Page 67 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

Green beans tumbled in the roiling water. “I didn’t make this new plan on my own. I asked Grandpa and Ria for advice. I prayed, and I listened. Listen, listen, listen. I’ve been drumming it into my head.”

A murmur from Prescott.

At the sink, Maggie ran water into the potato pot and shook in soap flakes. “I always saw optimism as my strength. But at its heart—at the heart of optimism—lies a kernel of arrogance.”

“Arrogance?”

Maggie pushed up her sleeves and scrubbed the pot. “It’s arrogant to assume everything will turn out well just because I imagined it that way.”

A creak as Prescott leaned against the open door. “You aren’t alone.”

“Pardon?” She started to glance his way. Stopped herself before making a huge mistake.

“Isn’t pessimism similar?”

“Hardly.” She dumped the soapy water into the sink and rinsed the pot.

“At the heart of pessimism lies a kernel of self-pity. Assuming everything will turn out poorly because I imagined it that way.”

Maggie grabbed the dish towel and dried the pot. Her gaze turned to him, betraying her.

There was something new about him, as if he were taller, broader, wiser.

“Don’t let this destroy your optimism,” he said. “Only temper it.”

Maggie shook her head and put the pot in the cupboard, only half dry.

“I’m serious. In your optimism, you told me to write a new script for my life. I’m glad I listened to you.” No wistful longing lingered in his voice, only the peace of saying goodbye.

The timer dinged. Maggie set the colander in the sink and dumped the beans into it. “You listened.” Pain seized her chest. No—she refused to cry. “If I’d listened, all of this would have been unnecessary.”

The doorbell rang.

“That’s Frank.” Maggie slid the green beans from the colander into the vegetable bowl, untied the apron, and hung it on the hook. “I’ll be in my room.”

“Aren’t you going to say hello?”

“I’ve already apologized to him through you, and I refuse to put myself in the audience tonight. As you said, Frank and Vi aren’t actors onstage for my entertainment.” She motioned to the kitchen doorway, which Prescott blocked. “Do give them my love.”

“All right.” He headed to the front door.

In her room, Tobias napped on the rug, and Maggie ruffled his ears. Then she turned on the little red Bakelite radio on her dresser so she wouldn’t even be tempted to listen to the real-life drama in the living room.

After she pulled out her knitting, she settled into her armchair and tried to pay attention to The Adventures of Superman.

The next two hours dragged through news and serials and music. She made barely any progress on the left sleeve of the sweater for Rose, in her sister’s favorite shade of yellow.

Twice she heard the bell.

Three times she unraveled rows she messed up.

Four times she stifled sobs. After everyone left, she’d indulge, but not yet.

A knock on her door. “Maggie?” Prescott said.

She turned off the radio and took a deep breath to smooth the ragged edges from her voice. “Yes? Do you need something?”

“I called the taxi company. Frank and Vi want to say goodbye.”