Page 20 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

In the hallway, Maggie edged to the wall to let a group of sailors pass. “Mrs. Laverne may be crabby, but she and her staff and volunteers do wonderful things here. The guests play billiards, eat at the soda fountain, swim in the pool, and make ‘talk-a-letter’ records to send home. The USO helps them see the sights, and they provide religious materials for all faiths. It truly is a home away from home.”

Prescott peeked in a room they passed. “Woodworking?”

Maggie doubled back. The smell of sawdust met her, and half a dozen servicemen worked with a white-haired civilian.

The older gentleman beckoned to them. “Come on in. We’re making birdhouses.”

A freckle-faced Marine inspected his work. “Not sure my wife will think much of this.”

“She’ll love it,” Maggie said, “because you made it for her.”

“Whatcha waiting for?” The older gentleman beckoned again.

An idea spun into Maggie’s head. “Say, are you looking for project ideas?”

“Always.” He brushed sawdust off his apron and joined her and Prescott in the doorway. “Only so many birdhouses the fellows can make.”

“I can’t even make one,” the Marine said with a lament in his voice.

“Props,” Prescott said to Maggie.

“Exactly.” She extended her hand to the carpenter. “I’m Maggie Oliver with USO-Camp Shows. We’re putting on a Christmas show, and we need some wooden props.”

“Herb Canfield.” He gave her hand a hearty shake. “Tell me more.”

“My assistant is having a difficult time finding craftsmen. The war, you know.”

“I’ve got the craftsmen, the tools. I could help you design the pieces.”

“That would be marvelous. We’d provide the materials—or the money for them. It’s in my budget.” She slid a smile to Prescott. “Ria will love this.”

His smile slid right into hers. “Saving money.”

A lanky sailor set down his saw. “You mean our work would be up on stage?”

“Wouldn’t that be swell?” The Marine patted his birdhouse. “I could tell the fellows, ‘I made that.’”

Maggie nodded to Mr. Canfield. “Are you here Monday morning? I’ll put together a list of pieces, and we can talk about supplies.”

“I’m here all day, miss.” He saluted with a lopsided grin.

“To say, ‘I made that.’” Prescott leaned against the doorjamb with a pensive look on his face. “Gives you a sense of purpose, doesn’t it? You did something that mattered.”

“Yeah, that’s it.” The Marine’s frown at his birdhouse turned into a satisfied smile.

Prescott’s pensiveness firmed into conviction.

Warmth swirled in Maggie’s chest. She was doing something that mattered too. This was more than a show. She was also helping this extraordinary man find his place again.

Sunday, November 7, 1943

“Out of the way, Duke,” a patient called from his bed. “I want to see the four canaries.”

In a cavernous ward in what had once been the Natural History Museum, Prescott chuckled and stepped to the side, still crooning “I Had the Craziest Dream,” and he ushered his four backup singers to the forefront.

Greta, Carol, Nan, and Barbara swayed to the music and sang in harmony.

Dozens of men in pajamas sat up taller in their double-deck bunks to get a better look. Confined to bed, these patients couldn’t attend the show at the Old Globe, but Prescott hoped to bring bits of the show to them.