Page 6 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

“Twelfth Night, but a short version, only an hour, plus variety show numbers—two hours total. A fun Christmas show for the boys.”

“Won’t feel like Christmas for most of them.” Prescott waved to the palm trees bobbing their shaggy green heads above the Spanish buildings.

Maggie laughed and tipped up her chin to the tropical greenery. “And a partridge in a palm tree,” she sang in a full-throated soprano.

Prescott laughed in return, and the song tinkled in his head.

“‘The Twelve Days of Christmas.’” His feet stopped as the song and an idea revolved around each other like ballroom dancers. “Twelfth Night.”

Maggie spun to him, and her eyes widened to the idea. “What if . . . ?”

“How many variety show numbers do you need?”

“Three to five minutes each . . . one hour . . .” She gasped. “Twelve.”

“What if . . . ?”

“Each number inspired by one of the days of Christmas.”

“Nine ladies dancing.”

“Ten lords a-leaping.” Maggie’s laugh broke free. “I can see it. As Duke Orsino says in Twelfth Night, ‘If music be the food of love, play on.’”

It was brilliant. And Prescott hadn’t had such an enjoyable conversation in almost two years.

“Miss Oliver? Mr. Duke?” Sebastian beckoned.

They’d fallen behind. Prescott and Maggie grinned at each other and rushed to catch up.

“It’s perfect.” Maggie splayed one hand like a sunburst. “I asked your agent for nine more men to complete the cast of Twelfth Night. There are three female parts in the play, but I asked for nine ladies, plus a starlet. He’s sending Lola Lockhart—you starred with her in one of the Hollywood Harmonies.”

“Yes, 1939.” He’d hoped never to see Lola again, but he kept his expression neutral. If she was volunteering for USO shows, perhaps she’d changed her selfish ways.

In a few minutes, Frank ushered them into the circular Globe Theatre.

Maggie stopped at the top of the center aisle. “Don’t you love performing in a theater?”

“I never did.” Prescott rested his hands on a wooden seat back. “Straight to the movies.”

“Is it true what the movie magazines said? Raised on the tough streets of Chicago, discovered in a boxing ring?”

He gave her a look equal parts scoffing and teasing. “You don’t read those rags, do you?”

“I do. I take them with a grain of salt, but salt is rather tasty.”

Footsteps thumped into the back of the theater, and a sailor waved at Sebastian. “Frank? Lieutenant Jeffers needs to see you on the double.”

Sebastian winced. “He knows I’m with the USO people.”

“He says it won’t take long.”

“Stay here.” Sebastian held up one hand to Prescott and Maggie. “I’ll be back.”

“Yes, sir.” Maggie raised a playful salute. “We’ll wait for our chaperone.”

After Sebastian followed his colleague outside, Maggie sauntered down the aisle toward the stage. “So, the magazines—truth or Hollywood hokum?”

Prescott sauntered after her. “Both. Mean streets of Chicago and boxing ring—true. But they glossed over anything that clashed with the studio’s image. Nothing sophisticated about a school dropout at twelve or a hoodlum at fourteen or a hobo in a rescue mission at twenty-two.”