The Love Letter

by Rachel Hauck

  How did she feel when Hamilton married another? Was she in love with her husband who died and left her a young widow?

  Why did Hamilton not send the letter proposing after they were both widowed?

  Chloe was Esther in so many ways. Lasting love was just not meant to be. And in some ways, she was like Loxley. Not physically—God rest her soul—but emotionally. Dying to herself. Quitting. Giving up.

  I loved you, Jesse.

  Yet . . . deep down in the part of her soul she could not see, peace ruled. Since the day she’d cried in church for two hours and surrendered herself to the One who truly, unconditionally loved and defended her, a new hope was born.

  Jesus would heal her past and take care of her todays and her tomorrows. Her good Father held her future in His hands.

  The car arrived at the shoot, and Chloe walked historic Green River Road toward the set. An extra dressed like Flanders walked by, prepared to die. Chloe’s eyes misted.

  Please, Lord, may this not be the death of Jesse’s dreams.

  War. That’s how this whole project felt. As if the powers of hell determined to defeat love. Yet Love had already won. Chloe smiled.

  “You look cheery for a girl who’s about to die.” The DP, Sandy, came alongside her, weary and wearing a dark expression.

  “I just realized . . . love has already won.”

  “Sure doesn’t look like it to me.”

  “Sandy, I can go out there and die, not in defeat, but victory.” Chloe moved toward the field. “I can give this scene my heart and soul. Even though this is not what any of us wanted, we can end this with excellence and hold our heads up high.”

  “Okay, you’re more tired than you look. What victory? What excellence? This film is a mess.”

  “I told you. Love has already won.” Truth. Revelation. The Spirit washed over her. “I don’t have to be afraid.”

  Sandy made a face. “What love? Who? Chris?”

  “No, Jes—”

  “Jesse?” Sandy sparked to life, slapping her hands together. “I knew, I knew it. I told Jer you were more than friends. You tried to say you were just friends, but who were you kidding?”

  “Sandy, no, not Jesse. Jesus. I was going to say Jesus loves me. His love has already won!” Speaking it out loud helped her make sense of the feelings in her chest. “He’s got this, and if I never act again, He’ll have something just as amazing for me to do.”

  “Jesus? Since when?”

  “Since a crazy night on the rooftop of E.P & L.P.”

  “Sandy, let’s get set,” Jer called. The director of photography ran off with a backward wince at Chloe. Jer called action.

  Chloe leaned against a tree, watching the first element of the battle unfold. Flanders ran toward a redcoat, then jerked backward to the ground, meeting his end with a movie-prop musket.

  Flanders. Dead. Chloe’s eyes filled again. Such a great character. Played by such a great actor. A great man.

  “So, you’re not in love with Jesse?” Chloe turned to see Lori leaning in. “Sorry, I overheard you talking to Sandy. Becky and I had a pool going . . .”

  Chloe winced as a cannon exploded. Jeremiah ran through the smoke with one of the cameras, then whirled around to catch Hamilton’s reaction to Flanders’s death.

  “A pool?” she said. “About me and Jesse?”

  “Yeah . . . Hey, are you crying? Look, it’ll work out. Jesse will calm down and you two, well, you two are so perfect for each other. And you know Jeremiah will work his magic and turn this disaster into a cinematic beauty. Zarzour is an idiot.”

  “Lori, I’m not in love . . .” Well, don’t lie to the girl. “There’s nothing between Jesse and me.” True. “I just feel bad for him. His first film. Hacked to bits.”

  “We feel for both of you. Especially you, dying once again.”

  Chloe returned her attention to the scene. “You know, Lori, I think that’s the point. I need to die and stay dead. Then, only then, can I live.”

  “Girl, you are tired. Talking nonsense. Are you going to quit acting? Don’t. Please. Jeremiah will make it up to you. No one anticipated the Zarzour effect.”

  “I’m not quitting, Lori. Just waking up.”

  On the field, Chris charged a troop of redcoats, sword drawn. He and Ian Rainier moved through the choreographed fight. Then Chris stopped, walking over to Jeremiah, their voices heard across the vastness.

  “. . . not right . . .”

  “If I’m fighting Ian, then what happens to . . .”

