Chapter 5
five
On the fifth day of Christmas my true love sent to me . . . five gold rings.
At the streetcar terminal outside Balboa Park’s eastern gate, Maggie chatted with Frank Sebastian in front of a truck, while Ria checked off cast members as they boarded from the back.
Frank had procured two canvas-covered trucks to corral the two dozen civilians on naval property.
For Maggie, it helped blind Frank and Vi to each other’s presence.
If Frank and Vi did sight each other, Maggie would see it as God’s way of overriding her plans.
But surely the Lord wanted a romantic reunion as much as she did.
“That’s everyone,” Ria called to Maggie.
“Thank you. Come ride up front with the yeoman.” Portfolio in hand, Maggie climbed into the back of the truck filled with men and women singing “Winter Wonderland” on a hazy—but hardly wintry—morning.
The truck rumbled through the gate and down Laurel Street, and the canvas formed an arched framework around the park’s grand exposition buildings.
Today would be the first of only three rehearsals in the Old Globe and the last full rehearsal before the trial performance for Mr. Anderson.
Maggie’s stomach tensed. Only four days to go.
In a few minutes, the trucks turned in front of the Museum of Man and its soaring California Tower and parked outside the theater.
“Stay here until the theater door is unlocked. The Navy doesn’t trust us.” To the laughter of the cast, Maggie held up one hand in mock warning and climbed out of the truck.
While Frank unlocked the door, Maggie repeated her order at the second truck—partly to keep her lovebirds apart and partly to convince the Navy that show people could in fact be trusted.
Frank gave her a thumbs-up, and Maggie beckoned to the cast in the second truck.
As the players entered the theater, Frank led Ria toward his office in the administration building so they could schedule the shows and the busing of sailors and soldiers and Marines from the many bases in San Diego.
And from the convalescent hospital wards.
Eyeing the retreating forms of Frank and Ria, Maggie strolled to the first truck.
Vi hopped out, her attention fixed on the theater. “It’s charming.”
“It is.” Maggie smiled at her friend’s delight and in her own delight at the joyful opening night awaiting that friend.
Inside, she showed the cast backstage to the dressing rooms to change into practice clothes, then she set up camp in the third row of the theater and organized her papers.
After the cast came onstage, Maggie clapped to get their attention.
“This morning, we won’t practice songs or routines or scenes from the play.
We’ll just work on blocking. Who moves where and when?
Where will you store props or costume accessories?
I’d like to block the whole show before lunch, then do two full run-throughs this afternoon.
Let’s get started. Everyone exit either stage left or stage right—wherever you are for ‘Winter Wonderland.’”
The cast parted like oil and vinegar and disappeared into the wings.
“The band stops playing,” Maggie said. “The curtains open, and Prescott enters.”
He did so, wearing brown trousers and a short-sleeved sports shirt of autumn gold. In the sunshine, would the color bring out flecks of gold in his brown eyes?
Maggie shook herself. She was a director, not a fan.
“Emcee talk, winking, smiling, more emcee talk.” Prescott stopped center stage as the cast’s laughter drifted from backstage. “Introduce our partridge in a pear tree.”
“Perfect.” Maggie loved seeing him relaxed and comfortable.
As Vi entered, Prescott exited with a grand gesture to his leading lady.
“‘White Christmas,’” Vi said, rocking back and forth as if swinging, and then flitted away.
Prescott returned. “Maggie, perhaps I should sing ‘Winter Wonderland’ after all, since the blocking depends on the lyrics.”
A moment to think, and she nodded. At this point in the show, she wanted to feature the entire cast, but the small stage had created a challenge.
At Barbara’s suggestion, two couples at a time would tap dance onstage, perform vignettes corresponding to the lyrics, and exit, some couples crossing left to right upstage, others right to left downstage, creating circular motion around Prescott as he sang.
“When I clap three times, stop so we can find your marks,” Maggie called. “Ready? One, two, three, four.”
Prescott launched into the song with his voice of midnight blue velvet, rich and sonorous.
Two couples sashayed out from opposite sides of the stage, taps clicking the floorboards.
Maggie clapped three times and directed the couples to create a pleasing diagonal line across the stage.
She clapped again, and the number resumed.
The routine was rough, but vignettes played out with Jack as a snowman and Albert as Parson Brown, and the number promised to be fun and playful.
As each couple passed Prescott, he gave them wistful looks, as if a lonely heart waiting for his own turtle dove, until at last Vi entered. She and Prescott twirled together, singing the final chorus in harmony, Vi’s hair flying in a golden wing as her head lolled back in bliss.
