Chapter 2 #2
Maggie tensed, gave him a sheepish smile, and passed him to enter the kitchen. “I knew you wouldn’t like it, but I also know Papa has plenty of money.”
“Why does he have plenty of money? Because he doesn’t spend it.”
True. Maggie grimaced and pulled a can of tomato soup from the cupboard.
“Why would you do such a thing?” Grandpa frowned over his shoulder, over the countertop.
Maggie squeezed the can opener over the lid. “I wrote that letter right before I got this job. I didn’t think they’d give it to me, and you told me—”
“That was for your ears only.”
And only under duress after she’d seen his bank book. Maggie cranked the key of the can opener. Grandpa had sold his hardware store to pay for Grandma’s treatments. His own hospital bills had depleted his savings. Even with Maggie’s wages, they couldn’t cover expenses.
Maggie dumped the soup into a pan with a satisfying slorp. “I thought Papa could help.”
“He already does.”
“He does?”
“We were doing fine.” A growl lowered his voice.
Maggie hadn’t heard that growl since she and her little sister, Rose, had dug up Grandma’s gazania. She opened the icebox and removed a bottle of milk.
Grandpa huffed. “Because you meddled—”
“Meddled?”
“Meddled. Now your parents are coming out for Christmas. Even though civilians aren’t supposed to travel. Your father is going to sell the house and make me live with them in Iowa.”
Maggie measured one can of milk and poured it into the pan. “Papa can be exasperating, but he can hardly force you out of your own house.”
“It’s no longer my house. He owns it.”
Maggie spun to face him, dribbling milk over the stove. “How is that . . . ?”
Grandpa tapped one cane on the floor. “I was in the hospital a long time, had a couple surgeries. Your father offered to pay my medical bills, but I didn’t want a handout. So I sold him the house. He lets me live here rent-free.”
Which meant Papa didn’t need Grandpa’s permission to sell. “Oh no.”
“With your wages and the money left after I paid the doctors, we’ve been fine. Your dad even sends a bit each month. We’re fine.”
Then Maggie had to open her big mouth. Papa must have spent a substantial chunk of his savings to bail out Grandpa, and now Maggie had asked him for more money? Papa was well-off, not wealthy, and his charity had limits.
“I don’t want to live in Iowa.” Grandpa’s voice roughened. “I’ve lived in San Diego all my grown-up days. Met your grandma here. Raised your mama here. I had this house built.”
Maggie’s vision blurred, and she wiped milk driblets off the stove, where Grandma had cooked countless meals for the man she adored.
“I—I couldn’t take Tobias.” Grandpa buried his hand in the fur of the dog at his side.
“Rose.” Maggie’s sister was horribly allergic to dogs, and she would live with Papa and Mama forever.
Guilt flickered in Maggie’s chest, but she hauled in a deep breath and lit the stove. “Never fear. I’ll write to Papa and—”
“You’ll do no such thing.”
“But my new job pays more. I already told him I received the job—although on a trial basis. I just need to—”
“No, I’ll write. I’ll tell him it was a misunderstanding and not as dire as you thought.”
“I could—”
“No.” Grandpa aimed a finger at her. “The best thing you can do is keep your pretty little nose out of it.”
“Oh, Grandpa.” Maggie stirred the soup and blinked away the moisture in her eyes. “I’m sorry I disappointed you.”
A deep sigh emanated from Grandpa’s chair. “Oh, Maggie-mine, you could never disappoint me. Never. You have your papa’s gumption—and sometimes it gets the better of you. But you also have your sweet mama’s compassion.”
“I just want to help.”
“You want to help? Pray.”
Maggie balanced the spoon in the pan and darted out to her Bible and notebook by her favorite armchair. “I’ll add it to my list. I’ll pray that Papa will understand, that he won’t sell the house, that my show goes well so I’ll get this job permanently, that—”
“That’s a lot on your list.”
Maggie jotted down every detail. “I do keep the Lord busy.”
