Page 13 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

Although Prescott stood still, his breath came fast.

It was a story. What was he supposed to do with it? He was finished in film—he couldn’t play the hero.

Could he write it? A screenplay?

Prescott groaned and stuffed his pitiful hands in his trouser pockets. How could he write? He had no schooling. And his hands—he couldn’t write more than two sentences without pain.

No, he couldn’t write a screenplay.

Yet fresh cool sea air filled him. A sense of hope. If he could imagine a new life for this imaginary man, perhaps he could imagine one for himself.

three

On the third day of Christmas my true love sent to me . . . three French hens.

Wednesday, November 3, 1943

In the gymnasium, three trios of ladies rotated in three circles, fingertips touching high in the center of each circle.

“That’s lovely.” Maggie noted the choreography on her clipboard. “Glide for three more bars, skirts held to the side, then break into a line and pirouette.”

For the “nine ladies dancing” number, the nine women would dance to “Silent Night” in long silvery gowns bedecked with sequins.

On the far side of the gym, laughter flowed as the ten men practiced the “ten lords a-leaping” number. The men would sing “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” while breaking into solo leaps—balletic, acrobatic, athletic, comedic.

Prescott performed a tour jeté punctuated by uppercut punches. Elegant yet manly. As the magazines had proclaimed him, “Noble as a duke, but tough enough to put up his dukes.”

Two of the men clapped Prescott on the back. He laughed, all shyness gone, and Maggie’s heart warmed.

“Miss Oliver?” Ria entered the room with a stiff smile.

On her heels came Bernard Anderson, the Camp Shows regional director and Maggie’s boss.

Maggie wore a short dance skirt and a cotton blouse knotted at the waist. She silenced a groan and put on a sheepish smile. “Welcome, Mr. Anderson. I apologize for my attire. We’re choreographing.”

“As is expected.” Mr. Anderson’s long face crinkled as a smile bent his gray mustache. “I had a meeting in town with a donor and thought I’d check in, seeing as how we gave you a difficult assignment with short notice.”

“It’s coming along marvelously.” Maggie led Mr. Anderson and Ria to the rolling chalkboard at the side of the room. “Ladies, keep working on the choreography. Prescott, would you come here, please? Mr. Anderson, I’d like you to meet Prescott Duke.”

“An honor.” Mr. Anderson shook Prescott’s hand. “I’m a big fan.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Anderson.” Mrs. Laverne marched into the gym. “I was told you were here. I’d like to lodge a complaint about the inappropriate use of the YMCA.”

Maggie’s cheeks burned. Inappropriate? How could she say such a thing?

Across the gym, the women tried a step, failed, and broke into laughter.

Mrs. Laverne waved toward the girls. “My club has been invaded by these—these cackling hens. And their indecent costumes and loose morals.”

Maggie gasped. “Loose—”

Ria clamped a hand on Maggie’s arm.

“Loose morals?” Mr. Anderson said with a concerned frown. “Have there been any incidents?”

“None, sir,” Maggie said in a taut voice. “And we wear street clothes when we arrive and leave.”