The Love Letter

by Rachel Hauck

“As in never mailed. In fact, he didn’t even sign it. He started something he never finished.”

  “And your aunt Pat has no answers?”

  “Not yet, but I’m sure she’s on the trail.”

  “So weird that he never sent the letter.”

  “Maybe he was afraid . . .”

  “Of what?” Chloe washed down her last bite of pizza and wiped her fingers with the napkin Jesse handed her.

  “That the woman he loved from his youth would turn him down. Or that what he felt wasn’t real, just sentiment.”

  “Is this about more than your grandfather, Jesse? Finishing something for him but maybe for yourself too?”

  He paused, pizza suspended before his open mouth. Then, “No . . . What do you mean?”

  She angled toward him, sniffing out a deeper story. She could’ve been a journalist if acting weren’t so deep in her bones. “You heard me. I’m sitting right next to you. Is there something you wanted answered about yourself as well?”

  “No.” He held her gaze. “This is their story. Imagining if he’d sent the letter. Imagining an answer to his question . . . ‘Do I really still love her?’”

  “But was he asking that question?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. There has to be a reason he never sent the letter.”

  Chloe scooted down into the couch cushion, propping her bare feet against the table, her bridesmaid’s gown flowing over her legs to the deck boards. “Truth is, we never know the how or why of our ancestors’ decisions. We only know our present reality.”

  “Frightening, isn’t it? That something I decide today impacts future generations. Beyond my own flesh and blood. This movie, should it have any success, could change my life, thus my descendants’. Should there be any.”

  “Why wouldn’t there be any descendants?” Chloe said. “Don’t tell me you’re down on love, Jesse Gates.”

  “I’m not down on love.”

  Why didn’t she believe him? Chloe sat forward. “So, what’s for dessert?”

  “Dessert? Good question.” He finished the crust on his last slice of pizza and gathered the empty box. “When I think of this movie, I picture a guy taking a girl on their first date to see Bound by Love because, you know, Super Hero Movie Number Twenty-Five is sold out, and they get to talking, realize they have a lot in common, fall in love . . . For dessert, I have some M&M’s left over from last week.” Jesse patted his belly. “But I’m trying to get into movie shape.”

  “He said after a fourth slice of pizza.”

  “Nobody’s perfect.”

  While Jesse disappeared inside with the pizza box and plates, Chloe moved to the edge of the deck and leaned on the railing. She liked him. A lot. He was fun. Easy to be around. Old soul to old soul, uniting.

  “Success.” She turned to see Jesse holding up a convenience-store bag of M&M’s. He looked cute, wiggling his eyebrows, the collar of his shirt open sans tie, his bare feet thumping over the deck.

  “You’re the best date, I mean, friend ever.”

  Jesse reached for her hand and filled her palm with a half dozen M&M’s. Chloe popped the first small piece into her mouth and let it melt. Chocolate was good for the soul.

  “I don’t know anything about our ancestors,” she said. “My dad has a crest on his office wall, but he can’t tell you anything about it. It’s Irish or Welsh, I forget. The colors are yellow and black with the name Hobart underneath.”

  “Who’s Hobart?”

  “Our ancestors, I guess. Way, way, way back.”

  “Funny to think in a hundred years our descendants most likely will not remember us. Unless they have their own Aunt Pat.”

  Chloe popped another M&M into her mouth. The sweetness of the candy, the salty breeze, and Jesse’s company settled into her memories. She would always remember Violet and Dylan’s wedding for this.

  “Makes you wonder why people work so hard for immortality. More people have lived on this earth than any of us remember.”

  “That is why people strive for immortality,” he said. “They don’t want to be among the billions forgotten.”

  “Not me. I just want to work, have a family, live a—” She stopped, glancing toward the lights of the pier, then back at Jesse. She almost said too much. He was easy to be around, but he didn’t need to hear the intimate thoughts of her heart. If they were going to be working together, she needed to forge a professional relationship, not one that included her deepest yearnings.

  “Here, I think I’ve had enough.” She handed back the last three M&M’s, slapping her hands clean. “So, what kind of acting have you done?”

