Chapter 4
four
On the fourth day of Christmas my true love sent to me . . . four calling birds.
Sitting in the Little Theater, Maggie tried to follow the scene in the script, but how could she when Prescott and Vi were so riveting?
After only the slightest coaching from Maggie on pronouncing the more obscure words, Prescott had found the music and rhythm of the language all on his own.
And Vi . . . she glowed. Prescott glowed right back at her.
Such chemistry on the screen was magnificent. On the stage—glorious.
So why did Maggie’s heart twist? She couldn’t be jealous. She’d never been that sort, and she was far too practical to think a star like Prescott would stoop down to a former ensemble dancer.
What was that uncomfortable twisting?
For Frank, surely. Pining for his Vernice, not knowing she was right here in San Diego. Pining for him.
How magnificently glorious it would be when they reunited.
The scene ended, and Prescott and Vi turned to Maggie.
She applauded. “Brava! Bravo! Keep bringing these scenes to life, and you’ll make those sailor boys fall in love with Shakespeare.”
Vi blushed. “Thank you. Is that all for today?”
“It is.” Maggie rearranged her portfolio. “I’ll see you Monday.”
“Bye now.” Vi grabbed her bag and dashed out of the theater.
Prescott’s gaze followed the blonde out the door, then he turned to Maggie. “How long was Vi in Hollywood?”
Maggie stood and straightened the jacket of her gray suit. “A few months. I danced with her in her first picture and her second. Then I joined the USO, and she followed soon after.”
Prescott stepped off the stage with a frown. “If she’d stuck around longer, she might have made it big. She has that certain . . .”
“Presence.”
“Yes. More than beauty or talent—she draws you.” Prescott tapped his hand over his heart.
Maggie also saw it in Vi. “Maybe after the war.”
“I might be able to help her.” He picked up his suit jacket draped over the back of a chair. “I may not be acting in Hollywood now, but I got along well with producers and directors.”
“That would be marvelous. I’d love to see her dream come true.”
“Me too.” He gave her a smile, shy and hopeful, and he slipped on his jacket. “Any plans tonight? Taking your grandpa to the movies again?”
“Tonight’s date is with a stack of dirty dishes in the USO kitchen.
” Maggie laughed at the confusion on Prescott’s face.
“Mrs. Laverne doesn’t like having us here, so I volunteered to help at tonight’s dance.
Apparently I’m not to be trusted with our impressionable servicemen, but I can be trusted with the dishes. ”
Prescott did up his buttons with difficulty. “I’m sorry she treats you like that.”
Maggie restrained herself from helping him. “How about you? What are your plans?”
“Dinner at the hotel. Then I’ll read, I guess.” Even on the unscarred side, his smile looked flat.
Poor man was lonely. She gave him a teasing smile. “If you’re desperate, you can help in the kitchen.”
His eyebrows sprang high. “You think they’d take me? I’m sorry. That sounded . . .”
Lonely. Humble. Adorable. “It sounds generous.”
He stared at his hands. “I can’t do much with these. They aren’t capable hands anymore.”
“But they’re willing hands. Come on. We’ll find something for you.”
His grin exploded, lighting the room, and he followed her out of the theater.
In the hallway, Maggie edged to the wall to let a group of sailors pass.
“Mrs. Laverne may be crabby, but she and her staff and volunteers do wonderful things here. The guests play billiards, eat at the soda fountain, swim in the pool, and make ‘talk-a-letter’ records to send home. The USO helps them see the sights, and they provide religious materials for all faiths. It truly is a home away from home.”
Prescott peeked in a room they passed. “Woodworking?”
Maggie doubled back. The smell of sawdust met her, and half a dozen servicemen worked with a white-haired civilian.
The older gentleman beckoned to them. “Come on in. We’re making birdhouses.”
A freckle-faced Marine inspected his work. “Not sure my wife will think much of this.”
“She’ll love it,” Maggie said, “because you made it for her.”
“Whatcha waiting for?” The older gentleman beckoned again.
An idea spun into Maggie’s head. “Say, are you looking for project ideas?”
“Always.” He brushed sawdust off his apron and joined her and Prescott in the doorway. “Only so many birdhouses the fellows can make.”
“I can’t even make one,” the Marine said with a lament in his voice.
“Props,” Prescott said to Maggie.
“Exactly.” She extended her hand to the carpenter. “I’m Maggie Oliver with USO-Camp Shows. We’re putting on a Christmas show, and we need some wooden props.”
“Herb Canfield.” He gave her hand a hearty shake. “Tell me more.”
