Page 16 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

Greta drew the jerkin. “Green velvet. High round neck, a V at the waist, extensions over the shoulders.”

“Oh!” Vi pointed to the men’s sketch. “When Viola is dressing as Cesario, I can wear the green jerkin over my red dress. The audience knows Cesario is a woman in man’s clothing—only the characters are fooled. This would play into the joke.”

It would. Simply by slipping on one piece of clothing. “What do you think, Maggie?”

Her gaze darted between the male and female figures, wonder growing with each dart. Then she looked Prescott full in the face. “I think a streamlined locomotive is a thing of beauty.”

So was Maggie Oliver.

Thursday, November 4, 1943

As Frank Sebastian called off measurements of the Old Globe stage, Maggie wrote them down.

Smaller than she remembered. To adapt, she’d need to streamline the large dance numbers.

Now that she’d accepted the idea—and the necessity—of streamlining, she kept finding other ways to do it.

Prescott’s idea, and it was excellent. He was so clever. And calming. And humble and generous and even more of a gentleman than she’d realized. Her longtime crush had merit.

“Miss Oliver?”

Maggie blinked. “Yes?”

Frank grinned at her. He was repeating himself, wasn’t he? “Ready to look backstage?”

“I am.” Mr. Anderson expected a plan, and she was determined to offer a whole flock of details.

Behind the curtains, Maggie sketched the space on her clipboard.

“You can stash props here,” Frank said. “A rack for costume parts there.”

Yes, hats or scarves or Vi’s jerkin. “You must have lots of theater experience.”

He chuckled. “Only from the audience. My fiancée—she loved theater. Dragged me to every movie and show that came to our little town.”

Maggie smiled at the fondness on the young man’s face. “Sounds like a good match.”

“It was.” Ripples raced across his brow.

“Was?”

“She’s gone and disappeared.” He dipped his head to one side. “Nothing sinister. Nothing cruel on her part. I don’t blame her.”

“What do you mean?”

Frank trudged back onto the stage. “I joined the Navy waiting for her to finish school. By the time she did, I’d shipped out to the Pacific. In January of ’42, my ship was sunk. But the retreat from the East Indies was so chaotic, it took months to get word to my folks that I’d survived. All Vernice knew was that I was lost at sea.”

Maggie’s feet edged forward. Lost at sea . . . January 1942 . . . Frank Sebastian. “Her name’s Vernice?”

“Vernice Lingenfelter.” Frank sent her a wobbly smile and plodded down the steps. “My folks said she was heartbroken, up and left town. No trace of her.”

How horrible. She followed him off the stage. “But her family—surely, they—”

“No kin. She and her mama were all alone in town, running from someone. Vernice never would say. Her mama died her sophomore year, and friends took Vernice in.”

“You have no idea where she went?” Maggie’s voice came out breathless.

“No idea whatsoever.”