Page 17 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

Maggie did. She’d already heard this tale.

From the other side.

From Violet Lane.

Which sounded suspiciously like a stage name.

Maggie followed Frank Sebastian up the aisle. Now she knew where she’d heard his name. Vi’s fiancé, lost at sea.

A gasp flew from Maggie’s mouth. In Twelfth Night, Viola and Sebastian each thought the other lost at sea after a shipwreck.

Another gasp. Even their names!

In the middle of the aisle, Maggie turned in a slow circle. A reunion . . . onstage . . . on opening night. A tearjerker of a finale.

A finale sure to stir the hearts of admirals and city leaders and USO luminaries.

More importantly, a reunion that would bring happiness to two dear people.

“Miss Oliver?” Frank called from the door to the lobby.

“Getting one last look.” She dashed to the door, ducking her head so she could conceal the pleased expression on her face.

Then a grimace. Over a month until opening night. She’d have to keep Frank and Vi apart, keep a secret.

Grandpa’s voice rumbled in her ear. “If you’re keeping secrets, you’re meddling.”

“Hush, Grandpa,” she whispered. It wasn’t keeping secrets. It was a Christmas gift.

Friday, November 5, 1943

In the Bivouac Grill in the basement of the U.S. Grant Hotel, Prescott perused a lunch menu full of items he’d never heard of before 1935.

Under the low vaulted ceiling of the dining room, only a few furtive glances had been aimed at him. Almost two weeks dining in public, and no one had come at the monster in their midst with a pitchfork.

He opened the notepad by his side, with notes for his phone call with Melvin. His story idea, each word recorded with pain and difficulty.

Yet each word he wrote spawned a dozen more. Each line of dialogue flowed to the next. Each insight into his leading man’s character blossomed into scenes.

Why had the Lord chosen him to receive the gift of this story? Why hadn’t the idea gone to a real writer?

It had been given to him.

As had the USO show.

At the club, he’d enjoyed a morning of creativity, camaraderie, and conversation. How he’d missed it all.

The morning had been spent streamlining choreography to make the dances easier to learn.

Maggie’s cheerful determination buoyed all around her. Yet her focus on the plan never blinded her to others. The struggles with lines. The snide comments between rivals. The show-off who hogged center stage. Maggie soothed egos and hurt feelings and frustrations.

“Are you ready to order, monsieur?” an older waiter said in a French accent.

“I am, thank you. I’ll have the chicken à la King.”

“Oui, monsieur.”

A portly gentleman approached the table. “Telephone for Mr. Prescott Duke.”