Chapter 6 #2
He’d probably received plenty of pandering, but what good would that do the show? “You’re under the heel of a mean director, remember?” She did a cramp roll, which lost its zing without taps on her shoes.
He didn’t laugh, and his expression shifted as if he were in a movie’s climactic scene, shoving aside turmoil, rallying, resolving. “I’d like your opinion on something.”
“What is it?”
“Saturday night. Are you free?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to take you to dinner at the Hotel del Coronado. You deserve an evening to celebrate. Then I’d like to ask your professional opinion.”
Maggie’s heart spiraled up into her throat. A romantic evening with Prescott? Or was it a business meeting?
Regardless, she’d get to dress up and go to the Del. “I’d love that.”
Coronado
Saturday, November 20, 1943
His order placed, Prescott thanked the waiter and returned his attention to Maggie, sitting partway around the round table facing the orchestra and dance floor.
Her loveliness strangled his breath. A long dress of sky blue brought out the color in her eyes and cheeks.
“This is so nice. Thank you again. I’ve always wanted to come here.” She gave her head a little shake. “I must have said that a dozen times already.”
He’d repeated himself a dozen times as well, his nervousness compounded by shame for his own cowardice. Taking her out “to celebrate”? Wanting her “professional opinion”?
Maggie had arched her eyebrows at his attaché case when he’d picked her up, but in the taxi and on the ferry, they’d had a comfortable conversation.
Now it was time, and he shifted on the cream cushion in his wicker chair. “I apologize for my performance the other day.”
“You don’t need—”
“I do. Something was bothering me, and that something is why I want your opinion.”
Her lower lip poked out in confusion.
Prescott lifted his attaché case into his lap and opened it. “Do you remember the day you showed me the Old Globe and told me to write a new script for my life? Well, I did. It came out as an actual movie script.” He set the stack of papers on the table.
“You did?” Her eyes and her voice lit in tandem. “That’s wonderful.”
“Don’t get too excited.” He latched his attaché case and set it by his chair. “I showed it to my agent on Tuesday. He said I’m not a writer.”
“Oh no. How could he say such a thing?”
“He may be right.”
“I’m so sorry. That was Tuesday? Then on Wednesday—the trial performance.”
“It’s no excuse. The first rule of this business is ‘The show must go on.’ I violated that rule—and when you needed me most.”
“It all worked out.” Her attention lay on the script alone. “Is this it? You brought it?”
His hand splayed on the papers as if protecting a child, but he rotated the stack in front of Maggie. “I’d like your honest opinion.”
“Me? I’m not a writer. I never even acted in movies, only danced.”
“You told me you fed yourself in Hollywood by typing scripts for the studio. I’m sure you can tell a good script from a bad one.”
One corner of her red lips edged high. “I can.”
“Tell me which one this is.”
In her lap, Maggie twisted her hands together. She didn’t want to disappoint him.
Prescott patted the script. “You can’t hurt my feelings any more than Melvin did, and false praise won’t do me any favors. Be honest.”
“All right.” Hesitancy stretched out her voice, but she stroked the top page. “You wrote this by hand?” She spoke not with disdain but with awe. “Is it difficult to write?”
One sharp nod. He wanted honesty, not sympathy.
He couldn’t watch as Maggie started to read.
The circular ballroom spread before him, capped by the enormous red conical roof that could be seen from outside. Inside, tables and chairs ringed the dance floor, lit by crown-shaped lanterns and Moorish chandeliers.
As the orchestra played, couples swirled by, the men in blue naval officers’ uniforms or black tuxedoes, the women in long gowns in every color imaginable.
How much courage would it take to ask Maggie to dance? Too much. She’d have to hold his disfigured hand. He was fooling himself even dreaming of romance.
A little gasp from Maggie, and she turned a page.
Prescott tried to read his own tortured handwriting from a bad angle. Where was she in the story?
He ripped his gaze away. Dancers eyed him as they passed. Did they recognize him from the movies? Pity his burns? Or were they confused by a couple sitting in silence as the lady read?
One song bled into another into another.
When the waiter brought their plates, Maggie looked up as if awakening. “Oh no. I have to stop reading, don’t I?”
“If you’d like to eat,” he said with a wry smile.
Maggie scooted the script to make room for her dinner.
“I only have a few more pages. Poor Charles. He just lost his seat in Congress and the whole world hates him and he’s alone at home.
He wants a drink but plays the piano instead.
And his warring emotions—anger, grief, shame, wanting to control his piano playing—failing.
Every actor will want this role. In the right hands, he’ll get an Oscar for sure. ”
Prescott closed his flopping mouth. “You think so?”
She narrowed one eye. “Why didn’t your agent like it?”
“He just called it a mess. He only read one page though.”
She shook her head a bit, making brown curls flutter. “I want to see this movie. I want to know what happens next. How much have you written?”
“The first act.” He gestured to their plates. “We should eat.”
A sheepish look, and she sliced her pork tenderloin. “I don’t agree with Melvin. But I see why this was difficult. You’ve mentioned how much he means to you.”
Prescott sliced his filet mignon into large bites to minimize the work. “He’s like a second father.”
“Your own father died when you were young, yes?”
Prescott stared at his utensils. He’d never told his whole story to anyone. Not Melvin. Not his friends. Not even the pastor at the rescue mission. But it needed to be told. Because it affected how he reacted to even a hint of rejection. Because it had affected Maggie.
He rubbed his thumb along the fork handle. “Pa died when I was twelve. I was big for my age, so I found work. Ma remarried a year later, but my stepfather—he hated me. Beat me. Said since I was working, why should he have to feed me? When I was fourteen, he kicked me out.”
“Oh no.” Maggie’s voice quivered. “How could he do such a thing?”
The knife and fork pointed at each other. “Ma—she was standing in the doorway. I was out in the hall pleading with her. Where could I go? What could I do? But Ma—she feared him more than she loved me. She turned her back. Shut the door.”
“Oh, Press.” Maggie wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. What a horrible thing to endure. When Maggie was fourteen, her only concerns were passing Latin and getting the lead in the school play.