by Rachel Hauck
“Wow, I don’t know what to say.” Jesse sat back, and for the first time in eight years, he felt relief. “I went to LA to move on and forget. I had a small studio apartment, and I went on one audition after another. I didn’t party or socialize. I had one friend, Smitty, from an acting class. I didn’t date. Didn’t go to the beach for years. Then my screenplay went into production, and I rented a place on the beach. Finally, the past was behind me, you know.” The Brants listened with patient expressions. “And I met someone. Chloe Daschle. An actress. We clicked the moment we met. Like she—”
“Was someone you could love?” Mrs. Brant offered no sarcasm with her observation.
“Yeah, maybe,” Jesse said.
“Loxley would’ve loved this, Jesse. You writing screenplays, acting in movies,” Mrs. Brant said.
“Barb, you know she’d tell him to get back to engineering. He’s so talented.”
Jesse eyed his hosts. “I still don’t understand how you can talk about her as if . . . as if . . . it’s okay she’s dead? As if I played no part in it all?”
Mr. Brant set down his pie plate and reached for a thick book on the table by his chair. “Sit, Jesse. Let me tell you about a man named Jesus.”
CHLOE
Friday night she closed the script for Faith Freeman, Stargazer. Unbelievable. Aaron Heinley’s screenplay knocked it out of the park.
What an amazing role. Not only to play a character who lived, but one who flew through space conquering some serious evil lords.
Faith Freeman was real, confident, and flawed. This was going to be fun. Chloe could learn a lesson or two from this fictional woman. Like how to step out in faith and believe. How to let go of past mistakes and live for today.
She retrieved a Diet Coke from the fridge and peered out the living room window, staring down on the pool, the front of the guesthouse, the backyard still full of the evening sun.
Nothing seemed right without Jesse. Not even her childhood home. Six weeks had passed since she’d written him. Either he didn’t get her letter, or he was ignoring it. But a quick response would’ve been nice.
Chloe returned to her chair, draping her legs over the side, sipping her drink, staring at the ceiling.
She understood his silence. At least she’d tried. His issues with Loxley were unresolved, and he had to figure out how to heal. Maybe he would find closure in Boston.
Yet she hated that he was two thousand miles away. That he’d given up on writing and acting. He was brilliant at both.
Reaching for her phone, she checked the time. Dad called earlier and asked her to meet him in his office at seven.
Twenty-nine going on thirty, and her big Friday night was hanging out in her dad’s office. But that was fine with Chloe. Home was a great place to hang. And the timing was perfect. She wanted Dad’s honest opinion about Claude and the Stargazer series. About playing Faith Freeman.
An energetic hammering rattled her door. “Chloeeee!”
“Kate?” Chloe set down her drink and answered the door.
“We’re engaged!” Kate nearly knocked Chloe down with her embrace, spinning her around, then blinding her with a spectacular diamond. “Can you believe it? Engaged. Rob and I!” She floated around the apartment in a low-cut, little black dress and strappy heels.
“Engaged? Congratulations.” Chloe swallowed, surprised more than jealous. Okay, a little jealous. Kate had never dreamed of marriage the way Chloe did. “I’m stunned. H-how did this happen? I-I thought you didn’t care about marriage. You were happy just living together.”
“I didn’t . . . until he asked.” Kate swooned against the couch pillows and kicked one slender leg into the air. “All those years of you preaching the glorious virtues of marriage must have sunk in without me realizing.” She reached for Chloe’s hand and pulled her down to the couch. “Thank you.”
“Y-you’re welcome.” Chloe perched on the edge of the cushion. “At least one of the Daschle girls will have a happily ever after. Have you told Mom and Dad?”
“They already knew. Can you believe it? Rob asked Dad for my hand.” She made a face, fanning herself with her hands. “I’m so happy.” She crossed fingers. “Let’s just hope it’s for ever after.” Kate squeezed Chloe in a hug. “You, of course, will be my maid of honor.”
“Of course . . . you didn’t even have to ask.”
It seemed at times the luck of love happened to those who didn’t even believe.
