by Rachel Hauck
“Of course, of course. Do you take payments?”
Unbelievable.
Smitty leaned toward him. “You’re not going to report me, are you? To the Realtors Association?”
“Find me a place to live today, and I’ll think about it.”
“You’re a saint. And believe it or not, I’ve found you a place. I think. Again, Jesse, I’m sorry . . . What’s this? A stain?” He dropped to the hardwood floor, pressing his fingers into a small, white spot. “Did you do this? Was it already here? Archer will kill me.”
“Smitty.” Jesse exhaled, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Take a breath. It was already there.”
“This is giving me a heart attack.” He clapped his hand over his heart as he walked toward the sliding glass door, the one leading to the lower deck and the beach, and jerked it open. “Crime never pays. It never pays.” He shook his fists in the air. “You’d think I’d have learned.”
“Learned? Do you have a former life in crime?”
But Smitty paced and panicked. “I’m a lowlife, a bum, the worst sort of friend.”
“Smitty, stop and tell me about this other place. And do not tell me some acquaintance of yours is out of town. By the way, I do take payments. Also, you should confess to Archer.” Jesse popped his friend on the back. “Look, I can’t move today. I’m meeting with Jeremiah Gonda to go over the script one more time. Don’t know when I’ll be done. So tomorrow is the best I can do. If I decide to trust you.”
“Gonda? What do you know, this new place is in Bel Air. Sure you don’t have time today?”
“No, and even if I did, you should sweat this a little.”
“You’re a pal. Trust me, this new place is legit. Like I said, crime doesn’t pay.” He slapped his hand to his forehead. “I can’t go to prison. I look horrible in stripes.”
“I think they wear solid colors these days. Orange.”
“Orange, even worse. With my complexion I’ll look like Halloween candy. And to those hungry inmates . . .”
Despite all irritation, Jesse laughed. He should be ticked, but Smitty was such a character. “Meet me here this evening,” he said, drawing Smitty back into the house. “We’ll pack up and move me out. But this is your last chance. If this doesn’t work, I’m getting a new Realtor. And maybe a new friend.”
He was going to miss this place. The view. The sound of the ocean. The memory of Chloe. It’d been a long time since he’d paired a memory of the ocean with a beautiful woman, the feel of her skin and the taste of her lips.
“So, what’s up with the girl? The one from the wedding?” Smitty dropped down onto the S chair and peeked into the donut bag, his panic fading.
“Chloe? When did I tell you about Chloe?”
Smitty’s cheeks reddened as he retrieved a second apple fritter. “L-last week.”
“Did I see you last week?”
“No. Maybe I heard it from someone.”
“Who?”
“Ted?”
“You heard it from Ted Stux? Of Ted and Stella fame? I didn’t know you knew him.”
Smitty exhaled, smiling, devouring his fritter. “Yeah, we go way back. Well, not way back, just back.”
“He told you about Chloe?” Jesse perched on the edge of the wooden table.
“Said you two hit it off.”
“We did, yes.”
“No kidding. That’s more romance than I’ve heard from you since we met.”
“I’ve dated.”
“A flirt on set or at a party is not dating. Not a path to love.”
Jesse stood. “Path to love? Who said anything about the L word? She’s great, in fact. She’s playing Esther in the movie, but we’re not a thing.” No, certainly, they were not a thing. “I haven’t talked to her since the wedding. Which is good. We’re . . . we’re both in the movie, and it’s best if we . . . Besides, I don’t think—”
“You can forgive yourself?”
Jesse peered down at Smitty. “W-what . . . do you mean?” He’d never discussed his past with Loxley. Not with anyone in LA.
He fled here to forget. To immerse himself in the world of pretend. Why bring it up?
“Look, man, I know something’s been eating at you since we met, and I figure it had to do with a woman so, if I’m right, forgive yourself. It’s been at least eight years.”
“You don’t know anything about it, Smitty.”
