“Really?” Nicolette sat forward with a sly grin. “How’s that working for you?”
“Exactly!” Kate flipped her hand toward Chloe, nose in the air. “It’s not working. Never has. But still, she holds out hope. She’s made a disaster of her love life trying to find ‘the one.’” Big sister stuffed a bite of French toast into her mouth. “I’d die if I had to go through what she—”
“Kate.” This time Mom used her Mother voice, and Kate shushed instantly.
“Chloe, take heart. I’ve been there, done that. Even worse.”Nicolette arched her brow. “Be glad you didn’t go down my dark road.” The megastar had endured a sex-tape scandal right after she broke into film. “You’ll live. And, darling”—she pressed her hand on Chloe’s—“you will find true love because, well, I can see in your eyes you want it. Trust karma or fate, but—”
“God?”
“Yes, if you wish. Are you religious?”
So the conversation went, bantering over religion, movies, love, and dogs. Yes, Nicolette had temporarily given up romance after a nasty breakup with a screenwriter named Holt Armstrong.
“I bought a dog instead. Cutest thing ever.”
“There you go, Chloe, get a dog.” Kate, for one final dig.
Chloe mopped up the last of the syrup with her bacon and headed to the kitchen. Was she foolish to still hope for true love? The one? She’d seen examples of it in her life, but perhaps they really were the anomalies. Could love merely be “the luck of the draw”?
She set her dish in the sink and stared out the window toward the guesthouse. As much as she tried to dislodge the longing in her heart, it remained.
Since her childhood, she’d known she was destined for a special love. A voice whispered to her heart,Wait.
Yet in her youth she ignored it. Dismissed it. And the evidence of her folly lived in her soul and on the Internet.
Now she’d changed her ways. She determined to wait. Listen. Trust. And not surrender so easily to the charm and kisses of a geek turned actor named Jesse Gates.
HAMILTON
Aweek had passed since he had delivered a note to Slathersby Hill. He’d found Kitch in the field and pleaded with him to carry it to Esther.
How do you fair? I pray all is well and you are healing. Send word by Kitch if you can. Hamilton
Perhaps her silence proved his scheme had not succeeded. Did she believe he’d shot her? Had Sir Michael convinced her of a lie?
At his desk, the candle flickered low as his quill hovered over a pristine sheet of paper. A spot of dark ink dropped to the corner of the page. But he refused to start over. Let him write what he must, then copy it with his neatest hand.
Despite the hours of his youth spent in the fields, Ma, then Aunt Mary, insisted he study. Nightly by the fire he’d work his figures, read of biology and science, and practice his penmanship.
My dearest Esther,
Hamilton rested his forehead in his hand, staring at the page, a thousand words racing through his mind. Then, at once, there were none at all.
She wanted a love letter. A request he had every desire to fulfill, but how? With what words? He raised the desk’s top and removed the book of Shakespeare sonnets, then flipped through the pages.
Such eloquence he did not possess. The letter he sent to Slathersby via Kitch was succinct, saying no more and no less than required.
In truth, he dared not write more. What if Kitch chose to read it? Or hand it to Sir Michael instead of Esther?
My dearest Esther,
Hamilton replaced the quill and shoved away from the desk. Gazing out the window toward the night sky, the stars on glorious display, he must figure a way to see her, to speak rather than write, tell her of his plans, reassure her of his affections. After all, her father now knew of his intentions
Confessing his love with his lips did not concern him. But to write of such things with pen and paper, well, he felt rather silly. Vulnerable.
Rumors raced about Ninety Six that he’d shot Esther. A notion only the wicked Loyalists believed. Yet she lay wounded in her father’s house because she had tried to save him.
In his quiet moments, Hamilton did not blame Sir Michael for his father’s anger. But if he would only listen...
