Page 12 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

“I don’t meddle. I help.”

He arched one white eyebrow. “If you’re keeping secrets, you’re meddling.”

Maggie stood, planted a kiss on his forehead, and returned to the kitchen. “The only secret I’m keeping is how much cheese I’ll put in your sandwich, and I’m not telling.”

“Meddling.” But Grandpa chuckled, and all was well again.

For the first time in his week in San Diego, Prescott had not ordered room service.

Since his accident, he went out in public as little as possible. Business meetings, doctor appointments, church. That was it.

Tonight he’d eaten in the hotel dining room, and he was strolling down Broadway toward the bay in the blacked-out evening, lit only by partial headlights on trolleys and cars.

The passersby paid him no mind, civilians intent on getting home or sailors searching for a bar or dance hall.

For the most part, the restaurant patrons had also paid him no mind. Those who had looked his way looked too long. After his first big movie hits, he’d attracted those looks, followed by a flash of recognition and “Is that Prescott Duke?”

Now those long looks were followed by revulsion or pity.

For almost two years, that had kept him inside. But today, the cast had overcome their initial shock and accepted him.

Prescott passed a newsstand, each page of each newspaper filled with words. “Write a new script for your life,” he murmured.

His current script stank. He might have money and a nice house, but he had no people, no purpose. His idleness grated—it wasn’t right, and it wasn’t good for him.

He waited for a taxi to pass, and he crossed the street, dodging a trio of chatting office girls.

The last time his life had been empty, Melvin had rescued him. But this time, Melvin couldn’t rescue him.

To his right rose the grand USO-Army-Navy YMCA. A crowd of sailors trotted up the steps, under the engraved sign reading “Young Men’s Christian Association.”

How many nights had Prescott spent at the Y in his youth? The Y had saved him.

Prescott chuckled. Neither Melvin nor the Y had saved him. God had. And that rescue could never be taken away.

His pace picked up, harder, faster. God didn’t want him to sit around idle. He’d sent Prescott to this place at this time for some reason.

“What is it, Lord?” He wanted to do something good with his life. He wanted to help people. But how?

In a few blocks, he got as close to the bay as the Navy allowed. Piers jutted out, bristling with gray warships. In the harbor, silver starlight winked on the black waters, and on the far side, North Island stretched in a dark band.

If Prescott’s life were a Hollywood script, it would be rags to riches . . . to rubble. Who would watch a movie like that?

For a movie to lift people up, it would need to be riches to rubble . . . to rebirth. To rebuilding. To refreshing.

Prescott would watch a movie like that.

A man, the hero, has everything. Loses everything that matters to him. Even as he retains what most people want. Yet he rebuilds his life, a better life, a life focused on others, not self. On community, not commodities.

Prescott’s gaze lifted to the star-littered sky. He could see the man. Prescott could play him, but he wasn’t Prescott. Not at all.

“Who are you?” he asked the man. “What did you have? What did you lose? What will you do now?”

He could envision a scene, like a movie in his head, hear the voices.

The man is wealthy, has it all, beautiful family he loves but neglects—due to the work he loves even more. He loses his family. His fault somehow. Loses his work.

More scenes. Dialogue. Side characters.