Chapter 12 #2
A cry of exasperation, and she scrubbed a plate so hard, water sloshed out of the sink.
“No, I don’t still love you. I love you more than ever.
You could have let me suffer—should have—but no, you had to be nice to me.
So yes, I’m crying. And now—wasn’t it painful enough to be humbled?
Why must I be humiliated as well? Would you please—please leave and let me keep one last shred of dignity? ”
Prescott swayed as the day’s events swirled around him like the dancers in “Winter Wonderland.” The decisions he’d made, the contracts under negotiation, the dinner arranged to reunite lovers, to redress wrongs. All set in motion by this woman. This remarkable woman.
“Please listen to me.” Her voice shattered into pieces. “I asked you to leave.”
Instead, he listened to another voice in his head. “All my life, other people wrote my script, and I acted it out. Ma told me to leave, and I left. Men told me to work, and I worked. They told me to box, and I boxed.”
Maggie ducked her head to the side and swiped her cheek on her shoulder.
Prescott stepped closer and braced himself against the oven, still warm from the dinner she’d prepared.
“Melvin told me to act and sing and dance. And I stood where the director told me to stand, and I sang the lyrics they gave me, and I danced with whichever girl they put in my arms. Then I was burned, and they told me to stay out of sight, and I did.”
A sniffle from Maggie. She adjusted the kerchief around her head, and an arc of droplets glittered in the air.
“These past few months—” His throat clogged.
“You wrote a new script.” Her voice came out tiny. “I—I’m glad.”
He had to be closer, and he leaned back against the sink beside her. “I met with Val Ruben today.”
Her gaze bounced up to him. “You did?” Then she flinched and returned her attention to what had to be a very clean plate by now.
He’d never had a chance to tell her about the furious call from Melvin. “He wants to produce the script.”
“Oh, Press.” Her shiny cheeks quivered with a hint of a smile. “I’m so happy for you. I’m not surprised. It’s a wonderful story. Oh, goodness. Your very own movie.”
He held her with his gaze. “I owe it all to you.”
“Nonsense.” She sloshed around in the dishwater. “Your idea, your story, your words.”
“Your encouragement.” He set a hand on her forearm. “You’re going to rub a hole clean through that plate.”
A sobbing little chuckle, and she jerked her head to the side. She didn’t move her arm.
With his scarred thumb, he caressed her arm in that damp brown sleeve. “The script for my new life is missing only one thing—my leading lady.”
“No, Press.” She wheeled to him. “Don’t you dare. You know what I’m like, how I meddled, how—”
“How you humbled yourself, how—”
“No.” Maggie wrenched her arm away and glared at him. “I won’t let you do this. I want only the best for you, and I—”
“You are the best for me.” He reached for her.
“I’m not. Please leave.” She backed away, bumped into the icebox.
Prescott beckoned to her with his fingers, with a slight smile. “For a woman who claims to love me, you’re trying awfully hard to talk me out of loving you. It won’t work. I am madly in love with you. I’m not going anywhere.”
She rubbed soapy hands on her belly, and her gaze darted in all directions. “Press . . .”
The distance was killing him, and he closed it and set his hands on her waist.
In the narrow space between them, her hands fluttered to her face. “Oh, Press. I look a fright.”
“True.”
Maggie gasped. “You aren’t supposed to say that.”
With a laugh, Prescott gathered her close. “No, I’m not. This is our big romantic scene. You’re supposed to be in a glamorous evening gown with your hair and makeup just so. Like you were at the Del. How I wanted to kiss you that night.”
A trembling smile, and she rested her forehead on his chest. “This isn’t Hollywood.”
“This is real life.” He eased up her damp chin. “Sometimes real-life heroines have red noses.” He kissed that darling red nose. “And tear-stained cheeks.” He tasted those sweet tears.
Reddened eyes glistened with love. “You haven’t mentioned my pale lips.”
“I was saving the best for last.” And he savored those gorgeous pale lips.
Saturday, December 25, 1943
The more time Prescott spent on Mr. Curtis’s street in North Park, the more he liked it. The Craftsman bungalows, each different, stood far enough apart for privacy but close enough to know your neighbors.
This particular home drew him most. Prescott carried a bag of gifts up the walkway—small gifts, Maggie had insisted, since her family had just learned about him. Yesterday after the final performance at the Old Globe, he’d met Maggie’s parents and sister.
He reached for the doorbell, but the door flew open. Maggie rushed out, shut the door, flung her arms about his neck, and gave him a luscious kiss.
“There,” she said. “I can’t do that in front of my family.”
“Let’s go, then.” He backed toward the street.
She laughed and tugged his arm. “You can’t get out of it that easily.”
“Not that. I just want more kisses.” The last ten days, they’d had only one day off from performances. Most of that day had been spent on business away from the woman he loved.
