Page 21 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

He edged around the girls, not to take center stage but to lead them down the aisle. The girls followed, twirling and gliding, while Prescott met the gaze of each man he passed.

His hands burned and itched from washing dishes the night before, but he wouldn’t trade it for a thing.

How pretty Maggie had looked with her sleeves rolled up, an apron about her slender waist, suds on her chin, chatting and laughing as if he were any other man.

As if he were more than a scar. More than a star.

When he’d inserted himself into her evening, he’d sounded pathetic. But Maggie hadn’t slammed the door on him. She’d pulled him right through that door.

If his life were different, if he had a future to offer, he would pursue her.

For the last verse, Prescott led his musical procession back down the aisle to the door. They took their bows and the girls blew kisses, while the patients whooped and whistled.

Lieutenant Parkinson, the Navy nurse who served as their guide, waited at the door. “Thank you so much. Are you ready to leave?”

“Do you have a burn ward?” The words came out before he could stop them.

“You don’t want to—” Her pale face reddened, then she touched her own cheek. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“That’s quite all right. And yes, I want to. That is, if it’s all right with you, ladies. A burn ward isn’t very—”

“Of course it’s all right.” Barbara nodded her head of dark blonde curls. “We joined the USO to entertain the troops. All of them.”

“All right, then.” Lieutenant Parkinson led them down a hallway floored with tile, up a staircase, and into another ward with dozens of men, most bound in pressure bandages, their burned limbs elevated to reduce swelling.

Prescott’s breath snagged in his throat. The smells. The sights. The groans.

“Gentlemen, may I have your attention?” the nurse called out. “I have a special treat for you from the USO. None other than movie star Prescott Duke and four lovely singers to entertain you.”

Prescott was supposed to thank the lieutenant, greet the patients, and introduce the song, but his vocal cords protested.

Not a song. Not yet.

“I’ve been here.” His words came out cramped, and he shook his head to loosen them. “I have been here. Not this ward, but one just like it. I enlisted. I wanted to fight. I never got the chance. My bus to training camp got in an accident, caught on fire. And I ended up here.”

Prescott wandered down the aisle. “I know the heat that won’t go away. I know the stench of burned flesh, the sting of raw meat, the constriction of scars, the loss of fingers. I know the stares, the averted gazes, the pity. I know the loss of relationships.”

“My girl . . .” a sailor bound in white sobbed out the words.

Prescott’s heart burned far more than his face ever had. “It feels like the end, doesn’t it? We don’t look the same. We may not be able to do the things we love. May not be able to perform our old jobs. Simple daily tasks are painful, difficult.”

Silence filled the ward. Grief. Loss. Fear.

It had consumed Prescott’s heart for almost two years.

He knew it as truth in his own life, but he loathed it in these men’s lives, wanted to refute it, and that burning in his heart seared its way up his throat.

Prescott swept his arm around the room as if he could wipe out the lie. “This is not the end. Your mind still works. Your heart still beats. Your character—why, it’s stronger than before, isn’t it? Let it grow even stronger. As Shakespeare said, ‘In nature there’s no blemish but the mind, none can be call’d deform’d but the unkind.’”

“So true,” one of the ladies murmured.

Prescott marched down the aisle, pointing at each man. “Let this trial build your compassion for the hurting, build your determination to persevere, build your strength, your patience. Let this heat burn off any arrogance that hinders you and let it humble you in the best possible way.”

In the slits of bandages, eyes brightened.

Prescott’s voice built. “With your mind, your heart, and your character, you can do great things. This world is a mess. We need you. As you are. Burned, scarred, disfigured—and smart and strong and compassionate. We need you.”

His words stopped, and they settled down and filtered in.