Chapter 6 #3
Prescott laid down his knife and fork. “When Melvin rejected my script, it felt like Ma’s rejection all over again. I felt—worthless. It doesn’t make sense, I know.”
She leaned closer and resisted the urge to take his hand. “No, it does. And yet, it doesn’t. Press, what she did to you—that was her fault, not yours. You mustn’t ever see yourself as worthless. Ever.”
His gaze flicked between Maggie and his plate, then a partial smile rose. “As Duke Orsino says, ‘Thou knowst no less than all; I have unclasp’d to thee the book even of my secret soul.’”
Maggie’s chest ached from the sweetness of the gift of the unclasping.
With a huff, Prescott picked up his fork and stabbed a green bean. “Once again, not an excuse for my poor performance, and I apologize.”
Not an excuse, but an explanation—not only of his behavior, but of the story he’d written. “That’s why your script is so strong. I feel what Charles is going through. The tragedies in your life—you’ve turned them into a story.”
His brown-eyed gaze drifted up to her, wide with recognition. “That’s what I want. I want to help people overcome. All those men in the hospital—they’ll go home disfigured, disabled. They may lose their jobs, friends, sweethearts. I want my story to offer hope.”
“It will. I know it will.”
Light dawned in his expression, and it was glorious. “I can’t tell you what it feels like to write. It’s even better than acting. As if this is what I was created for, what I was waiting for. As if everything in my life was leading to this.”
Maggie’s vision blurred, and she wiped her eyes again. “I’m so happy for you.”
“I want to keep writing. I’ve had another couple of story ideas.”
A sniffle, and Maggie dabbed her handkerchief at her nose. “You said your life was a blank page, but now look at you.”
Prescott glanced around the ballroom. “Yeah, look at me, making a beautiful woman cry in public. Everyone thinks I’m breaking your heart.”
One last dab, and Maggie stuffed her hankie in her handbag. “I won’t have them thinking you’re a bad egg. Let’s dance.” She set her hand on his.
He flinched.
She gasped and withdrew. “I’m sorry. Did that hurt?”
Prescott frowned at his fingers. “No. The scars are a bit tender, not painful. But you don’t—you don’t want to . . .”
She slid her hand over his, the taut pink skin, the ridges of scars, the bumps where fingers had once been. “I asked, didn’t I?”
“You did.” His voice rasped. He pushed back his chair, enveloped her hand in his, and led her past the railing and onto the sleek wooden floor.
Time to lighten the mood. “I always dreamed of dancing with Prescott Duke.”
He chuckled and drew her into his arms. “You need better dreams, Maggie Oliver.”
The warmth of him, the nearness of his face, the strength of his arms, the grace of his feet. Her breath—where had it gone? Somehow she managed a chuckle, managed to move her feet in a foxtrot as the orchestra played “Begin the Beguine.”
Dancing with him was even better than she’d imagined. He led with considerate authority, with style and skill.
A smile rose from the joy of it. “I loved watching you dance in the studio and on the screen. The combination of manly athleticism and elegant grace.”
“Which magazine did you read that in?”
She smiled at his teasing. But had she read it? Possibly. “Regardless, it’s true.”
Prescott twirled her past the stage. “Melvin said he discovered me because of my feet, how I moved in the ring. He also liked my looks, had me come in for a screen test.”
His velvet voice would have sealed the deal. “Melvin spotted your talent.”
Prescott’s countenance darkened. “He says he didn’t see talent in my script.”
“Well, I did. So what will you do next? With the script?”
His thick tuxedo-clad shoulder lifted beneath her hand. “I don’t know. I was hoping Melvin would pitch it.”
“Is there anyone else you could talk to? Ask their opinion? You must know lots of people—producers, directors, studio heads.”
“I do.” His eyes darted as if cranked by the gears turning in his mind.
“First we need to type up your script.”
Another shrug, paired with a grimace. “I don’t have a typewriter, can’t type.”
“Silly goose.” Maggie squeezed his shoulder. “I do and I can. Eighty words per minute.”
“I can’t ask you to—”
“You didn’t ask. I volunteered.” Her mouth rounded. “Tomorrow. Are you free? Are you attending a church in San Diego? Come to ours. Grandpa would love to see you again. Sandwiches for lunch, then I’ll type.”
His feet slowed as anticipation battled with hesitancy on his face.
With gentle pressure on his shoulder, she urged him to resume the pace. “Please let me. I believe in this story, and I believe in you as a writer. If nothing else, you deserve your best shot at this dream.”
All sorts of emotions warped his face.
Maggie laughed. “Oh no. Now everyone will think I’m making you cry. Dance.”
With a self-conscious laugh, he spun her around, and her skirt fanned to the side.
Contentment settled inside. This might not be a romantic date, but neither was it a business meeting.