Page 30 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

Brown eyes crowned by snowy eyebrows lifted to Prescott. “It’s tougher than getting around with these things. And I hate them.” He whacked one of the canes at his side.

Metal clanked on metal in the kitchen. “Tell him why you need canes, Grandpa.”

“Psh. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” Maggie leaned through the window. “He was up on the roof fixing shingles.”

Mr. Curtis shrugged still-broad shoulders. “Needed fixing.”

Maggie whirled back to work. “Broke his hip and both legs.”

Mr. Curtis raised one arm and winked at Prescott. “Don’t forget my wrist.”

“I’m just glad you didn’t break your head,” Maggie called.

Prescott smiled at the teasing affection.

Mr. Curtis frowned at the ceiling. “I noticed two loose shingles the other day.”

“Don’t you dare.” Maggie aimed an icicle of a glare through the window.

The mischief in Mr. Curtis’s expression shifted to frustration.

Frustration Prescott understood. “It’s difficult not doing the things you used to do.”

Mr. Curtis grunted. “Hate using canes. Worse, the wheelchair. But I get by. The church ladies help me around the house, and they bring me doodads to fix. It’s important for a man not to be idle.”

“Grandpa . . .” Maggie winced.

“What?” He pulled his chin back. “Idleness is bad for the soul.”

Prescott chuckled. “Your granddaughter’s worried you’ll hurt my feelings.”

“Why? Acting in movies isn’t idle. Although stardom can become an idol.” He winked.

That’s where Maggie got her sense of humor. “I’m afraid losing my stardom has indeed made me idle, which is—as you said—bad for the soul. I’m determined to find a way out.”

“More USO shows, I hope?” Maggie said. “You’re welcome in any of mine.”

Nothing appealed to him more. But the need for USO shows would end with the war, which couldn’t last long with the progress the Allies were making in Italy and the Pacific.

“What did you do before Hollywood?” Mr. Curtis said.

“Boxing, odd jobs, some of them illegal. Nothing to return to.”

A scratching sound rose from the back of the house.

“That’s Tobias, my dog.” Mr. Curtis waved to the back hall. “I didn’t want him getting in the way during your rehearsals. Maggie?”

She was already on her way, and soon a scrappy gray-and-white mutt danced around Mr. Curtis’s knees, then Prescott’s.

“Hi there. Tobias, is it?” Prescott scratched the dog behind his mismatched ears.

“Push him away if he annoys you,” Mr. Curtis said.

“Never.” Warmth flooded Prescott’s chest. “I had a dog for a few months when I was riding the rails. Grizzled old gal. Then one morning, she didn’t wake up.”

“Oh, Prescott.” Distress marred Maggie’s sweet voice. “That’s so sad. All your stories are.”