Chapter 8 #2
“I wrote the script.”
Val’s eyebrows arched high, then drooped low.
“I know,” Prescott said. “Mel always says actors shouldn’t write. In all honesty, I showed the script to Mel. He only read one page, but he didn’t like it.”
Val sagged back in his seat. “Why even mention it to me?”
“I—I’m not trying to go over Melvin’s head. He’s been my agent as a performer, and I’d want him to be my agent as a writer. I just—I wanted another opinion before I followed his advice and gave up.”
Val’s thin chest expanded. “Mel has a good eye for scripts. One of the many reasons I like working with him and his talent.”
Prescott managed to crack a smile. “I’m no good at pitching, am I?”
“No, you’re not.” But Val mirrored his smile.
Too much heart and courage and effort had gone into the story to stop now.
He opened his attaché case and pulled out over a hundred pages covered in Maggie’s neat typing, not a crossed-out word in sight.
He could still see her pretty face as she proclaimed, “Oscars all around.” Perhaps he should have had Maggie do the pitching.
“I believe in this story.” Prescott held it tight. “It’s about a man who has everything, loses everything, and makes a new and better life.”
Val didn’t look at the pages, only at Prescott.
“Listen, I’m sorry all this happened to you.
I loved working with you. Not just because you’re talented, but because you knew when to take direction and when to stick to your guns.
And you never let fame go to your head. You treated everyone on set well, from the director to the janitor. ”
Prescott shrugged. “My mother was a maid.”
“I also know you didn’t get far in school. I’m sorry, Press. I wish I could help, but . . .”
Prescott should stash away his work, collect himself, and enjoy lunch with his friend. But there on the page, Charles Anthony’s name stared up at him.
“All that happened to me . . .” Prescott’s voice rasped, and he cleared his throat.
“These scars—this is why I’m the right person to tell this story.
Men are coming home from the war disfigured, broken.
They’ve seen horrible things. Some of them have done horrible things. This story—it’s powerful, Val.”
Something melted in Val’s expression, but not enough.
A great wave of frustration swelled inside, and he set the script in front of Val. “Listen, why don’t you take it home? Read five, ten pages. If you hate it, that’ll be the end of it. I’ll never bother you with a script again.”
Studying him, Val shifted his lower jaw from side to side. He groaned and drew the script closer. “Don’t tell anyone I’m getting soft in my old age.”
“Not a soul. And thanks.” It was over. He felt it. But he’d done his best.
San Diego
Thursday, December 9, 1943
Sitting in the Old Globe during the dress rehearsal, Maggie kept holding her breath—and releasing it in wondrous relief.
For the final number, Prescott stood center stage.
The green velvet jerkin accentuated his broad shoulders and solid torso and set off his dark hair and eyes.
He finished his final emcee bit, charming and generous, and sang, “‘On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love sent to me—twelve drummers drumming . . .’”
The band’s drummer broke into a jazzy solo while the cast of Twelfth Night ran onto the stage for their bows. The jester tripped the villain Malvolio, milking one last laugh.
“‘Eleven pipers piping . . .’” The band stood and held instruments high.
“‘Ten lords a-leaping . . .’” The men bounded out for their bows.
“‘Nine ladies dancing . . .’” They twirled onto the stage, their red velvet skirts floating even more beautifully than Maggie had imagined.
Each act came in turn, no bumping, no missed cues, down to Vi’s partridge curtsy with a hand over her heart. Then the whole cast, in alternating red and green, sang “Happy Holiday.”
Maggie bolted to her feet and applauded. “That was perfect. I’m so proud of all of you.”
“I thought a good dress rehearsal was bad luck,” Freddie called.
“Don’t worry,” Ferdy said. “We’ll botch up the next run-through for good measure.”
“Don’t you dare,” Maggie said with a laugh. “Twenty-minute break, one last run-through, then the cast party at the U.S. Grant Hotel tonight. A huge thank you to Prescott for hosting us.”
The cast cheered and whistled.
When they retreated backstage, Maggie stretched her shoulders, but her mind whirled.
“Hi there.” Prescott sat on the edge of the stage, smiling in an inquiring way, as if he sensed her jumbled thoughts. “What do you think?”
Maggie’s breath flowed out, and she plopped into her seat. “It went well.”
“I agree.” He hopped to the floor and took a seat beside her. “And yet . . . ?”
“And yet, Freddie’s right. Every theater person knows a bad dress rehearsal means a good opening night. And vice versa.”
Prescott leaned his elbow on the armrest between them. “You believe in superstition?”
“No, but—”
“No buts.” He gave her a firm look. “I know you have a lot at stake. Your job, your grandpa’s home.”
Maggie twisted her hands together on top of her portfolio. “All the bigwigs will be here tomorrow—city leaders and admirals and Mr. Anderson and other head honchos in the USO. Even Grandpa.”
“The biggest wig of all.” Prescott leaned closer. “Remember, half the problems we see onstage will be invisible to the audience. They won’t know if Carol skips a line and Albert covers for her. And other problems—well, they’re good for laughs, and we’re here to make the boys laugh.”
“We are.” Her fingers fell still.
Prescott put his hand on hers, and his warmth and calm seeped through to her. “You’ve done excellent work. This show will be every bit the spectacle you dreamed of.”
For almost two months, Maggie had encouraged Prescott. With success. He’d given his script to the producer, and Val had promised to call in a week or so. Now Prescott was encouraging her. As if she weren’t already hopelessly in love. She swallowed hard. “Thank you.”
He squeezed her hand. “I need to visit the water cooler before the others drain it dry.” He leaned forward, his mouth rounded as if to give her a kiss—the quick and easy kiss of a couple completely comfortable with each other.
He stopped. His eyes went wide. He retracted his lips, patted her hand, and marched backstage.
Maggie’s breath whooshed out. Had he meant to kiss her? His screen kisses sent her into palpitations. But to receive one? Not a screen kiss but a real one. Could her heart stand it?
“Miss Oliver?” Frank Sebastian strode down the aisle, waving with a broad grin. “How’s the rehearsal going?”
The stage was empty, but not for long. Maggie darted up the aisle, took Frank’s arm, and steered him back toward the lobby. “It’s going well, but not if the cast sees you here.”
“What do you mean?” Frank struggled to keep up.
“Show people are superstitious.” Maggie shoved open the lobby door and closed it in blessed concealment. “They consider it bad luck if someone watches a dress rehearsal.”
Frank frowned at the door. “I’d like to see the show.”
“After the opening night craziness is over, you can come to any performance you’d like. However, tomorrow evening at the end of the show, I do have a special treat for you to thank you.”
His face blanched. “I don’t need—”
“I insist. Come to the lobby at nine o’clock sharp. Ria will meet you and let you in when it’s time—and not before.” Even Ria had no inkling about Maggie’s surprise.
“You’re not bringing me onstage, are you?” He turned a bit green, and he laid a hand on his stomach. “I’ve got horrible stage fright. Get real jittery. My stomach . . .”
He wouldn’t throw up, would he? Maggie kept her smile high. “I promise, you’ll love this treat.”
All his jitters would flee the moment he saw his beloved Vernice.