“My assistant is having a difficult time finding craftsmen. The war, you know.”
“I’ve got the craftsmen, the tools. I could help you design the pieces.”
“That would be marvelous. We’d provide the materials—or the money for them. It’s in my budget.” She slid a smile to Prescott. “Ria will love this.”
His smile slid right into hers. “Saving money.”
A lanky sailor set down his saw. “You mean our work would be up on stage?”
“Wouldn’t that be swell?” The Marine patted his birdhouse. “I could tell the fellows, ‘I made that.’”
Maggie nodded to Mr. Canfield. “Are you here Monday morning? I’ll put together a list of pieces, and we can talk about supplies.”
“I’m here all day, miss.” He saluted with a lopsided grin.
“To say, ‘I made that.’” Prescott leaned against the doorjamb with a pensive look on his face. “Gives you a sense of purpose, doesn’t it? You did something that mattered.”
“Yeah, that’s it.” The Marine’s frown at his birdhouse turned into a satisfied smile.
Prescott’s pensiveness firmed into conviction.
Warmth swirled in Maggie’s chest. She was doing something that mattered too. This was more than a show. She was also helping this extraordinary man find his place again.
Sunday, November 7, 1943
“Out of the way, Duke,” a patient called from his bed. “I want to see the four canaries.”
In a cavernous ward in what had once been the Natural History Museum, Prescott chuckled and stepped to the side, still crooning “I Had the Craziest Dream,” and he ushered his four backup singers to the forefront.
Greta, Carol, Nan, and Barbara swayed to the music and sang in harmony.
Dozens of men in pajamas sat up taller in their double-deck bunks to get a better look. Confined to bed, these patients couldn’t attend the show at the Old Globe, but Prescott hoped to bring bits of the show to them.
He edged around the girls, not to take center stage but to lead them down the aisle. The girls followed, twirling and gliding, while Prescott met the gaze of each man he passed.
His hands burned and itched from washing dishes the night before, but he wouldn’t trade it for a thing.
How pretty Maggie had looked with her sleeves rolled up, an apron about her slender waist, suds on her chin, chatting and laughing as if he were any other man.
As if he were more than a scar. More than a star.
When he’d inserted himself into her evening, he’d sounded pathetic. But Maggie hadn’t slammed the door on him. She’d pulled him right through that door.
If his life were different, if he had a future to offer, he would pursue her.
For the last verse, Prescott led his musical procession back down the aisle to the door. They took their bows and the girls blew kisses, while the patients whooped and whistled.
Lieutenant Parkinson, the Navy nurse who served as their guide, waited at the door. “Thank you so much. Are you ready to leave?”
“Do you have a burn ward?” The words came out before he could stop them.
“You don’t want to—” Her pale face reddened, then she touched her own cheek. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“That’s quite all right. And yes, I want to. That is, if it’s all right with you, ladies. A burn ward isn’t very—”
“Of course it’s all right.” Barbara nodded her head of dark blonde curls. “We joined the USO to entertain the troops. All of them.”
“All right, then.” Lieutenant Parkinson led them down a hallway floored with tile, up a staircase, and into another ward with dozens of men, most bound in pressure bandages, their burned limbs elevated to reduce swelling.
Prescott’s breath snagged in his throat. The smells. The sights. The groans.
“Gentlemen, may I have your attention?” the nurse called out. “I have a special treat for you from the USO. None other than movie star Prescott Duke and four lovely singers to entertain you.”
Prescott was supposed to thank the lieutenant, greet the patients, and introduce the song, but his vocal cords protested.
Not a song. Not yet.
“I’ve been here.” His words came out cramped, and he shook his head to loosen them. “I have been here. Not this ward, but one just like it. I enlisted. I wanted to fight. I never got the chance. My bus to training camp got in an accident, caught on fire. And I ended up here.”
Prescott wandered down the aisle. “I know the heat that won’t go away. I know the stench of burned flesh, the sting of raw meat, the constriction of scars, the loss of fingers. I know the stares, the averted gazes, the pity. I know the loss of relationships.”
“My girl . . .” a sailor bound in white sobbed out the words.
Prescott’s heart burned far more than his face ever had. “It feels like the end, doesn’t it? We don’t look the same. We may not be able to do the things we love. May not be able to perform our old jobs. Simple daily tasks are painful, difficult.”
Silence filled the ward. Grief. Loss. Fear.
It had consumed Prescott’s heart for almost two years.
He knew it as truth in his own life, but he loathed it in these men’s lives, wanted to refute it, and that burning in his heart seared its way up his throat.