Page 72 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

Sitting on the wooden pew in St. Francis Chapel in Balboa Park, Maggie kept her hand entwined with Prescott’s.

In front of the carved altarpiece stood the bride and groom, Vi wearing a classy suit in pale green and Frank in his dress blues.

“You may kiss the bride,” the naval chaplain said.

Frank leaned in, Vi met him, and they kissed.

Simply beautiful, and Maggie squeezed Prescott’s hand, probably harder than she should have.

The organ in the balcony erupted in the recessional, and Petty Officer and Mrs. Sebastian proceeded down the aisle under the wood-beamed ceiling.

Vi caught Maggie’s eye, and her smile grew.

Maggie smiled back and blinked hard. She still couldn’t fathom Vi’s forgiveness, Prescott’s, the whole cast’s. After Vi’s dinner with Frank, the last wall of separation had collapsed. The shows had increased in polish and charm, even over the course of two weeks, performing to eighteen thousand servicemen and women.

The wedding guests, a mix of cast members and sailors, filed out of the little Spanish Colonial chapel, their shoes clicking on the red tile floor.

Prescott set his hand in the small of Maggie’s back to guide her down the aisle. When they passed through the dark wood doors, he took her hand again and aimed an adoring smile down at her.

A thrill ran through her chest. Now for the reception in the lovely Alcazar Gardens, and the party made their way out to the Plaza de California, facing the grand façade of the California Tower.

Ria fell in beside them as they strolled through the plaza. “The perfect ending for a wonderful run of a show.”

“It is.” For the coming months, Maggie and Ria had booked Camp Shows troupes to perform at the Naval Air Station, the Naval Training Station, the Repair Base, Camp Pendleton, and other bases and camps in the area.

No directing, mostly coordinating, but the men would be well entertained.

Since Prescott would be busy in Hollywood, he wouldn’t be performing.

After Christmas, he had returned to Beverly Hills, one hundred thirty miles from San Diego, and Maggie had seen him only twice. They’d had so little time to discuss how they’d continue to see each other.

She clutched Prescott’s hand. Somehow they’d make it work. She loved him too much.

On the far side of the plaza, Ria turned right toward Alcazar Gardens.

But Prescott headed left across El Prado. “Bye, Ria. We’ll see you later at the reception.”

“Bye, you two.”

“Where are we going?” Maggie asked.

“Time for your Christmas gift.”

“Oh?” Her step perked up. Prescott wasn’t carrying anything. Unless it was small enough to fit in his pocket.

Surely not . . .

Of course not. How arrogantly optimistic of her. Only a month had passed since their first kiss, a month that included a massive hiccup.

Prescott led her beside the California Tower, which stretched high to a cool blue sky speckled with clouds. “I’ve been busy this past week.”

Maggie brushed against his arm. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.” He gave her a soft look. “Which is why I had a long talk with Val and Melvin. You need to be here for your grandpa and your job, and I need to be with you.”

Maggie slammed to a stop. “Your writing—you can’t give it up.”

“I’ve no intention of doing that.” He resumed walking, passing the dome tiled in white and yellow and blue and green. “I wrote my first screenplay in my hotel room, at the beach, at your kitchen table. I can write anywhere. So I’ll write in San Diego. I’ll go to LA for meetings, occasionally for longer spells, but mostly here.”