  Jer’s voice boomed over Lori’s walkie-talkie. “We need the pages. Apparently we’re just making stuff up out here.”

  “On my way.”

  When she’d gone, Chloe leaned against the tree, hand over her heart, over the mushrooming sensation. Peace. Amazing, otherworldly peace.

  In the movies she may play dead, but in life she had the victory of Christ. Perhaps she should live more like a winner than a loser.

  “Chloe, Chris, let’s go.” Jeremiah charged toward her, reading Lori’s clipboard. He was in beast mode. No more evaluating. No more reshooting. No more rehearsing, discussing, or letting the actors act. Just set the scene and go.

  “Chris, you’re getting shot.”

  “Why don’t we just shoot everyone?” Chris said. “Or, I know, how about the boys in red winning this one?”

  Jeremiah leaned toward his star. “So help me, Painter. I’ll make three months in New Zealand miserable for you if you don’t shut up. I don’t care what Zarzour says.”

  Chris backed up, hands surrendered. “Lighten up, Gonda. Just a bit of humor. Got to admit, we’re killing a lot of main characters.”

  Jeremiah replied with an exhale, shaking his head, muttering to himself, “I know, I know, but it will work. It has to work.” He motioned for Chloe and Chris to take their places, tapping Chris on the shoulder as he walked past. “Sorry, man.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Okay, Chloe,” Jer said, scanning Lori’s clipboard. “After he falls, run over to mourn him, then take over with his rifle.”

  “I’m supposed to use the cannon.”

  “You were until it jammed. Take up his rifle.”

  “It won’t be loaded,” Chris said. “I will have just shot the British captain. She’ll have to reload.”

  Jeremiah swore. “Then use his dagger. Stab someone.”

  “Esther is going to stab someone?” Chloe paused for the stylist to touch up her makeup. “She would never—”

  “Aim for his chest. Just as you’re making contact, Hastings will shoot you. All right, people, let’s go.” Jer bent beside Sandy to view the shot. “The light is perfect. Let’s get this in one take, everyone.”

  “Picture’s up.” The AD, Sharon, stepped from behind the camera. “Sound. Speed.”

  “Action!” Jeremiah’s voice bellowed over the field.

  Anxiety charged Chloe as she watched the scene. The stage felt real. She wasn’t just acting, she was telling someone’s story. Hers.

  The volley of musket fire armed her adrenaline. Chris ran across the field toward a British soldier, firing his weapon. Then he recoiled, taking a bullet, gripping his chest and twisting down to the ground.

  Tears tapped the corner of Chloe’s eyes. We can’t die. Jesse . . .

  “Chloe . . . ” Jeremiah waved her forward. “When you’re ready.”

  For the umpteenth time, Chloe Daschle ran to her silver-screen death. She dropped next to the bleeding Hamilton, kissed his forehead, and whispered her love.

  HAMILTON: Esther, my love, what are you doing here? Your father . . . furious.

  ESTHER (Tearing the hem of her dress for a bandage): I couldn’t sleep after our row. I had to see you, to tell you I’m sorry.

  HAMILTON: I’m to blame. Arrogant and selfish, with no look to your cares.

  ESTHER: You think one little confrontation will rid you of me? Nay, you’re going to marry me one day. We’ll have a dozen bothersome children. You’ll regale our
grandchildren with an exaggerated tale of your battlefield wound.

  HAMILTON (Reaching up, pulling her down to a kiss): I love you.

  ESTHER: And I you.

  Esther’s tears dropped to Hamilton’s bloody, dirty, scarred face. Tears of sorrow. Tears of healing. Tears of hope.

  “Chloe?” Jer’s voice broke her reverie. “The dagger . . .”

  Chris squeezed her hand. “Go get ’em. Die brilliantly.”

  Picking up the prop, she spotted the extra running toward her, a thin cutlass raised over his head.

  She lunged toward him, aiming for his heart. To kill one’s enemy, aim for what gives him life.

  Charging faster, faster, her blood pumping, she launched through the air with an ear-crunching yell, sailing toward the extra with her weapon raised, exploding with all the love, angst, and pain in her heart.

  “Death, you cannot have me!” Just as she was about to strike, the click-slap of a musket resounded.