  “Romcoms. Commercials.” Jesse tossed the candy in a nearby trash bin. “About ten failed sitcom pilots. I was on the rebirth of the Dark Shadows soap for the one year of its life. That paycheck kept food in the fridge and the lights on. My parents finally stopped bugging me about giving up acting and going home.”

  “So, they don’t want a starving actor for a son?”

  “They want me to do what I love, but that doesn’t mean they understand. They saw me going another way. A different field.” He finished the last drop of his water and tossed the bottle away. “What about you? How was it growing up in Tinseltown as the daughter of Raymond Daschle and Rachel Hayes?”

  “Great. Horrible. Especially as an actress. You’d think I’d get extra consideration, a bit of favoritism, but nope. Neither does my sister. We almost have to work harder. Prove ourselves. But then again, when I got your script and fell in love with Esther, I had the ability to call Jeremiah Gonda and ask to read for the part.”

  He turned to her, arm resting on the flat top of the railing. “You really think it’s a good screenplay?”

  “I do, Jesse. I’ve never called a director and asked to read for a part before.”

  He nodded, his happy, little-boy grin endearing himself to her all the more. Friends. Yes, she would be his friend, but nothing more. She wanted to give her all to the part, not fall in love.

  Besides, on-set romances produced so much drama behind the camera.

  “Come on, let’s sit. Watch the stars.” Taking her hand, Jesse led her to the sofa.

  Chloe curled her legs under her, tucking the hem of her dress around her feet. With a push, Jesse reclined the chair, and a night sky of stars unfurled before them.

  “Beautiful,” she whispered. “And peaceful.”

  She lowered her hand to her side, grazing his, an electric pulse running up her arm. With a small jerk, Chloe moved her hand to her abdomen, then carefully, coyly slipped it back down to the cushion.

  Jesse pillowed his head with his other hand. “What Hollywood legends walked through your family’s front door when you were growing up?”

  “Funny . . . no one has ever asked me that before.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No one interviews the actress who dies. Let’s see . . . Newman, Redford, Cruise, Smith, Coppola, Ford, Fonda, Sinatra, Reynolds, Reagan.”

  “Sinatra? Frank or Tina?”

  “Frank. But I was young. Didn’t really understand who he was. Dad worked with him on his last movie in the eighties. Years later, he ran into him again on a television show, and Frank sorta took Dad under his wing. They became good friends. Sometimes late at night Dad breaks out the old hi-fi and plays some of Frank’s original LPs.”

  Now that her belly was full and the chocolate had worked its magic, she felt silly for her reaction to Ted and Stella’s engagement. She said she wasn’t jealous. But maybe, just maybe, she was.

  “What about you? Why acting? Are your parents in the arts?”

  He rolled onto his side, propping up on his elbow, peering down at her. “My parents are lawyers. My brother is techie. An entrepreneur.”

  “And you were supposed to be a lawyer too?”

  “No, I was on the tech side of things with my brother. Science, math, physics, computers.”

  “A brainiac!” Chloe raised up, propping on her elbow, meeting him eye t
o eye. “You could be the next Bill Gates. Hey, you even have the same last name.” She gasped, touching her fingers to her lips. “Maybe you’re Bill Gates’s son in disguise.”

  Jesse laughed, reaching for her hand, lowering it to the cushion but not letting go. “No relation at all. By the way, Bill Gates is still trying to figure out how to be the next Bill Gates.” Ambient light from the house touched the side of his face. “I fell into acting on a break from college. It started as . . . as something to do. I never expected to be good at it. Never expected to love it more than math and computers.”

  “A right and left brainer. Look, Mom, I found a unicorn.” Chloe dropped to her back again and studied the stars. “Is that what makes you so confident? Being smart? My dad likes confident actors, by the way. In case you ever work with him.”

  “Thanks for the tip.” He sat back, stretching out, raising his arms over his head. “Tell me why it bothered you so much about Stella and Ted.”

  “Can we not talk about it? I feel silly now.”

  “I like me some silly now and then.”

