Chapter 11 #2
A grumble from Ria, and she rolled her eyes. “I’ll talk to them.”
“But they—”
“They’ll listen to me.” Ria swung a searing glance from Maggie to Mr. Anderson. “Miss Oliver is the reason the show is so good. You’d better not accept her resignation.”
Mr. Anderson adjusted his glasses. “I had no intention of doing so.”
Maggie’s head shook back and forth. “But I don’t—”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Anderson said. “No harm was done to the reputation of the USO. As for your little lapse in judgment—”
“It wasn’t a little lapse, sir. It was a great big gaping hole.”
Mr. Anderson clasped his hands over his knees and studied her with his head tipped to one side. “Will you do it again?”
“Never, sir. But—”
“But you took responsibility and you’re trying to make things better.” He patted his knees. “Now, shall we start this meeting? You both need to get to the theater by eleven, right?”
“Right.” Ria gave Maggie a challenging look and plopped into her usual chair.
Maggie’s chair was occupied by her open suitcase, and she stared down at Grandpa and Grandma’s smiling faces.
She didn’t deserve this job. But Grandpa deserved to stay in his home.
It was all she’d wanted for Christmas.
A gift of mercy, and she accepted it.
Beverly Hills
Wednesday, December 15, 1943
Prescott’s footsteps reverberated in the palatial parlor.
On his day off from performing, he’d gone home to Beverly Hills.
No, not home. A house. Pristine Streamline Moderne. Immaculate white and chrome. Every piece of furniture and art chosen by the designer hired by the studio to create a habitation for their image of Prescott Duke.
He’d felt far more at home on the old sofa in Bill Curtis’s home with a scruffy dog at his feet and Maggie puttering in the kitchen.
A vise clamped his heart, and he sank to the piano bench as Charles Anthony had done on his darkest day.
Prescott held his six remaining digits over the keyboard and plunked out fragments of a tune. Before his accident, he’d been taking piano lessons and enjoying them.
Unlike Charles, Prescott could no longer play. But also unlike Charles, he hadn’t lost everything.
The USO shows had continued over the past four days. The performances felt more subdued, but few would notice.
Each day, Maggie slipped into the theater and did her job in an unobtrusive way. Prescott had never seen anyone more humbled, more contrite, more chastened. He loved her more than ever. But he didn’t trust her with his heart.
An off-key chord assaulted his ears. He grabbed his attaché case and went to the garage, where he started his car.
He drove past more palatial homes, each isolated behind gates from the neighbors, then down Sunset Boulevard.
Tonight would be difficult.
On Saturday morning, Ria had taken him to Balboa Park to meet with Frank Sebastian, who very much wanted to see Vi again.
Maggie had proposed a quiet home-cooked dinner for the couple. Since Ria’s house overflowed with family, only Maggie’s house was available. Maggie planned to cook dinner then retreat out of sight while someone else served.
Mr. Curtis had plans for the evening. So did Ria. That left Prescott.
He didn’t mind serving. He did mind seeing Maggie at a place where they’d shared many pleasant hours.
Before long, Prescott arrived at Melvin’s office on Wilshire Boulevard, and Edna ushered him in even though he didn’t have an appointment.
Melvin rose from his desk with his eyebrows arched high. “Press?”
“I wanted you to see that I’m fine.” He offered a smile and a handshake.
Melvin’s chair creaked as he returned to sitting. “Listen, I’m sorry for how this all shook out. I could have handled it better.”
Prescott took his customary chair and opened his attaché case.
“I could have handled it better too. I want you to know I never meant to go over your head, only to get another opinion before giving up writing. If Val had liked the script, I would have worked with you as always. Now, I don’t know legal jargon, but I believe my contract with you is only as a performer. ” He handed Melvin the document.
Melvin’s lips went tight. “Correct.”
“I would have needed a new contract—or an addendum—for you to represent me as a writer. Which is what I would have wanted. However, when I spoke to Val as a writer, I didn’t violate the letter or the heart of our contract.”
Something shifted in Melvin’s dark eyes—from his usual fatherly benevolence to the respectful way he looked at directors and producers. He cleared his throat. “That’s correct.”
“I know you’re concerned about my image, your image, and the studio’s ability to sell film rights. That’s why I would have used a pen name—Joseph P. Duke.”
Melvin murmured his approval.
Prescott opened his hand for his contract and tucked the document into his attaché case. “That’s the name I’ll use in my new life.”
“Your new life?”
“I refuse to be a hermit. I need to work. I’ll apply for factory jobs here in LA.” San Diego carried too many memories. “I’ll go back to being Joe. Not Joe Prescott—I’m not that man anymore. But I’m not really Prescott Duke anymore either.”
“You’ll always be—”
“Prescott Duke has a big fancy house in Beverly Hills. I plan to sell some of the art, rent out the house, and buy something smaller near my new job. Nothing fancy, but it’ll be mine.”
Melvin leaned back in his chair, tapped his fingers on his armrests, and scrutinized Prescott. “This is a new side of you.”
“A bright side?” A wry chuckle broke out at the memory of Maggie posing onstage, showing Prescott a new path. “Recently someone told me if you can’t find a bright side, make one. That’s what I’m doing.”
With a grunt, Melvin pushed his large frame out of his chair. “I believe you’ll do just that. I wish you the best.”
“Thank you.” He shook his agent’s hand and said goodbye to Edna.
Outside on Wilshire Boulevard in cool sunshine, he walked a few blocks to Valentine Ruben’s office.
When the secretary admitted Prescott, Val pumped his hand. “Good to see you. I was surprised to see you’d made an appointment.”
“I wanted to see you for two reasons.” Prescott took the offered chair across from Val’s carved mahogany desk. “First, I’d like to pick up my script if you haven’t thrown it away.”
Val frowned and sat in a chair that dwarfed him. “I still have it.”
“Good.” Although Maggie had created a carbon copy, Prescott wanted the original for a souvenir. “I also came to apologize. I ignored Melvin’s advice to give up writing, and I did what I thought best. I also took advantage of our friendship. I’m sorry, Val.”
“Not at all. I just wish you’d reconsider.”
“Reconsider what?”
“Giving up this project. Melvin was in a state, and I never got a chance to tell him how much I like your script.”
Prescott’s vision swam, and he blinked a few times. “Pardon?”
“I’d only read the first scene when I called him. But afterward, I kept reading. Couldn’t stop. It’s the best I’ve read in years. Any chance you’d reconsider?”
Thoughts circled Prescott’s brain, colliding with each other. Nothing made sense. “You—you liked it?”
Val shrugged narrow shoulders. “It’s got rough spots, needs work. I’d hook you up with a writer.”
Standard practice in Hollywood. “You’re serious?”
Val inclined his head, and his dark eyes narrowed. “Are you? Are you serious about writing?”
“I—I was. I am. Are you saying you want to pursue this project?”
A chuckle, and Val leaned his elbows on his desk. “I’m saying I’d like another Oscar. You want one?”
All he could hear was Maggie’s cheery voice proclaiming, “Oscars all around,” and he nodded. “We need to call Melvin.”
“He only read the first page, you said? Ha! I can’t wait to tell the great Melvin Underwood that he was wrong.
” Val chuckled, picked up his phone, and dialed.
“You’ve heard the saying ‘Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon ’em.
’ Well, you’re about to achieve greatness, and I’ve had greatness thrust upon me. ”
“That’s Shakespeare,” Prescott said. “From Twelfth Night.”
Val stared at him and laughed. “There’s more to you than meets the eye. Hey, Melvin. Val Ruben. Guess what? We need to talk.”