Page 26 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

Ria had brought a cart from the mess with a coffee urn and a stack of deviled ham sandwiches, and the cast lounged on benches in the plaza, enjoying their lunch.

Well, most were enjoying it. Albert separated the pieces of bread and wrinkled his long nose at the pinkish spread inside. “I know why deviled ham isn’t rationed. No one wants it.”

“‘Pourquoi, my dear knight?’” Freddie quoted his character in Twelfth Night, Sir Toby Belch.

Albert assumed the empty-headed expression of his own character, Sir Andrew Aguecheek. “‘What is pourquoi? Do or not do? I would I had bestowed that time in the tongues, that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting.’”

Prescott joined the chuckling. He had missed this sort of camaraderie. In less than two months, he would miss it again.

No, he wouldn’t, because he was determined to rejoin the world of the living.

On the far side of the plaza, Maggie sat facing the broad tiled dome and tall tower of the adjacent building.

Prescott tilted his head. It wasn’t like her to be alone.

If only he could sit with her. If only he had the guts to ask her out.

He tilted his head in the other direction. Why not? He was vanquishing the aimlessness that had held him back. He’d written fifteen pages in his screenplay, and the story grew in his mind, deepened, compelled him to write more. When Melvin read it, he would surely approve. To relieve his agent’s concerns about image, Prescott would remind him that writers’ faces weren’t plastered on movie posters. And he could always use a pen name.

Prescott swallowed the last bite of sandwich and returned his cup and plate to the cart.

He’d give Maggie an easy escape in case his scars were a bigger barrier to romance than they were to friendship. He’d ask her plans for the evening. If she was taking her grandpa to the movies, he’d weasel an invitation.

Not the most romantic of dates, but he simply wanted to spend time with her.

The sun had dissolved the morning haze, surely for the sole purpose of lighting up Maggie’s brown hair.

Prescott sat beside her and rested his elbows on the back of the bench. “Hi there.”

She looked up from a letter in her hands and brightened. “Hello.”

The brightening emboldened him. “Hiding from the five-ring circus?” He tipped his head to the cast.

“Five ring?” Then Maggie laughed. “Five gold rings. Clever.”

“What are you reading?”

“A letter from Rose, my little sister. Well, my mother wrote it, but it’s from Rose.”

Prescott fought a frown. What did she mean?

Maggie stroked the stationery. “Rose can’t read or write. She—she had meningitis at the age of three, and she’ll always be three inside.”

“I’m sorry.”

Pain crimped her mouth, but then she smiled at him. “Thank you, but Rose is a light in our lives. Listen to this—Rose says she rolls bandages at the Red Cross three times a week. I suspect the Red Cross ladies save all the bandages just for her.”

Prescott rubbed his thumbs to his remaining fingers. Rose didn’t let her infirmity stop her from aiding the war effort. “She sounds remarkable.”

“She is. You might get to meet her. She’s coming to San Diego with my parents for Christmas. I know, I know. As the posters say, ‘Millions of troops are on the move. Is your trip necessary?’ Tell that to my father. He’s a lawyer. He’ll find a way.”

The more he heard about the Oliver family, the more he wanted to meet them. “I’m sure you’ll be glad to see them.”

“Yes.” But a virtual cloud snuffed the sun in her blue-sky eyes.

Why? Was she embarrassed by Rose?

No, she seemed proud of her sister, which aligned with Maggie’s compassionate character. Was Rose’s infirmity the reason for Maggie’s compassion?