Page 47 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

Val sagged back in his seat. “Why even mention it to me?”

“I—I’m not trying to go over Melvin’s head. He’s been my agent as a performer, and I’d want him to be my agent as a writer. I just—I wanted another opinion before I followed his advice and gave up.”

Val’s thin chest expanded. “Mel has a good eye for scripts. One of the many reasons I like working with him and his talent.”

Prescott managed to crack a smile. “I’m no good at pitching, am I?”

“No, you’re not.” But Val mirrored his smile.

Too much heart and courage and effort had gone into the story to stop now. He opened his attaché case and pulled out over a hundred pages covered in Maggie’s neat typing, not a crossed-out word in sight. He could still see her pretty face as she proclaimed, “Oscars all around.” Perhaps he should have had Maggie do the pitching.

“I believe in this story.” Prescott held it tight. “It’s about a man who has everything, loses everything, and makes a new and better life.”

Val didn’t look at the pages, only at Prescott. “Listen, I’m sorry all this happened to you. I loved working with you. Not just because you’re talented, but because you knew when to take direction and when to stick to your guns. And you never let fame go to your head. You treated everyone on set well, from the director to the janitor.”

Prescott shrugged. “My mother was a maid.”

“I also know you didn’t get far in school. I’m sorry, Press. I wish I could help, but . . .”

Prescott should stash away his work, collect himself, and enjoy lunch with his friend. But there on the page, Charles Anthony’s name stared up at him.

“All that happened to me . . .” Prescott’s voice rasped, and he cleared his throat. “These scars—this is why I’m the right person to tell this story. Men are coming home from the war disfigured, broken. They’ve seen horrible things. Some of them have done horrible things. This story—it’s powerful, Val.”

Something melted in Val’s expression, but not enough.

A great wave of frustration swelled inside, and he set the script in front of Val. “Listen, why don’t you take it home? Read five, ten pages. If you hate it, that’ll be the end of it. I’ll never bother you with a script again.”

Studying him, Val shifted his lower jaw from side to side. He groaned and drew the script closer. “Don’t tell anyone I’m getting soft in my old age.”

“Not a soul. And thanks.” It was over. He felt it. But he’d done his best.

San Diego

Thursday, December 9, 1943

Sitting in the Old Globe during the dress rehearsal, Maggie kept holding her breath—and releasing it in wondrous relief.

For the final number, Prescott stood center stage. The green velvet jerkin accentuated his broad shoulders and solid torso and set off his dark hair and eyes. He finished his final emcee bit, charming and generous, and sang, “‘On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love sent to me—twelve drummers drumming . . .’”

The band’s drummer broke into a jazzy solo while the cast of Twelfth Night ran onto the stage for their bows. The jester tripped the villain Malvolio, milking one last laugh.

“‘Eleven pipers piping . . .’” The band stood and held instruments high.

“‘Ten lords a-leaping . . .’” The men bounded out for their bows.

“‘Nine ladies dancing . . .’” They twirled onto the stage, their red velvet skirts floating even more beautifully than Maggie had imagined.

Each act came in turn, no bumping, no missed cues, down to Vi’s partridge curtsy with a hand over her heart. Then the whole cast, in alternating red and green, sang “Happy Holiday.”

Maggie bolted to her feet and applauded. “That was perfect. I’m so proud of all of you.”

“I thought a good dress rehearsal was bad luck,” Freddie called.

“Don’t worry,” Ferdy said. “We’ll botch up the next run-through for good measure.”

“Don’t you dare,” Maggie said with a laugh. “Twenty-minute break, one last run-through, then the cast party at the U.S. Grant Hotel tonight. A huge thank you to Prescott for hosting us.”

The cast cheered and whistled.