“I’ll shop once I’m in Boston.”
“What? Two days before Christmas?”
He grinned with a shy laugh. “I suppose you plan your gifts for weeks.”
“Months.” She lifted the lid of the slow cooker. The aroma of roasting chicken and rice steamed as she filled two Christmas tableau plates, handing one to Jesse. “The cutlery is in that drawer. Can you grab me a knife and fork?” She retrieved linen napkins from another drawer. “Drinks are in the outside fridge.”
He followed her. How could he not? She hooked him deeper with every encounter, and like a black hole, one day he might not be able to escape her pull.
But for now they settled on the sofa, Chloe sitting cross-legged, plate anchored on her knee, popping a Diet Coke.
Jesse leaned forward, plate on his palm. “Why all the planning?”
“Christmas is personal. The gifts should mean something.” She scooped a big bite of chicken and rice. “Everything about the holiday, at least in the beginning, speaks of intimacy.”
He frowned. “How so?” And why did her words disquiet him?
“Think about it? God becoming man. No, ababy. To save the world, yes—but also to somehow save you, me. It’s personal. It’s the ultimate epic story. Worthy of Mel Gibson.”
Jesse nodded, though the disquiet became discomfort. “You’re lucky you found the story.”
She set down her fork and reached for her drink. “Lucky is one word for it. I was so, so, so lost... hurting. Oh! Your gift.” She jumped up.
“What? Gift? Chloe, wait—”
She left the lanai, ran across a patch of wintergreen grass, and disappeared down the mansion’s breezeway.
Jesse set down his dish and reached for his tea. A gift? She bought him a gift? His mind raced. He didn’t deserve a gift. Did he have anything at the guesthouse he could disguise as a gift?
Chloe returned, breathless, her cheeks rosy, and handed him a large, square box wrapped in green and gold paper.
“Open it.”
“Chloe, you didn’t have to do this. I didn’t get you—”
“Will you be quiet? Sheesh, Jesse, the purpose of a gift is to receive, not dismiss. Besides, you did give me a gift. Your screenplay.”
“Hardly. I didn’t even know you when I wrote it.” He tugged at the ribbon, her generosity humbling him.
“But He did.” She pointed upward. “You may have written it to complete your grandfather’s love story, or to answer some question in your own heart, but I think Jesus said, ‘Write it for Chloe too.’” She’d cupped her hands around her mouth, whispering, as if the voice of a Savior could be heard. “Go on, open it.”
She took up her plate again and sat back, smiling, eating, tucking her bare foot between the sofa cushions.
After tearing the ribbon and paper away, Jesse lifted the lid from the box. Nestled in red tissue paper was a light-wood and brushed-silver frame. The glass was empty, but the bottom held a gold plaque.
Bound by LoveBYJESSEGATES
DEDICATED TO HIS ANCESTORHAMILTONLIGHTFOOT
When he looked closer, he saw lines from the script etched into the glass. Bits and pieces of the story. Bits and pieces of him.
He’d not entertained tears in years. When he looked at Chloe, he could not hide them.
“This is incredible. But why? How?”
She set down her plate and leaned toward him. “I thought you could frame the letter, you know, if you wanted. I was going to sneak into the guesthouse when you weren’t there, but trespassing for a Christmas present seemed a bit much.” She tapped the edge of the frame. “I had a friend make it. This is cedar, because it’s timeless and fragrant. The brushed silver is for redemption. How you redeemed your grandfather’s story.”
“And the etching?”
