Chapter 12
twelve
On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love sent to me . . . twelve drummers drumming.
San Diego
Maggie scraped mashed potatoes from the pot into a china serving bowl.
The doorbell rang.
She grimaced and slid the bowl into the oven to keep warm. That would be Prescott, right on time. If only Ria had been free tonight. Frank, Vi, and Maggie were comfortable with Ria.
Maggie was no longer comfortable with Prescott. Somehow she’d hold herself together tonight as she’d done for the past few days.
She opened the door and looked him in the eye for the first time since opening night.
His eyebrows shot high.
No wonder. He’d never seen her wearing her dowdy old dress, Grandma’s ancient apron, and a kerchief about her hair—and not a speck of powder or lipstick.
She motioned him inside. “Thank you for coming.”
“You’re welcome.” He hung his hat on the coatrack and shrugged off his coat.
Maggie strode to the dining room. “The table is set. Butter, gravy, sugar, salt and pepper, flowers in the vase. Here’s a bouquet for Frank to give Vi if he didn’t bring flowers himself. If he did, toss these in the kitchen.”
Although her hand shook, she lit the candles.
“I talked to the taxi company. Frank should arrive in ten minutes, Vi five minutes later. Here’s a bell so they can ring if they need anything from you.
I set up a table in Grandpa’s room at the end of the hall.
You can sit in there and eat your dinner. You brought a book as I asked?”
“Yes.”
Maggie smoothed Grandma’s embroidered Christmas tablecloth. “If you need any help, knock on my door, second on the right.”
“Okay.”
She edged past Prescott to the phone table in the living room. “When the evening is over, call the taxi company. Here’s the number. I pray it won’t be too early.”
“I do too.”
“Knock before you leave so I know when to clean up.” In the kitchen, she tossed green beans into the pot of boiling water and set the timer.
“The coffee is brewed. The roast beef and mashed potatoes are in the oven keeping warm. Here’s the carving knife, plates for you and Frank and Vi.
Apple pie over here, knife, plates, dessert forks.
Whipped cream in the icebox.” She opened the door and pointed at the bowl. “And cream for the coffee.”
“Do you have any ration stamps left for December?” A teasing tone lifted his voice.
Why did that hurt even more? Recalling the easy camaraderie they’d once enjoyed. She shut the icebox. “Grandpa will. I’ll get by.”
“It looks very nice. You thought of everything.”
A week ago, she would have agreed. “Not at all.”
“Pardon?”
She picked up a dishrag and wiped a blob of mashed potato from the stovetop. “No one can think of everything, especially when people are involved.”
“True,” he said in a low voice.
Green beans tumbled in the roiling water. “I didn’t make this new plan on my own. I asked Grandpa and Ria for advice. I prayed, and I listened. Listen, listen, listen. I’ve been drumming it into my head.”
A murmur from Prescott.
At the sink, Maggie ran water into the potato pot and shook in soap flakes. “I always saw optimism as my strength. But at its heart—at the heart of optimism—lies a kernel of arrogance.”
“Arrogance?”
Maggie pushed up her sleeves and scrubbed the pot. “It’s arrogant to assume everything will turn out well just because I imagined it that way.”
A creak as Prescott leaned against the open door. “You aren’t alone.”
“Pardon?” She started to glance his way. Stopped herself before making a huge mistake.
“Isn’t pessimism similar?”
“Hardly.” She dumped the soapy water into the sink and rinsed the pot.
“At the heart of pessimism lies a kernel of self-pity. Assuming everything will turn out poorly because I imagined it that way.”
Maggie grabbed the dish towel and dried the pot. Her gaze turned to him, betraying her.
There was something new about him, as if he were taller, broader, wiser.
“Don’t let this destroy your optimism,” he said. “Only temper it.”
Maggie shook her head and put the pot in the cupboard, only half dry.
“I’m serious. In your optimism, you told me to write a new script for my life. I’m glad I listened to you.” No wistful longing lingered in his voice, only the peace of saying goodbye.
The timer dinged. Maggie set the colander in the sink and dumped the beans into it. “You listened.” Pain seized her chest. No—she refused to cry. “If I’d listened, all of this would have been unnecessary.”
The doorbell rang.
“That’s Frank.” Maggie slid the green beans from the colander into the vegetable bowl, untied the apron, and hung it on the hook. “I’ll be in my room.”
“Aren’t you going to say hello?”
“I’ve already apologized to him through you, and I refuse to put myself in the audience tonight. As you said, Frank and Vi aren’t actors onstage for my entertainment.” She motioned to the kitchen doorway, which Prescott blocked. “Do give them my love.”