Maggie bestowed one more kiss and led him into the house, filled with the smells of roasting turkey and a fire in the fireplace.
Mr. Curtis sat in his usual chair, and Prescott shook his hand before he could rise. An extra twinkle shone in the man’s eyes now that his home was secure. After Prescott’s private conversation last night with Mr. Curtis and Mr. Oliver, it was doubly secure.
Mr. Oliver shook Prescott’s hand and studied him warily. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, sir.” It would take time for Prescott to build trust after that conversation, especially since he’d conducted it wearing a costume and greasepaint.
Mrs. Oliver gripped Prescott’s hand in both of hers, with gentleness in her blue eyes. “We’re glad you’re here. Maggie can’t stop talking about you.”
Rose nodded, her own blue eyes wide. “Maggie loves you.”
Maggie laughed and hugged her sister’s shoulders. “Good thing I already told him.”
“Maggie made this for me.” Rose fiddled with her yellow sweater. “I like yellow.”
“I do too,” Prescott said. “Like the sun.”
Rose’s smile shone nearly as bright.
“Come, sit down.” Maggie eased Prescott onto the sofa beside Rose, and Maggie perched on the sofa arm.
“I brought this for everyone to share, plus extra for you to take home.” Prescott opened his bag and pulled out three boxes of Showley Brothers candy.
“Cluster Ruffs.” Mrs. Oliver pressed fingers to her lips. “Oh, I’ve missed them.”
Maggie kissed the top of Prescott’s head. Apparently he’d done well. “Here’s your gift.” She set a slim box in his hand.
Inside lay a wide, ebony pen encased in a rubber grip. “Perfect for a writer,” she said. “See how big it is? The stationer thinks adding the grip will help.”
“It will.” He hefted it and marveled at how it didn’t slip from his fingers. “Thank you.”
“I’ll have it engraved with ‘Joseph P. Duke.’” She settled another kiss on his head. “Where’s my gift?”
“Maggie . . .” her mother said.
Maggie giggled and jiggled his shoulder. “Well?”
Prescott gave her an innocent smile and pointed to the candy. “Cluster Ruff?”
Her mouth fell open, rimmed in red lipstick he yearned to kiss away. “Prescott!”
He selected a piece of chocolate. “I’ll give it to you at Frank and Vi’s wedding.”
“But that’s two weeks away!”
“Twelve days. The twelfth day of Christmas.”
A pout pushed out one pretty lip. “Won’t you even tell me?”
“It’s a secret.” He took a bite of chocolate and nuts and maple cream. “You’re right, Mrs. Oliver. These are good.”
“A secret,” Maggie said. “Isn’t that ironic?”
“It is. But I know you’ll like it. Optimistic of me. Arrogant even. But I did ask for advice.”
“From . . . ?”
“From me, Maggie-mine,” Mr. Curtis said with a pleased smile. “And from Ria.”
“You know? Ria knows?” Maggie gaped at her grandfather and drummed her fingers on her crossed knees.
Mrs. Oliver stood. “Come, girls. Time to start the potatoes.”
“But he’s—”
“He’s not telling.” Prescott gave her his most serious look. “I see why you enjoy meddling. It’s kind of fun.”
“Oh my goodness.” She planted a kiss on his cheek and followed her sister to the kitchen. “What have I done to you?”
What had she done indeed? She’d shown him the bright side, and now he intended to live in it.
Thursday, January 6, 1944
Sitting on the wooden pew in St. Francis Chapel in Balboa Park, Maggie kept her hand entwined with Prescott’s.
In front of the carved altarpiece stood the bride and groom, Vi wearing a classy suit in pale green and Frank in his dress blues.
“You may kiss the bride,” the naval chaplain said.
Frank leaned in, Vi met him, and they kissed.
Simply beautiful, and Maggie squeezed Prescott’s hand, probably harder than she should have.
The organ in the balcony erupted in the recessional, and Petty Officer and Mrs. Sebastian proceeded down the aisle under the wood-beamed ceiling.
Vi caught Maggie’s eye, and her smile grew.
Maggie smiled back and blinked hard. She still couldn’t fathom Vi’s forgiveness, Prescott’s, the whole cast’s.
After Vi’s dinner with Frank, the last wall of separation had collapsed.
The shows had increased in polish and charm, even over the course of two weeks, performing to eighteen thousand servicemen and women.
The wedding guests, a mix of cast members and sailors, filed out of the little Spanish Colonial chapel, their shoes clicking on the red tile floor.
Prescott set his hand in the small of Maggie’s back to guide her down the aisle. When they passed through the dark wood doors, he took her hand again and aimed an adoring smile down at her.
A thrill ran through her chest. Now for the reception in the lovely Alcazar Gardens, and the party made their way out to the Plaza de California, facing the grand facade of the California Tower.