“We’re thinking of October.” Kate spied the script and flipped through the pages. “Dad told me about Claude’s movie. It sounds perfect, Chloe. I’m so happy for you. This is the break you’ve been waiting for.” Kate dropped the script onto the table. “Does Faith have a true love?”
“Eventually. She meets him in this script.”
“Love and life in one character. See, you get what you want eventually.”
“It’s not real, Kate. It’s a movie. I may have played characters who died, but in case you missed it, I’m still alive.”
“Yes, I did notice.” Kate sobered, sitting up, facing Chloe. “Give this part all you’ve got. In a year’s time, you will have worked with two of the best directors in the business. We both know actors who would kill, literally, to work with Jer and Claude. Show the world who you really are, Chloe.” Kate squeezed her hand. “If that’s not happily ever after . . .”
“You can’t compare my movie gig to love. To your engagement, Kate. I know women who would kill, not literally, to have what you have with Rob.”
“I know and I’m grateful.”
Chloe reached for her soda can, taking a drink. The beverage had grown warm and lost its appeal. “I’ve given up on love. Really. It has just never worked for me.”
“Then give yourself to your career. Be one of the grandes dames of acting. Everyone will admire you. You’ll win Oscars. Get inducted into Halls of Fame.”
“I don’t want everyone to admire me. Just one man.” She laughed softly. “Is that too much for a girl to ask?”
“Ooo, speaking of men, I saw your old flame Finley the other day. He looked happy.”
“He is. We talk once in a while. We were always more friends than lovers.”
“What about Haden? Do you talk to him? You know I never liked him.”
“What?” Chloe laughed. “You are such a liar, Kate. You loved him. I believe you sat right there and told me if I didn’t want him, you’d take him.”
“Please . . . I was kidding.”
“You were completely serious.”
“I plead temporary insanity.” Kate raised her hand to admire her ring. “Rob is amazing. So, did you send your letter to Jesse? Now, he is the type of man a girl mourns losing.”
“Over a month ago.”
“And?” Kate said.
“Nothing.” Chloe walked to the kitchen and dumped out her soda, then tossed the can away.
“What do you mean, nothing?” Kate walked into the kitchen and leaned against the island.
“Nothing. No. Thing. He never responded.”
“Really? I’m surprised. He didn’t seem like the kind to go silent.” Kate brushed Chloe’s ponytail away from her shoulders. “You really are a diamond. I don’t know why you’ve had such bad luck with love.”
“It’s for the best, you know. I’m dodging a bullet here.” She kept the story of Loxley to herself. Kate didn’t need to know. “He’s got a lot of . . . baggage.”
Chloe’s phone pinged and she exited the kitchen, shutting off the light. “I’m meeting Dad in the library. Want to come?” She grabbed the script.
Kate flashed her ring. “I’ve got a ring to show off, people to blind.” She straightened her skirt and checked her appearance in the mirror by the door. “We’re going out to dinner with Violet and Dylan. They have no idea . . .”
The sisters chatted wedding details as they headed down the stairs and across the lawn, parting at the alcove that led to the driveway.
“Kate,” Chloe said. “Why
did Rob propose? After all this time?”
“You.” She smiled. “Something you said about marriage changed his heart.”
“What did I say?”
“That marriage is the only place where two lovers can exist in a world all their own. That the deep places come from the commitment, the pledging of hearts and lives until death. You called it a covenant, and that touched him. He wanted that with me.” Kate’s eyes welled up. “Thank you.”
In the amber glow of outdoor lights, the sisters hugged, sniffing away happy tears. “I’m really happy for you.”
“One day I’ll be happy for you, Chloe. I just know it.”
“Good night, Kate.”
As she passed through the kitchen on the way to Dad’s office, Chloe checked the fridge for leftovers. Grilled chicken. Perfect. Time to get fit for the Faith Freeman costume and stunts.
Putting a cold chicken breast on a plate, Chloe headed to the library. She found Dad on the sofa talking to an older, dark-haired man.
“Chloe, good, you’re here.” Dad and the man stood.
