The Love Letter

by Rachel Hauck

  “Of course.” She released the girl’s hand. “Go with Papa. I’ll be along.”

  Her husband paused, then with a nod, took his girl’s hand and departed the sanctuary, stepping outside into the late-afternoon sun.

  “What is it?” Esther said. “Your wife is lovely. I can tell she adores you.” She lightly touched his arm, then withdrew, anchoring her hand by her side. “As she should.”

  “She is my delight, my gift,” Hamilton said. “And . . . Wallace . . . I sense a solid kindness in him.”

  “Yes, yes, you’ve described him perfectly. Solid and kind.”

  “Then we have both done well.” Hamilton offered a curt bow.

  “We have, yes.”

  He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder to where Lydia waited, giving her a reassuring smile.

  “You should go. Your wife awaits, as does my husband. I’m sure the children have reached the end of their tether.” She turned to go.

  “Wait, Esther, a final word?” Hamilton moved closer, the echo of his crutch so loud and reverberating in the pitched nave. “Can we sit a moment? I’ll be standing long enough later this evening.”

  Esther moved to the nearest pew, and he slid in beside her. “I’ve imagined this day so many times,” he said. “Now that it’s here I don’t know what to say.”

  “Whatever is on your heart. We were always honest with each other.”

  “Were we?” He angled forward, leaning on his crutch, being for a moment the man he was before he’d lost his leg, before the Lord beckoned, “Come, follow Me.”

  “Our youth may have deceived us somewhat.”

  “I heard you the day you came to see me. At Quill Farm. The morning your father sent you away.”

  “When I stormed into your room, demanding you speak to me?” Esther faced forward, folded her hands on her lap. “I feel rather foolish about it, looking back.”

  “As do I. My pride, my kinship with self-pity, prevented me from responding. The moment you departed, I was filled with regret. Aunt Mary helped me hitch Tilly to the cart, and I pursued you.”

  She pressed her hand to her heart. “I had no idea, Hamilton. What happened?”

  “Tilly and I rode hard in the little cart, but the treachery of the road bested me.”

  “I remember. I bounced across the carriage seat as if a rag doll. Though I was too racked with despair to care.”

  “There was a storm—”

  “Lightning slithering across the sky,” she said.

  “Thunder rumbled louder than any cannon fire.”

  “Our horses were spooked. Isaac exerted every ounce of strength to keep us on the road.”

  “At one roaring thunderclap, Tilly reared and tipped the cart.” After nine years, he still recalled the events in detail.

  “Isaac pushed on to the next town, where we lodged for the night before we drowned in the deluge.”

  “The cart tossed me to the ground. I lay in the tall grass being baptized by heaven’s tears until Moses found me.” He cleared his throat. Did he tell her the rest? Of the Man? No, she would hear his story tonight.

  “When Father died, I knew I’d never return to Slathersby Hill or South Carolina.”

  “You wouldn’t have wanted to marry me as I was, Esther.”

  “I dare say, you’d not have wanted to marry me. I was so—”

  “Bitter.”

  The word traveled from their tongues in unison.

  Esther smiled, pressing her hand on his. “The Lord has been good to both of us.”

  “A truth I cannot deny.” He brought her gloved hand to his lips. “We shall always be friends.”

  Esther’s hand broke free of his, and she touched her fingers to his clean jaw and the tip of the ragged scar. “We shall always be friends. Our love, however long ago, was not wasted.”

  “My dear Esther, when love is given and received, at any level or along any course, it is never wasted. Certainly not any of my affection for you.”

  She opened her reticule and retrieved a small note. “Your letter,” she said. “From the battlefield.”

  He reached for it, unfolding the thick stock, the pencil markings smudged from touch and time. “I’d thought it lost. Aunt Mary confessed she burned the letter you left for me at the surgeon’s. She feared you’d grow tired of me and leave, breaking my heart beyond what I could bear.”

  “But that was for us to decide.”

  “Those were empty, frightening days.”