“Maybe I don’t, but confession is good for the soul.” He glanced at his watch, stood with a jerk, and made his way to the door. “I’ll text you the address of the place. I’ll meet you here to help you”—he glanced around—“pack.” Smitty paused in the kitchen. “If you don’t tell me, then tell someone.”
When he’d gone, Jesse made his way to the third-floor deck, drank his coffee, and enjoyed the view one last time.
How had Smitty surmised anything about him? About forgiveness? Beyond the whole, “Oh, by the way, you’re not a legal tenant here,” it was as if Smitty had crawled into his head and took notes. Ted telling him about Chloe? The intuition about a girl in his past? If he’d said her name, Jesse would’ve pummeled him and demanded to know where he got the information.
His brother? His mother? Those two were talkers. But Smitty had no reason to be in contact with them.
The sunrise draped a golden path across the ocean’s surface. So brilliant, so wide, as if Jesse could walk to the edge of the horizon. Seagulls hovered on the breeze, calling to one another, and in this quiet moment, the man of science ached to be a man of faith.
Forgiveness felt like a cure. Almost too good to be true. But how? He’d spent eight years trying to put it all behind him. Yet Smitty saw . . . detected.
He’d love to confess his sins and seek forgiveness if it’d bring healing. If his confessor would not despise him by the time he was through. But how could a person not? Jesse despised himself.
Beholding the heavenly splendor over Santa Monica, Jesse knew a divine Creator existed. There were too many unanswered questions regarding the universe for Someone not to have put it all in motion.
But did that Creator see him? Know him? Care about him? If so, where was He that day on the beach?
From his bedroom his phone rang. Leaving his contemplation on the deck, Jesse went in to answer.
It was his brother.
“Hey, Dan, what’s up?” Jesse crashed against the pillows and headboard, shoving aside the small, ridiculous hope it was Smitty calling back to say, “Never mind.”
Or deep down, a small hope that Chloe had acquired his number and called.
The conversation with Dan was typical. How are you? I’m fine. When does the movie release? Don’t know, haven’t even started filming yet.
“Listen,” Dan said. “I wonder if you could make it home this fall? Dad’s talking Octoberfest. I wanted to get it on your calendar. And, oh man, you should see Gran’s new pool. It’ll be too late to swim, of course, but Dad went nuts when she contracted it. She spent at least forty grand. Remember that pool we saw in the Bahamas?”
“I didn’t go to the Bahamas.”
“You didn’t? Yeah, sure you . . . Oh, right.” Dan lowered his voice. “Sorry. Anyway, Octoberfest. What do you say? I know Mom is missing you.”
“She was just out here.”
“Last summer, bro.”
Had it been that long?
“And you have to see our new office. DiamondBros is right in the center of downtown Boston. I have a harbor view.”
“Just like you always dreamed.”
“We always dreamed. I miss you, Jess. DiamondBros isn’t the same without you.”
Diamond brothers. Their nickname for themselves growing up, playing sports, chasing girls. Diamonds were tough yet classic. Just like the Gates boys.
Then Jesse discovered he was not as tough as he believed. His superior intellect and knowledge of numbers were nothing against the powerful matters of the heart.
“Miss me? Dan, I’ve never really been there.”
“Don’t start.”
“Okay, okay, but I want you to know I’ve saved a corner office for you. Paul pitched a fit about it, but you and me, we’re the diamond brothers.”
“Then you should know I finally have real success out here. Don’t save an office for me. Please. Give it to Paul.”
“He has his own corner office. Look, forget all that, just come home. We’d love to see you. Octoberfest. Second weekend in October. Also . . .” Dan hesitated. “Did Mom tell you about, um, Melanie and me?”
“Melanie Trainer?” Loxley’s best friend.
“We ran into each other at a party. Six months ago. She’s working on the design team at Hartman Electronics. We talked shop and—”
“One thing led to another.”
“Something like that. Jess, I just bought a ring.” Excitement was evident in his brother’s tempered tone.