  She swatted at him and sat up, locking her arms about her raised legs. The frills of the cream-colored dress stuck to her warm skin. The cap sleeve slipped from her shoulder, and Jesse reached to put it into place.

  “I’m not sure I should tell you.”

  “You don’t have to tell me, Chloe. I’m just curious.”

  “I said I wasn’t jealous, but I am. Not of Ted. Not of Stella. But of what they have, or think they have. Something I can’t seem to find for the life of me.”

  “Love? You can’t find love?” Jesse said. “Sounds like a long, lonely life. Better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.”

  “Oh, I’ve loved and lost. Believe me.” She peered at him. “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “My romantic history? Though, it’s anything but romantic.”

  “Should I?”

  “Are you messing with me, Gates? Everyone in the country, Europe, and a small corner of Asia know.” She stood, pacing, the ocean air swirling over the deck. “How long have you been in LA?”

  “Eight years.”

  “Then you know. You have to. In fact, I think one line of your script is from . . . you know . . . the . . . thing.” She hated talking about that video. Wouldn’t it be lovely if one person, this one gorgeous, sweet man, did not know?

  “If I did, I’ve forgotten.”

  She could not deny the innocence and truth in his blue eyes.

  “Let’s just say I’ve not had the best luck choosing men. Add my track record to being labeled the queen of the death scene and . . .” She dropped back to the sofa. “I feel cursed at times.”

  “Cursed?” Jesse slid next to her. “Curses have to have a cause, an agreement. Don’t agree with it, Chloe.” He touched her chin, turning her face to him. “As for love, you are far too kind and sweet to be alone. Yes, love can be painful, I won’t deny it.” There was a weight on his confession. “But it has to be worth trying again.”

  “Are you preaching to me or yourself?”

  He grinned, releasing her. “We’re not talking about me.”

  “But we are, aren’t we?”

  “Maybe. A little.”

  “If I’m too kind and sweet to be alone, then you are too kind and considerate, and yes”—she flicked her hand toward his face—“gorgeous, to be alone. How is it you’re not caught already?”

  “It’s not a matter of being caught. It’s a matter of wanting to be caught.”

  “You’re lucky. You’re a man. You can choose. Women, even today, have to wait to be chosen. I don’t think anyone will want me.”

  “Ah, Chloe, there are plenty of men who’d disagree with you. Men seek but never find. But trust me, there’s a good man out there somewhere, waiting for you.”

  “If you say so.” She got up, returned to the railing, needing the wind to cool her heart. Her skirt fluttered in the breeze and she almost felt free of her fear.

  Jesse joined her, saying nothing, yet listening.

  “Here’s what bothers me,” Chloe began, low, almost to herself. “Marriage is supposed to be this holy and sacred union. At least how I see it. How it was taught to me in parochial school. What I feel in my heart, you know? Yet it’s turned into a billion-dollar industry. Everyone wants the big, flashy wedding with all the hoopla, where the bride is princess for a day. But then when the day-to-day settles in and it’s work and the newness fades, people just walk away.”

  “Pretty cynical.”

  “Sorry, but it’s what I’ve seen.”

  “So what is it about marriage as an institution that intrigues you?” Jesse angled to see her face. “What do you want, Chloe? True love? Happily ever after?”

  “Yes, I do. There. I said it.” She slapped her hand on the railing. “I want the fairy tale and the romance, but I also want the day-in-and-day-out. I want to celebrate ten, twenty, fifty years with the man I vowed to love until death parts us. Marriage is the one place where no one can go but you and your spouse. One man. One woman. In a union that has baffled humanity since the beginning. It’s a treasure, something to be guarded with every part of your being. You don’t let a friend or coworker or, God forbid, a lover into that union. What is it the preacher says? ‘What God has joined together, let no one separate.’ That’s amazing! Joined by God!” Her voice rose with each declaration. Jesse appeared amused and intrigued. “The union is personal, intimate. A place of protection, of service, of bearing one another’s burdens.” A rush of tears collected in her eyes. “In marriage, you’re part of a whole, if that makes sense, and that’s what I want. Where the relationship is more than a commitment, it’s a covenant. My parents are committed, no one doubts that—but where’s their covenant? The ceremony and celebration. That’s what I want. It goes beyond love to the very core of being human.” She paced back to the chaise and sat, elbows on her knees. “I sound crazy, I know.”