If only Maggie could dance with Prescott like that.
She puffed out a breath, puffed away the silly flash of jealousy.
But was it jealousy? Or concern for three friends?
How could Vi resist Prescott? Or Prescott resist Vi? If they fell in love, what would happen when Vi was reunited with Frank?
Such potential for heartbreak.
Maggie winced as the couple sang the final notes. Perhaps she shouldn’t delay that reunion. Or did her hastiness stem from a desire to keep Prescott for herself—as if that were even possible?
After Vi floated offstage, Prescott added a trace of mischief to his smile. “Introduce Twelfth Night. Say that Shakespeare will turn them from sailors to gentlemen.”
Maggie laughed, as all worries melted in the warmth of his smile.
The cool air felt good, especially on the left side of Prescott’s face, since scar tissue couldn’t sweat.
Ria had brought a cart from the mess with a coffee urn and a stack of deviled ham sandwiches, and the cast lounged on benches in the plaza, enjoying their lunch.
Well, most were enjoying it. Albert separated the pieces of bread and wrinkled his long nose at the pinkish spread inside. “I know why deviled ham isn’t rationed. No one wants it.”
“‘Pourquoi, my dear knight?’” Freddie quoted his character in Twelfth Night, Sir Toby Belch.
Albert assumed the empty-headed expression of his own character, Sir Andrew Aguecheek. “‘What is pourquoi? Do or not do? I would I had bestowed that time in the tongues, that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting.’”
Prescott joined the chuckling. He had missed this sort of camaraderie. In less than two months, he would miss it again.
No, he wouldn’t, because he was determined to rejoin the world of the living.
On the far side of the plaza, Maggie sat facing the broad tiled dome and tall tower of the adjacent building.
Prescott tilted his head. It wasn’t like her to be alone.
If only he could sit with her. If only he had the guts to ask her out.
He tilted his head in the other direction.
Why not? He was vanquishing the aimlessness that had held him back.
He’d written fifteen pages in his screenplay, and the story grew in his mind, deepened, compelled him to write more.
When Melvin read it, he would surely approve.
To relieve his agent’s concerns about image, Prescott would remind him that writers’ faces weren’t plastered on movie posters. And he could always use a pen name.
Prescott swallowed the last bite of sandwich and returned his cup and plate to the cart.
He’d give Maggie an easy escape in case his scars were a bigger barrier to romance than they were to friendship. He’d ask her plans for the evening. If she was taking her grandpa to the movies, he’d weasel an invitation.
Not the most romantic of dates, but he simply wanted to spend time with her.
The sun had dissolved the morning haze, surely for the sole purpose of lighting up Maggie’s brown hair.
Prescott sat beside her and rested his elbows on the back of the bench. “Hi there.”
She looked up from a letter in her hands and brightened. “Hello.”
The brightening emboldened him. “Hiding from the five-ring circus?” He tipped his head to the cast.
“Five ring?” Then Maggie laughed. “Five gold rings. Clever.”
“What are you reading?”
“A letter from Rose, my little sister. Well, my mother wrote it, but it’s from Rose.”
Prescott fought a frown. What did she mean?
Maggie stroked the stationery. “Rose can’t read or write. She—she had meningitis at the age of three, and she’ll always be three inside.”
“I’m sorry.”
Pain crimped her mouth, but then she smiled at him. “Thank you, but Rose is a light in our lives. Listen to this—Rose says she rolls bandages at the Red Cross three times a week. I suspect the Red Cross ladies save all the bandages just for her.”
Prescott rubbed his thumbs to his remaining fingers. Rose didn’t let her infirmity stop her from aiding the war effort. “She sounds remarkable.”
“She is. You might get to meet her. She’s coming to San Diego with my parents for Christmas. I know, I know. As the posters say, ‘Millions of troops are on the move. Is your trip necessary?’ Tell that to my father. He’s a lawyer. He’ll find a way.”
The more he heard about the Oliver family, the more he wanted to meet them. “I’m sure you’ll be glad to see them.”
“Yes.” But a virtual cloud snuffed the sun in her blue-sky eyes.
Why? Was she embarrassed by Rose?
No, she seemed proud of her sister, which aligned with Maggie’s compassionate character. Was Rose’s infirmity the reason for Maggie’s compassion?
The cloud remained, so he nudged her with an elbow. “What’s the matter?”