Page 44 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

Maggie’s hair concealed her cheeks as she leaned over. “I’ve never thought of hippos nursing before.”

Her grandfather gave her a teasing grin. “They are mammals.”

“But underwater—that’s incredible.”

Prescott pointed. “Here comes the baby.”

The little hippo pushed to the surface, gulped a breath of air, and dove for more milk—while dozens of visitors gasped and cooed.

The moment Prescott saw the article in the San Diego Union last week about the baby’s debut, he knew he could overcome Mr. Curtis’s remaining objections to the trip.

Maggie held back her hair to smile at Prescott. “This is worth staying up late tonight to type, isn’t it?”

“It is. Only ten pages left anyway.”

“The ending.” She nudged him. “Can’t wait.”

“Let’s let these youngsters have a look.” Mr. Curtis hobbled back to his wheelchair, and a pair of little girls rushed into the gap.

Prescott pushed the chair, following Maggie, who carried the map. She’d padded the wheelchair handles with fabric for him, which helped. But he wouldn’t have minded bare metal if it meant spending a day with these two.

Maggie dashed to the next enclosure. “Aren’t you the funniest-looking creature?”

Prescott heaved a pretend sigh. “That’s not a nice way to talk about me.”

She laughed and pointed to a large pig-shaped animal with a floppy snout, like a shorter version of an elephant’s trunk. “It’s a tapir, the sign says.”

“That’s Trudy.” Mr. Curtis accepted Prescott’s help in standing. “She’s an escape artist. She got out about two years ago. They found her in a storm drain.”

Prescott wiggled his nose like a tapir until Maggie laughed.

A sky as gray as the elephants in the pen behind him promised rain soon, but he didn’t care with Maggie beside him.

How he would miss their Sundays together—church, lunch, typing, talking.

After opening night on Friday, they’d have a flurry of performances through Christmas Eve. Then . . . nothing.

Maggie opened the colorful illustrated map. “We’ll go up ‘F’ Canyon to see the bears and seals and polar bears and lions. Then down ‘G’ Canyon to see the lesser pandas—oh, they’re new—and the cats and wolves and camels and kangaroos.”

Prescott bore Mr. Curtis’s weight as the man eased down into the wheelchair. “We’ll finish before dark?”

“Nowhere near.” Mr. Curtis settled into his seat. “This is a huge zoo.”

“We’ll come back another day.” Maggie folded the map. “I know. To celebrate when Press sells his script.”

Prescott’s shoulders tensed, but he was committed. He was having lunch with Valentine Ruben on Tuesday when Maggie was holding rehearsals for the ladies.

“Mr. Ruben will love it.” Maggie led the way past the giraffes they’d already admired. “The story is wonderful. Oscars all around.”

Prescott pushed the wheelchair down the path. “Too bad they don’t give Oscars for best performance at a Smith-Corona.”

She tossed him a little smile over her shoulder. “Just put me in the credits.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself.”

“Not at all. You’ve done the hard work of writing the screenplay and the courageous work of scheduling that meeting.”

Prescott shrugged. Courage? A courageous man wouldn’t choose the zoo for a date with the woman he loved. And he did love her. No doubt remained.