by Rachel Hauck
“What of the man? The one who bid you, ‘Follow Me’?”
“He spoke to me twice. The first time when Father came for me at the surgeon’s. And again when Father forced me from Slathersby.”
“What was Hamilton’s wound?”
“A saber cut, which cost him his left leg.”
Wallace sobered. He’d been at Oxford during the war. By the time he was ready to enlist, the revolution had ended. “If he is the man you say, I’m sure he did not want to burden you with his affliction. I would not.”
“So love must only be given when there is no conflict or hardship?”
“To a proud man, one without attachment, yes.” He held up the flyer. “Shall we go? Hear what he has to say? We could lodge with the Dinsmores. Charles has been inviting us for some time. He fought in the war, did he not? He’s been dying to reminisce about South Carolina with you.”
Charles Dinsmore had served in the South Carolina militia under Andrew Pickens. He often drew Esther away to swap stories about their childhood home.
“You would take me to see him?”
“Do you not want to go?”
“I do, but not if it causes any stress between us.”
“I feel you have something to say to him. I pray it is merely to wish him well, but—”
“Yes, Wallace, only to wish him well.” Esther brightened as a weight she’d not known existed lifted. “But may I be clear, Wallace? While I loved Hamilton, yes to distraction, I did not choose you as second. I chose you because the One who beckoned me to follow Him also chose you. For me.”
Without a word, Wallace gathered her in his arms and kissed her with fervor and passion.
28
CHLOE
She’d wrestled with the letter for weeks. Why bother? Jesse clearly didn’t want to speak to her. He couldn’t be bothered to return a text.
He was hiding. Even his Instagram and Twitter accounts were silent.
What did she hope to gain by writing him an old-fashioned letter? On top of that, she didn’t know exactly where he lived in Boston. Addressing the envelope to Jesse Gates, Boston, would do her no good.
This was typical Chloe Daschle. Put her heart out there, after swearing she would not, then crashing and burning.
Please like me. I’m not the chubby freckle-face girl. Please like me. I’m not the crazy one in the video. Please like me.
But unlike she had in the past, she didn’t crumble. She didn’t sink into despair. She determined to reach out one last time.
Chloe gathered the stationery she’d purchased specifically for this letter and read her opening line.
Dear Jesse, How’s it going?
Stupid. She wadded up the top page, tossed it toward the lanai wastebasket, and missed.
She rested her head on the sofa cushion and closed her eyes. This angst was not worth it. She’d only known him for a few months, right?
But oh, something in her heart told her Jesse Gates was a mine of gold.
“Jesus, I think I love this boy. What do I do?”
“Chloeeee, my lady, what’s up?”
She bolted upright as Smitty dropped down in the chair across from her, stretching his short legs onto the coffee table.
“Smitty.” She glanced behind her. The gates were closed and locked, she knew because the gardener had told her. Mom and Dad were out of town, so security was heightened. The French doors were open to the kitchen, but she was facing them, so he couldn’t have entered that way.
“How’d you get in?”
“Over there. Somewhere.” He pointed toward the gate, sort of, then to the north corner and around to the lanai. “So, have you heard from Jesse?”
“No.” She sighed. “How’d you get in? The gates are locked.”
“I saw the gardener.” Smitty set his feet down and angled toward her. “Did you write to him?”
She pointed to the wadded stationery.
Smitty grinned. “Not going so well?”
Chloe set the stationery aside, standing, pacing. “I don’t even know why I’m trying. In South Carolina I hinted that I wanted something more with him, but he didn’t bite. Then he walked off the set and I can’t stop thinking about him. Never mind I don’t even have his actual address.”
“Try his brother’s company, DiamondBros.” Smitty pulled an apple from his white, linen jacket. The sleeves were rolled up Miami Vice style. “What’s God saying?”
“He’s not speaking.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.” She sighed, sitting with a harrumph. “I’m not sure I can tell if He’s speaking. There’s soda, water, beer in the fridge if you want something to drink.”
“Don’t overthink it.” Smitty jerked open the fridge and took out a cold can of sparkling water. “Get out of your head and into your spirit.” He slapped his belly. “You’re too afraid.”
“Can you blame me? You know my past.”
“Trust yourself. Your faith. Trust Him.” Smitty crunched into his apple. “I’ve got to go.” He pointed at the wadded letter. “Write from your heart. Send it. What’s the worst that can happen?”
“Never hearing from him again.”
The short, dark man made a face as he stepped off the lanai and started across the lawn. “And how much are you hearing from him now?” He disappeared around the side of the house and was gone.
Chloe wadded up a piece of stationery and tossed it in his direction.
Smitty had a point. And what was the business of “death, you cannot have me” if she let herself be chained to her fears? Where was her victory?
Taking up the stationery, Chloe set pen to paper.
Dear Jesse,
I’m not really sure where to begin. How are you? Where are you? Why did you leave? I miss you and our weird relationship. Can I say that?
I never had a chance to thank you for defending me to Zarzour. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
I’ve tried to call and text, but you never respond. Dad suggested writing an old-fashioned letter since a letter started our relationship. Ha! Since I don’t have your address, Smitty suggested I write to you at DiamondBros.
