Page 48 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

When they retreated backstage, Maggie stretched her shoulders, but her mind whirled.

“Hi there.” Prescott sat on the edge of the stage, smiling in an inquiring way, as if he sensed her jumbled thoughts. “What do you think?”

Maggie’s breath flowed out, and she plopped into her seat. “It went well.”

“I agree.” He hopped to the floor and took a seat beside her. “And yet . . . ?”

“And yet, Freddie’s right. Every theater person knows a bad dress rehearsal means a good opening night. And vice versa.”

Prescott leaned his elbow on the armrest between them. “You believe in superstition?”

“No, but—”

“No buts.” He gave her a firm look. “I know you have a lot at stake. Your job, your grandpa’s home.”

Maggie twisted her hands together on top of her portfolio. “All the bigwigs will be here tomorrow—city leaders and admirals and Mr. Anderson and other head honchos in the USO. Even Grandpa.”

“The biggest wig of all.” Prescott leaned closer. “Remember, half the problems we see onstage will be invisible to the audience. They won’t know if Carol skips a line and Albert covers for her. And other problems—well, they’re good for laughs, and we’re here to make the boys laugh.”

“We are.” Her fingers fell still.

Prescott put his hand on hers, and his warmth and calm seeped through to her. “You’ve done excellent work. This show will be every bit the spectacle you dreamed of.”

For almost two months, Maggie had encouraged Prescott. With success. He’d given his script to the producer, and Val had promised to call in a week or so. Now Prescott was encouraging her. As if she weren’t already hopelessly in love. She swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

He squeezed her hand. “I need to visit the water cooler before the others drain it dry.” He leaned forward, his mouth rounded as if to give her a kiss—the quick and easy kiss of a couple completely comfortable with each other.

He stopped. His eyes went wide. He retracted his lips, patted her hand, and marched backstage.

Maggie’s breath whooshed out. Had he meant to kiss her? His screen kisses sent her into palpitations. But to receive one? Not a screen kiss but a real one. Could her heart stand it?

“Miss Oliver?” Frank Sebastian strode down the aisle, waving with a broad grin. “How’s the rehearsal going?”

The stage was empty, but not for long. Maggie darted up the aisle, took Frank’s arm, and steered him back toward the lobby. “It’s going well, but not if the cast sees you here.”

“What do you mean?” Frank struggled to keep up.

“Show people are superstitious.” Maggie shoved open the lobby door and closed it in blessed concealment. “They consider it bad luck if someone watches a dress rehearsal.”

Frank frowned at the door. “I’d like to see the show.”

“After the opening night craziness is over, you can come to any performance you’d like. However, tomorrow evening at the end of the show, I do have a special treat for you to thank you.”

His face blanched. “I don’t need—”

“I insist. Come to the lobby at nine o’clock sharp. Ria will meet you and let you in when it’s time—and not before.” Even Ria had no inkling about Maggie’s surprise.

“You’re not bringing me onstage, are you?” He turned a bit green, and he laid a hand on his stomach. “I’ve got horrible stage fright. Get real jittery. My stomach . . .”

He wouldn’t throw up, would he? Maggie kept her smile high. “I promise, you’ll love this treat.”

All his jitters would flee the moment he saw his beloved Vernice.

nine

On the ninth day of Christmas my true love sent to me . . . nine ladies dancing.

Thursday, December 9, 1943