Chloe studied the two of them, glanced at her plate, then set it on the table by the door. “What’s going on?”
“Chloe, this is Oliver Hanson.” Dad was bubbly and animated. He was never bubbly. And rarely animated.
“How do,” Oliver said, offering his hand to Chloe. Dressed in jeans and a plaid, snap shirt, he appeared to be about Dad’s age but carried the aura of a hardworking, blue-collar, salt-of-the-earth working man. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“And you.” Chloe liked him instantly. “Are you one of Dad’s high school buddies?”
“Me? Naw. First time I ever seen him.”
“Oliver contacted me through Gonda Films. Becky thought his e-mail might interest me. Well, actually, you.” Dad moved to the wet bar, then returned with three cold Perriers.
“Me?” Chloe made a face and reached for the cold bottle. “Did I win a million dollars?”
Oliver shook his head. “Not from me.”
“I had to check him out before bringing his story to you. Do a bit of research.” Dad leaned toward Oliver as if they’d been acquainted for ages. “We’ve had some crazy claims and accusations before.”
“I can imagine. Don’t bother me none if you checked me out.”
Indeed, the Daschles had endured their share of hoaxes, false claims, and lies. A long-lost “relative” looking for a chance to be “in the pictures.” A wannabe starlet claiming to be the mother of Dad’s love child. An actor swearing Mom was his mother. A line of swindlers, posers, elbow rubbers . . . all wanting a piece of Hollywood royalty.
“Oliver is in possession of a letter,” Dad motioned for him to take up the story.
“Sure enough. I’ve had this here letter in my family for ages. I’m from New York, but I was doing some contract work in Chesnee, South Carolina, this spring when I heard someone was making a film. I’m on a crew what goes around fixing up schools, gymnasiums, historical buildings, stuff like that.”
“O-okay.” Chloe twisted the cap from her water. Where was this going?
Oliver slid a brittle, yellow envelope across the smooth, glistening surface of the teakwood table.
Esther Longfellow, Slathersby Hill
“Esther Longfellow?” Chloe reached for the letter. “Jesse’s grandfather wrote to an Esther Longfellow.”
“My granny had this for years,” Oliver said. “Kept it in her jewelry box. Said her granny gave it to her and well, far as I can tell, it’s been in the family for a good long while. We don’t rightly know where it came from but . . .” The man paused, twisting the cap from his Perrier, inspecting the bottle with an arched brow. “Granny said, ‘I’ll tell you what my granny told me. This letter belongs to somebody. We’ve been entrusted with its care.’ Made no sense to me being as it’s over two hundred years old. But when I heard about the movie based on a letter, I got to thinking and researching, and well, here I am.”
“I’m confused.” Chloe peered inside the envelope to find a slip of paper inside, the edges slightly tattered, the paper delicate on the folds. “What does this have to do with me? You should be talking to Jesse Gates. I can give you his number, but good luck with getting him to call you back.”
“Read it,” Dad said.
Chloe unfolded the note, a sudden expectation weighing on her.
Hannah’s Cowpens
January 16, 1781
My dearest Esther,
My recent actions have not Demonstrated my sincerest affections. I seek to Remedy any confusion now, on this Eve of Battle. Remember me as Before. When my Deeds, if not my Words, proved my Heart.
I love you. ’Tis no other Truth.
Affectionately Yours,
Hamilton Lightfoot
She looked up. “Oh my word. Dad, Jesse needs to see this. This is from his ancestor. It’s the companion letter to the one he possesses. The one that inspired the movie.” She offered the letter back to Dad or Oliver, whichever, ignoring the churning between her ribs. “Why’d you bring it to me?”
“Hold on now, Chloe.” Dad did not reach for the letter. “I thought the same thing until Oliver and I continued talking, until I did some research.”
“My ancestors are from New York,” Oliver said, the expensive, green water bottle so small in his broad, work-hardened hands. “Workers. Maids. Butlers. Family legend is the letter came down from an ancestor who worked for a rich family in Manhattan. I had to call around to my relatives to get more of the details, but a distant relation took the letter from his mistress. Stole it. Said she shouldn’t be keeping a love letter from another man when her husband was so good and kind to her. Ever play the telephone game? Can’t get the story straight between three or four folks, let alone a half dozen generations, but that’s what we know.”
