Page 1 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

one

On the first day of Christmas my true love sent to me . . . a partridge in a pear tree.

San Diego, California

Monday, October 18, 1943

Soft sunshine, a sea breeze, and a shining new opportunity. Maggie Oliver paused to savor the Italian Renaissance façade of San Diego’s USO-Army-Navy YMCA building. Then she climbed granite steps and swung open the door.

A senior hostess sat at the front desk, her cherubic face crowned by silver hair.

“Good morning.” Maggie mirrored her bright smile. “I’m Margaret Oliver, and I’m—”

“Late.” All resemblance to a cherub disappeared in a great pinching of features.

A clock above the woman’s head indicated Maggie was five minutes early, but she knew better than to argue. “I do apologize. The trolley—you understand.”

The woman rose, barely taller standing than sitting. “Miss Perkins, please watch the front desk.”

“Yes, Mrs. Laverne.” A young brunette scampered over.

Mrs. Laverne marched across the red-tiled lobby under a wood-beamed ceiling. “I serve as one of the directors of this USO club. I’ll show you to your office, Mrs. Oliver.”

“Miss Oliver.”

“Miss?” She cranked her gaze back to Maggie and almost stumbled. “When will USO-Camp Shows learn their lesson and stop placing responsibility in the hands of single young ladies? After the unfortunate situation with Miss Holmes . . .”

Unfortunate? Bernard Anderson, the Camp Shows regional director, had hired Maggie after Miss Holmes married.

Mrs. Laverne huffed and resumed her march.

Maggie trotted after the club director. Perhaps kind words would help. “Mr. Anderson told me about the important work you do at this club. He said you have over five hundred beds for servicemen on leave and offer lots of services and recreation.”

“We do. We’ve had five million visitors since January. Do you see this tile floor? It was supposed to last ten years, but we had to replace it after only one year.”

“Oh my.”

Mrs. Laverne passed through an arched doorway and waved toward a gymnasium. “You can imagine what an imposition it is to sacrifice space for Camp Shows, but sacrifice we must.”

Maggie lifted an eyebrow as she followed the woman up a staircase. Mrs. Laverne wasn’t her supervisor, but she was opening precious space to a separate branch of the USO. “Thank you for making room for us.”

On the second floor, Mrs. Laverne gestured to an open door. “Here’s your office. Your assistant arrived fifteen minutes ago. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Thank you.” But Maggie’s smile landed on the club director’s retreating back.

Inside the office, a middle-aged woman strode up to Maggie, and her dark eyes pierced like an obsidian knife. “Come on. No time to waste. Let’s get to work.”

Well, that was an unusual way to be welcomed, but Maggie found a smile. “Good morning. I’m Miss Oliver—”

“San Diego’s new Camp Shows director.” The woman spread manila folders on the larger of the two desks. Gray streaked her neatly rolled black hair. “The Navy wants a Christmas show, but Miss Holmes waited too long. The Camp Shows troupes are already booked, so you’ll have to start from scratch. Only two months till Christmas, and we’ve got nothing.”

Maggie’s head spun, so she removed her hat and straightened the jacket of her dark blue suit, the one Grandpa said made her eyes look as blue as Grandma’s.

Sweet Grandpa. He was so proud of her, but this job was on a trial basis. If she couldn’t pull a show together, she’d lose this job. And he’d lose his home.

“I’ve organized this for you.” Miss Nameless slapped her hand on a folder. “Let’s go.”

So, Maggie had a hardworking assistant, and she joined her at the desk. “Your name is . . . ?”