“Oh, Maggie-mine. Don’t forget. Prayer is more than listing. It’s listening.”
She didn’t quite know what he meant, but she smiled at him.
“I’ll tell you how you can start.” Grandpa tried to look stern again, but how could he when he had the sweetest brown eyes in the world? “Start by listening when the Lord tells you not to meddle.”
“I don’t meddle. I help.”
He arched one white eyebrow. “If you’re keeping secrets, you’re meddling.”
Maggie stood, planted a kiss on his forehead, and returned to the kitchen. “The only secret I’m keeping is how much cheese I’ll put in your sandwich, and I’m not telling.”
“Meddling.” But Grandpa chuckled, and all was well again.
For the first time in his week in San Diego, Prescott had not ordered room service.
Since his accident, he went out in public as little as possible. Business meetings, doctor appointments, church. That was it.
Tonight he’d eaten in the hotel dining room, and he was strolling down Broadway toward the bay in the blacked-out evening, lit only by partial headlights on trolleys and cars.
The passersby paid him no mind, civilians intent on getting home or sailors searching for a bar or dance hall.
For the most part, the restaurant patrons had also paid him no mind. Those who had looked his way looked too long. After his first big movie hits, he’d attracted those looks, followed by a flash of recognition and “Is that Prescott Duke?”
Now those long looks were followed by revulsion or pity.
For almost two years, that had kept him inside. But today, the cast had overcome their initial shock and accepted him.
Prescott passed a newsstand, each page of each newspaper filled with words. “Write a new script for your life,” he murmured.
His current script stank. He might have money and a nice house, but he had no people, no purpose. His idleness grated—it wasn’t right, and it wasn’t good for him.
He waited for a taxi to pass, and he crossed the street, dodging a trio of chatting office girls.
The last time his life had been empty, Melvin had rescued him. But this time, Melvin couldn’t rescue him.
To his right rose the grand USO-Army-Navy YMCA. A crowd of sailors trotted up the steps, under the engraved sign reading “Young Men’s Christian Association.”
How many nights had Prescott spent at the Y in his youth? The Y had saved him.
Prescott chuckled. Neither Melvin nor the Y had saved him. God had. And that rescue could never be taken away.
His pace picked up, harder, faster. God didn’t want him to sit around idle. He’d sent Prescott to this place at this time for some reason.
“What is it, Lord?” He wanted to do something good with his life. He wanted to help people. But how?
In a few blocks, he got as close to the bay as the Navy allowed. Piers jutted out, bristling with gray warships. In the harbor, silver starlight winked on the black waters, and on the far side, North Island stretched in a dark band.
If Prescott’s life were a Hollywood script, it would be rags to riches . . . to rubble. Who would watch a movie like that?
For a movie to lift people up, it would need to be riches to rubble . . . to rebirth. To rebuilding. To refreshing.
Prescott would watch a movie like that.
A man, the hero, has everything. Loses everything that matters to him. Even as he retains what most people want. Yet he rebuilds his life, a better life, a life focused on others, not self. On community, not commodities.
Prescott’s gaze lifted to the star-littered sky. He could see the man. Prescott could play him, but he wasn’t Prescott. Not at all.
“Who are you?” he asked the man. “What did you have? What did you lose? What will you do now?”
He could envision a scene, like a movie in his head, hear the voices.
The man is wealthy, has it all, beautiful family he loves but neglects—due to the work he loves even more. He loses his family. His fault somehow. Loses his work.
More scenes. Dialogue. Side characters.
Although Prescott stood still, his breath came fast.
It was a story. What was he supposed to do with it? He was finished in film—he couldn’t play the hero.
Could he write it? A screenplay?
Prescott groaned and stuffed his pitiful hands in his trouser pockets. How could he write? He had no schooling. And his hands—he couldn’t write more than two sentences without pain.
No, he couldn’t write a screenplay.
Yet fresh cool sea air filled him. A sense of hope. If he could imagine a new life for this imaginary man, perhaps he could imagine one for himself.