Chapter 12 #3
Ria fell in beside them as they strolled through the plaza. “The perfect ending for a wonderful run of a show.”
“It is.” For the coming months, Maggie and Ria had booked Camp Shows troupes to perform at the Naval Air Station, the Naval Training Station, the Repair Base, Camp Pendleton, and other bases and camps in the area.
No directing, mostly coordinating, but the men would be well entertained.
Since Prescott would be busy in Hollywood, he wouldn’t be performing.
After Christmas, he had returned to Beverly Hills, one hundred thirty miles from San Diego, and Maggie had seen him only twice. They’d had so little time to discuss how they’d continue to see each other.
She clutched Prescott’s hand. Somehow they’d make it work. She loved him too much.
On the far side of the plaza, Ria turned right toward Alcazar Gardens.
But Prescott headed left across El Prado. “Bye, Ria. We’ll see you later at the reception.”
“Bye, you two.”
“Where are we going?” Maggie asked.
“Time for your Christmas gift.”
“Oh?” Her step perked up. Prescott wasn’t carrying anything. Unless it was small enough to fit in his pocket.
Surely not . . .
Of course not. How arrogantly optimistic of her. Only a month had passed since their first kiss, a month that included a massive hiccup.
Prescott led her beside the California Tower, which stretched high to a cool blue sky speckled with clouds. “I’ve been busy this past week.”
Maggie brushed against his arm. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.” He gave her a soft look. “Which is why I had a long talk with Val and Melvin. You need to be here for your grandpa and your job, and I need to be with you.”
Maggie slammed to a stop. “Your writing—you can’t give it up.”
“I’ve no intention of doing that.” He resumed walking, passing the dome tiled in white and yellow and blue and green.
“I wrote my first screenplay in my hotel room, at the beach, at your kitchen table. I can write anywhere. So I’ll write in San Diego.
I’ll go to LA for meetings, occasionally for longer spells, but mostly here. ”
“That’s wonderful. I’m thrilled.” Then she frowned at him. “But your house.”
“I’m renting it to the studio. They’ll use it for new stars waiting to buy their own mansions. They’ll leave the guesthouse for me to use.” A satisfied smile creased the scars. “This past week I’ve been packing, preparing to have furniture shipped. To my new home.”
Maggie stumbled over a crack in the pavement. “Your new . . . ?”
“That’s my secret.” He winked at her and led her into the plaza in front of the Old Globe Theatre. “Your grandpa calls it the Fortner place, across the street from his place, one block up. Two-story Craftsman, wood shingle siding.”
“I know the house.” Maggie stared at him. “I’ve always liked it.”
“Now it’s the Duke place. I bought it the Wednesday before Christmas. Your grandpa came with me, made sure it was sound, told me what repairs are needed. Ria came too. I—I wanted a woman’s opinion.”
A laugh flowed out. “You’ll be so close. That’s the best gift I could imagine.”
“That’s not the gift. You see, this whole meddling scheme of mine hinges on you. And I did meddle.” Furrows formed across his brow.
“What do you mean?” She’d never seen him look so guilty.
“Remember when I met your parents after the final show on Christmas Eve? When I took your father and grandfather outside for a chat?”
“Yes.” Whatever had he done? Maggie stopped in front of the circular theater with its half-timbering near the roof.
He faced her and stared down at their clasped hands. “I told your father that your grandpa needs to remain in his house, and that if your wages don’t meet his needs, I’ll cover any gaps. I discussed this with your grandpa beforehand, the day I bought the house.”
How incredibly kind of him—and how courageous. “Papa—I doubt he liked that.”
A chuckle, and he played with Maggie’s fingers. “Not one bit. A complete stranger—an actor wearing greasepaint, nonetheless—meddling in his family. But once I explained my Christmas gift for you . . .” His voice rasped.
What did her gift have to do with Grandpa?
Prescott released her hand and fished in his pocket. “It would be different if I were helping family.” He held out a jewelry box of midnight blue velvet.
Maggie’s hands flew to her mouth.
With his face agitating, Prescott glanced over his shoulder at the Old Globe. “In Twelfth Night, two couples have happy endings—one couple married, the other on their way. Now Frank and Vi are married, and you and I . . .”
He snapped open the box. A square-cut diamond rested in a platinum setting, bordered by an Art Deco band of tiny diamonds—were there twelve of them?—yes, twelve.
Maggie’s fingers trembled on her lips. It was so lovely, so perfect.
“I know it’s early.” Prescott’s voice grated, and he dragged his gaze up to her, liquid and warm. “I also know I love you and want you beside me for the rest of my life. If you’re not ready, I’ll hold on to this, try again later. But I’m not giving up, Maggie Oliver.”
Words twirled in her head, and not one could pass her lips.
“I’ll be right across the street.” He tipped his head.
“If you agree to marry me, we’ll be right across the street from your grandpa.
We can cook for him, help him, enjoy his company, take him to the movies and the zoo.
He’ll be in his home, filled with memories of his beloved.
And I hope to fill my new home with memories of my beloved. ”
Maggie’s eyes filled. She didn’t deserve his love or a future with him, but she’d be foolish to turn down such a gift. With a shuddering breath, she lowered her hands from her mouth. “As Olivia says in Twelfth Night, ‘Love sought is good, but given unsought, is better.’”
Brown eyes darkened with wistful longing. “Does that mean . . . ?”
She raised her quivering left hand.
A smile hopped around on his lips, and he plucked at the ring. “I may need help. Not terribly romantic of me to drop it.”
Maggie slipped the ring onto her finger, a bit snug, but she didn’t care. “Oh, Press. I love it. I love you. Do you think the chaplain is still in the chapel? He could marry us right now.”
A big laugh rolled from his gorgeous mouth, and he took her by the waist and pulled her close. “I promised your father a long engagement.”
She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him. “How long? One week? Two? Please not twelve. Not everything has to be in twelves.”
He kissed her back, far too short. “We were negotiating in months, not weeks.”
Maggie caressed the back of his neck. “Are you done meddling?”
“You may now enter the negotiations.” He nuzzled a kiss onto her forehead. “As I told you on the phone the day you invited me into your USO show, ‘I’m yours, Miss Oliver.’”
He was. She stood surrounded by the rustle of palm trees and the scent of eucalyptus and the joy of Prescott’s love. “And I am yours.”