The Love Letter

by Rachel Hauck

  Chloe picked at the grass by her feet. “Now I’m sorry . . . That wasn’t fair.” She’d pushed. Like always. Wanting more from the men who fascinated her than they were willing to give. “Forget it. I mean it, Jesse. I shouldn’t pry.”

  She got up and walked toward the slope where General Morgan and the Continentals had waited in ambush for the British. The elevation changed so gradually she barely noticed it. But when she looked back, the road had disappeared.

  In a few moments, Jesse walked into view. “It’s okay. Friends help friends come to terms with their life.”

  “Turn around.” Chloe shielded her eyes from the sun as she surveyed the field. “The road is gone. This is like looking back at the past. You can’t see it. At least you can’t see it clearly.”

  “But you know it’s there. You remember. But the view is obscured.” Jesse glanced behind them. “General Morgan was a genius. That’s how he defeated Cornwallis at Cowpens.”

  “Did you ever think your aunt sent you Hamilton’s letter to remind you he moved on and loved again?”

  “It’s crossed my mind.”

  “But not your heart.” Chloe wandered a few feet away, trapped between the present conversation and the story of the past. “I’m sorry Loxley died, Jesse. I don’t want to minimize what you went through. But maybe, for your sake, you shouldn’t maximize it either.”

  “I’m sorry your heartbreak over Haden Stuart got posted all over the web.”

  “I should’ve known better.” She caught the faintest scent of his skin, and the fragrance watered the brittle places of her heart.

  “One thing, I’ve learned my lesson. Next time I propose to a girl—”

  “Next time?” She smiled up at him, pleased with the tenor of their conversation. “Don’t look now, Jesse Gates, but I think you took one step toward moving on.”

  “—I’m going to have a real ring, gold—” Chloe shook her head, miming the letter P. “A platinum ring with a one-carat dia—” She held up two fingers. “Two-carat diamond . . . Two carats? Who do you think I am—Raymond Daschle?”

  Chloe slipped her arm through his. “No, you are the great screenwriter, Jesse Gates.”

  At the vegetable stand turned restaurant, Chloe ordered scrambled eggs and bacon.

  “I’ll have the same,” Jesse said.

  At the plastic table, she leaned toward him. “My agent called. Said he’s getting a lot of inquiries about me.”

  “See, your fortune has turned.”

  “This movie . . .” She exhaled. “It’s a gift from God.” After all the pushing and prodding this morning about their relationship, about his past, she should determine if he was a man of faith.

  Jesse fiddled with the napkin roll. “I’ll take the bait, Chloe. How’d you come to faith again?”

  “Smitty. I met him outside a church. After the blowup with Haden, seeing the stuff people wrote about me on social media, I was so broken. My friends only called to tell me the latest tabloid headline.”

  “Ex-friends now, I hope.”

  “Some, not all. Haden refused my calls. I lost twenty pounds that month. Slept twelve hours a day and cried the other twelve. My agent tried to leverage the publicity and star me in a reality show. Crazy Kids of Hollywood or something. But I’d flip burgers before going the shame-fame route. I couldn’t do that to my parents. Then another dying role came along and I thought, Ha, how fitting.”

  “The typecasting continued.”

  “Kate took my phone and laptop so I’d stay off social media. Eventually I started driving around LA in my Mustang, hating and loving the city at the same time. One day, I stopped for coffee in the valley, I cannot even tell you where, and saw a flyer for a church, Expression58, and it was like a moment in time.” She parted the air in front of her with a slicing motion. “For one second, one brief second, the clouds, the heaviness, the depression was gone and there was light. Next Sunday, I went. Terrified. What if God didn’t want me either? Where does one go if the Almighty rejects you? But I was so hungry for something real, something beyond myself, I faced my doubts. As I approached the front door, Smitty stood on the sidewalk, almost as if he expected me.”

  “He was at the door of an acting class I attended,” Jesse said, thoughtful, reflective. “When I walked in, he said, ‘Jesse, hi’ as if we were old friends. I had no recollection of ever meeting him before.”

  “But he never invited you to church?”

  “No.”

  “Would you have gone if he did?”

  “No.”

  “What if I asked you?”

  “Are you?”