  “Even when I stood in your room and demanded your attention—”

  “I thought it best for you to be free of me. Then Aunt Mary confessed her fears and actions, and that’s why I came after you.” Time, the beauty of grace, allowed this confession. A time to heal. He had Lydia to thank for teaching him to express his heart well. Hamilton folded the page, offering it back to Esther. “How could we have known the path the Lord had for us?”

  She did not reach to take the letter, so he set it on the pew between them. “Why did you not write to me then? Right after I departed?”

  “After I landed in the grass and lay there, the rain soaking me to the bone, I realized I could not saddle you with my condition. Not my leg, but my anger and bitterness. I needed to know the love of my Savior before I could love myself. Before I could love you.”

  Her eyes were full and glistening when she looked at him. “I didn’t open your letter for some months after I returned to London. I couldn’t bear to read what you wrote. If of love, then I was thousands of miles from your arms. If of detachment, then I’d be bereft of hope. Then Father died, and I buried my attachments to South Carolina with him.”

  “Aunt Mary and I attended his funeral. In doing so we bid good-bye to the grudge, to our friend, and in my heart, to you.” Hamilton ran his hand over his leg and the blunt end. Lydia was right. He’d overextended.

  “Do you have regrets, Hamilton?” Esther said.

  “To live in faith is to live without regret.” He leveled his gaze at her, the light from the stained glass window haloing her in gold and blue. “Do you?”

  “No.” She peered away from him. “I do not see the point in worrying over matters beyond my control. The Lord has been gracious to me.” She pointed toward Lydia. “She seems most anxious.”

  “She worries I’ll tire myself. Overextend my leg. She tends to me with more diligence than a surgeon.” He rose. “I should rest before tonight.” The letter remained on the pew. “The letter is yours, Esther. Do with it as you see fit.”

  She cupped it in her hand, returning it to her reticule.

  “Good-bye, Esther,” he said.

  She exited the pew into the aisle. “Good-bye, Hamilton. Godspeed.”

  “And to you, Esther. Always to you.”

  29

  JESSE

  May

  One month to settle in, adjust, find an apartment, decorate his office. Another to form a routine, develop disciplines. A third to pretend it felt like home.

  He rose at four o’clock five days a week and drove to the gym in predawn darkness. He worked out to podcasts on the latest technology.

  At six, he ate breakfast. By six thirty he was seated at his desk, reading, working, rewiring the cords of his existence from sunny LA to dreary Boston. From actor and screenwriter to engineer and software designer.

  At eight thirty, he’d pour his first cup of coffee and stop by his brother’s office for an informal chat about DiamondBros projects and personnel.

  On Wednesdays, Dan, Jesse, and VP Paul golfed together. Sundays, he dined with his parents.

  He did not decorate his apartment or office. No art or photos. The creative man who’d written a screenplay made into a movie by the great Jeremiah Gonda was dead. If he’d ever lived at all. And the engineer wearing a starched white button-down with dark-blue summer slacks had yet to figure out if he preferred eclectic modern or contemporary feng shui. Whatever that meant.

  Dan sent a decorator to his apartment as a surprise one Saturday. D
id not go well.

  Jesse shoved back from his computer and the design spec open on his screen. He refilled his coffee cup and stared out the window at the busy Boston street. A splash of May rain battered the glass, and he lost his reflection in the clouds.

  Chloe. She crossed his mind a thousand times a week, and he had yet to figure a way to purge her from it. An algorithm? Write some code, apply a few electrodes to his heart, and run a zapping program worthy of a sci-fi film?

  But he didn’t want to forget. The pain of missing her made him feel alive. Even forced him to finally close all doors leading to Loxley.

  Just this week he’d reached out to her parents. To his surprise, they invited him for coffee. Tonight. Anxiety twisted his gut. Whatever they dished out, he’d take it, because he deserved it.

  Meanwhile, Jeremiah e-mailed updates on Bound by Love editing. He worked long distance with his team to keep the project on schedule. He filmed Sea Dragon during the day and reviewed cuts of Bound at night.

  It’s good, Jesse. Really good.

  Gonda had also leveraged a release date from Zarzour by threatening to hold back the final scenes of Dragon. Bound by Love would premier in January.