  She was drained. Poured out. Jesse remained at the deck rail, facing the ocean.

  “You might have guessed I’ve never confessed any of this out loud before. Please don’t tell me I’ll see my words on the front of a tabloid next week.”

  Still nothing from him. What was he thinking? Did her confession kill him? Was it too much? Did he shrivel up and die?

  She’d have to report a homicide.

  You see, Officer, I simply gave him my thoughts on marriage. Well, he asked! I know . . . his chest just . . . imploded. Who knew?

  When the silence ticked on too long, she peeked over at him. His eyes were on her.

  “I thought I killed you there for a second.” A lock of her hair dropped from her updo and curled over her eye.

  “You didn’t kill me.” Jesse walked over and sat beside her, then slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her to him. “I was thinking how cool it would be to crawl inside your head and see what you see.”

  “You’d be terrified, trust me.” She shivered, unable to keep her attention fixed on his face. But a warmth emanated from him, and she ached to press her head against his chest.

  “Where did you get this vision of marriage?”

  She tapped her heart. “Right here.”

  “Then I hope it happens for you,” he said. “Not that this has anything to do with love and marriage, but you’re very beautiful, Chloe. Even more, you’re sweet and thoughtful, passionate. A lover’s lover.”

  “A lover’s lover?”

  “Yeah, the kind every hungry heart is searching for.” Jesse leaned into her, his gaze roaming her face. She ached for his kiss. But he pulled away. “I-I should get you home.”

  She stood and started inside, but Jesse caught her by her arm.

  When she turned, he met her with a kiss. Soft and sweet, with the slightest measure of affection. Then he inhaled and gripped her against him, and Chloe lost herself in the sensation of his lips searching hers without greed or want. Just . . .

  Love. Ye
s, hello love. That’s precisely how it felt.

  8

  HAMILTON

  We can’t find him, Hamilton. He may still be inside.”

  He charged though the church door down the main aisle, the steaming smoke burning his nose and eyes. Ashes twisted up from the floor, and the heat seeped through the soles of his boots.

  “Uncle Laurence! Uncle!” He ripped his shirt from his back, wrapping the tail about his face. “Uncle!”

  Overhead, the roof continued to burn and the church moaned under the burden, the wooden beams cracking with the heat and showering Hamilton with glowing embers.

  “Hamilton, get out of here.” Mr. Holliman of the general store clapped a firm, broad hand on his shoulder. “She’s going to collapse.”

  “But Uncle Laurence . . .” Smoke burned his eyes as the flames roared, mocking his desperation. A beam over the pulpit split and dropped with a resounding crash. “They said he was in the sanctuary.”

  When he arrived, Aunt Mary was waiting outside among their friends, weeping, calling to her husband.

  “Yes . . . but the flames are too much, Hamilton. Do you want your aunt to bury both of her men? It would break her heart.”

  “She’ll thank me not to leave her husband to burn in the rubble.” Hamilton pulled free, squinting, fighting to breathe.

  The sanctuary was simple. Long and narrow with no side rooms. Uncle Laurence should not be difficult to find.

  Cowering as another beam cracked and swung down from the roof, Hamilton pressed forward. Uncle, where are you?

  “Hamilton! Come out this minute.”

  One final scan and he resigned himself to retreat, then saw a foot protruding from the left side of the altar.

  “He’s here, he’s here.” Hamilton rounded a burning pew and reached down for his uncle’s leg. Pressing his shirt against his face, he tried to inhale enough to drag the large man down the side aisle without another breath, but he filled his lungs with smoke.

  “Help me!”

  Mr. Holliman met him with a kerchief around his face, his store clerk following. As the first beam exploded and the front corner of the church collapsed, Hamilton, Mr. Holliman, and his clerk dragged Uncle Laurence from the church.