Page 34 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

After he left the gym, Ria gripped Maggie’s arm. “Was he watching the same show we were?”

“I don’t know.” Had the Lord blinded him? “He’s a theater professional. Maybe he knows how a show tastes when it’s still half-baked.”

“Maybe. Anyway, I’m glad.”

“Me too. Thank you for all your help. I couldn’t do this without you.”

Ria made a scoffing sound. “Don’t you try to blame me for this mess.”

Maggie laughed, then sobered. “Please tell the cast the good news. I need to talk to Prescott.”

The cast was getting ready to leave for lunch. Off to himself, Prescott stashed props on the rack.

“Prescott? Are you all right?”

“Hmm?” His dull brown gaze turned to her. “Why do you ask?”

Maggie stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Your performance today was flat.”

He set Vi’s green hat on top of her green jerkin. “You want me out of the show.”

Not a question but a statement, and Maggie frowned. Why would he think that? “No, I want you in the show. I don’t know where you were today, but you weren’t here.”

In the background, a cheerful murmur rose to Ria’s announcement.

Prescott’s mouth mashed together, and pain flickered in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I ruined everything.”

“No, you didn’t. Mr. Anderson approved the show. But this afternoon, I need you here. All of you. Whatever’s bothering you—leave it outside the gym.”

The pain washed from his eyes, leaving something else behind, analyzing, pondering, determined. “You could have pandered to me as a star. Or because of my scars. You didn’t. You were honest with me.”

He’d probably received plenty of pandering, but what good would that do the show? “You’re under the heel of a mean director, remember?” She did a cramp roll, which lost its zing without taps on her shoes.

He didn’t laugh, and his expression shifted as if he were in a movie’s climactic scene, shoving aside turmoil, rallying, resolving. “I’d like your opinion on something.”

“What is it?”

“Saturday night. Are you free?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to take you to dinner at the Hotel del Coronado. You deserve an evening to celebrate. Then I’d like to ask your professional opinion.”

Maggie’s heart spiraled up into her throat. A romantic evening with Prescott? Or was it a business meeting?

Regardless, she’d get to dress up and go to the Del. “I’d love that.”

Coronado

Saturday, November 20, 1943

His order placed, Prescott thanked the waiter and returned his attention to Maggie, sitting partway around the round table facing the orchestra and dance floor.

Her loveliness strangled his breath. A long dress of sky blue brought out the color in her eyes and cheeks.

“This is so nice. Thank you again. I’ve always wanted to come here.” She gave her head a little shake. “I must have said that a dozen times already.”

He’d repeated himself a dozen times as well, his nervousness compounded by shame for his own cowardice. Taking her out “to celebrate”? Wanting her “professional opinion”?