Page 54 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

Maggie kept her tone as calm as his. “It occurred to me.”

“The show must go on.” His gaze slid to her, lukewarm, and he strode away.

Maggie clutched at her belly. She could have handled hot anger or cold rejection. But lukewarm? As if she wasn’t worthy of regard. As if she’d disappointed him.

For two months, he’d been more than the star of her show. He’d been her partner, as they fed off each other’s ideas. He’d been her friend, as they encouraged each other. And for a few short minutes, they’d been in love, kissing with abandon.

Now he’d withdrawn his encouragement, his support, and his love. Because of his worries, his fixation on what might go wrong. She was better off without him.

So why did she feel as if she’d been sawn in two?

Prescott was right about one thing though. The show must go on.

Maggie drew herself tall and went to the prompt desk in the wings to stage left. There lay her script for the entire show, filled with notations on blocking and cues.

Tonight, with her role as director finished, she’d serve as stage manager, while Ria managed stage right.

Beyond the heaviness of the curtain, the band played Christmas music and conversation hummed. Out there, in the boxes along the theater’s circular walls, sat those admirals and civic leaders. Mr. Anderson planned to sit center front with the USO leaders.

And with Grandpa.

Maggie’s face crumpled. At least Grandpa loved her.

Bright lights reduced the audience to black silhouettes. Yet each man in the theater was far more than a silhouette, and Prescott wouldn’t abandon them.

“Good evening, San Diego,” he said with a grin. “My name is Prescott Duke, a name you may remember from film, a voice you may remember from film. But the face? Ah, I’m afraid I was burned in a bus accident on the way to Army training camp. I guess I should have joined the Navy.”

Nervous laughter rose from the blackened rows.

Prescott raised one arm. “USO-Camp Shows is proud to present ‘The Twelve Days and Twelfth Night of Christmas.’ We hope to bring you a little music, a few laughs, and even a bit of culture if it doesn’t kill you.”

More laughter, more relaxed.

“So here we are, about to spend the holidays in sunny San Diego.”

Now laughter poured like the rain that had fallen all day.

“Sandy beaches instead of sleigh rides. Palm trees instead of pine. Green instead of white. What would our partridge in a pear tree sing if she were assigned to the United States Navy’s Repair Base, San Diego? May I introduce our lovely partridge, Miss Violet Lane?” And he sang, “‘On the first day of Christmas my true love sent to me a partridge in a pear tree.’”

He made a sweeping gesture to stage right as he backed off to stage left.

The band played the introduction to “White Christmas,” and Vi came onstage, trailing her hand around the trunk of the fake pear tree. After a swing lowered from the “branch” at the top of the stage, Vi took her perch, and she swung and sang in her melodious soprano.

All night, Prescott had debated with himself. He’d wanted to warn Vi before the show, let her know Frank was alive, prepare her so she could rejoice at Frank’s arrival.

But what if the shock undid her? What if she was in no shape to go onstage?

The show could be ruined. That wouldn’t be fair to the cast, the audience, or even to Maggie. Even though she was making a mistake, she didn’t deserve to lose her job over it. And Mr. Curtis certainly didn’t deserve to lose his home and dog.

Maggie stood in the prompt corner as the cast lined up in the wings for “Winter Wonderland.” She met his gaze, her face puckered, and she glanced away.

An ache grew in his chest.

Sometime before dawn, he’d decided not to tell Vi. He’d chosen not to reveal the truth for fear of harming the show. He’d chosen one potential harm over another. Was he any better than Maggie?

What if she’d considered the same factors? Last night he hadn’t delved much before she’d run off. Had he leapt to conclusions about her placing entertainment above people? For the past two months, compassion had shone at the core of her character. Had he been hasty in judging her?

Vi finished her solo and flitted off like a bird. Applause erupted, pierced by whistles. Her star quality had shone, and Prescott went to center stage. “Isn’t she wonderful? Miss Violet Lane.”