  Great way to kick off the new year!

  Had Jesse been rash in leaving Hollywood? In the middle of the mess, leaving felt right. Dan was eager to have him back at DiamondBros, and Jesse’s return was seamless. He flicked off the first pass of regret. No use looking back now.

  But if being here was right, why did he feel . . . empty? Time. That’s all. He just needed more time.

  A light rap sounded on his door, and Dan peeked in. “You coming? The TimeQuest meeting is in five. Conference room A.”

  Right. The meeting. He was still adjusting to the demands of the almighty calendar. “On my way.”

  Jesse set down his coffee and reached for his iPad. Dan crossed to Jesse’s desk, letting the door close behind him.

  “Mom said you’re having coffee with the Brants tonight?”

  “Yeah, I called them last week.” Jesse came around his desk, but his brother stopped him, hand to his chest.

  “Are you sure you want to see them? Last time they—”

  “I have to try.”

  “What do you hope to accomplish?”

  “Nothing.” Everything. “Let’s go.”

  Dan refused to let Jesse pass. “They’ll mess with you. Get you upset again. I can’t have you running off to LA this time, Jess.”

  “Give me a break, Dan.” Jesse pushed past him, past the fact his big brother’s concern might be rooted in truth. “Come on, let’s get to this.”

  The long shadows of sunset fell on the row houses of the old Boston neighborhood of Charlestown. A few minutes before seven, Jesse turned down the street given to him by Mrs. Brant. They’d moved from the suburban residence where they raised Loxley to an up-and-coming historical neighborhood.

  Reading the house numbers, he parked his truck along the curb and cut the engine, ignoring every urge to drive on.

  He needed to be here. He wanted to face them. LA, for all its pretentiousness, had been the perfect hiding place.

  Mrs. Brant, smiling and wearing an apron tied about her waist, opened the door when he was still on the sidewalk. She looked more like a fifties housewife than an executive director for a charity organization.

  “It’s been too long.” She embraced Jesse as he entered. “You look well. How long has it been? David, Jesse is here.”

  “Eight years.” Apples baking in cinnamon perfumed the house.

  David Brant came from a back room, hand outstretched. “Jesse, good to see you.”

  “You too, sir.” Jesse’s hand clapped into the police captain’s broad mitt with a sense of relief.

  If they were still angry with him, this was an Oscar-winning performance.

  “How do you like this place? Barbara has been wanting to move to this neighborhood forever. We found this house already renovated and couldn’t pass it up.”

  “It’s nice. I remember you talking about moving here one day.” Jesse followed Mr. Brant toward the kitchen, trying to be at ease, but feeling more like an interloper.

  “Death has a way of putting life in order,” Mrs. Brant said, standing in the stainless steel and white-tile kitchen, cutting large slices of apple pie. “Do you like your pie á la mode?”

  “S-sure. Thank you.” He didn’t need to watch his diet now that he was no longer in Hollywood. Not that he ever watched his food intake that much.

  “Have a seat, Jesse.” Mr. Brant motioned to the table where a fork rested on a cream, linen napkin and a china cup waited for coffee.

  “Cream with your coffee?” Mr. Brant asked.

  Jesse nodded, a burning beginning in his chest. Why were they being so nice? Kind? Mentioning Loxley’s death without a flicker of ire?

  Mr. Brant set a matching china creamer on the table and filled Jesse’s cup. “We heard you were back from LA,” he said. “Don’t tell me you missed our winters.”

  “I needed to take . . . a different . . . My life . . . my path . . . changed.”

  Mrs. Brant set a pie plate in front of him. “Did you miss engineering? I know Loxley would’ve never given up—”

  Jesse shoved away from the table and fired to his feet. “Death . . . Loxley . . . you talk as if it’s all okay. What happened. As if she didn’t drown. As if I weren’t responsible. I’m sorry, but . . . I have to say this. I expected you to be cold and rude and bawl me out. I sent you ten thousand dollars for your scholarship fund, and you sent it back.” His skin prickled hot under his T-shirt despite the cool breeze blowing through the open window. “There aren’t even any pictures of her on the wall.”

