Page 39 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

“No.” Maggie raised one finger. “Not until Press finishes his script and I finish typing. It’ll be our reward.”

It was Prescott’s turn to harrumph. “Now I’m being ganged up on.”

“Absolutely. Get to work, young man.” Maggie lifted a black typewriter case onto the kitchen table.

“Yes, ma’am.” Prescott relished the familial teasing. But this wasn’t his family.

Maggie sandwiched carbon paper between pieces of white paper and rolled the layers into her typewriter. “Have you decided where to pitch it?”

“I’ll show it to Valentine Ruben.” Prescott pulled his script out of his attaché case. “He’s with my old studio and produced several of my films. The serious ones. We’re pretty good friends. He visited a few times when I was in the hospital.”

“This is a perfect fit for him.” Maggie held out her hand for the script.

Prescott frowned at it. “This could be my swan song.”

“You mustn’t talk like that. This will be a glorious swan dive.” She made a pretty swooping motion with one arm.

“‘I forgive you the praise.’”

Maggie gave him a cute smile that said she recognized her Shakespearean cue. “‘Alas, I took great pains to study it, and ’t is poetical.’”

Once again, all Prescott wanted to do was to kiss her. But if he hadn’t kissed her after dancing the night away at the Del, he certainly wouldn’t do so in front of her grandfather.

Instead, he pulled a chair around beside her. “Can you decipher the first page?”

“This is where I’m stuck.” Prescott stood, leaning his elbows on the chairback across from Maggie, his necktie and jacket long abandoned, his top buttons undone, his hair mussed. He’d never looked more attractive.

Maggie had just typed the scene where Charles Anthony despaired at the piano. “You don’t know what Charles is going to do with his life?”

“No, I do. I do.” Prescott pushed back from the chair, scooped up Tobias, and leaned against the wall near the window peeking into the living room. “Charles has money, he knows people with money and influence, and he’s good at persuading people.”

“A true politician.”

Prescott rubbed Tobias behind his floppy ear. “Yes, but he used it all for his own power, at the expense of the woman and children he loved. Now he’s going to use it to help women and children. He’ll open a day care center, for free or cheap, for children of widows or women with disabled husbands. They need to work, but who’s going to watch the kids?”

Maggie’s fingers drifted from the keys to her lap. “I love the idea. Some of the factories provide day care now.”

“Yes, but what about waitresses or salesgirls or maids? Who helps them? That’s what Charles will do. He’ll start it with his own money, recruit his pals to help. Charles won’t take a penny himself. Not after the scandal.”

“It’s perfect. Why are you stuck?”

“How to get there.” Prescott blew out a breath that ruffled Tobias’s fur. “Her name is Laura Holt. She’s a war widow, two little kids. She’ll work for Charles, inspire him, challenge him.”

“Fall in love with him?”

Prescott flicked up a smile. “If you’re nice to me, I’ll let them fall in love. But only near the end.”

“His reward. Yes. This is going to be so good. How do they meet?”

“That’s what I can’t figure out.” He walked toward the kitchen door. “I thought she was a waitress, but I want her to be unemployed. Or at church—but it lacks drama.”

“A car accident?” Grandpa called from the living room.

Tobias wriggled, and Prescott set him down. Then Prescott’s eyes widened, and he spun to the window. “You’re a genius, Mr. Curtis.”

“Finally, someone recognizes it.”

“Hush, Grandpa.” But Maggie loved that he was as caught up in the story as she was. “The real genius is at work.”