“Really?” Jess walked to the window and pressed his forehead against the pane. His brother was moving on. Melanie was moving on. If they’d even stalled at all. A twisting ache vibrated through him. “That’s, um, great, Dan. I’m happy for you.”
“I wanted to tell you in person. But it felt right to tell you now . . . that’s really why I called. Are you okay? I know we’ve not talked about, you know, everything in a while and—”
“Dan, I’m good. It’s been eight years.” Jesse shoved his hand through his hair, eyes closed, and warded off any spiking images. Logically, he understood time healed all wounds, but what could remove the scars? The memories? He chuckled quietly. “You don’t deserve her.”
“There’s my little brother. And you’re right, but I’m not letting her go. Listen, if you don’t come home, Mom will think it’s because of, well, everything, and order me to break it off with Mel.” Dan’s laugh was shallow and hollow.
“Then I’ll try to come home. If not this fall, then after the movie wraps. In the spring. Tell Mom to call me if she has any doubts. I’m fine.”
“Hey, Jess, I miss you, but I’m really proud of you. Getting a movie made of your script, that’s something. But you’ve always been outstanding. Just know I still have the office space for you.”
“After eight years, I don’t think I’m headed back to engineering.”
“Don’t pop my bubble. I’m happy today. Let me have my fantasy. Oh, hey, we should coordinate calendars. I don’t want to plan my wedding the weekend of the movie premier.”
“So you think she’s going to say yes?” Jesse turned from the ocean view, pressing his back against the sun-warmed window.
“Fingers crossed. I’ll let you know in a few days.”
“Send me a pic.”
“What about you? Met anyone?”
“Naw, keeping it simple. Focused on work.”
“Jesse, you can’t—”
“Bro, leave it.”
A few more pleasantries, and the brothers hung up. Jesse returned to the deck, phone in hand, and watched the waves wash over the sun’s golden path, now narrow and thin, fading in the rising light of day.
13
CHLOE
Sunday evening Chloe sat in her living room going over lines with her costar, Chris Painter, who checked his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes, the pages of Bound by Love open in his lap.
“Go already.” She smacked his leg with her script.
“What? I was just checking the time.” But he slipped his script into his shoulder bag and tossed back the last of his water. “What do you think about this character, Hamilton Lightfoot?”
“I love him. He’s honorable and courageous. Cares about his family. Certainly cares about Esther.” Chloe collected their empty water bottles and Diet Coke cans. “Do you have a date or something?”
“Ginger is waiting for me.” Chris grinned just as a message pinged on his watch. “We’re going to dinner with her folks, but I told her going over the script with you was priority.”
“Her folks? Wow, sounds serious.”
Chris texted his answer, scribing on the phone’s small face. “Well, relatively. I don’t know . . . but her parents were coming into town and I figured, what’s the harm? And I agree, Hamilton is a great character. Can’t believe a new screenwriter pulled it off.”
“What do you like about him?”
“Him who? Jesse? Why? You got the hots for him?”
“No, Hamilton. And no one says ‘got the hots’ anymore. Keep up, Painter.”
“My bad.” The superstar laughed. After their breakup, Chloe never imagined a day she’d sit with him in her living room, going over a script, talking casually about his relationship with another woman. But she was, and it felt good. Healing. “Hamilton makes me think.”
“About?”
“Love, I guess. Is there the perfect person for each one of us?”
“A soul mate?”
“I know you believed in that once upon a time.” Chris bore his blue gaze into Chloe’s. “Do you still?”
“Can’t help myself.”
“After everything that happened?”
“I can’t help it. It’s like a part of my DNA. I was born to believe there is one right person for me.”
“Is it going to be weird, us working together?”
“Not at all.” She tossed the bottles and cans in the recycle bin. “We’ve been friends far longer than we were lovers.”
He came around to where Chloe stood and spoke as Hamilton. “I only ask for the kindness of your mercy, and to remember me in your prayers. You are the reason I am willing to fight, to lay down my life.” A slight blush touched his cheeks as he became Hamilton Lightfoot in the light of her kitchen. “I’m not sure I’ve ever known this kind of passion. You might be right, Chloe, it only happens in the movies.”
