Page 49 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

After dinner, Prescott rose to address the cast members, all formally dressed and seated at banquet tables at the U.S. Grant Hotel.

He’d thrown the party to celebrate what they’d accomplished and to give the cast one last chance to have fun together. After opening night, they’d have three shows a day through Christmas Eve, with only Wednesdays off.

“Here’s to all of you, for a job well done.” Prescott turned to Ria, seated to his left. “And to Ria Fernandez, the brains and hands behind this operation.”

Everyone applauded Ria, with a few well-deserved whistles, and Ria flapped her hand to stop them.

Prescott faced Maggie to his right. “And to Maggie, who had the imagination to envision this show, the determination to make it come to pass, and the heart to bring us all together.”

More cheers and whistles, and Maggie ducked her chin modestly.

“Now you may open your Christmas gifts.” He gestured to the boxes at each place and took his seat. He’d had the jeweler’s shop wrap the ladies’ gifts in red and the men’s in green.

Paper ripped, and pleased murmurs circled the room as the men inspected cuff links engraved with the numeral “12” and the ladies donned bracelets with charms for each of the twelve days of Christmas.

“Oh, Press, it’s perfect.” Maggie twisted her wrist, making charms jangle.

“This show—these people—they’ve meant a lot to me.” His voice roughened. Maggie meant the most.

“Come on, kids.” Freddie sprang to the piano. “This is supposed to be a party.”

A lively tune spilled out, and jitterbugs sprang up and filled the little dance floor.

Maggie leaned closer. “I’m surprised they aren’t tired of dancing by now.”

“Come on, Press.” Greta grabbed his arm. “I never got to dance with you. Vi’s been hogging you.”

Prescott stumbled after the redhead, laughing, and he shrugged at Maggie, who laughed right back at him.

He wasn’t much of a jitterbug, but he could swing, and Greta’s pretty face lit up as they danced.

Wearing a long red dress, Maggie twirled around the floor with Albert. Prescott caught her eye and grinned at her. She was responsible for the show’s success, and she was the one he wanted to dance with.

But when the song ended, Nan cut in. Then Carol. In the next hour, he’d danced with all nine ladies in the cast. Twice.

He kept glancing at Maggie and making her laugh with exaggerated exhausted expressions.

Not once did she act as she had when Vi had her hand on his knee. Not even when he danced with Vi. Either he was mistaken and she wasn’t interested, or she was interested but not the jealous sort.

Tonight he was determined to find out. He might not ever become a screenwriter, but he’d find work. He’d made inquiries, and the situation wasn’t as hopeless as he’d thought. The type of work didn’t matter, as long as it was honest and helped people.

The song ended, and Barbara heaved a sigh, her cheeks red from exertion. “I’m worn out. Hey, Nan, you ready to call it a night?”

All around, cast members picked up purses and gift boxes.

Prescott hadn’t danced with Maggie yet. And where had she gone?

The door leading outside stood open, and a long red skirt passed through. Maggie’s.

A fortifying breath. It was time.

Finally, a break in the rain. Maggie strolled out into the Palm Court on the roof of the hotel’s ground floor, surrounded by the three wings of the eleven-story hotel, its windows darkened for the blackout. Potted palms and an ornate fountain adorned the court, and muted moonlight glimmered on the rain-dampened pavement.

She’d always wanted to see the Palm Court. Standing in Horton Plaza across Broadway, she could only catch glimpses of the elegance.

“You never gave me a chance to dance with you.” Prescott’s voice flowed from behind her, as velvety as the night sky.

He’d followed her? Now the evening was perfect.