When we met at Violet and Dylan’s wedding, I knew there was something special about you. As if God intended our paths to cross. But I was hesitant, scared. Then you kissed me, and I never wanted you to stop. Yeah, that’s right. I never wanted you to stop. I wanted to be able to kiss you any time I wanted. Echoes of Sweet Home Alabama, anyone?
Since you walked off the set, I’ve missed you. I can’t stop thinking about you. I want to be more than friends, Jesse. I think I love you.
Dad teases me about my quest for a real happily ever after, but I do not have fairy-tale dreams of a perfect love that never fails or doesn’t struggle. I get real life. I love real life. That’s what I want with you. Love and life. In all of its awkwardness, selfishness, giving and taking, growing and changing.
The image of marriage I have in my head? For some reason, you’ve set up house in that dream, and I can’t imagine any of it without you.
I have no idea if you’ll ever read this. Which is why I’m bearing my raw, naked heart. But if you do read this, please let me know. Even if the answer is, “Chloe, move on.” I promise not to go nutso on you.
But think, pray, about what I’m saying. Can you forgive your past and move on with me?
Affectionately yours,
Chloe
HAMILTON
Here, let me help you.” His wife of five years, now pregnant with their first child, eased the prosthetic from his leg. “Your skin is raw, dear. Let me get my liniment.”
“What would I do without you, Lydia?”
“Rub on your own liniment?” She sparkled when she smiled, her brown eyes flecked with gold light. Once again, she stole another piece of his heart.
“I suppose I should learn your technique. Once our child arrives you’ll be too busy to bother with me.”
“You will always be my first duty. Our ch
ildren will thank me for it.” She rose up on her knees and kissed him without shame. Hamilton breathed in her beauty.
“I will thank you for it.” He returned her kiss, gratitude sweeping his heart.
She was God-sent. A rare jewel. And she was his. Though how he’d won her heart when he walked in his darkest days remained a mystery.
The daughter of the preacher who’d come to Ninety Six to take Uncle Laurence’s post was made of iron.
Lydia removed a bottle from the leather case she carried with her wherever they went, full of remedies and rubbing oils, as well as her much-read Bible.
“What has God given you for tonight?” she asked.
“My usual. Do I have another string on my instrument besides ‘Come, follow Me’?” He’d spend a lifetime studying the depths and riches of those three little words.
“Your leg is swollen and bruised. You’ve been standing too much.” Lydia peered up at him. “It’s time to go home.”
“This is our last stop.”
They’d been bound for Quill Farm and South Carolina when a last-minute invitation came from a First Presbyterian parishioner, Charles Dinsmore, a fellow South Carolinian and war veteran. Hamilton felt bound by love to yield to the man’s request and traveled north to New York.
“Mr. Lightfoot.” A fresh-faced young man peeked around the door. “There’s someone to see you.”
“Can you ask them to wait?” Lydia capped the liniment bottle and reached for a balm made of crushed roses and lavender. “Mr. Lightfoot needs his rest before preaching.”
“Begging pardon, my dear.” Hamilton sat forward. “It might be someone who needs ministering.” To the young man: “Is it a soul in need of assistance? Or perhaps the reverend? Ah, of course, it might be Charles Dinsmore.”
“They say they are the Hobart family, sir.”
He exchanged a glance with Lydia, who squeezed his hand and spoke to the young man. “Tell them we’ll be right out.”
“Do you know the Hobarts?” Lydia smoothed the warm oil over his half leg.
“I do not. Perhaps they’ve come for some prayer. Or aid.” When his wife finished, Hamilton stood, now an expert at balancing on one leg. Lydia retrieved the crutch from her wonder bag and quickly assembled the pieces.
“Go on,” she said. “I must wash my hands.”
Hamilton turned to go, then reached back, bringing his wife to him for a kiss. “Thank you.”
She pressed her hand to his face. “Any time, my dear.”
He exited the small room and made his way down the narrow corridor, his crutch clacking against the stone floor. The clap of his foot in rhythm had become the music of his life.
The young man waited by yet another door. “They’re in the sanctuary, sir.”
Hamilton nodded his thanks and peered into the large, square room. Sunlight fell through the colorful, stained glass windows and glided across the polished pews.
A family of no small means, judging by their attire, waited on the front row. A gentleman and his wife, along with two young children.
“May I help you?” he said as he crossed the stone floor, wondering how he might minister to them.
The woman stood, gripping the handle of her reticule. Hamilton stopped, his crutch nearly slipping out from under him.
“Esther.”
“Hello, Hamilton.” Her voice wavered, and her eyes glistened as she walked toward him, hand outstretched. “It’s good to see you.”
“Esther, dear Esther.” He gripped her hand. “W-whatever are you doing here?”
“Why, we came to see you, of course.” Her smile, so much the same but refined with age, captured her beauty. “You look well. Content and happy.”
“As do you. More beautiful than ever.”
For a moment he was a boy again, carefree and whole, with Esther a permanent part of his days.
“A-hem.”