  “Maybe.”

  Jesse sat back as the waitress brought their breakfast. “I don’t think church is for me. But I’ll support you. I can’t see God and me having any sort of conversation. Loxley’s parents don’t want to talk to me. Why would an almighty being?”

  “Because He’s an almighty being?”

  She stared at her Styrofoam plate of flat, folded scrambled eggs, crinkly bacon, and cold toast.

  “Yum.” Jesse shuddered, stabbing his eggs with a plastic fork, then reaching for the ketchup.

  “Hey, be kind. This is local color and flavor.”

  “Let’s hope the food has some flavor.” Jesse winced at the packet of grape jelly, making Chloe laugh. He ripped away the foil cover and dumped a grape square onto his toast. “Never pictured Smitty, or you, as a God person.”

  “Just how does a God person look?”

  He thought as he poured cream into his coffee. “Big hair. Think they’re perfect. Holier than thou. Judgmental.”

  “Like you’re being now?”

  “Pent up, buttoned down, blue oxford with khaki pants, brow beaters.”

  “Any more clichés in the box, Pandora?”

  “Not right now.” He grinned at her over his coffee. “But I’ll let you know.”

  The divide in their faith smarted more than she had imagined it might. Her first disappointment in this young relationship.

  “When I was ten,” she began, giving life to a random thought, “I auditioned for a kids’ show, Sleuths. The part was for a fun, brainiac kid who solved her detective-father’s cases. I wanted that part . . . Finally, the day came. I had five minutes to wow them. I’d picked my clothes, fixed my hair, wore a pair of prop eyeglasses. I was Debbie Dough.”

  “I remember that show. You tried out for Debbie?”

  “Sixty seconds in, the casting director takes a phone call. The producer had to ‘step out for a moment.’ And I knew him. Sam Aiken. He was a friend of Dad’s!” Chloe propped her elbow on the table, chin in her hand, and stared toward the door. A lean, lanky man with a Vietnam-vet cap entered.

  “Morning, Duke,” the waitress said. “Coffee?”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  Chloe went on. “Sam returns right in the middle of my best line and says, ‘Chloe, we see you more as Lizzy. Why don’t you read a few of her lines?’ Lizzy. The chubby girl who ate junk in every single scene. If she wasn’t eating, she wanted to eat. I was devastated.”

  “Hollywood is not for the fainthearted. What’d you do?”

  Tears welled in her eyes. She’d never talked about that audition. “I read for the part.”

  “Chloe—”

  “As humiliating as it was, little did I know . . .” She broke off a piece of bacon. “Since I can remember, Hollywood has been telling me who I am, what I look like to the rest of the world, and how I should behave. When I blew up at Haden, went all bat-crazy on him, it was the first time I didn’t care who I was or who was watching.”

  “Did you get the part of Lizzy?”

  “No. Sam came to the house, talked to Dad. They wanted to offer me Lizzy. Said I was perfect for the freckled, fat-girl role.”

  “He said that to your dad?”

  “Yes. I was listening outside the door. ‘Come on, Sam,’ Dad said. ‘She’s not that bad. Why can’t she play Debbie? She drove us crazy prepping for the part.’”


  Funny how she remembered the conversation twenty years later.

  “Your dad stood up for you then.”

  “Not really. At least it didn’t feel like it to my ten-year-old heart. Sam goes, ‘You know, Ray, if you want Chloe to succeed in this town, get her to lay off the chips and ice cream.’ Dad laughed.”

  “He laughed?”

  “He said, ‘You ever get between a girl and her ice cream?’ Har, har, har, yuckity, yuck. Looking back, I know he didn’t mean to diss me, but I’ll never forget the way I felt.”

  “Have you talked to him about it?”

  “I think he’s forgotten about it. I should too.”

  “What’d he do when the videos with Haden came out?”

  “He tried to defend me, but what could he say? ‘She didn’t mean to hit Haden’? ‘She didn’t mean to swear like a gutter rat’? I was an adult woman.” Chloe raised her paper cup to her lips. She hadn’t known it then, but God was pursuing her. Her choices had led her straight to Him. “I think I’m stronger for it, you know. What about you? What’d your parents do?”

