Page 14 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

Mr. Anderson leveled a gaze at Mrs. Laverne that said he was open to complaints—but only reasonable ones. “Any incidents?”

“Well, no, but I don’t see why our boys need this Hollywood hoo-ha. It would be seemlier to have the cast sing Christmas carols.”

“Your concerns are noted.” Mr. Anderson gave her a firm look. “Remember, the Advisory Board approved this use of the club. If any incidents do arise, please inform me. Good day.”

“Good day.” Mrs. Laverne averted her gaze and left the gymnasium.

Mr. Anderson turned that same firm look to Maggie. “I know the cast will follow the standards in the Camp Shows contract. Now—what do you have?”

Maggie smiled away her annoyance and showed off her chalkboard. After she introduced the grand outline of the show, she pointed to the first square. “First number, a solo with our leading lady, Violet Lane, in a swing on a pear tree in a gown flowing with white feathers, singing ‘White Christmas.’ Second, a tap dance number to ‘Winter Wonderland,’ with the whole cast in pairs, the men in top hats and tails, the ladies in red coats. Then the first of five acts of Twelfth Night. Mrs. Fernandez is working with the San Diego Community Theater to borrow Shakespearean costumes.”

Mr. Anderson held up one hand to silence her, and he stepped closer to the chalkboard and shifted his eyeglasses. “It’s an ambitious plan.”

Maggie met Prescott’s gaze and smiled. “It’ll be spectacular.”

A grumble from Mr. Anderson. “Too ambitious. Opening night is December 10, just over a month away. Twelve numbers? A Shakespearean play?”

“A short one,” Maggie said. “Everyone in the cast is a professional. We’re already choreographing and memorizing lines.”

“Movie professionals or theater?”

“Movie.”

“I’ve worked in theater for decades.” Mr. Anderson tapped the line between the second number and act 1 of the play. “All the men are in this dance number—then immediately after, in the play. Costume changes, set changes, props—they take time. How can you keep the show under two hours? And you do have a budget, Miss Oliver.”

The floor shifted beneath Maggie’s feet, and her mouth flopped open. Couldn’t he see how spectacular it would be?

Ria shot Maggie an apologetic look. “I’ve been concerned about the budget and how to procure the costumes, even if we borrow from the movie studios as Mr. Duke suggested.”

Mr. Anderson planted his hands on his hips and shook his head at the board. “On opening night, we’ll have admirals in attendance, city leaders, USO luminaries—luminaries who were reluctant to hire a single young lady in this role, even on a trial basis. If this show fails, many of us could lose our jobs.”

A great churning rose in Maggie’s stomach, and she pressed her hand to it. Her job. Grandpa’s home.

“Cut it down.” Mr. Anderson slashed a hand through the air, through Maggie’s grand design. “I’ll be in town again next Wednesday. If you can show me a sensible plan, we’ll proceed. If not, we’ll follow Mrs. Laverne’s suggestion and put the cast on risers singing Christmas carols.”

“No,” Maggie whispered. “The men—they want the spectacle.”

“I agree. But only a professional spectacle. I’d rather have a choir than a Keystone Cops fiasco. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Whether a choir or a fiasco, Maggie would lose her job.

No bright side shone in Maggie’s eyes after Mr. Anderson left.

Prescott knew dashed dreams, knew how the shards of them carved you up inside.

“I’m sorry, Maggie.” Ria grimaced. “I—”

“No, no. You’re right.” Maggie waved off her assistant’s apology. “I hadn’t given much thought to the cost.”

“Okay.” Ria’s jaw firmed. “Let’s make a plan.”

Prescott studied the board, looking for a solution.

Maggie traced a finger along the chalkboard. “I have one week to convince him this will work.”

“Uh-uh.” Ria shook her head. “You heard him. Cut it down or you’ll be singing ‘Good King Wenceslas.’”

Maggie’s nose wrinkled. “I can’t cut it down. It’ll be simple and boring.”