Page 8 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

Poor Mrs. Laverne. Since the Old Globe was rarely available for rehearsals, on Friday Maggie had begged her for the use of the gymnasium—in the presence of Mr. Hutton of the local USO Advisory Board. Charmed by Maggie, Mr. Hutton had insisted that Mrs. Laverne accommodate her, including the Little Theater if the gym was occupied.

Maggie gave the older woman an acid-neutralizing smile. “It’s perfect. I know it’s inconvenient for you. If you’d like, the ladies in the cast could volunteer in the club.”

“I think not.” Mrs. Laverne lifted her cute little round nose. “Our junior hostesses come from good families, girls with sterling reputations, not the Hollywood sort.”

Camp Shows also had high standards, but Maggie kept her smile in place. “Very well.”

After the club director left, Maggie placed her portfolio and clipboard on the podium.

“Maggie?” Violet Lane entered, as beautiful and willowy as when she and Maggie had danced together in the movies.

Maggie hugged the blonde, a few inches taller than she, and she studied her young face. “It’s so good to see you, Vi. I was thrilled to see your name on the list. How long have you been with the USO?”

“Over a year. So far, they’ve sent me to Australia and Alaska. San Diego seems tame.” Her green eyes sparkled.

Maggie peeked out into the hallway, then ushered Vi to the front row. “You’ll never guess who’s in our cast. Prescott Duke.”

“You had a crush on him, didn’t you?”

“Sh!” Maggie’s finger flew to her lips.

“Wasn’t he burned? Scarred?” Vi whispered. “Such a shame. He was so handsome.”

“He still is,” Maggie murmured. “His eyes, his voice. Who wouldn’t have a crush?”

Vi shrugged and fingered a gold pendant around her neck.

A dove. She still wore it.

Vi’s fiancé had been lost at sea not long after Pearl Harbor, and Vi had been mourning when Maggie met her in January 1942. Vi said her fiancé had given her the pendant because they were turtle doves, together forever.

Laughter and footsteps arose in the hallway. Maggie grabbed her clipboard and checked in the cast members at the door.

Two polished black shoes stopped before her. “Prescott Duke.”

She looked up and laughed. He was indeed handsome, even with mottled pink scars on the left side of his face, contracting his smile and one eyelid. Worse than the scars was the sad wistfulness about him, so she gave him her brightest smile. “Please have a seat, Prescott.”

After she checked off all the names—except Lola—she went onstage and welcomed everyone. “While we’re waiting for Lola Lockhart, I’d like to introduce our star, Prescott Duke.” She waved to him in the back row.

Prescott’s eyes rounded, his mouth twitched, but he rose to standing.

Stares, attempts not to stare, attempts to meet his gaze, and Maggie’s chest caved in. Surely, he had to deal with that every day.

“You may recognize my name,” he said in that blue velvet voice, and he touched his scarred cheek with a dry smile. “But you may not recognize my face. I wear this mask so no one will be blinded by my stunning good looks.”

Cast members chuckled, tight at first, then relaxing, and Maggie’s chest filled in again.

“I’m honored to be here. Miss Oliver has an excellent show planned.” He gestured to her and took his seat, very un-starlike.

Maggie checked her watch. Lola was fifteen minutes late, but Maggie needed to begin. She laid out the plan for Twelfth Night, with Prescott as Duke Orsino and Lola as Viola, and for twelve variety acts.

She held up her portfolio. “Prescott and I had some ideas for the twelve acts, but I’d like to see what you can come up with based on your individual skills—songs, dance, comedy, magic acts, acrobatics, ventriloquism . . .”

Ria bustled through the door with an armload of scripts. “Just typed up the last one.”

“Thank you.” The USO had removed the naughty bits from Twelfth Night to meet the organization’s wholesome standards, and Maggie and Ria had spent the weekend typing.

“Mr. Underwood called.” Ria handed Maggie a slip of paper.