Page 45 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

They rounded the corner by the canteen. An older couple eyed his scars in passing, and Prescott gave them a smiling nod. His scars didn’t feel ugly now that he realized they connected him with others who were scarred, outside or inside. The scars might even be a gift.

“Oh no, Grandpa! Bears.” Maggie crouched on the far side of the wheelchair.

Mr. Curtis glanced back at Prescott. “Nothing in the world scared Maggie-mine when she was little. Except bears.”

“Save me, Grandpa.” A giggle bubbled up.

How good to see Maggie’s natural enthusiasm returning after a trying week of rehearsals.

Mr. Curtis snorted. “Asking an old man in a wheelchair? Nah. I retired. You’ve got a big strapping man here. Let him help you.”

Mischief frolicked in Maggie’s blue eyes as she peeked up at him. “Save me, Press.”

Nothing he wanted more than to pull her into his arms. Yet . . . something else felt more appropriate. “Sorry, kid. I’m a city boy. You’re on your own.”

“Press!” She sprang to her feet, laughed, and swatted him lightly in the chest.

“Say, Mr. Curtis,” he said. “I think I need saving from her.”

“I liked you better when you weren’t saucy,” she said. “No—not true. This is better.”

It was indeed better, and he returned her grin full force. Now that he had an aim in life, he intended to pursue her.

Maggie found a spot at the railing around the kangaroo enclosure while Prescott helped Grandpa to standing.

All afternoon, Prescott had assisted Grandpa with respectful regard, never patronizing. Because he understood. What a thrill to watch the change in him, opening, relaxing, gaining in purpose.

Sweet tenderness nestled in her chest. This was more than a crush on a movie star. This felt like love. And not once all day had he mentioned Vi.

Before her, kangaroos rested in the cool gray afternoon or nibbled on the grass.

A couple rolled a stroller to the rail beside Maggie, and the parents chatted with three older children about the kangaroos. In the stroller sat a baby around one year old with a ruffled bonnet over a cap of dark blonde hair. Her little face reddened and wrinkled, and she dropped her bottle in her lap. It rolled down over pudgy pink legs.

“Oh no.” Maggie grabbed the glass bottle and handed it to the mother. “Excuse me, ma’am. Your baby dropped her bottle. I didn’t want it to break and spill all her milk.”

“Thank you so much,” the mother said. “What if the nipple tore? It’s hard to buy anything made of rubber with the war on.”

The mother returned to explaining to her other children that a group of kangaroos was called a mob, but the baby squirmed. Soon she’d squall and put an end to the family’s excursion.

Not if Maggie could help it. She knelt beside the stroller and put on the happy voice that never failed her with children. “Hello. Do you see the kangaroos? Aren’t they funny?”

The redness dissipated in the baby’s face, and she sat forward. “Da.”

“That’s right. Kan-ga-roos. See the kangaroos go hop, hop, hop?” Maggie curled her hands in front of her chest like a kangaroo, and she bounced her shoulders. “Hop, hop, hop.”

A smile dipped into the little round cheek.

“Hop, hop, hop.” Maggie made her voice bounce. “Hop, hop, hop.”

A wet little giggle erupted.

“Takes me back,” Grandpa said.

Leaning on the railing, he and Prescott smiled down at her.

“You entertaining your brother and sister,” Grandpa said. “Boy, could you make them laugh.”

Maggie resumed her hop, hop, hopping. Rose would especially love it.