Page 53 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

“You pitched to Ruben? After I told you to let it go?” A jab of a punch to Prescott’s ear.

He sank back against the wall of the booth. Mel thought Prescott had gone behind his back. “I didn’t mean—”

“Come on, Press. It was handwritten. I saw two misspellings on the first page—and I’m not that good a speller. How could you show that to him?”

Maggie had typed it, cleaned up his spelling. “That wasn’t what I—”

“You made me look ridiculous.” A cross punch to Prescott’s heart. “My actors begging for work? Pitching half-baked scripts to producers?”

Combination punches pummeled his gut. Half-baked? Was that what Val had said?

Melvin cussed. “It takes time to build credibility in this town. Producers know when I come to them with talent, it’s good. The right man for the right part. The right script for the right studio. Then . . . Press, what got into you?”

The story. The story got into him. A low groan flowed from his battered gut.

A sigh from Melvin. “It’s all right. I smoothed things over with Val. Told him you were going through a rough patch, but you’d get through. He’d only read a few pages anyway, so no harm done.”

Prescott rubbed at the pain in his stomach. If his script had been any good, Val would have read more than a few pages.

“Listen, Press. I know all about rough patches. But you’ve got to take my advice. You always have—I’ve always liked that about you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“All forgiven. Now, first thing in the new year, come to the office. We’ll talk, find some hobbies for you. Birdwatching, stamp collecting, something. We’ll figure it out.”

The pain drained away, leaving nothing but nothingness.

ten

On the tenth day of Christmas my true love sent to me . . . ten lords a-leaping.

Friday, December 10, 1943

The women’s dressing room crackled with happy tension as the ladies applied stage makeup, zipped red velvet dresses, and buckled ankle straps of high-heeled tap shoes.

Maggie’s breath skittered all over, and she glanced at her image in a lightbulb-ringed mirror. Even a new red suit, rouge, and powder couldn’t conceal her pale cheeks and red nose after a tear-soaked night.

Vi hugged Maggie’s shoulders, and her green eyes sparkled. “Don’t worry. The show will be swell.”

Those eyes would sparkle even more when she saw her Frank.

All night long, Maggie had wrestled with her plan. But it was a good plan, she knew it. Soon Prescott would see.

If he even came.

Maggie forced a big smile. “All right, ladies. Twenty minutes until showtime. Head to the wings as soon as possible. I’ll check on the men.”

If Prescott didn’t come, what would she do? How could she cover his many roles?

She knocked on the door of the men’s dressing room. “Good evening, gentlemen. Is everyone here?”

“We’d better be,” Albert called out.

“Great. Time to take your places.”

The door opened, and the men filed out in matching white shirts, black trousers, and green velvet jerkins. They looked fabulous.

Even Prescott, who came out last. He paused beside her, in profile, his face impassive. “You thought I wouldn’t come.”