Page 64 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

“Right.” Ria gave Maggie a challenging look and plopped into her usual chair.

Maggie’s chair was occupied by her open suitcase, and she stared down at Grandpa and Grandma’s smiling faces.

She didn’t deserve this job. But Grandpa deserved to stay in his home.

It was all she’d wanted for Christmas.

A gift of mercy, and she accepted it.

Beverly Hills

Wednesday, December 15, 1943

Prescott’s footsteps reverberated in the palatial parlor.

On his day off from performing, he’d gone home to Beverly Hills.

No, not home. A house. Pristine Streamline Moderne. Immaculate white and chrome. Every piece of furniture and art chosen by the designer hired by the studio to create a habitation for their image of Prescott Duke.

He’d felt far more at home on the old sofa in Bill Curtis’s home with a scruffy dog at his feet and Maggie puttering in the kitchen.

A vise clamped his heart, and he sank to the piano bench as Charles Anthony had done on his darkest day.

Prescott held his six remaining digits over the keyboard and plunked out fragments of a tune. Before his accident, he’d been taking piano lessons and enjoying them.

Unlike Charles, Prescott could no longer play. But also unlike Charles, he hadn’t lost everything.

The USO shows had continued over the past four days. The performances felt more subdued, but few would notice.

Each day, Maggie slipped into the theater and did her job in an unobtrusive way. Prescott had never seen anyone more humbled, more contrite, more chastened. He loved her more than ever. But he didn’t trust her with his heart.

An off-key chord assaulted his ears. He grabbed his attaché case and went to the garage, where he started his car.

He drove past more palatial homes, each isolated behind gates from the neighbors, then down Sunset Boulevard.

Tonight would be difficult.

On Saturday morning, Ria had taken him to Balboa Park to meet with Frank Sebastian, who very much wanted to see Vi again.

Maggie had proposed a quiet home-cooked dinner for the couple. Since Ria’s house overflowed with family, only Maggie’s house was available. Maggie planned to cook dinner then retreat out of sight while someone else served.

Mr. Curtis had plans for the evening. So did Ria. That left Prescott.

He didn’t mind serving. He did mind seeing Maggie at a place where they’d shared many pleasant hours.

Before long, Prescott arrived at Melvin’s office on Wilshire Boulevard, and Edna ushered him in even though he didn’t have an appointment.

Melvin rose from his desk with his eyebrows arched high. “Press?”

“I wanted you to see that I’m fine.” He offered a smile and a handshake.

Melvin’s chair creaked as he returned to sitting. “Listen, I’m sorry for how this all shook out. I could have handled it better.”

Prescott took his customary chair and opened his attaché case. “I could have handled it better too. I want you to know I never meant to go over your head, only to get another opinion before giving up writing. If Val had liked the script, I would have worked with you as always. Now, I don’t know legal jargon, but I believe my contract with you is only as a performer.” He handed Melvin the document.

Melvin’s lips went tight. “Correct.”

“I would have needed a new contract—or an addendum—for you to represent me as a writer. Which is what I would have wanted. However, when I spoke to Val as a writer, I didn’t violate the letter or the heart of our contract.”