Page 7 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

At the base of the stage, Maggie turned to him, eyebrows high and drawn together. “How awful. I never would have guessed.”

“When Melvin discovered me, he sent me for lessons in diction and etiquette, as well as singing and dancing.” Prescott owed Melvin everything.

Maggie’s red lips rolled in, and concern grew in her gaze. “Shakespeare—will you be able? I could help.”

“I should be fine. I was a good student, loved reading. Still do.”

“Why did you drop out?”

The pain of the years after his father’s death and his mother’s remarriage threatened to swamp him, but he wrestled up a wry smile. “Education is a luxury I couldn’t afford.”

Maggie huffed. “I’m sorry. You’d think I’d know better after the Depression. I’m so spoiled. My father’s a lawyer.”

“Never apologize for the blessings in your life.”

A grateful smile dimpled her cheek. “I have so many blessings. For one thing, my big brother also became a lawyer, freeing me to disappoint the family by going to Hollywood.” Humor glinted in her eyes.

Prescott couldn’t imagine her disappointing anyone. “Why did you leave Hollywood?”

“Oh, I dance well, sing well, act well—but not well enough to break out. The only reason I could afford food was because I typed scripts for the studio. Then when I turned thirty, I realized I was never getting my big break. So I joined the USO. One story ended, and a new one began.”

Prescott sank into a seat in the front row. His story had ended, but he saw nothing ahead. Nothing.

“What’s the matter?” Maggie asked.

The silence of the theater. The emptiness of the stage. “You moved on after Hollywood. I wish I could.”

“Of course you can.” Confidence shone in her lovely face.

“Do you always see the bright side?”

She shrugged. “If I can’t, I make a bright side.”

How was that even possible? And why did he feel comfortable confiding in this woman, practically a stranger? “Since the accident, my life has been a blank page. Nothing but endless blank pages ahead of me.”

“Then write on them.”

“Write on them?”

“Yes.” Maggie dashed up the steps onto the stage, then posed with her arms spread wide. “Write a new script for your life.”

A new script? So many blank pages, riffling before him. Could he write on them? What would it look like?

“Not now, Prescott.” With a mock stern look, Maggie wagged a finger at him. “For the next two months, you’re under the heels of a cruel USO director.” She performed a cramp roll—toe, toe, heel, heel.

Prescott rose from his seat, and with his gaze planted on that USO director, mimicked the tap-dancing step.

Perhaps over the next two months, he could mimic her bright-side-making, new-script-writing ways.

Two

On the second day of Christmas my true love sent to me . . . two turtle doves.

Monday, October 25, 1943

The Little Theater in the USO club was designed for lectures or small ensembles, but it would meet Maggie’s needs for today’s cast meeting and auditions.

“I hope it meets your expectations.” Acid dripped from Mrs. Laverne’s words.