Page 69 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

His feet froze. He could grab his hat and coat and make his escape. Except he hadn’t called his own cab yet. “I’m helping clean up.”

“No, no.” She grabbed the saltshaker and darted past him and into the kitchen. “Didn’t I mention? I told Ria. You don’t need to clean up.”

Prescott had the strangest sensation, as if he’d stepped into a place he didn’t belong and a scene he wasn’t meant to see, yet knowing—knowing—he was precisely where he belonged. In this place. In this scene. “I won’t leave you with all these dishes.”

“Nonsense.” Her voice was high and trembling. “You’ve done enough.”

One napkin lay damp and limp where Maggie had been seated. “You’ve been crying.”

“I thought you left.” Anger shuddered in her voice.

If those were happy tears for Frank and Vi, she would have said so. Prescott propelled himself deeper into this place of belonging and into the kitchen doorway. “What’s wrong?”

Maggie ran water into the sink and shook in soap flakes—far more than needed. “You’ve already cleaned up my mess. You do not need to wash dishes. Good night.”

Every scene had a tipping point, and Prescott stood firm. “What’s wrong?”

Her shoulders hunched up in a brown dress that recalled the depths of the Depression. “Good night, Prescott. I vowed I wouldn’t let you see me cry. I will not have you think I’m manipulating you with tears. Good night.”

Prescott was the one tipping, falling, and he didn’t want to stop. “Do you still love me?”

A cry of exasperation, and she scrubbed a plate so hard, water sloshed out of the sink. “No, I don’t still love you. I love you more than ever. You could have let me suffer—should have—but no, you had to be nice to me. So yes, I’m crying. And now—wasn’t it painful enough to be humbled? Why must I be humiliated as well? Would you please—please leave and let me keep one last shred of dignity?”

Prescott swayed as the day’s events swirled around him like the dancers in “Winter Wonderland.” The decisions he’d made, the contracts under negotiation, the dinner arranged to reunite lovers, to redress wrongs. All set in motion by this woman. This remarkable woman.

“Please listen to me.” Her voice shattered into pieces. “I asked you to leave.”

Instead, he listened to another voice in his head. “All my life, other people wrote my script, and I acted it out. Ma told me to leave, and I left. Men told me to work, and I worked. They told me to box, and I boxed.”

Maggie ducked her head to the side and swiped her cheek on her shoulder.

Prescott stepped closer and braced himself against the oven, still warm from the dinner she’d prepared. “Melvin told me to act and sing and dance. And I stood where the director told me to stand, and I sang the lyrics they gave me, and I danced with whichever girl they put in my arms. Then I was burned, and they told me to stay out of sight, and I did.”

A sniffle from Maggie. She adjusted the kerchief around her head, and an arc of droplets glittered in the air.

“These past few months—” His throat clogged.

“You wrote a new script.” Her voice came out tiny. “I—I’m glad.”

He had to be closer, and he leaned back against the sink beside her. “I met with Val Ruben today.”

Her gaze bounced up to him. “You did?” Then she flinched and returned her attention to what had to be a very clean plate by now.

He’d never had a chance to tell her about the furious call from Melvin. “He wants to produce the script.”

“Oh, Press.” Her shiny cheeks quivered with a hint of a smile. “I’m so happy for you. I’m not surprised. It’s a wonderful story. Oh, goodness. Your very own movie.”

He held her with his gaze. “I owe it all to you.”

“Nonsense.” She sloshed around in the dishwater. “Your idea, your story, your words.”

“Your encouragement.” He set a hand on her forearm. “You’re going to rub a hole clean through that plate.”

A sobbing little chuckle, and she jerked her head to the side. She didn’t move her arm.

With his scarred thumb, he caressed her arm in that damp brown sleeve. “The script for my new life is missing only one thing—my leading lady.”

“No, Press.” She wheeled to him. “Don’t you dare. You know what I’m like, how I meddled, how—”