  Mr. Brant touched his shoulder. “Follow me.”

  He led Jesse to a small room off the kitchen, perhaps once a servant’s quarters, and clicked on a lamp.

  “We call this our Loxley room.” The room, furnished as a den, contained one wall of photographs and awards. “When we sold our house to move here, we knew we had to move on, but didn’t want to forget our girl. So we set this aside for us, for family and friends. We can come here any time we want. But out there”—he pointed toward the kitchen—“we can live the life we’ve been given.”

  “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t know.” Jesse stepped toward a familiar image. One of him with Loxley and the Brants at Martha’s Vineyard when they’d started dating.

  “Why did you frame this one? I don’t deserve to be on this wall.”

  Mr. Brant motioned for Jesse to sit in an oversized, leather chair as he took the one adjacent.

  “For a long time we blamed you, because grief must have a target. We couldn’t blame our girl, so we dumped our anger, frustration, hurt on you.”

  “As I deserved.”

  “But did it make us feel better? Relieve any of our pain? No. It only made us hard and bitter. One day I happened by the department’s chaplain. A good man. Tony George is his name. I retired from the force, you know.”

  “I did not.”

  “Anyway, he said, ‘David, how are you doing?’ I tell you, I could’ve punched through a brick wall with everything broiling inside. Barbara and I were not doing well. We both worked too much. Hardly spoke to one another when we were home.”

  Jesse listened. It’s what he came to do.

  Mrs. Brant set two plates on the center table. “Let’s have our pie in here. I’ll be back with the coffee.” She exchanged a smile and a knowing glance with her husband.

  Jesse hesitated, unsure there was room for pie amid the tension in his gut, no matter how tempting the aroma. But when Mr. Brant took up his, Jesse followed.

  “Where was I?” he said.

  “Punching a brick wall.”

  The man grinned, cutting a bite from the tip of his slice. “Tony just asked if he could pray for me. Fat lot of good it would do, but I agreed. Nothing else seemed to work. When he was done, I felt peace for the first time in years. Even since before Loxley
died.”

  Jesse stabbed at his pie and the melting ice cream. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for my part in her death.” He set down the plate and stood, his nerves buzzing. “I pretended to propose to her. I mocked her. She thought we were in love, but I already knew I didn’t feel the same. Instead of being honest, I made fun of what she wanted, of how she felt, of who she thought we were.”

  Mr. Brant set down his plate and leaned forward, hands folded. “And she walked off?”

  “I tried to follow her, but she told me to leave her alone.” Jesse paced along the wall where Loxley smiled at him from a different world.

  “Sounds like our girl.”

  “I guess she got in the water. I don’t know. When she didn’t come back, we looked for her.” The words spilled out of him. A story eight years in the waiting.

  Mrs. Brant entered with the coffee and her own pie plate. She sat on the love seat next to her husband. “Did you tell him?”

  “Not yet. He’s filling me in on the details of that night.”

  “I see.” She sipped her coffee, so calm, so in control of her emotions, while he felt like a runaway train. “You should tell him. He’s about to jump out of his skin.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Loxley called us that night. We knew you two had had a fight and that she was walking the beach alone.”

  Jesse returned to his chair.

  “We tried to get her to calm down,” Mr. Brant said with a glance toward his wife. “I told her to take a swim. Cool off.”

  “W-what? You told her to take a swim? And you never said anything?”

  “We were too hurt. Too angry. Why blame ourselves when we could blame you?”

  “I am not innocent here by a long stretch, but—”

  “Did you know there was a riptide?”

  “There wasn’t one on our part of the beach,” Jesse said. “At least not that I can remember.”

  That night was a blur of emotions, of a long-angled sunset, of searching through the night and calling the police. Then, at last, the hope of the dawn.

  “Jesse,” Mrs. Brant said, “we don’t blame you. We forgive you of any part you played. We’ve spent the past eight years learning how to forgive ourselves.” She pointed to the pictures. “We couldn’t look at these for a long time. Now we love our Loxley room.”