Page 40 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

Pacing, mussing his hair. He circled behind her chair, leaned over her shoulder, tapped the paper. “Exterior. Next day, late morning. City street.”

Maggie’s fingers went to work.

“Charles walks down the sidewalk, distracted, still in despair. He crosses a street against the light. Laura is driving a beat-up car, going too fast, children in the back. She turns. Charles doesn’t see her. She swerves, hits a lamppost.”

“Oh no.” Keys clacked. “Is she hurt? Is he?”

“Charles dives out of the way, rolls, a few holes in his suit.” Prescott’s breath brushed Maggie’s cheek. “He runs to the car. Her front end is smashed. She has a cut on her forehead. Charles presses a handkerchief to the cut. ‘Are you hurt?’”

“She breaks down in tears.”

“No!” Grandpa roared from the living room. “She’s fierce, Maggie-mine. Fierce.”

“Yes,” Prescott said. “She has to be fierce to challenge Charles. But she’s angry, scared. She swipes him away, checks on the kids. They tumbled to the floorboards, but they’re okay.”

“Oh, good.” Maggie cleaned up Prescott’s speech as she typed.

“She jumps out of the car, checks the front end, turns on Charles. ‘Why don’t you watch where you’re going? Look at my car.’”

“Now she’s late.”

“Yes.” Prescott clapped his hand to Maggie’s shoulder. “Yes, now she’s late. She’s on her way to a job interview. That’s how I’ll connect it.”

Maggie wanted to face him, but he was so close. “Why would she take her children to an interview?”

“Yeah, why? Why? She—she has no family—no one she trusts to babysit, anyway. She knows it’ll hurt her chances in the interview, and she has no idea what to do with the kids if she gets the job. But what choice does she have? She needs the money.”

Maggie poised her hands over the keys. “Ready?”

“No, let me think.” He patted her shoulder, over and over, surely unaware he was touching her. “He’ll offer to pay to fix her car. She’ll turn him down.”

“She doesn’t want his charity. She wants a job.”

“Yes. Charles argues she can’t get a job without a car. Laura argues she can’t get a job without a babysitter. Is he offering?”

“Oh, I like her. She’s spunky. He offers her a job right then.”

Prescott murmured. “Not yet. He hasn’t come up with his idea. He’ll talk her into taking the money, tell her to call if the cash doesn’t cover the repairs, give her his card, take her number.”

“There you go. You have your next scene, and it’s a peach.”

Prescott turned and grinned at her, so close she could touch his cheek and pull him in for a kiss.

If only.

With a dramatic flair, she set her fingers on the keys. “All right, Duke. Dictate away.”

Tuesday, November 30, 1943

Prescott and Vi finished act 1, scene 4, and they left the taped-off stage in the gymnasium.

In the other wing, Jack chatted with Albert, and Carol fussed with her fingernails.

“Scene 5,” Maggie prompted.

Prescott tensed. Opening night was only ten days away, and too many players were still missing lines, cues, and marks.

“Carol, Jack,” Maggie said. “Scene 5.”