  “Mostly tried to ignore it. Not speak of it. Afraid of tipping me over the edge.”

  “Were you on the edge?”

  “Couldn’t have been more on the edge. I was aimless, restless, really angry. Guilty. Once in a while, Dad tried to remind me it wasn’t my fault. I’d blow up at him. Then he’d suggested I get busy with work. My folks are of European breeding, you know, like Hamilton. The pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps kind. So I moved to LA. The land of make-believe.”

  “Church saved me,” Chloe said, their conversation weaving as it had the night on the lanai. “Rather, the Lord did. Can I say that and not sound like a TV evangelist? My first Sunday I wept nonstop for two hours. I thought I was losing my mind. A couple of women took me aside, and while I snotted all over one’s shoulder, the other told me about a God who loved me and gave His life for me. He defended me. He covered my shame.” As she spoke, Jesse sobered, tearing at his wadded-up napkin. “I knew it was true. I needed it to be true.”

  Jesse frowned, perplexed and curious. “Are you saying you’re born again?” He air-quoted born again.

  “Call it what you will, Jesse, but in the aftermath of Haden, I was chained to despair. Then I spent two hours on a Sunday morning with people who truly loved Jesus, and I was free. When I thought I’d like to start trusting again, I—” She should just shut up. Like now. But her lips kept moving. “I met you.”

  Jesse shoved his clean Styrofoam plate aside. “So we’re back to this.”

  Their eyes met, and the conversation stalled. She loved him. But she’d said enough for one day.

  The waitress cleared away their plates, providing a timely distraction.

  “When do I get to read Hamilton’s letter?” Chloe said, reading the bill and dropping a ten on the table.

  “Never.” Jesse added another five.

  “Never?” She grabbed her purse and started for the door.

  “Never.” Jesse followed, toothpick between his lips.

  “Like, ten years from now, if I visit you at Christmas and ask, ‘Can I read the letter?’ You’ll say—”

  “No.”

  Chloe stopped at the car. “Why not?”

  “Why do you want to read it?” He walked around to the passenger door. He was so messing with her.

  “Because it inspired this screenplay. Because you’re my friend. What’s the big deal? Everyone is going to ask you about it.”

  “Watch the movie.” Jesse snapped on his seat belt.

  Chloe sat behind the wheel. “You’ll be the death of me, Gates.” She froze, her gaze creeping toward Jesse. Death? “Jesse, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and checked for messages. “Just a figure of speech.”

  “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Chloe, it’s okay.”

  As she started the car, his phone rang.

  “It’s Jeremiah,” he said. “Hey, what’s up? . . . Yeah? She’s with me . . . Okay . . . we’ll be there.” Ending the call, he tucked his phone away with a glance at her. “Jer wants to meet with us at Chris’s place.”

  “Did he say why? Don’t tell me Chris is walking off the set.” She gunned the gas, firing onto the road. “I’m going to kill him.”

  Once again the car was silent, and the morning sun disappeared behind a collection of ominous clouds, obscuring the horizon.

  21

  ESTHER

  Whoa.” Esther reined in Gulliver, arriving at a small home just off Green River Road, a golden light in every window. The scent of burning wood tinged the bitter breeze.

  The sign above the porch overhang announced Surgeon Dr. Robert Nelson.

  “We’re here.” Esther jumped from the buckboard, offering her hand to Mrs. Lightfoot.

  Upon the news of Hamilton’s fate, she set aside worries of her father’s health and his animosity toward the Lightfoots and started the long journey to Hannah’s Cowpens.

  She and Mrs. Lightfoot left at dawn, pushing brave Gulliver to his limit to make the journey in a day. Eighty miles.

  Last night, after Father had gone to bed, Esther gathered food and supplies, loading them into the wagon herself. But she did not escape Isaac’s notice.

  “If Father asks, tell him I’m taking Mrs. Lightfoot to see Hamilton.”

  “He ain’t going to be pleased.” Isaac hoisted the baskets of bread, dried fruit, and meat into the wagon, followed by the bedding and blankets, bandages, and a few of Father’s old shirts and trousers.

  “I’d like at least a day’s lead, if you can manage it.”

  “If I can manage it.”

  Now Esther faced the surgeon’s home. “Shall we go in?”

