Page 27 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

The cloud remained, so he nudged her with an elbow. “What’s the matter?”

She heaved a sigh. “It’s my grandfather. His savings are running low, so I asked Papa to help, not knowing he was already helping—and that Papa owns Grandpa’s house. Now Papa wants to sell and move Grandpa to Iowa. But I’m making enough to meet our expenses now.” Another sigh. “I made a mess of things. Grandpa says I was meddling.”

“Were you?” Prescott kept his voice soft.

She made a face. “Maybe. I was trying to help. Now Grandpa won’t even let me write to Papa about this, but I know I could convince him.” Earnestness pulsed in her expression.

Prescott shrugged. “But if it’s your grandfather’s house . . .”

“I know.” She folded the letter. “If I don’t keep this job, it’s all over.”

“You’ll keep this job. You’re doing wonderful work.” More than anything, he wanted to take her hand—in his? What was he thinking? Not yet.

But he could ask her out, and he saw a transition between scenes, between her grandfather’s woes and the evening’s plans. “You’re very fond of your grandfather, aren’t you?”

“I am. He’s . . .” She squinted at the path ahead.

Ria approached with Petty Officer Sebastian.

Maggie sprang to her feet and clapped her hands. “All right, everyone. Time to practice. Put your dishes on the cart and head inside. On the double.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Much laughing and saluting and clicking of heels.

Maggie rushed over to Vi. “Please make sure the props are in place for act 1. Barbara, would you please take care of Vi’s dishes for her?”

Prescott groaned and stood. He had one last chance to ask Maggie out, and he came up behind her and tapped her shoulder.

She faced him, smiled at him, and he opened his mouth.

Her gaze jerked past him, and her eyes widened. “Excuse me.” With a brilliant smile, Maggie brushed past him and over to the yeoman.

Turned her back on him.

Prescott grimaced and marched toward the theater. If Maggie preferred a sunny, smooth-skinned sailor to a melancholy Hollywood has-been, who could blame her?

Monday, November 15, 1943

Women bustled about the USO gymnasium, and Maggie stood in the doorway, mouth agape.

Holding a reel of red crepe paper, Mrs. Laverne gave Maggie an innocent smile. “May I help you?”

Maggie throttled back her annoyance and echoed the woman’s fake smile. “I assume we can rehearse in here this morning—as scheduled.”

Mrs. Laverne pursed her lips. “There must be a misunderstanding. We have a dance in here tonight. I’m sorry you didn’t see it on the schedule.”

How could Maggie see what wasn’t there? But she could indeed see the smirk on the older woman’s face.

In the hallway, the ten men and three ladies in Twelfth Night gave her quizzical looks.

“We’ll go to the Little Theater, then,” Maggie said.

Mrs. Laverne clucked her tongue. “If you’d looked at the schedule, you would have seen we’re holding lectures in there all day.”

And if Mrs. Laverne had looked at the schedule, she would have seen the cast was rehearsing in the gym. But no good would come of saying so.

“What’s wrong?” Prescott asked in that gorgeous voice.

Maggie refused to be riled as Mrs. Laverne intended. “We can’t practice in the gym today. Or the Little Theater.”