Page 36 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

When the waiter brought their plates, Maggie looked up as if awakening. “Oh no. I have to stop reading, don’t I?”

“If you’d like to eat,” he said with a wry smile.

Maggie scooted the script to make room for her dinner. “I only have a few more pages. Poor Charles. He just lost his seat in Congress and the whole world hates him and he’s alone at home. He wants a drink but plays the piano instead. And his warring emotions—anger, grief, shame, wanting to control his piano playing—failing. Every actor will want this role. In the right hands, he’ll get an Oscar for sure.”

Prescott closed his flopping mouth. “You think so?”

She narrowed one eye. “Why didn’t your agent like it?”

“He just called it a mess. He only read one page though.”

She shook her head a bit, making brown curls flutter. “I want to see this movie. I want to know what happens next. How much have you written?”

“The first act.” He gestured to their plates. “We should eat.”

A sheepish look, and she sliced her pork tenderloin. “I don’t agree with Melvin. But I see why this was difficult. You’ve mentioned how much he means to you.”

Prescott sliced his filet mignon into large bites to minimize the work. “He’s like a second father.”

“Your own father died when you were young, yes?”

Prescott stared at his utensils. He’d never told his whole story to anyone. Not Melvin. Not his friends. Not even the pastor at the rescue mission. But it needed to be told. Because it affected how he reacted to even a hint of rejection. Because it had affected Maggie.

He rubbed his thumb along the fork handle. “Pa died when I was twelve. I was big for my age, so I found work. Ma remarried a year later, but my stepfather—he hated me. Beat me. Said since I was working, why should he have to feed me? When I was fourteen, he kicked me out.”

“Oh no.” Maggie’s voice quivered. “How could he do such a thing?”

The knife and fork pointed at each other. “Ma—she was standing in the doorway. I was out in the hall pleading with her. Where could I go? What could I do? But Ma—she feared him more than she loved me. She turned her back. Shut the door.”

“Oh, Press.” Maggie wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. What a horrible thing to endure. When Maggie was fourteen, her only concerns were passing Latin and getting the lead in the school play.

Prescott laid down his knife and fork. “When Melvin rejected my script, it felt like Ma’s rejection all over again. I felt—worthless. It doesn’t make sense, I know.”

She leaned closer and resisted the urge to take his hand. “No, it does. And yet, it doesn’t. Press, what she did to you—that was her fault, not yours. You mustn’t ever see yourself as worthless. Ever.”

His gaze flicked between Maggie and his plate, then a partial smile rose. “As Duke Orsino says, ‘Thou knowst no less than all; I have unclasp’d to thee the book even of my secret soul.’”

Maggie’s chest ached from the sweetness of the gift of the unclasping.

With a huff, Prescott picked up his fork and stabbed a green bean. “Once again, not an excuse for my poor performance, and I apologize.”

Not an excuse, but an explanation—not only of his behavior, but of the story he’d written. “That’s why your script is so strong. I feel what Charles is going through. The tragedies in your life—you’ve turned them into a story.”

His brown-eyed gaze drifted up to her, wide with recognition. “That’s what I want. I want to help people overcome. All those men in the hospital—they’ll go home disfigured, disabled. They may lose their jobs, friends, sweethearts. I want my story to offer hope.”

“It will. I know it will.”

Light dawned in his expression, and it was glorious. “I can’t tell you what it feels like to write. It’s even better than acting. As if this is what I was created for, what I was waiting for. As if everything in my life was leading to this.”

Maggie’s vision blurred, and she wiped her eyes again. “I’m so happy for you.”

“I want to keep writing. I’ve had another couple of story ideas.”

A sniffle, and Maggie dabbed her handkerchief at her nose. “You said your life was a blank page, but now look at you.”

Prescott glanced around the ballroom. “Yeah, look at me, making a beautiful woman cry in public. Everyone thinks I’m breaking your heart.”

One last dab, and Maggie stuffed her hankie in her handbag. “I won’t have them thinking you’re a bad egg. Let’s dance.” She set her hand on his.