Jesse shifted from one foot to the next. “E-exactly.”
At times, Smitty seemed to see beyond the here and now into something the five senses could not see, hear, taste, or touch. But then in a flash, he was back to himself—quick, kind, and lovable.
“Catch you later, friend.” The distant slap of the front door closing as Smitty left echoed through Jesse, and the familiar friend of loneliness pulled up a chair.
No... no... Old friend, I don’t need you wrapping your tentacles around me.
Jesse shook off the sensation and reached for the first box. He missed home. His parents, his brother, his grandmothers, aunts and uncles, his friends. But going home made him remember. Everyone tiptoed around him—even after eight years—trying to discern his mental and emotional state without directly asking.
Pushing back the box flaps, Jesse retrieved a lamp and the old iron Mom had given him, which he used on occasion.
Next he pulled out a recent package from Aunt Pat. The chance to rent on the beach came up so suddenly he hadn’t had time to open it.
He felt the loneliness ease away as he settled onto the sofa and peeled off the packing tape of an old shoe box.
Aunt Pat was the family historian. She drove around the country collecting genealogies and artifacts, old diaries and cookbooks, paintings, furniture, whatever she could to piece together about the Gates-Williams-Fuller-Lightfoot family tree.
This box contained a small, framed pencil sketch of Grandpa Hamilton Lightfoot, the inspiration for Jesse’s screenplay.
Found this among my brother John’s things. God rest his soul. I thought of you when I saw Grandpa Hamilton’s face. You look like him. Also, enclosed in the envelope is the original letter. Since you wrote a screenplay based on Hamilton’s life, I thought you deserved to have it. Be mindful of it, take care not to handle it too much. If you need to read it again, use the copy I sent you. I’m in awe every time I read this, knowing I’m hearing from an ancestor who lived two hundred and fifty years ago! Remember we have a long, distinguished family heritage. Proud of you, nephew. Love, Aunt Pat
Carefully, Jesse removed the letter from the envelope, barely pinching the edges, squinting at the long, loopy script. The distinct handwriting confirmed the letter had been written by Hamilton Lightfoot.
Aunt Pat verified it with records showing Hamilton’s pension request for time served in the Revolutionary War.
The letter was of thick, linen stock with Grandpa’s name embossed across the top—Hamilton George Lightfoot. The paper had yellowed with time and the edges were frayed, but the writing was clear.
June 12, 1802
My Dear Esther,
I heard of your Husband’s recent passing. How my Heart is with you in your Grief. You are in my Prayers. May the Lord’s Peace sustain you.
My Lydia died in childbirth, and I’ve been raising John Hamilton Lightfoot with Aunt Mary’s help. She dotes on the boy, spoiling him terribly. Though I dare say I rather indulge him too. He’s Named for my Pa and is the image of his Mother.
But as time passes, I find myself thinking of you, missing you. I Pray I am not out of line for my Declarations.
I am Honored to have fought in the War. But wrestle with Regret on how the Conflict tore us apart. What would our Lives have been had I not gone to Cowpens? ’Tis of no matter now. We made our Choices.
I Trust you and the children are well.
Esther, I must confess, my Affection for you seems to have reclaimed my heart after these many years. I wonder, my Love, if you may feel the same? Would you, at last, consider marrying me?
There the letter ended. Unsigned. Unsent. And Jesse’s screenplay began.
Did I tell your story, Hamilton?
Jesse didn’t have much to go on. Only the letter and Aunt Pat’s history of the family—which did not include Esther.
But his soul rattled with a deeper question. Had he told his own story?
Jesse flipped the original letter over, harboring a slight hope that words had magically appeared on the back, revealing more. But the page was empty. It was that emptiness, along with the echoing hollow in Jesse’s chest, that had inspired him to write the script.
The deck lights flipped on automatically, catching Jesse’s eye. Staring toward the deck, he tried once again to see his great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather penning this letter to a woman he never married. Did he not love Lydia? Or did her death, and Esther’s husband’s, merely unlock a buried love?
What of his own love story? His mistakes? What would Hamilton have done differently? Would he have not fought at Cowpens?
What would Jesse change if given the chance? Never made his confession to Loxley? Walked with her out of the house? Down to the beach?
