Chapter 2
Two
On the second day of Christmas my true love sent to me . . . two turtle doves.
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.
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.
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.
From the first line, their voices harmonized and blended as if designed for each other, and Maggie’s jaw hung slack.
After the first verse, she beckoned Prescott to her. “What do you think?” she whispered.
“She acts. She sings.”
“She dances too.”
“Better than all that, she has presence. She’s my Viola.” He stared up at the pretty blonde. Why wasn’t she already a star?
The setting sun cast golden light on Grandpa’s darling bungalow, Maggie’s home since she’d moved to San Diego after joining the USO.
At the same time, Grandpa had come home from a long stay in the hospital after breaking half a dozen bones falling off the roof.
Maggie crossed the lawn edged by Grandma’s flowers, dormant for the autumn. After Grandma entered the sanitarium for tuberculosis, the ladies from Grandpa’s church kept the garden going, knowing what it meant to him. Knowing the man could kill flowers with a single touch.
A sparrow hopped across the path. Grandpa and Grandma had been turtle doves too, meant for each other.
Would Violet Lane ever find another love? If the way Prescott had looked at her meant anything, it could be soon.
A twinge of pain in Maggie’s chest, and she puffed it away. Crush or no crush, both Prescott and Vi deserved happiness.
Maggie opened the front door and crouched down. “Hello, Tobias.”
Tobias bounded over, one ear pricked, the other floppy, and Maggie ruffled the mutt’s gray and white fur. Grandpa had found the puppy on the streets the day Grandma died, and Tobias had absorbed all the love Grandpa poured upon him and poured it right back.
“I’m home, Grandpa.” She hung her purse and hat by the door. “Let’s have a quick dinner. Thank Your Lucky Stars is playing at the North Park Theatre, and you’re my date.”
In the living room, Grandpa sat in his armchair with his canes beside him.
With a stony expression.
How unlike him. “Grandpa?”
“I got a letter from your father today. You wrote to him, told him about my money troubles. Without asking me.”