Page 24 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

All he had left was money and a beautiful empty house.

Prescott groaned, and his head sagged to his chest. That was all he had left too. His image had been destroyed by scars, not scandal, but destroyed it remained.

Who was he now? He certainly wasn’t Joe Prescott anymore. He couldn’t go back and didn’t want to. But who would he become?

And who would Charles Anthony become? For Charles to move forward, Prescott Duke had to move pencil over paper. So he did.

EXT. CHARLES ANTHONY’S YACHT AT SEA—CONTINUOUS

Five wealthy couples mingle and sip champagne. The yacht rocks in a rising wind. Smiles turn to nervous glances. Champagne sloshes to the deck.

FELICIA ANTHONY approaches CHARLES, holding back her hair in the wind.

FELICIA

Charles? Don’t you think we should turn back? The weather . . .

CHARLES

It’s fine. The captain worries too much. I tell you, Felicia, I’m so close to—

Prescott winced and paused to stretch his hand. Holding the pencil between thumb and his two remaining fingers—middle and ring on his right hand—was difficult enough without the pain and stiffness.

“Why am I doing this?” he asked the pencil.

Perhaps as he walked alongside Charles Anthony and helped him figure out his purpose, Prescott would figure out his purpose too.

God’s love was more than enough, but God had created him for meaningful work and relationships. Without those, Prescott had been wasting away, and Charles would too.

In this story, Prescott would take Charles low, then help him rise.

The breeze ruffled Prescott’s hair. “Lord, help me rise too.”

five

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love sent to me . . . five gold rings.

Saturday, November 13, 1943

At the streetcar terminal outside Balboa Park’s eastern gate, Maggie chatted with Frank Sebastian in front of a truck, while Ria checked off cast members as they boarded from the back.

Frank had procured two canvas-covered trucks to corral the two dozen civilians on naval property. For Maggie, it helped blind Frank and Vi to each other’s presence. If Frank and Vi did sight each other, Maggie would see it as God’s way of overriding her plans. But surely the Lord wanted a romantic reunion as much as she did.

“That’s everyone,” Ria called to Maggie.

“Thank you. Come ride up front with the yeoman.” Portfolio in hand, Maggie climbed into the back of the truck filled with men and women singing “Winter Wonderland” on a hazy—but hardly wintry—morning.

The truck rumbled through the gate and down Laurel Street, and the canvas formed an arched framework around the park’s grand exposition buildings.

Today would be the first of only three rehearsals in the Old Globe and the last full rehearsal before the trial performance for Mr. Anderson.

Maggie’s stomach tensed. Only four days to go.

In a few minutes, the trucks turned in front of the Museum of Man and its soaring California Tower and parked outside the theater.

“Stay here until the theater door is unlocked. The Navy doesn’t trust us.” To the laughter of the cast, Maggie held up one hand in mock warning and climbed out of the truck.

While Frank unlocked the door, Maggie repeated her order at the second truck—partly to keep her lovebirds apart and partly to convince the Navy that show people could in fact be trusted.