  Chloe dropped to the ground, spent, drained, empty, waiting for Jeremiah to call cut. Instead, he loomed over her with the camera as she continued to die.

  The director zoomed in, smiling, giving her a thumbs-up, mouthing, “Amazing!”

  On the winter field, where an ancient battle for freedom had been fought and won, Chloe Daschle found her own freedom, dying to her fears, her reputation, her resumé of death scenes, and even her desire for true love.

  When Jeremiah called, “Cut,” she pushed up from the ground smiling, alive, because she was finally and truly free.

  “That’s a wrap, everyone.” Jeremiah drew Chloe into his arms as they stood among the trees, the day just beginning. “I have chills. That was incredible.”

  The actors and crew applauded while Margo from craft services popped bottles of champagne.

  The other actors patted her on the back.

  “Chloe, what an ending.”

  “Take that, Zarzour.”

  “I can’t find that line in the script. Where did you come up with it?”

  Just like that, Chloe’s inspired improvisation breathed a bit of life back into the cast and crew.

  When the champagne had been poured, Jeremiah gathered everyone together, his glass raised. “We were dealt a blow on this one, but you are all my heroes. Thank you for your hard work. And, Chloe, wow, what a way to end it.”

  The cast and crew applauded her again. She smiled, trembling under her costume, shaken by the emotion of the scene and the power of her declaration.

  Death, you cannot have me! She felt healed from a disease she didn’t know possessed her. As if she’d lost thirty pounds of emotional baggage.

  “To Jesse Gates and Bound by Love,” Jeremiah said.

  The cast and crew chorused, “To Jesse and Bound by Love.”

  But the celebration was short-lived. A car awaited Jeremiah and Chris and the crew heading to New Zealand with them. Assistant director Sharon Lee would remain behind to oversee their exit from Chesnee.

  Chloe sank to the ground, her legs unable to hold her any longer. Chris strode toward her with a cocky grin, his buckskin garb stained with fake blood. Dropping to the ground next to her, he roped his arm around her neck and pulled her in for a kiss on her forehead. “Way to kick death in the teeth. Where’d that banshee yell come from?”

  She rested her arms atop her raised knees, the dark-blue wool skirt covering her legs and feet. “I don’t know . . . it just came out.” She peered at Chris. “Was I really okay?”

  “You had me in tears.” He took a small sip of his champagne, then poured out the rest. “I sorta like being alcohol-free. And yes, Chloe, you were really okay. More than okay. Best death scene I’ve ever seen.”

  Jeremiah stooped down in front of her, cupping her face in his hands. “You . . . I’m still playing that moment over and over in my head. I am so proud of you. I know dying was a huge disappointment, but wow! You best get an Oscar nod. I’ll personally campaign for it.”

  “Me too.” Chris popped Jeremiah a high five.

  “Thank you.” Chloe motioned to where she’d flown through the air, shouting down death. “I’m sorry about my spontaneous—”

  “Roar?” Chris said. “Don’t be. You rattled my bones.”

  Jer grinned. “Rattled your bones? Well, that’s one way of putting it.” He motioned to Chris. “We should get going. I have twenty-four hours at home, and I want to see my kids and make love to my wife.”

  “TMI, Jer.” Chris hopped up, reaching down to help Chloe. “Have you heard from Jesse?”

  She shook her head. Her adrenaline had ebbed, but the calm remained. She was strong and alive.

  “I texted him,” Chris said with a sigh. “He never responded.”

  “Chris.” Jeremiah walked backward to the limo waiting on Green River Road, motioning for his star to come along. “Let’s go.”

  “See you back in LA.” Chris kissed her cheek, started away, then returned. “Hey, Chloe, I just want to say . . . you know . . . if I hurt you back in the day, or made you think—”

  “Chris, it’s all good.” Her eyes welled up and spilled over.

  “I’m sorry you knew me during my jerk phase. But you’re one of the best people I know.” He gripped her hands in his. “It may look like you’ve had this subpar career, and God only knows why you kept getting cast as the girl who dies, but you’re alive, Chloe. I see it in you in a way I don’t see in any other people in our biz.”

  “Chris, any day now!”

  He smiled at Chloe. “Sheesh, you’d think the man was anxious to see his wife.” Chris wiggled his eyebrows, and she laughed softly.

