Page 9 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

Maggie read it and groaned. Lola Lockhart had dropped out after receiving a better offer, and the two actresses Mr. Underwood recommended were comedians, not leading ladies. “No one else?”

“All booked.”

Maggie needed a Viola, a songbird to sing with Prescott. She scanned the room—nine beautiful and talented young ladies.

She hefted up a smile. “We have one more role to audition—Prescott Duke’s leading lady.”

Lola couldn’t come? A sigh of relief, but then Prescott frowned. Since his own star no longer shone brightly, the show needed a woman with presence.

Such a loss would kill a movie, but Maggie shuffled papers with her confident expression intact. “Ladies, I’ll have you each read a scene with Prescott and sing with him. How about ‘White Christmas’? Everyone knows it. The scene starts on page twelve.”

Wearing a light gray suit, Maggie passed out scripts. “Gentlemen, you’ll audition for parts after the ladies. Read the cover sheet and decide which roles suit you. For each role, find the page number for the audition scene. Practice quietly in the back of the room.”

Chairs scraped, and Prescott held out his hand for his script.

Instead of filling his hand, Maggie gestured to the front row. “Come find your Viola.”

“Shouldn’t I read too?”

She cocked her head. “You’re Duke Orsino.”

“The other men should have a chance.”

A soft chuckle floated from Maggie’s mouth. “Remarkable.”

“Pardon?”

“You’re the star. Every sailor in San Diego knows your name. They’re coming to see you in the leading role.” She waved toward the front row. “Come. Are you familiar with Twelfth Night?”

“I read it over the weekend.” He followed her and sat up front.

“Great fun, isn’t it? The mistaken identities, the plot to humiliate Malvolio, Viola dressing as a man and fooling everyone. The sailors will love it.”

If only Prescott had noticed Maggie on the movie set. Her optimistic decisiveness, blended with kind inclusiveness, appealed far more than shining hair and eyes and smile—which she also had in abundance.

Maggie handed him a script at last. “You’ll make a great Duke Orsino.”

“Only man left in Hollywood, huh?” He cracked half a smile.

Her mouth puckered on one side. “There were a dozen men on the list. I wanted you. Talent is common in Hollywood, but gentlemen are rare. Besides, you smiled at me once.”

Prescott cringed. “Once? That doesn’t say much for how I treated the dancers.”

“Oh, you were wonderful. No, this was special.” Dark eyelashes dipped, and her gaze swung to the stage. “The director was jumping down the throat of the new girl, had her in tears. I was coaching her, but the other girls laughed at her. So, I gave them a talking to.”

“I remember that.” He could picture Maggie with one hand on her hip, the other on the shoulder of the young dancer, reminding the girls that they’d all been new once and that the routine would fail unless they worked together.

She’d stood up for the vulnerable.

“That smile told me you care how others are treated.” Maggie shifted papers in her lap. “First up, Violet Lane. Vi, are you ready?”

“I am.” A lady floated up to the stage with the blonde good looks of Betty Grable, but with a soft glow that reminded him of Greer Garson.

“She has the right name,” Prescott murmured to Maggie, then he found the scene and joined the blonde on the stage. He’d have to read cold, not easy with the difficult language.

But Violet Lane made it easy. She read with lively intelligence, easy emotion, and elegant gestures. Most importantly, she didn’t simply perform for the audience, she engaged with Prescott.

“Thank you,” Maggie said after only one page. “‘White Christmas.’” She hummed a note to establish the key.