“All right.” He headed to the front door.
In her room, Tobias napped on the rug, and Maggie ruffled his ears. Then she turned on the little red Bakelite radio on her dresser so she wouldn’t even be tempted to listen to the real-life drama in the living room.
After she pulled out her knitting, she settled into her armchair and tried to pay attention to The Adventures of Superman.
The next two hours dragged through news and serials and music. She made barely any progress on the left sleeve of the sweater for Rose, in her sister’s favorite shade of yellow.
Twice she heard the bell.
Three times she unraveled rows she messed up.
Four times she stifled sobs. After everyone left, she’d indulge, but not yet.
A knock on her door. “Maggie?” Prescott said.
She turned off the radio and took a deep breath to smooth the ragged edges from her voice. “Yes? Do you need something?”
“I called the taxi company. Frank and Vi want to say goodbye.”
She’d deliberately made herself frumpy so she wouldn’t be lured into the limelight. “I didn’t do this for me. It’s a gift. An apology.”
“They know that.” His voice sounded softer and warmer than the wool in her hands. “They’d like to say goodbye.”
“Not tonight.”
Silence. No retreating footsteps. “Maggie? They’re getting married.”
Her mouth crumpled, and her eyes misted. “I—I’m so glad.”
In the distance, the doorbell rang.
“The cab,” Prescott said.
“Thank you for everything. And good night.” But footsteps clomped down the hall. Had he heard her farewell?
After the front door opened and closed, Maggie left her bedroom.
The plates and silverware had already been cleared from the table. Yet another undeserved kindness from Prescott.
She blew out the candles, caught the whiff of Christmas-red roses.
In spite of Maggie, Frank and Vi would have their happy ending.
A strange sob billowed out, joy for her former friends mingled with grief for losing Prescott.
She picked up the salt and pepper shakers, but everything blurred around her.
Not yet. She needed to clean up, put away the food, wash the dishes.
The tears ignored her direction and made an unscripted entrance.
Prescott opened the cab door.
Vi hugged him. “Oh, Press, I’m so happy. Please tell Maggie.”
“Tell her yourself tomorrow at the theater.”
Frank shook his hand, grinning hard. “Thanks for everything. Best day of my life.”
The young couple slid into the backseat, kissed, and waved at Prescott. The cab pulled away.
Now to help clean up.
The drapes were drawn in the bungalow, and Prescott pulled in a fortifying breath. He’d come resolved not to be moved by Maggie’s beauty or cheer. He hadn’t been prepared for the muting of both beauty and cheer. And the reason for the muting tore him up inside.
It was true remorse. Not only had she admitted she was wrong and worked to make things right, but she was actively fighting the impulses that had caused the problem in the first place. Fighting them too hard even.
Every detail tonight gleamed for Frank and Vi alone, even Maggie’s removal of herself from the evening. She would accept no reward, not even the satisfaction of a job well done.
Prescott’s resolve cracked in two.
What now? He pushed his feet up the walkway. Just because he loved her didn’t mean they belonged together.
“Lord, help me listen.” Maggie wasn’t the only one who needed that lesson.
He opened the front door, and gulping sounds rose from the dining room.
At the table, Maggie sat with her face in her hands. She gasped and looked up, her face red and glistening. “You—I thought you left.”
His feet froze. He could grab his hat and coat and make his escape. Except he hadn’t called his own cab yet. “I’m helping clean up.”
“No, no.” She grabbed the saltshaker and darted past him and into the kitchen. “Didn’t I mention? I told Ria. You don’t need to clean up.”
Prescott had the strangest sensation, as if he’d stepped into a place he didn’t belong and a scene he wasn’t meant to see, yet knowing—knowing—he was precisely where he belonged. In this place. In this scene. “I won’t leave you with all these dishes.”
“Nonsense.” Her voice was high and trembling. “You’ve done enough.”
One napkin lay damp and limp where Maggie had been seated. “You’ve been crying.”
“I thought you left.” Anger shuddered in her voice.
If those were happy tears for Frank and Vi, she would have said so. Prescott propelled himself deeper into this place of belonging and into the kitchen doorway. “What’s wrong?”
Maggie ran water into the sink and shook in soap flakes—far more than needed. “You’ve already cleaned up my mess. You do not need to wash dishes. Good night.”
Every scene had a tipping point, and Prescott stood firm. “What’s wrong?”
Her shoulders hunched up in a brown dress that recalled the depths of the Depression. “Good night, Prescott. I vowed I wouldn’t let you see me cry. I will not have you think I’m manipulating you with tears. Good night.”
Prescott was the one tipping, falling, and he didn’t want to stop. “Do you still love me?”