Page 31 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

He sat up taller, and his fingers stilled behind Tobias’s ears. “I do have happy stories. My pa—he was the best father I could imagine. And riding the rails—I made good friends, saw the country. And I loved acting in the movies.”

Peeking through the window, Maggie beamed at him.

Tobias bumped Prescott with his nose, and Prescott resumed scratching.

“And today,” he murmured. Today was happy.

six

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love sent to me . . . six geese a-laying.

Los Angeles

Tuesday, November 16, 1943

Only a month earlier, Prescott had sat outside Melvin Underwood’s fancy office on Wilshire Boulevard, hopeless, aimless.

Today he held an attaché case filled with hope and aim. And tomorrow he’d ask Maggie out. He’d already made dinner reservations at the Hotel del Coronado. If she was in love with Frank Sebastian, he’d rather find out now. And if she wasn’t? Well, it was time.

Edna opened Melvin’s door. “He’ll see you now.”

Melvin met him halfway across the office with a firm handshake. “Don’t tell me the USO has already fired you.”

“Not at all.” He returned the grin. “In fact, they’d like to have me in more shows.”

Melvin’s broad nose wrinkled as he rounded his desk. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Since I no longer have a studio contract, I’m free.” Prescott settled into the leather armchair. “I’ve also been performing in the naval hospital. I tell you, something good is coming of it.”

Melvin blew out a long breath. “I preferred it when you were the Hollywood Hermit.”

Prescott didn’t. With a quick prayer for nerves, he opened his attaché case. “The USO isn’t why I came today. This is.” He set his script in front of his agent.

“What is it?” Melvin thumbed through the painstakingly written pages.

Prescott cleared his throat. “Act 1 of my screenplay.”

Melvin chomped off a curse. “I told you—”

“You told me to get it out of my head. I did. Got it out of my head and onto paper.”

Melvin’s jaw dangled. “Handwritten? In pencil?”

Muscles tensed in Prescott’s shoulders. “I don’t have a typewriter.”

“And badly handwritten.” Melvin sat back and tossed his hands wide. “What are you thinking, Press?”

A deep breath, a deep prayer, and Prescott gave his agent a steady gaze. “It’s a powerful story. You represent writers as well as actors. I know you can get this moving.”

Shaking his big head, Melvin shoved the script back across the desk.

Prescott stopped him, both hands on the precious pages, both lungs pulsing air. “Please. Please read it. Out of courtesy if nothing else. Have I ever let you down?”

Melvin glowered, but then he groaned, scraped the script back toward him, and put on his reading glasses.

As Melvin read the first page, Prescott gripped the black leather of his attaché case. Melvin had lifted Prescott from poverty to fame, taught him, nurtured him, believed in him.

Melvin peeked at the second page, flopped the first page back in place, and sat back again in his chair. “You poured your heart into this. It shows.”