Chapter 3 #2
As Frank Sebastian called off measurements of the Old Globe stage, Maggie wrote them down.
Smaller than she remembered. To adapt, she’d need to streamline the large dance numbers.
Now that she’d accepted the idea—and the necessity—of streamlining, she kept finding other ways to do it.
Prescott’s idea, and it was excellent. He was so clever. And calming. And humble and generous and even more of a gentleman than she’d realized. Her longtime crush had merit.
“Miss Oliver?”
Maggie blinked. “Yes?”
Frank grinned at her. He was repeating himself, wasn’t he? “Ready to look backstage?”
“I am.” Mr. Anderson expected a plan, and she was determined to offer a whole flock of details.
Behind the curtains, Maggie sketched the space on her clipboard.
“You can stash props here,” Frank said. “A rack for costume parts there.”
Yes, hats or scarves or Vi’s jerkin. “You must have lots of theater experience.”
He chuckled. “Only from the audience. My fiancée—she loved theater. Dragged me to every movie and show that came to our little town.”
Maggie smiled at the fondness on the young man’s face. “Sounds like a good match.”
“It was.” Ripples raced across his brow.
“Was?”
“She’s gone and disappeared.” He dipped his head to one side. “Nothing sinister. Nothing cruel on her part. I don’t blame her.”
“What do you mean?”
Frank trudged back onto the stage. “I joined the Navy waiting for her to finish school. By the time she did, I’d shipped out to the Pacific.
In January of ’42, my ship was sunk. But the retreat from the East Indies was so chaotic, it took months to get word to my folks that I’d survived.
All Vernice knew was that I was lost at sea. ”
Maggie’s feet edged forward. Lost at sea . . . January 1942 . . . Frank Sebastian. “Her name’s Vernice?”
“Vernice Lingenfelter.” Frank sent her a wobbly smile and plodded down the steps. “My folks said she was heartbroken, up and left town. No trace of her.”
How horrible. She followed him off the stage. “But her family—surely, they—”
“No kin. She and her mama were all alone in town, running from someone. Vernice never would say. Her mama died her sophomore year, and friends took Vernice in.”
“You have no idea where she went?” Maggie’s voice came out breathless.
“No idea whatsoever.”
Maggie did. She’d already heard this tale.
From the other side.
From Violet Lane.
Which sounded suspiciously like a stage name.
Maggie followed Frank Sebastian up the aisle. Now she knew where she’d heard his name. Vi’s fiancé, lost at sea.
A gasp flew from Maggie’s mouth. In Twelfth Night, Viola and Sebastian each thought the other lost at sea after a shipwreck.
Another gasp. Even their names!
In the middle of the aisle, Maggie turned in a slow circle. A reunion . . . onstage . . . on opening night. A tearjerker of a finale.
A finale sure to stir the hearts of admirals and city leaders and USO luminaries.
More importantly, a reunion that would bring happiness to two dear people.
“Miss Oliver?” Frank called from the door to the lobby.
“Getting one last look.” She dashed to the door, ducking her head so she could conceal the pleased expression on her face.
Then a grimace. Over a month until opening night. She’d have to keep Frank and Vi apart, keep a secret.
Grandpa’s voice rumbled in her ear. “If you’re keeping secrets, you’re meddling.”
“Hush, Grandpa,” she whispered. It wasn’t keeping secrets. It was a Christmas gift.
Friday, November 5, 1943
In the Bivouac Grill in the basement of the U.S. Grant Hotel, Prescott perused a lunch menu full of items he’d never heard of before 1935.
Under the low vaulted ceiling of the dining room, only a few furtive glances had been aimed at him. Almost two weeks dining in public, and no one had come at the monster in their midst with a pitchfork.
He opened the notepad by his side, with notes for his phone call with Melvin. His story idea, each word recorded with pain and difficulty.
Yet each word he wrote spawned a dozen more. Each line of dialogue flowed to the next. Each insight into his leading man’s character blossomed into scenes.
Why had the Lord chosen him to receive the gift of this story? Why hadn’t the idea gone to a real writer?
It had been given to him.
As had the USO show.
At the club, he’d enjoyed a morning of creativity, camaraderie, and conversation. How he’d missed it all.
The morning had been spent streamlining choreography to make the dances easier to learn.
Maggie’s cheerful determination buoyed all around her. Yet her focus on the plan never blinded her to others. The struggles with lines. The snide comments between rivals. The show-off who hogged center stage. Maggie soothed egos and hurt feelings and frustrations.
“Are you ready to order, monsieur?” an older waiter said in a French accent.
“I am, thank you. I’ll have the chicken à la King.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
A portly gentleman approached the table. “Telephone for Mr. Prescott Duke.”
Prescott’s heart jolted. Melvin had returned the call he’d placed this morning. With a quick prayer, he grabbed his notepad and followed the concierge upstairs and to the bank of telephone booths in the lobby.
His breath came out jittery, so he summoned his acting experience to sound more confident than he felt. “Melvin?”
“Press! Great to hear your voice. How’s the USO treating you?”
“Enjoying every minute. It’ll be a swell show.”
“Great. So, what’s up?”
This wasn’t the time to say he wanted to do more USO shows, nor to mention his upcoming performance in the naval hospital. Any distractions would chew away at his tiny morsel of courage.
One more deep breath. “I called because I have an idea for a screenplay.”
“A screenplay?” A quiet cuss. “How many times—”
“I know. Every actor thinks he can write. Every actor is wrong. But this is different.”
“Every actor says that.”
Prescott puffed out a breath. “I can’t describe how the story came to me. All I know is Charles Anthony is here, in my head, and I need to tell his story.”
“Press . . .” A growl rumbled over the line.
Prescott gripped the receiver harder and read his pitch from his notepad. “Charles Anthony had it all. Important job, impressive house, beautiful family, but one tragic act—”
“No, Press. Don’t. It’s been told. It’s been told a million times and by—no offense—by actual screenwriters.”
“But this story—”
“No. This story—you’ve got to put it out of your head. Find a gym and a punching bag and beat it out of your head.”
Prescott squeezed his eyes shut. “What if I’m right? What if it’s a phenomenal story?”
Melvin fell silent, then sighed. “I’ll be honest. Even if you could write it, the studio wouldn’t want you to.
You’ve heard about television. After the war, it’ll be big.
Huge. All those older films sitting in vaults—the studios plan to sell television rights.
There’s money in it. But not if you tarnish your image. ”
Prescott drew back his chin. “How would writing tarnish my image?”
“Come on, Press. Everyone remembers you as a handsome and debonair star. The studio needs to keep that image sharp to sell those film rights.”
“My scars.” Prescott’s voice rasped over his throat. “You think they’ll scar my image.”
“In this business, image is everything. You know that. Why do you think the studio clamped down on the press after your accident? Sure, at first it was good publicity—the heroic star. But when it became clear you’d be scarred . . .”
Burning in his chest, his face, his hands.
“I’m sorry, Press.” And Melvin sounded truly sorry. “I let you do this USO show against my better judgment. But a screenplay? Put it out of your head.”
How could he put the story out of his head when God had put it in?