Page 4 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

“Wish I’d discovered you before you discovered God in that rescue mission. Would’ve made my job easier.”

A tiny smile for old time’s sake. If he’d played the bad boy role, he might have made the jump from B movies to the A list a lot earlier. But at what cost?

Melvin waved his pear in a little circle. “Find a hobby. Take up birdwatching or something.”

“I’ve been reading a lot.”

A quiet cuss, and Melvin’s head drooped. “Whatever you do, promise you won’t take up writing. Every actor thinks he can write. Every actor is wrong.”

Melvin’s secretary leaned in the door. “Mr. Underwood? Call for you from a Miss Margaret Oliver with the USO regarding a Christmas show for the Navy boys in San Diego.”

“Put it through, Edna.” He glanced at Prescott. “You don’t mind?”

Prescott shook his head and waved his agent toward the phone.

Melvin set down the half-eaten pear, sandwiched the phone between shoulder and ear, and slid open a desk drawer. “Melvin Underwood here. How many dancing girls you need?”

Then Melvin’s gaze shot to Prescott. “You want Prescott Duke?”

Prescott sat up straighter, his mouth hanging open.

Melvin held up his hand to stop him. “I’m sorry, Miss Oliver, but you must not have heard. Mr. Duke was badly burned in an accident. He—he has scars.”

Prescott’s face burned on the left side. Burned. But it was better for the woman to find out now than when he showed up for the first rehearsal.

Melvin ran his hand through his silver hair. “Yes. Yes, I understand stage is different from film . . . No, his voice wasn’t affected . . . ”

No, his voice wasn’t affected, and Prescott edged forward in his chair.

“Sorry, lady,” Melvin said. “You must have an old list, from before Pearl Harbor. He isn’t available.”

What? He’d been available for well over a year. Prescott sprang forward and snatched the phone right out of Melvin’s hand. “Miss Oliver? I am very much available. I would be honored to be in your show.”

A feminine gasp. “Is that—Mr. Duke?”

Melvin groaned. “Press, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Prescott jabbed a finger at the phone. “The lady invited me to be in her show, and I want to do it. What else do I need to know?”

“Mr. Duke?” The woman’s voice quivered. “I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were there. How much did you hear?”

“I heard that I have a chance to do something worthwhile with my sorry life for the first time in almost two years. What would you like me to do?”

“Oh. Well. Serve as the emcee and sing a song or two, dance perhaps. I hadn’t thought that far. And we’re doing a short version of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. I thought—with your name—I thought maybe you could play the role of Duke Orsino.”

“Anything. I’ll be a stagehand, water boy, whatever you want. I’m yours, Miss Oliver.”

“Oh.” She gave a nervous little laugh. “Thank you.”

Melvin rolled his eyes.

Prescott hadn’t meant to sound flirtatious, and he raised a sheepish smile.

“Fine.” Melvin grabbed his gold pen and took back the phone. “All right, Miss USO. Where does he need to be and when?”

Prescott settled back into the armchair.

This wouldn’t solve his problem, not by a long shot. But for two months, he could fill the void of his life.