Maybe I should call Liam. He’d be interested in seeing this.”

  “I’m sure he would.”

  She didn’t turn around to look at her great-aunt, but something told her neither one of them was fooled by her reason to want to call Liam. He hadn’t been far from her thoughts since the barbecue on Sunday. She thought of him when she awakened each morning. She thought of him when she crawled into bed each night. She thought of him as she sorted through old books and emptied more boxes at the shop.

  Today was the day the Hollywood director was coming to Chickadee Creek. Liam had told her so when he and Chipper stopped by the shop on Tuesday. “I’ll pray about the meeting,” she’d promised him. She’d kept the promise, although her heart wasn’t entirely in those prayers, knowing she could be praying for something that would take Liam away from her for good.

  Cora

  December 1896

  Everybody in Chickadee Creek seemed to expect an engagement between Preston Chandler and Cora Anderson to be announced soon. The two of them had been seen out walking together when the weather was nice, dining together at Nellie’s on most Friday or Saturday nights, and sitting together at church for the past eight Sundays.

  But unlike her friends and neighbors, Cora didn’t know what she expected. With Preston’s earnest demeanor and easy disposition, he’d slowly but surely wormed his way past her defenses, past her insecurities, past her determination to remain unentangled. He wasn’t anything like her father or the men who’d called upon her in New York. While he had wealth, he didn’t shy away from hard work. Although he’d never gone far in school, he educated himself through reading and taking his questions to men with answers. She enjoyed the time she spent in his company, and she believed he felt the same about her. But neither of them had spoken about anything more than friendship between them. Certainly he’d never used the word love. Nor had he mentioned a desire to marry.

  And wasn’t that the way she wanted it?

  “You’re lost in thought,” Sarah said as the two women sat near the fire in their comfy home.

  Cora looked at her friend. “Did you know Mr. Chandler asked me to play for his party guests next week?”

  “No, I didn’t. Did you agree?”

  “I haven’t decided. I . . . It’s been a long time since I’ve played for others. I’m not sure I want to.”

  “Why is that, Cora? I’ve never understood your reluctance. It’s obvious you love the violin.”

  Besides Preston, Sarah was the only person in Chickadee Creek who’d heard Cora play, and that—the same as with Preston—had been by accident.

  “You have an amazing gift,” Sarah added, her gaze dropping to the ya
rn in her lap.

  Cora frowned. Sarah was more than her landlady, even more than her friend. She was a mentor, an encourager, someone to be held in esteem. Cora knew she could talk to the woman about anything, and yet she remained tight-lipped about her past, about her family, about her reasons for fleeing her father’s home. Could she truly be Sarah’s friend if she didn’t share that secret part of herself?

  “You don’t have to tell me, Cora.”

  She drew in a breath. “No, I should tell you. There isn’t any reason I shouldn’t. It’s only . . . It’s difficult to talk about. I’ve kept it inside for so long.”

  Sarah nodded, not looking up from her knitting.

  “I haven’t wanted to play my violin where anyone might hear me because . . . because . . . Well, I think I became superstitious about it. As if not playing has protected me, kept me safe.”

  This admission drew Sarah’s gaze.

  Speaking slowly at first, Cora told the story of her family, of her mother’s detachment, of what her father expected of her, of the man she was supposed to marry with no care for her own feelings about it. She shared about her sudden decision to escape, about her fearful journey by train, always wondering if the next stop would be where a hireling or business associate of Aaron Anderson would take hold of her arm and drag her back to New York, to a way of life she detested. Once started, the words poured out of her. She held nothing back, not stopping until she came to the day of her arrival in Chickadee Creek. Then she fell silent.

  For a long while, the only sounds in the room were the crackling of the fire, the soft creak of Sarah’s rocking chair, and the click of knitting needles.

  But at last, Sarah stilled and looked at Cora. “May I ask you something?”

  “Of course,” she answered, although she couldn’t think what else she might reveal.

  “Do you believe the good Lord guides your steps?”