Page 23 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

Ria motioned to Maggie. “What if Miss Oliver has the cast run through the show for you next week? If it’s coming along well, she can proceed. If you’re still concerned, we can do the sing-along.”

Maggie’s mouth flopped open. The show wouldn’t be ready next week. It would be ready by opening night. All shows were like that.

A smug glint shone in Mrs. Laverne’s light blue eyes.

“Excellent idea,” Mr. Anderson said. “Don’t worry, Miss Oliver. I don’t expect perfection, just proof that it will work. I know the costumes and sets won’t be ready, and the actors can use scripts if needed. A week from today.”

“One week?” Maggie’s voice sounded thin and hopeless.

“One week,” Mr. Anderson said. “Plenty of time to pull the essentials together.”

Mrs. Laverne’s smile returned to cherubic. “Plenty of time to switch to a proper choir concert.”

Mr. Anderson looked to Maggie with an expectant smile.

Only one answer was expected. “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”

Two decades before, Ma had turned her back on Prescott. He refused to turn his back on others.

If his story could help, he had to write it.

Wearing a sports shirt and swim trunks, Prescott carried a towel and his attaché case across Ocean Beach in the warm air. Cool sand threaded between his toes.

His aimlessness was far uglier than his scars, and he had to kill it before it killed him, had to overcome it if he wanted others to overcome.

Since his performance in the hospital on Sunday, he’d argued with himself. He was too busy with the show to write. He had no business writing. And how could he write? Typewriters were only available for purchase with a certificate from the ration board, which Prescott would never qualify for.

Besides, the thought of pounding keys with the fried nubs of his fingers was even less appealing than using the fat pencils they’d given him while recovering in the hospital.

Prescott passed a group of mothers seated on towels with a passel of tots laughing and squabbling and digging in the sand.

He found an isolated spot right before the sand turned from fluffy to slick, and he spread out his towel.

Four seagulls dove toward the water, calling to each other.

“Why am I doing this?” he asked the gulls. “You think I’m doing this to impress Maggie, don’t you? Show her I’m not an idle loafer?”

Sitting cross-legged on his towel, he opened his attaché case and pulled out a sheet of paper and a pencil meant for a first grader. Maggie had given the men the morning off. She had a meeting, then was working with the ladies on their solo acts.

He’d rather be with her than facing a fat pencil and a thin piece of paper.

A pale blue sky spread above him, streaked with airy white clouds and contrails from the Naval Air Station on North Island. Gray-blue waves trimmed in foam slapped the golden sand.

“Why am I doing this?” he asked the waves.

The first scene would be heart-wrenching, but it took place at sea, on Charles Anthony’s luxurious yacht, so sitting at the ocean’s edge felt right.

Now Prescott knew that Charles was a wealthy politician. He’d invited four powerful men out on his yacht. Pillars of the community. Admired and respected by all. Their wives. His own wife and children. A sumptuous party to raise money and prestige and influence.

His captain warned him about a coming storm. His wife begged him to postpone.

Charles insisted.

The yacht was lost with all aboard—except Charles.

In the ensuing scandal, he lost his seat in the House and his positions in companies and committees and philanthropies.

He’d lived for his image. Many souls died for his image. Then he lost that image.