“Of course. I’m a bridesmaid.” Violet Steinbrenner was one of Chloe’s best friends. Her father headed a major production company while her mother shuffled super talent through her boutique talent agency. “You all are going too?”
“Violet talked Laura into singing a solo.” Jer grinned. “She’s a frustrated Broadway star, you know.” He held up the script. “So, Esther... She is strong, and she needs a strong actress to play her.” His comment hung over Chloe in the form of a question.
Chloe stared across the room. “I have to do something different, Jeremiah. I can’t be the one who dies again. I feel like I’m becoming that girl, and it’s affecting every part of my life. I have to be, must be, the woman who lives.” She peered at him, shaking her head. “I don’t know, maybe it’s time to give up acting, do something else. Write. Direct. Teach.”
“I hate what this town can do to a person’s soul.” Sincerity gripped his confession. “Don’t give up, Chloe. You’re typecast, to be sure, but you’re also a talented actress.”
“Do you think you can sell me to the studio? I-if you like me for Esther?” She ran her fingers against the edge of the script.
She’d auditioned hundreds upon hundreds of times. She knew the routine. If the studio, in other words the money, didn’t like an actor, no matter how brilliantly he or she played the part, it wasn’t going to happen.
“I have some leeway here.” He motioned to the script. “Let’s read.”
Chloe flipped to the emotional scene where Hamilton visited Esther to tell her he was going off with the South Carolina militia.
Closing her eyes, Chloe rolled back time to 1781, to an unsettled land, a rough log cabin where the scent of baking bread nearly made her stomach rumble. In the barnyard, chickens scratched and the dogs bayed. A horse peered from a stall window. Cattle wandered the winter hills.
The war for independence had moved south and settled in the colony where classic backwater folk were farmers and hunters, traders. Hardworking, raw people carving out a life for themselves.
ESTHER: You cannot go... not with the militia. Father will speak to General Cornwell. You may join his troops.
HAMILTON (With heated emotion): You’ve heard what Huck and his men did at Hill’s Ironworks... the raids on the Presbyterian churches. From York to Ninety Six. Can I just sit by like a coward? Must I remind you what those redcoats did to my pa?
ESTHER: I’ve not forgotten. But you should aim to do some forgetting—a bit of forgiving. Riding off into the battle will not bring him back. Nor will it ease your pain. I think he’d thank you kindly to live a long life and give him grandsons to carry on the Lightfoot name. Dare I ask about the pledges we’ve made to one another? Do I not matter? Do I not have a say?
HAMILTON: Am I going back on my word? Have I made a promise I am now breaking? If I sit aside and watch my countrymen, yes, my American countrymen die, how does that speak of me as a man, as a friend and neighbor?
ESTHER: Yes, you go back on your word when you join a fight that cannot be won. What if you find yourself at the end of a Tory musket or bayonet? How can you marry me if you’re dead, rotting beneath the ground? And for what? A few tax dollars? A cup of tea? Independence from our homeland that has been so good to us?
HAMILTON: England? My homeland? Nay, Esther, the soil in which you claim I’ll rot be my homeland. My heritage is here, in the upcountry. What of England? A land I’ve never seen. Nay, I say: what of America?
ESTHER: Your friends and neighbors fight for the Crown. You dare raise your musket against them?Against my father? Against my family? You may as well aim at me.
HAMILTON: I cannot help which side they have chosen. They fight for tyranny. But I speak for myself and my family. We fight for independence.
ESTHER (Glances about, lowers voice): Speak not of this treason in my father’s house. There’s no more devoted Tory in the colony. Have you forgotten he loves you like a son? If you join the militia, you will break both of our hearts!
HAMILTON (Reaches for her): Now you break mine. How will I resolve this conflict of love and war?
ESTHER (Falls into his arms weeping): Choose me, Hamilton. If you love me as you say, choose me.
Chloe lowered the pages with a glance toward Jeremiah, who stared at his script without expression.
Falling into his arms... begging him to stay.
She’d lived that scene with Haden Stuart. In fact, she felt certain Esther’s last line was taken from her viral video. Had Jesse Gates seen it? Hard to say, but when the video reached twenty million views, Chloe gave up hiding out and defending herself. She stopped resisting the truth that her crushing humiliation had become a part of pop culture.
“Well...” Jeremiah sighed, tossed the script to the table, reached for his water, and took a long drink.
“What?” Chloe said. “I overplayed her, didn’t I? Let’s read it again. I can tone her down. I wasn’t sure on the accent. More British or more Southern? Geez, I don’t want to do a Scarlett O’Hara. That’s not right.” She forced a smile. “I’m so used to the drama of dying and... Know what?” She stuffed the script into her bag. “It’s okay. I don’t regret trying. Thank you for reading with me, Jer. See you at the wedding.”
“Sit down.” Jeremiah pointed to her chair, using his director’s voice. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Chloe stumbled back, tripping down into the chair, a jittery flip-flop tumbling through her.
“I can’t believe I didn’t audition you. Wow, Chloe. You are so much better than you know. Better than I knew.” His eyes glistened as he spoke.
“I-I... What? Really?” She smiled. “You want me for the part?” A carnival with trumpets and balloons paraded through her. “H-how will you explain me to the studio?”