“I pray I’m wrong.”
He slipped his arm around her, and she walked him to the door.
“Say hi to Ginger for me.”
“Will do.” Chris paused in the doorway. “You are going to own this role, Chloe. I can feel it. You play Esther with heart.” He flashed his famous smile and kissed her cheek. “Later.”
Chloe returned to the script, staring at dialogue, considering Esther. The woman was strong, capable, assured of love. In the midst of a hard, upcountry life with war in her backyard, she chose love. Fiercely. At least that’s the way Jesse saw it.
She wondered if he’d tapped into something divine.
The sound of a door clapping drew her attention. Voices bounced up from the back side of her apartment.
“Is that all you’ve got?”
“I told you I travel light.”
Chloe went to the window. Was Mr. Crumbly home? If so, she had a few questions for him about her pastor’s message on healing this morning.
She was young in her faith, and Mr. Crumbly’s wisdom helped her navigate the truths she could not always see or feel.
At the window, she peered toward the guesthouse. A silhouette passed through the long, evening shadows. Two male forms carried boxes from a car into the small house.
In a few seconds every window beamed with yellow light. Chloe dived for her phone and texted Dad.
Is someone moving into the guesthouse?
One of the men walked out to the car for a final load.
Her phone pinged an answer from Dad.
Yes.
Who? Mr. Crumbly?
He’s gone for a year.
She waited. When Dad offered no more explanation, Chloe started toward the guesthouse to find out for herself. Dad was generous. He often opened up the main house for people to stay, but the guesthouse, well, it was special to Mr. Crumbly. Chloe teased Dad that he hoped the kind missionary would put a good word in to the Almighty for him.
“Never hurts to have a connection,” he’d say.
Voices bounced within the guesthouse as she knocked on the door, slightly ajar. After a second, Chloe pushed in.
“Hello? Anyone here?”
He paused, staring at her, blue eyes wide. She exhaled and fell against the door. Then, in unison they said, “What are you doing here?”
ESTHER
August 1780
Esther.” Father roused her from sleep, his Brown Bess tucked under his arm, the moon’s glow spilling into her room. “Wake up.”
“W-whatever is the matter?” Esther shoved aside her thin blanket and reached for her robe, the scar tissue stretching beneath her healing wound.
“Rebels are approaching the house.” He offered his hand and led her quietly down the hall. “Take the back stairs to the cellar. Can you make it, love?”
“Rebels? Coming here?”
Father left her for a moment to peer out a second-floor window. “Do not make a light. And mind your movements.” He took hold of her hand once more. “Isaac is on alert, and I see no light in their cabin. They may well have gone to their cellar.”
Esther paused on the first step. “How do you find your loyalties so devoted after what they did to Reverend Lightfoot? After Lieutenant Twimball shot me?”
“Please, Esther, I cannot argue with you now. Hurry now, love. The rebel militia from the lowcountry has arrived, and we can be most certain they are not our friends or neighbors.”
Rough, masculine shouts rose from the front lawn. A chill slithered down Esther’s back as the eerie glow of torchlights flickered through the windows.
Had they come to burn Loyalist homes in Ninety Six? To burn Slathersby Hill? As revenge for what happened to Reverend Lightfoot?
Holding on to the railing, she inched down the narrow stairwell as heavy footsteps sounded on the veranda. She froze, holding her breath, fearing she’d cry out.
“Check the kitchen. Gather all the food,” a man said. “You, Private, check for weapons and gunpowder. A Tory home is bound to have a stockpile.”
No . . . no, we do not. Food, yes, but Lieutenant Twimball recently acquired all Father’s ammunition. He had to plead for enough reserve to fill his Brown Bess.
Father tiptoed past her, finger to his lips, motioning for her to follow. There was a cellar entrance from the parlor just to the right of the back stairs.