Page 70 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

“How you humbled yourself, how—”

“No.” Maggie wrenched her arm away and glared at him. “I won’t let you do this. I want only the best for you, and I—”

“You are the best for me.” He reached for her.

“I’m not. Please leave.” She backed away, bumped into the icebox.

Prescott beckoned to her with his fingers, with a slight smile. “For a woman who claims to love me, you’re trying awfully hard to talk me out of loving you. It won’t work. I am madly in love with you. I’m not going anywhere.”

She rubbed soapy hands on her belly, and her gaze darted in all directions. “Press . . .”

The distance was killing him, and he closed it and set his hands on her waist.

In the narrow space between them, her hands fluttered to her face. “Oh, Press. I look a fright.”

“True.”

Maggie gasped. “You aren’t supposed to say that.”

With a laugh, Prescott gathered her close. “No, I’m not. This is our big romantic scene. You’re supposed to be in a glamorous evening gown with your hair and makeup just so. Like you were at the Del. How I wanted to kiss you that night.”

A trembling smile, and she rested her forehead on his chest. “This isn’t Hollywood.”

“This is real life.” He eased up her damp chin. “Sometimes real-life heroines have red noses.” He kissed that darling red nose. “And tear-stained cheeks.” He tasted those sweet tears.

Reddened eyes glistened with love. “You haven’t mentioned my pale lips.”

“I was saving the best for last.” And he savored those gorgeous pale lips.

Saturday, December 25, 1943

The more time Prescott spent on Mr. Curtis’s street in North Park, the more he liked it. The Craftsman bungalows, each different, stood far enough apart for privacy but close enough to know your neighbors.

This particular home drew him most. Prescott carried a bag of gifts up the walkway—small gifts, Maggie had insisted, since her family had just learned about him. Yesterday after the final performance at the Old Globe, he’d met Maggie’s parents and sister.

He reached for the doorbell, but the door flew open. Maggie rushed out, shut the door, flung her arms about his neck, and gave him a luscious kiss.

“There,” she said. “I can’t do that in front of my family.”

“Let’s go, then.” He backed toward the street.

She laughed and tugged his arm. “You can’t get out of it that easily.”

“Not that. I just want more kisses.” The last ten days, they’d had only one day off from performances. Most of that day had been spent on business away from the woman he loved.

Maggie bestowed one more kiss and led him into the house, filled with the smells of roasting turkey and a fire in the fireplace.

Mr. Curtis sat in his usual chair, and Prescott shook his hand before he could rise. An extra twinkle shone in the man’s eyes now that his home was secure. After Prescott’s private conversation last night with Mr. Curtis and Mr. Oliver, it was doubly secure.

Mr. Oliver shook Prescott’s hand and studied him warily. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, sir.” It would take time for Prescott to build trust after that conversation, especially since he’d conducted it wearing a costume and greasepaint.

Mrs. Oliver gripped Prescott’s hand in both of hers, with gentleness in her blue eyes. “We’re glad you’re here. Maggie can’t stop talking about you.”

Rose nodded, her own blue eyes wide. “Maggie loves you.”

Maggie laughed and hugged her sister’s shoulders. “Good thing I already told him.”