Page 66 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

“That’s Shakespeare,” Prescott said. “From Twelfth Night.”

Val stared at him and laughed. “There’s more to you than meets the eye. Hey, Melvin. Val Ruben. Guess what? We need to talk.”

twelve

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love sent to me . . . twelve drummers drumming.

San Diego

Wednesday, December 15, 1943

Maggie scraped mashed potatoes from the pot into a china serving bowl.

The doorbell rang.

She grimaced and slid the bowl into the oven to keep warm. That would be Prescott, right on time. If only Ria had been free tonight. Frank, Vi, and Maggie were comfortable with Ria.

Maggie was no longer comfortable with Prescott. Somehow she’d hold herself together tonight as she’d done for the past few days.

She opened the door and looked him in the eye for the first time since opening night.

His eyebrows shot high.

No wonder. He’d never seen her wearing her dowdy old dress, Grandma’s ancient apron, and a kerchief about her hair—and not a speck of powder or lipstick.

She motioned him inside. “Thank you for coming.”

“You’re welcome.” He hung his hat on the coatrack and shrugged off his coat.

Maggie strode to the dining room. “The table is set. Butter, gravy, sugar, salt and pepper, flowers in the vase. Here’s a bouquet for Frank to give Vi if he didn’t bring flowers himself. If he did, toss these in the kitchen.”

Although her hand shook, she lit the candles. “I talked to the taxi company. Frank should arrive in ten minutes, Vi five minutes later. Here’s a bell so they can ring if they need anything from you. I set up a table in Grandpa’s room at the end of the hall. You can sit in there and eat your dinner. You brought a book as I asked?”

“Yes.”

Maggie smoothed Grandma’s embroidered Christmas tablecloth. “If you need any help, knock on my door, second on the right.”

“Okay.”

She edged past Prescott to the phone table in the living room. “When the evening is over, call the taxi company. Here’s the number. I pray it won’t be too early.”

“I do too.”

“Knock before you leave so I know when to clean up.” In the kitchen, she tossed green beans into the pot of boiling water and set the timer. “The coffee is brewed. The roast beef and mashed potatoes are in the oven keeping warm. Here’s the carving knife, plates for you and Frank and Vi. Apple pie over here, knife, plates, dessert forks. Whipped cream in the icebox.” She opened the door and pointed at the bowl. “And cream for the coffee.”

“Do you have any ration stamps left for December?” A teasing tone lifted his voice.

Why did that hurt even more? Recalling the easy camaraderie they’d once enjoyed. She shut the icebox. “Grandpa will. I’ll get by.”

“It looks very nice. You thought of everything.”

A week ago, she would have agreed. “Not at all.”

“Pardon?”

She picked up a dishrag and wiped a blob of mashed potato from the stovetop. “No one can think of everything, especially when people are involved.”

“True,” he said in a low voice.