Page 35 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

Maggie had arched her eyebrows at his attaché case when he’d picked her up, but in the taxi and on the ferry, they’d had a comfortable conversation.

Now it was time, and he shifted on the cream cushion in his wicker chair. “I apologize for my performance the other day.”

“You don’t need—”

“I do. Something was bothering me, and that something is why I want your opinion.”

Her lower lip poked out in confusion.

Prescott lifted his attaché case into his lap and opened it. “Do you remember the day you showed me the Old Globe and told me to write a new script for my life? Well, I did. It came out as an actual movie script.” He set the stack of papers on the table.

“You did?” Her eyes and her voice lit in tandem. “That’s wonderful.”

“Don’t get too excited.” He latched his attaché case and set it by his chair. “I showed it to my agent on Tuesday. He said I’m not a writer.”

“Oh no. How could he say such a thing?”

“He may be right.”

“I’m so sorry. That was Tuesday? Then on Wednesday—the trial performance.”

“It’s no excuse. The first rule of this business is ‘The show must go on.’ I violated that rule—and when you needed me most.”

“It all worked out.” Her attention lay on the script alone. “Is this it? You brought it?”

His hand splayed on the papers as if protecting a child, but he rotated the stack in front of Maggie. “I’d like your honest opinion.”

“Me? I’m not a writer. I never even acted in movies, only danced.”

“You told me you fed yourself in Hollywood by typing scripts for the studio. I’m sure you can tell a good script from a bad one.”

One corner of her red lips edged high. “I can.”

“Tell me which one this is.”

In her lap, Maggie twisted her hands together. She didn’t want to disappoint him.

Prescott patted the script. “You can’t hurt my feelings any more than Melvin did, and false praise won’t do me any favors. Be honest.”

“All right.” Hesitancy stretched out her voice, but she stroked the top page. “You wrote this by hand?” She spoke not with disdain but with awe. “Is it difficult to write?”

One sharp nod. He wanted honesty, not sympathy.

He couldn’t watch as Maggie started to read.

The circular ballroom spread before him, capped by the enormous red conical roof that could be seen from outside. Inside, tables and chairs ringed the dance floor, lit by crown-shaped lanterns and Moorish chandeliers.

As the orchestra played, couples swirled by, the men in blue naval officers’ uniforms or black tuxedoes, the women in long gowns in every color imaginable.

How much courage would it take to ask Maggie to dance? Too much. She’d have to hold his disfigured hand. He was fooling himself even dreaming of romance.

A little gasp from Maggie, and she turned a page.

Prescott tried to read his own tortured handwriting from a bad angle. Where was she in the story?

He ripped his gaze away. Dancers eyed him as they passed. Did they recognize him from the movies? Pity his burns? Or were they confused by a couple sitting in silence as the lady read?

One song bled into another into another.