Page 60 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

“The aircraft factories in San Diego are hiring. If you can’t get a job as a secretary, there are training classes at the vocational school right here in Balboa Park.”

“The Ford Building . . .” One of the few not occupied by the Navy.

Prescott planned to apply first thing in January. Maybe a factory could figure out what to do with strong arms and disfigured-but-willing hands. “Pays better than the USO, I’m sure. It may not be your dream job, but—”

“But it’ll keep Grandpa in his home with Tobias. And that is my true dream.”

Her heart really was in the right place, and Prescott fought against the softening inside. “Come on. You need to catch your ride.” He pushed away from the railing but didn’t offer a helping hand.

Maggie awkwardly swung her legs over the railing and hopped down to the walkway. “I need to find Vi. She deserves an apology.”

Prescott led the way, staying a good four feet away from Maggie, and they entered the shelter of an arcade.

“Oh, Vi. Oh, Frank.” Maggie clapped her hands to her cheeks. “I know they still love each other. Vi—she was so angry with him. But how could Frank have found her? She changed her name.”

Prescott dug his hands into his coat pockets. “Vi is a reasonable woman. She’s upset now, but—”

“What should I do, Press?” Her eyes looked wild in the dim light. “I’ll listen to you this time, I promise. Or should I keep my nose out of it?”

Tempting to accept the last suggestion, but he shook his head. “Talk to Vi. She may not be ready to listen, but if she truly loves Frank—”

“She does. I know she does.”

“How about I talk to Frank tomorrow? Ria can help me find him.”

“Yes, man to man. That’s good. Please apologize to him for me. He looked sick to his stomach. The poor man.”

Indeed. A man’s pride didn’t bear humiliation like that well. They crossed the plaza, and Prescott tipped the brim of his hat low. “If they both want to see each other, we’ll set something up. Quiet. Private.”

“All right. That sounds wise.”

Prescott sloshed through a puddle. Thank goodness he had spare shoes in the hotel.

“Press?” she said. Soft. Tremulous. “You said ‘we.’ We’ll set it up.”

Prescott stopped in his tracks and fixed a strong gaze on her. “Not like that.”

“Oh my goodness.” Both hands flew to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I know—I’ll stop talking now.”

He plodded forward. Eventually he would forgive her. She was truly remorseful and wanted to make amends, and he admired that.

But romance would be asking too much.

eleven

On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love sent to me . . . eleven pipers piping.

Backstage, Maggie’s shoes made wet, squishing sounds, and she suppressed a shudder.

At the door to the women’s dressing room, Prescott stopped without facing her. “Can you have Ria call my hotel tomorrow morning so she can help me meet with Frank?”

“Yes.” Maggie’s voice shook with cold despite her efforts. “I’m meeting with her and Mr. Anderson in the morning to discuss the show.” That was when she’d resign.

Rain had darkened Prescott’s khaki raincoat to the color of mud. “After I talk to Frank, I’ll have Ria call your house with the plan. Since you won’t be here tomorrow.”

No, she wouldn’t. “Thank you.”

A brisk nod, and Prescott strode toward the men’s dressing room. Not hot or cold or even lukewarm—just there. Present.