Page 51 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

He tipped his head to the side. “I thought her fiancé was lost at sea.”

“That was Frank.” She rose on her toes to get closer. “By the time the news got home that he was alive, Vi had run away to Hollywood and changed her name from Vernice Lingenfelter to Violet Lane. Frank hasn’t been able to find her.”

“Violet Lane . . . That was the street—”

“Isn’t it romantic? And tomorrow night, they’ll be reunited.”

“Tomorrow?”

“After the curtain call.” Maggie settled her heels back to earth, and she played with the lapels of Prescott’s tux. “Frank will be waiting in the lobby—I told him I had a surprise for him. Ria will let him in when I give the signal. Ria doesn’t know why. It’s my surprise. And yours now too.” She reached up to kiss him.

He leaned back. “In front of an audience?”

“Won’t it be romantic? They’ll see each other. She’ll cry. He’ll run to comfort her. They’ll meet partway and—”

“If—if it were Hollywood.”

Why wasn’t he smiling? “What do you mean?”

“Maggie . . .” Prescott released her and stepped back, his hands low on his hips, his chin tucked to his chest. “In real life, people don’t act like they do in Hollywood. Or in Shakespeare.”

Maggie’s empty hands fluttered together, chilled. “I—I don’t understand.”

He waved one arm to the side. “In Twelfth Night, when Duke Orsino finds out Cesario is actually Viola, he instantly falls in love. In real life, he’d have some questions for her. Might even be angry that she’d deceived him.”

Maggie’s shoulders squirmed. “It’s a comedy.”

“Yes, but Frank and Vi’s story—it’s not a comedy. It’s a tragedy. Vi thinks Frank is dead. Dead, Maggie. She’ll be shocked.”

“Yes, but then she’ll—”

“How do you know?” Prescott’s voice grew in intensity, in severity. “People in shock—you never know how they’ll act.”

“It’ll be fine.” Maggie hugged herself and glanced away from that unwarranted severity. “They’ll be thrilled to see each other.”

“What if they aren’t? What if they don’t act the way you’ve imagined? It’s in public. In front of a crowd. This sort of thing should be a private matter, not in the limelight.”

Maggie winced. True, some people didn’t like a fuss—for reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom. But the vision for Frank and Vi wouldn’t leave her mind. “Don’t you see how beautiful it will be?”

“Beautiful?” Prescott’s tone dove deep and dark. “For you or for them?”

She gasped. “Pardon?”

“This isn’t entertainment.” His voice and his gaze sliced. “These are real lives, real hearts, broken hearts. Not actors on your stage to be directed.”

How could he say such things about her? Maggie’s fingers dug into her own arms. “That’s not what I think. Frank and Vi are my friends. I care about them. I’m helping them. After all their years of unhappiness, they deserve this. It’s a Christmas gift.”

Prescott’s face warped, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “If you truly cared for them, you’d tell them in private. In fact, you would have already done so.”

A twinge of pain. She did feel bad about the delay, but that was a moot point now anyway. “It—it’ll be fine. I know it.”

“Always so sure of yourself. You can be wrong, you know.”

“I know that.” Her voice warbled, and she swallowed hard. “But this—this feels right.”

He stared down toward Maggie’s shoes. His jaw ground in circles. “I can’t love a woman who cares more for spectacle than she does for people. I can’t.”

She refused to raise her voice, refused to cry or make a scene. “So that’s it? It’s over?”