Page 22 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

Filtered into his own heart too.

A sniffle from the doorway, and Carol and Greta wiped their eyes with hankies.

Prescott raised a self-conscious smile. “Honest, fellows, we came to make music, not speeches. Ladies, how about ‘Blue Skies’?”

Four heads bobbled, and hankies disappeared into pockets.

Prescott gave them a count of four and launched in, singing of blue skies and bluebirds. Of joy and hope driving away the blue days.

“This story—you’ve got to put it out of your head,” Melvin had told him.

But Maggie had told him, “Write a new script for your life.”

Prescott had always been a storyteller. He knew movie people and the movie industry. Screenwriting wouldn’t shine limelight on his scarred face to tarnish the image in the public’s mind. He’d just be a name in the credits.

And he might not be educated, but what made the best writing? Knowledge of people and of the difficulties of life. That he had in spades.

The smells remained in the ward. The sights.

But the heaviness had lifted, because Prescott had employed his story.

More than anything, he wanted these men—and so many others like them—to move on with their lives. To help them do so, Prescott had to move on himself.

Wednesday, November 10, 1943

“That’s the plan.” With Ria beside her, Maggie smiled at Mr. Anderson across the table in a meeting room at the YMCA. And at Mrs. Laverne to Mr. Anderson’s left.

Mr. Anderson reviewed the papers Ria had typed, listing each number, with cast members, music, props, and costs—and listing what would happen in the intervals between numbers.

The plan was streamlined, yet contained spectacle, music, and laughs. And it remained true to what she and Prescott had envisioned that morning in Balboa Park.

Mr. Anderson moved his finger down the paper. “This is much improved.”

“Thank you, sir.” Maggie let her smile beam. “The entire cast worked together on every aspect.” Especially Prescott.

Mrs. Laverne sniffed. “The whole thing is silly and overblown.”

If only she’d heard some of the ideas tossed out in jest—like when Freddie and Ferdy suggested doing bird calls.

“It’s still too complex.” Mr. Anderson sat back and scooted his glasses higher. “You’ve solved the problem of transitions, but you have too many numbers and a Shakespeare play, to boot.”

Dimples of concern pocked Mrs. Laverne’s full cheeks. “As I said, it would be easier and more reverential to sing carols.”

Mr. Anderson grumbled, and his chin wagged in the way of a man about to agree.

Panic ripped through Maggie’s chest, but she glued on a confident smile. “Sir, I know we can do this. The cast is hard at work, making great progress. There are only four big dance numbers. The rest are small acts—solos, comedy bits, acrobatics.”

Ria folded her hands on top of the table. “Remember, sir. You hired Miss Oliver to put on a big Christmas show, not a singalong. USO-Camp Shows is known for quality productions, and that’s what our servicemen expect—and deserve—especially so far from home.”

“Yes, Mrs. Fernandez,” he said. “They deserve quality, not a fiasco.”

“It won’t be a fiasco,” Maggie said.

“If only you could guarantee it. No, I—”

“How about this?” Ria’s dark eyes flashed. “How about a—a trial performance?”

“A trial?” Maggie said at the same time as Mr. Anderson.