Page 55 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

When the applause faded, Prescott sang, “‘On the second day of Christmas my true love sent to me two turtle doves.’”

He ambled backward to his mark for the song. “You know what they say about turtle doves—they’re together for life. All around me this Christmas, I see couples in love, enjoying San Diego’s winter wonderland of sunshine and seashore. But will I ever find my own turtle dove?” He heard the pang in his own voice. No acting required.

The band launched into “Winter Wonderland.” Greta and Freddie strutted out stage left, Nan and Ferdy stage right, their feet tapping to the rhythm as they danced. Both couples paused on their marks, performed their little solos, and pranced offstage.

Flirty, perky, energetic, and Prescott’s smile rose as he sang. No acting required.

How he’d enjoyed the past two months, working and laughing with these men and women. He refused to let last night’s devastation knock him out for the count. He’d learned too much.

He’d lost Maggie and soon he’d lose contact with this cast, but he would make new friendships. He’d lost his purpose of writing, but he’d find a new aim or create one.

No matter what, he would use his hurt to help people.

Never had the cast performed so well, and a tiny laugh bubbled through the persistent damp grief in Maggie’s chest.

“‘Ten lords a-leaping,’” Prescott sang, and the men played leapfrog onto the stage as the drums pounded and the audience laughed.

Something had changed in Prescott during “Winter Wonderland,” brightening his voice and enlivening his demeanor, and his brightness and liveliness had flowed out to the cast.

What was that something? It had arisen without any encouragement from her. In the middle of the aching realization that he didn’t want or need her glowed an ember of contentment. He would be fine without her, and she did want the best for him.

“‘Nine ladies dancing,’” and the women pirouetted onstage for their bows.

Sure, there had been some glitches in the show. Carol forgot a few lines, but only a Shakespeare expert would have missed them. Some dance steps were botched. Two missed cues, easily smoothed over.

“‘Eight maids a-milking.’” Barbara and Nan reprised their comedy duo as a milkmaid chasing a cow who didn’t want to be milked and only wanted to “jingle her bells.”

The audience cheered for the women. They’d applauded the songs, whistled at the dances, and even laughed at Shakespeare’s wit.

This was what she’d dreamed of—to bring smiles to men who might be lonely, broken, or afraid. To show them what their service meant to the American people.

From the prompt desk, Maggie resisted the temptation to peek out to the audience.

How proud Grandpa would be. And Mr. Anderson. The USO would see that single women could be entrusted with responsibility. Her job was secure. Papa would relent and not sell Grandpa’s house. All would be well.

“‘Five gold rings.’” Greta performed an acrobatic backbend through her big rings.

If all was well, why did Maggie have a hopping sensation in her belly?

Prescott. He stood center stage, his smile crinkling his face as he sang.

Losing him hurt. But disappointing him hurt possibly even more.

What if he was right?

From the beginning, she’d had second thoughts about Frank and Vi’s reunion, but only about delaying until opening night. Not once had she imagined Frank and Vi doing anything but falling tearfully into each other’s arms.

What if they . . . didn’t? What if it were all doom and gloom as Prescott imagined?

Would a private reunion have been better?

“Happy Holiday” resounded from the stage, and Maggie blinked at the sight of the cast holding hands in alternating red and green costumes. Where had the rest of the curtain call gone?

That meant Frank was already in the lobby with Ria standing at the lobby door.

It was too late to change plans now, and Maggie huffed away her misgivings.

The applause died down, and Vi introduced Maggie so she could dismiss the sailors to their buses. “Now a word from our director, Miss Margaret Oliver.”