Page 42 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

They laughed together.

“Oh, Maggie’s back,” Vi said. “Nan all straightened out?”

“For now.” Maggie stopped about ten feet away with a strained smile. A glance at Prescott’s knee—and Vi’s hand—and the smile vibrated. “Let’s get back to work, everyone. Scene 5.”

Vi left her seat to chat with Barbara.

But Prescott sat still with a funny feeling in his gut. Was Maggie jealous? Of him and Vi? A surge of pleasure. Could she be interested in him romantically? Some men would play up the jealousy, but Prescott hated games. And he liked Maggie. A lot.

The fifth scene progressed. Faltered. It contained lots of witty banter and entrances and exits. Many of the actors missed cues. Carol, playing Maria, didn’t know her lines.

“Carol, do you hear the cadence?” A thread of frustration wound through Maggie’s usual patience. “How the jester’s lines flow into yours, flow out of yours?”

Carol’s shoulders slumped. “It’s too hard. Too many lines. I’m used to doing comedy bits, not Shakespeare.”

“I’d like to see you spending more time reading your script and less time chatting with your friends.” Maggie’s words carried both gentleness and a backbone.

Prescott tapped his fingers on his knees. Carol had been singing with Prescott three times a week in the hospital—when she could have been studying her lines.

“Carol, you’re perfect for Maria,” Maggie said. “You bring zest and humor to this role. I know you can do it.”

If only Prescott could put his arm around Maggie’s shoulder as she’d done for Nan. She hadn’t flinched from his touch when she was typing.

A small smile rose. They’d spent two Sundays in a row at her house, plus the Friday after Thanksgiving, typing and bouncing ideas off each other while Mr. Curtis followed along.

He was determined to finish his script before opening night. After that, meeting to type would grow difficult.

Yet all he wanted was to slow down the process so he could savor it.

“Pause right there.” Despite the panic in Maggie’s chest, she aimed a calm expression at the five comedic players. “Freddie, Sir Toby is the key to this scene. He teases Sir Andrew, banters with Maria and the jester, and taunts Malvolio. His clever use of words is vital. You must slow down.”

Freddie waved her off. “Sir Toby is quick-witted. He talks fast.”

“But onstage, you must slow down, especially with Elizabethan speech. If the audience doesn’t understand Sir Toby’s line, they won’t understand Sir Andrew’s misunderstanding of that line.”

Freddie’s eyelids fluttered as if he wanted to roll his eyes.

“Slow down. Enunciate. Start over.” Maggie returned to her seat. After four days off for Thanksgiving, the cast had fallen behind, and she had so little time before opening night.

“Miss Oliver!” Mrs. Laverne stomped across the gym, her face bright red, her arms swinging hard.

“Just a minute, please.” Maggie held up one hand to the club director so the scene onstage could play out.

Mrs. Laverne stepped right in front of her chair and glared down at her. “Mrs. Buffington saw one of your girls swanning around the club half-dressed.”

Maggie sighed, rose, and glanced over Mrs. Laverne’s shoulder at the actors. “Take a short break. Study your lines.”

Now Mrs. Laverne glared up at her. “I will not stand for this.”

With difficulty, Maggie assumed her most soothing expression. “I do apologize. The lady was having a costume fitting in my office, and—”

“Lady? Ladies don’t parade in front of gentlemen with their clothes falling off.”

Ria jogged into the gym. “I’m sorry, Miss Oliver. I was explaining to Mrs. Laverne—”

“Some things don’t need explaining.” Mrs. Laverne wheeled on Ria.

Ria didn’t back down. “I told the actress to stay in the office.”