Page 62 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

“But I changed my name.” Vi pressed her hands over her eyes, and her Southern accent emerged. “He was looking for Vernice Lingenfelter, not Violet Lane. Oh, Frank.”

“Don’t make excuses for him,” Nan said. “He could have asked your family.”

“I don’t have family.” A muffled wail rose. “I never told anyone back home where I went. Just up and ran to Hollywood, changed my name. Poor Frank. He was searching for me? What have I done? He’ll never want to see me again.”

Maggie leaned closer. “Prescott will talk to him tomorrow. If Frank agrees, would you like to meet with him? Someplace quiet and private.”

Vi bobbled a nod. “I can’t believe he’s alive. All this time . . . oh, Frank.”

One more issue needed to be addressed, and Maggie drew a breath into her shuddering chest. “I’ll understand if you can’t perform in the show tomorrow—or ever.”

“I’m dropping out of the show too.” Carol crossed her arms.

That was worse than Maggie imagined—again—and her breath hopped around.

“Don’t be silly, Carol.” Greta rolled her eyes. “You have a contract.”

“I don’t care. I can’t bear to look at her.” Yet Carol did look at her—with contempt.

“You won’t have to look at me. I won’t be here for the rest of the run.” Mentioning her resignation might look like a ploy for sympathy, and she refused. “Prescott and Ria will manage the show. Greta, could you help stage left?”

“You didn’t hear me.” Carol’s eyes formed icicle daggers. “I’m dropping out, and the rest of you should too.”

“No, Carol.” Vi lowered her hands. “This isn’t about Maggie. We aren’t doing this show for her. We never were. We’re doing it for those sailors and soldiers and Marines. I’ll be here tomorrow, and you’d better be here too. All of you.”

Carol lowered her chin and mumbled her agreement.

Tomorrow they’d come, and the show would go on.

Without Maggie.

Saturday, December 11, 1943

Soft rain, a chilled breeze, and an opportunity recklessly thrown away. With an umbrella overhead and an empty suitcase in hand, Maggie paused outside the USO-Army-Navy YMCA building. Then she trudged up granite steps.

Time to pay the piper.

After she checked in her raincoat and umbrella, she crossed the tiled lobby, passing Mrs. Laverne at the front desk with a civil exchange of “good morning.” Mrs. Laverne must not have heard about last night’s disaster, or she’d be gloating.

The morning meeting had been scheduled to discuss opening night and any changes needed for the upcoming performances. Never once had Maggie imagined she’d resign at the meeting.

Maggie made her way down the hallway. Apparently her imagination had serious limitations.

If only she’d listened to Prescott’s concerns about the reunion and to Grandpa’s warnings about keeping secrets. If only she’d asked God for wisdom rather than success. She might have avoided heartbreak for Frank and Vi. For Prescott. For Grandpa.

A wave of dizziness, and Maggie braced herself against the wall and caught her breath. “‘O time, thou must untangle this, not I; It is too hard a knot for me t’ untie!’”

Yet she was the one who’d tied a knot of Shakespearean proportions, and she was the one who had to pick at that knot.

Poor Grandpa. He’d turned ashen when she’d told him she planned to resign. Later today, she would apply for work at Consolidated Aircraft. If she couldn’t find a high-paying job before Papa arrived from Iowa, Grandpa would lose his house.

Grandpa had said he’d make do. But he’d held Tobias even tighter as he’d said it.

Maggie squared her shoulders and forged upstairs and into her office. She set her suitcase on a chair and opened it to fill with her belongings.

Cheerful voices in the hallway, and Mr. Anderson entered the office with Ria.

Before her courage ran out, Maggie straightened her blue suit jacket, the one Grandpa said made her eyes look as blue as Grandma’s. “Mr. Anderson, I apologize for last night.”