Page 46 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

Now the baby’s brothers hopped like kangaroos, and baby giggles turned to full-blown laughter.

The mother gave Maggie a grateful look and pushed the stroller after her mob of little kangaroos.

“So you started your career in entertainment at a young age.” Prescott offered her a hand.

“I did.” Maggie accepted the warm gift and relinquished it reluctantly after she stood. “I loved making Rose smile.”

In fact, she’d loved it too much.

Her cheek twitched.

When Maggie came home sick from first grade, Mama had ordered her to stay away from Rose. But little Rose had begged at Maggie’s door. How could she resist?

Maggie shoved away from the rail and forced a smile. “Shall we find the zebras?”

“Not if you want to do any typing tonight.” Grandpa limped to his wheelchair. “Sun’s getting low.”

It was. The dimness of the sky matched the strange dimness in her heart.

Hollywood

Tuesday, December 7, 1943

Prescott hadn’t eaten at the Hollywood Brown Derby for two years. At a booth in the back sat Valentine Ruben.

The acclaimed producer stood and pumped Prescott’s hand. “Good to see you, Press.”

“Good to see you too, Val.” The man would blow away in a stiff wind, but he carried great weight in Hollywood. “How are Stella and the kids?”

Val motioned to the tufted leather booth, and the men sat beneath dozens of framed caricatures. On the far side of the restaurant, Prescott’s caricature hung on the wall.

“The twins are in their sophomore year of college.” Val picked up his menu. “One at USC, one at UCLA. You can imagine what it’s like when both girls come home.”

Prescott laughed. “And Stella?”

“Wonderful as ever.” Small dark eyes shone. “What are you up to lately? I haven’t heard from you in—what?—over a year?”

“At least that long.” Prescott didn’t want to talk business before ordering lunch. He planned to have the Brown Derby’s signature Cobb salad, but with his stomach flopping around, how could he eat? He picked up the menu. Set it down. “Until recently, I haven’t been up to anything. It’s been killing me.”

Val’s broad forehead warped. “I can’t imagine what I’d do . . .”

If he lost his career? But a genuine smile rose. “Right now I’m in a USO show in San Diego, and it’s a peach.”

“That’s swell. I’m glad to hear it.”

After the waiter took their orders, Val leaned skinny arms on the table. “I was a little surprised when you called out of the blue.”

Val knew something was up. Prescott shot up a quick prayer and remembered a fortifying speech by Olivia in Twelfth Night: “Alas, it is the baseness of thy fear that makes thee strangle thy propriety; Fear not, Cesario, take thy fortunes up.”

For too long, fears had strangled Prescott. No longer. “I wanted to discuss something with you—a script.”

“A script?” Val cocked his head of tight black curls. “Melvin found a role for—”

“I wrote the script.”

Val’s eyebrows arched high, then drooped low.

“I know,” Prescott said. “Mel always says actors shouldn’t write. In all honesty, I showed the script to Mel. He only read one page, but he didn’t like it.”