“Who was your ancestor’s employer?”
Oliver pointed to the letter. “We believe Esther Longfellow.”
“Hobart,” Dad added. “Esther Longfellow Hobart.”
Chloe lifted her gaze to the coat of arms hanging on the wall behind Dad’s desk. Hobart. “Our Hobarts?”
“Yes, our Hobarts. I’m still researching, but this is what I have so far.” Dad retrieved a yellow folder from his desk and handed it to Chloe. “There was an Esther Longfellow who lived in South Carolina in the late 1780s.”
“The one from Jesse’s grandfather’s letter?” That much she knew.
“More than likely. She was the daughter of Sir Michael Longfellow. They lived outside of Ninety Six, South Carolina, at the time of the Revolutionary War.”
Chloe set her water aside and inspected the folder’s contents, scanning the pages of copied notes and records. “I wonder if Jesse’s aunt Pat has any of this?”
Dad tapped the edge of the folder with his finger. “Maybe, but does she know what became of Esther Longfellow?”
Chloe flipped the pages to a ship’s passenger record. Mr. Wallace Hobart, Viscount of Berksham, from Nottingham, with his wife, Mrs. Esther Longfellow Hobart, and their children, Michael, 2, and Catherine, 6 months.
“Are you saying Hamilton Lightfoot loved my great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother?” This was too much. Too weird. Too . . . amazing.
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying, Chloe. We, you, are descended from Esther Longfellow, the object and desire of Hamilton Lightfoot.”
She tossed the folder onto the coffee table. “Wait . . . no . . . impossible. This can’t be.” She turned to Oliver. “What are you trying to pull? This could be any sort of fabrication. You heard about the movie and made this up.” She flipped her hand toward Dad. “How could you let him suck you in? It’s been 240 years since Hamilton wrote his letter. We can’t accurately depict what happened last year between two people, let alone two centuries ago.”
“Hold on now, Chloe. I’ve done my homework.” Dad took the folder and shuffled through the pages, producing a lineage of their family. “Esther married an English aristocrat, Wallace Hobart, in
1784, and they sailed to New York in 1787. According to deed records, they bought a large plot of land on the Hudson.” Dad handed Chloe a stapled collection of papers with names and dates. “Wallace died young, in his early forties.”
She reviewed the pages, seeing the information compiled from an outside source. “Then Hamilton wrote to her, asking her to marry him.” She peered up at her father. “That’s the letter Jesse’s family found, because he never sent it.”
“Chloe.” Dad used his director’s voice. “You and Jesse are the end of their love story.”
She sat back with a scoff. “I’m not the end of anyone’s love story. Not even in the movies!” She stretched for her water but did not take a drink. Just held the cold glass against her cheek. “No offense, Oliver, but where’d you get that letter? Old Documents R Us? What do you want really? To be in one of Dad’s films? Be on the crew? You’ve written a screenplay?” Her chest rumbled with a low, dubious rattle. “W-what’s your angle?”
The men regarded her with a calm, steady demeanor, unmoved by her bravado. A simple letter had rattled her to her very core. Challenged her sense of self and well-being. Her ancestor had been in love with Jesse’s? Impossible!
Oliver sat back, mouth shut, and let Dad do the talking.
“Chloe, it’s true.”
“This is a scenario worthy of the big screen. Just like something Hollywood might concoct. It’s not real life, Dad. At least not mine.” Couldn’t he see? Jesse didn’t want her. Just like Esther probably hadn’t wanted Hamilton. This wasn’t the culmination of the love story, this was retribution. Where does unrequited love go? On the rampage, looking for some unsuspecting descendant. Of course, just her luck, it landed on her. “Why . . . why bring this to me now?
“Because I thought you could let go and . . . well—”
“Well what, Dad?” She sat up, trembling, blinking away tears.
“Oliver thought he finally found the true owner of the letter, and he wants to right a wrong done by his ancestor.”