  “Thanks, Chris. I mean it.”

  He kissed her forehead. “I love you, Chloe Daschle. Someday you’ll tell me about the light in your eyes.”

  For a long time she stood alone beside the battlefield, watching the crew pack up. She scanned the winter grounds where the real Continental army, their forefathers, had laid in wait for the British. Where Jesse’s ancestor, Hamilton Lightfoot, was wounded and maybe—no one knew—lost the woman he loved.

  “You think we’ll ever know what happened to Hamilton Lightfoot and the mysterious Esther?” Lori handed Chloe a Diet Coke.

  “No.” Chloe popped the top of the cold can. And she may never know what happened to Jesse Gates. As light as she felt inside, she had a sinking sensation about him. “Hey, Lori, do you think unrequited love just dies? Like, goes away? Or does it try to find a home somewhere else, drifting through time until—”

  “It dies. Trust me. If two lovers weren’t meant to be, their love has to die. Why would there be any remaining?”

  “I guess.”

  The unit manger made a face. “Pffft, but hey, don’t listen to me. I can’t figure out my own love life, let alone the essence of love and all its paths. Do you believe in true love?”

  “Since I was born,” Chloe said.

  “That’s a long time. You think you’ll ever find it?”

  Chloe nodded. “Yeah, I think I already have.”

  That day she met Smitty outside Expression58 and the women prayed for her. The day she went to the Cross. From there? Her possibilities were endless.

  ESTHER

  March

  The spring morning bore the bone-chilling kiss of winter. The sun, a golden globe resting in the blue sky, shed no warmth on Slathersby Hill.

  Worse, there was no warmth in Father, nor his library, despite the blaze in the fireplace.

  Dressed in her traveling suit, Esther paced beside the window, watching as Isaac and Kitch tied her trunks to the top of the carriage, her hands pressed together, her thoughts in turmoil.

  With an exhale. she whirled toward Father for one final argument.

  “You cannot send me away.”

  A month ago, Father announced his intention to send her to England. Idle threats in her estimation. But the tide of the war had turned, and the Americans were winning.

  Correspondence had been coming in large piles from Lord Wha
tham, and Father spent long days at his desk, muttering to himself. Words like capital and accounting. Then he’d call Isaac, and together they’d ride into town, inspecting Lord Whatham’s interests there. In the evening, men knocked on the door, demanding audience with Father, disputing raised rents and increased prices.

  “Father? Do you hear me? I will, I must, determine my own path.”

  He did not look up but dipped his quill in the ink bottle. “Since the rebels have gained more victories, I fear for your safety. Who knows what the rabble will do with an ounce of confidence. No, you must be away.”

  “Yet you have no qualms about sending me out upon a dangerous, winter sea? Might I add, where Continental ships sail.”

  “They will not fire upon a passenger packet.” Father stood, settled papers in a leather case, and made his way from the library.

  She chased after him. “How do you know? Did they write? Send you a promise?”

  “Esther, listen to me.” At the door, Father held up the case he carried. “Deliver this to Mr. Wallace Hobart the moment you’re settled at Grosvenor. He’s a barrister working for Lord Whatham. I’ve sent word of your journey to his office, and he’ll be expecting you.”

  “Wallace Hobart? Lord Berksham’s son?”

  Father handed the case to Isaac, who carried it out the carriage. “Yes, poor lad, the youngest of three boys. No title or land for him to inherit. Perhaps some money. He’s a clever one, I hear. Earned brilliant marks at Cambridge. Has a keen eye for finances. Lord Whatham hired him as his barrister, to oversee—”

  “His accounts and investments?”

  Father’s cheeks paled. “Indeed.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “I will miss you, my dear, darling daughter, but I am doing what is best for you. I know I am in the right.”

  “I fear I must disagree with you, Father. I believe I know what is right for me.”

  In a few moments she was to ride to Charles Town with Isaac and Sassy, board a private packet, Glorious, and sail to London.

  “I am older and wiser.”

  “What if I refuse to board the ship?” she said. “What if I return to Ninety Six and lodge with one of my friends?”

  “Esther, I do not have the fortitude to go round with you. Please say your good-byes and climb into the carriage. Do you have all of your possessions?”