Esther turned. “Wallace, so sorry. Hamilton, may I introduce my husband, Mr. Wallace Hobart, Viscount of Berksham, and our children, Michael and Catherine. Say hello to Mummy’s friend, Mr. Lightfoot.”
The husband was a fine man with a confident deportment. Good-looking and well formed. The boy bowed while the little girl curtseyed, and with one refined voice they inquired, “How do you do?”
A lump welled in his throat. These were Esther’s children. The girl looked like her. “I do very well, thank you. And you? Are you well?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What happened to your leg?” Well, not only did the girl look like her mama, but she was as sweet and bold.
“Catherine.” Esther pressed her hand onto her daughter’s shoulder. “It’s not polite to—”
“I don’t mind,” Hamilton said. “I lost it during the war.”
“How did you lose your leg?” She furrowed her brow.
He laughed, taking a seat on the pew. “In a battle. A sword came down and . . .” He glanced up Esther. “It was an accident.”
“Did it hurt?” This from the boy.
“I’m blessed not to remember much.”
“You must be very brave,” the child said. “Papa says if we’re brave and don’t cry when we get hurt, we can have a sweet treat.”
“That’s right. You must always be brave.”
“Children.” Wallace took each one by the hand. “Come with me. Leave Mama to speak with her friend.” His accent was one of an aristocrat. Of one worthy of Esther.
Esther whispered something to him. He nodded, then departed with the children. She joined Hamilton on the pew. “My dear friend, are you well?”
“Very.”
“Happy?”
“Most.”
She sighed. “I’m very glad.”
“What of you? Happy?”
“Most.”
“How did you know I was here? Last I heard you were in England.”
“I received a circular with the morning papers. ‘Come hear war hero Hamilton Lightfoot.’”
He shook his head. “Hyperbole to arouse interest. So, do you live in New York?”
“We moved here four years ago. Wallace always dreamed of owning a farm in America. We bought land on the Hudson. He has cousins here who started a growing venture, so he joined them.” Esther removed a flyer from her bag. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw your name. Surely it was not my—rather, the same Hamilton Lightfoot. I had no idea you’d become a preacher.”
“It was redemption a long time in the making.” He examined the pamphlet. “This is the work of Dinsmore, no doubt.”
“Dinsmore? Charles Dinsmore? You know him?”
“We were at King’s Mountain and Cowpens together.”
“But of course,” Esther said. “He spoke of the war, but I never concluded—”
“You know him as well?” Hamilton said.
“Yes, he’s well acquainted with my . . . husband. They’ve formed a gentlemen’s club together. You should join them.”
“We leave tomorrow,” Hamilton said. “My wife is with child and—”
A door opened and closed, footsteps resounded on the stone floor. Lydia. Hamilton rose to greet her.
“Lydia.” He offered his arm. “May I introduce my friend, Esther Longfellow—”
“’Tis Hobart now.”
“Mrs. Esther Hobart.”
“How do you do?” Lydia’s hand rested on her round belly. “I didn’t know you knew anyone in Manhattan, love.”
“We’re old friends. From South Carolina.”
Lydia stepped a little closer to him. He’d have some explaining to do later. While she knew of his exploits in the war, he’d never spoken to her of Esther, choosing to leave his failure with her behind.
“We have a farm.” Esther motioned to the west. “Well, my husband is trying to have a farm. So far we’ve found success.”
“I wish you all the luck.” Lydia slipped her arm through Hamilton’s.
“Esther and I grew up together in South Carolina. Before the war.”
&
nbsp; “He rarely speaks of the war or his life before,” Lydia said. “Pardon my ignorance.”
“You are with child,” Esther said. “When is your time?”
“In three months. We’re going home to prepare.”
Hamilton looked at Esther. “Did you know your father returned Quill to us right before he died.”
“No, I’d not heard,” Esther said. “But I’m very glad. Father’s last days were turbulent, but he’s at peace now.”
From the back, the nave doors eased open and small footsteps echoed up the center aisle. “Mama?” The girl clung to her mother’s skirt. “I’m hungry.”
“I’m sorry, my dear,” Esther’s husband said. “We’d gotten no farther than a block down than the children reminded me of their empty bellies.” The man tipped his hat toward Lydia.
“Mr. Hobart, may I introduce my wife, Mrs. Lydia Lightfoot.”
“How do you do?” he said, bowing to her.
“My, aren’t your children adorable?” Lydia saw life in everything and everyone.
“Shall we dine before the meeting?” Wallace turned to Hamilton. “Please, join us. Our treat.”
“Thank you, but no. I should be getting ready for the service.”
“Indeed, he should.” Lydia stepped forward. “Will you return for the meeting? His testimony is so powerful.”
“We are eager to hear your sermon, Reverend Lightfoot.” Hobart offered his hand.
Esther reached for her daughter’s hand. “I must learn what has happened to my old friend and how he came to follow the Lord.”
“Until then.” Wallace took hold of the boy and started down the center aisle, Esther by his side.
For a moment, Hamilton watched, letting her go, then released himself from Lydia. “Pardon me, my dear.” With his crutch cracking against the stone, he called to Esther, “May I have a word?”