  Mrs. Lightfoot took the first step. She’d been silent most of the trip, yet confessing every hour or so, “He’s all I have, Esther. He’s all I have.”

  Before they reached the porch, a small, weary-looking woman opened the door. Her blond hair, frayed and dull, needed a wash and a comb. Dark stains smothered the apron covering what may have once been a vibrant, blue dress. “We’ve no room. No food. None that can be spared. You’ll have to move on.”

  “No, no, ma’am, we came to help.” Esther made the introductions. “We’ve brought food, supplies, bandages, and poultices.”

  “What?” Her voice broke with gratitude. “Who sent you? Where are you from?”

  “Down Ninety Six way,” Mrs. Lightfoot said. “My nephew is here. So I’ve been told. Hamilton Lightfoot. A militiaman.”

  “He’s here, yes. Please come in. My husband is with him now. You say you have food? Supplies?”

  “In the wagon. Is there anyone to help unload?”

  The house was small, cold, and pungent with body odors. Soldiers in soiled uniforms slept in a row along the parlor floor. Several more—militiamen—languished on the stairs, bandages around their hands or arms, sipping broth from clay bowls.

  “My sons, Bobby and Simms, can unload when they’ve finished in the barn. We can’t keep up with all the chores around here.” She untied her apron and ran her hand over her hair. “Since the wounded arrived, I’ve not had time to wash or clean. I’m not sure I can even offer you a cup of coffee.”

  “Mrs. Nelson, do not trouble yourself,” Mrs. Lightfoot said. “We want to be no burden.”

  “I brought tea and coffee, along with cider,” Esther said.

  “Tea?” One of the soldiers perked up.

  Another echoed, “Cider?”

  But Esther remained intent on her mission. Another moment of anticipation and she would burst. “Is it possible, Mrs. Nelson, to see Hamilton?”

  “Of course, of course. He’s upstairs, first door on the right.” Mrs. Nelson seized Esther as she started forward. Emotion moved across her eyes.

  “Steel yourself.”

  Esther swallowed. “What will I find?”

  “He’s weak, thin, hasn’t bathed in a goo
d while, and his injury . . . quite severe. He’s in and out of consciousness. But he’s alive. Only on the battlefield for thirty minutes, but that day will live with him forever.”

  “Mercy.” Mrs. Lightfoot swooned. “I believe I need to sit down.”

  A Continental soldier with a bandaged head offered his spot on the settee.

  Esther hesitated, then started for the steps.

  “You kin to Lightfoot?” The man on the bottom step spoke. “Hamilton Lightfoot?”

  “The woman on the settee is his aunt. I’m his . . . friend.”

  The soldier nodded. “He fought a brave battle. Had a redcoat, a lieutenant, nigh on his tail, chasing him through the maple swamp.” He whistled low. “Sliced his leg. Clean to the bone.”

  Mrs. Lightfoot moaned and pushed up from the settee. “I require air.”

  “But he’ll be all right,” Esther asked, “will he not? With the surgeon tending him?”

  The private rose, making room on the narrow staircase for Esther to ascend. “Like the surgeon’s wife said, steel yourself.”

  Gripping the banister, Esther climbed to the second floor, growing weaker, more afraid with each step. What would she find when she knocked on his door? Could she bear to behold what ravages Hamilton had endured?

  Taking a breath, she knocked softly and entered at the beckon of a mellow bass voice. “Come in.”

  The room was dark and stale. On a crude, slender bedside table, a lone candle flickered against the shadows. On another table, the doctor washed his hands at a basin, dripping water as he pushed his spectacles up his nose.

  “He’s sleeping.” The surgeon reached for a soiled towel. “But a friendly voice will do him well. Who might you be?”

  “Esther Longfellow. A friend of Hamilton’s.”

  “So, you are the Esther of his dreams.” The doctor set a chair beside the narrow bed tucked under the eaves. “He’s lost a lot of blood. But we’re encouraged by his more frequent waking moments.”

  Esther sat, hands in her lap, her eyes awash with tears. She’d been warned of his condition, but no imagining could have prepared her for her bold, broad, bright Hamilton to appear so frail, so small, his pale complexion blending with the dingy white linens.