Chapter 9
nine
On the ninth day of Christmas my true love sent to me . . . nine ladies dancing.
After dinner, Prescott rose to address the cast members, all formally dressed and seated at banquet tables at the U.S. Grant Hotel.
He’d thrown the party to celebrate what they’d accomplished and to give the cast one last chance to have fun together. After opening night, they’d have three shows a day through Christmas Eve, with only Wednesdays off.
“Here’s to all of you, for a job well done.” Prescott turned to Ria, seated to his left. “And to Ria Fernandez, the brains and hands behind this operation.”
Everyone applauded Ria, with a few well-deserved whistles, and Ria flapped her hand to stop them.
Prescott faced Maggie to his right. “And to Maggie, who had the imagination to envision this show, the determination to make it come to pass, and the heart to bring us all together.”
More cheers and whistles, and Maggie ducked her chin modestly.
“Now you may open your Christmas gifts.” He gestured to the boxes at each place and took his seat. He’d had the jeweler’s shop wrap the ladies’ gifts in red and the men’s in green.
Paper ripped, and pleased murmurs circled the room as the men inspected cuff links engraved with the numeral “12” and the ladies donned bracelets with charms for each of the twelve days of Christmas.
“Oh, Press, it’s perfect.” Maggie twisted her wrist, making charms jangle.
“This show—these people—they’ve meant a lot to me.” His voice roughened. Maggie meant the most.
“Come on, kids.” Freddie sprang to the piano. “This is supposed to be a party.”
A lively tune spilled out, and jitterbugs sprang up and filled the little dance floor.
Maggie leaned closer. “I’m surprised they aren’t tired of dancing by now.”
“Come on, Press.” Greta grabbed his arm. “I never got to dance with you. Vi’s been hogging you.”
Prescott stumbled after the redhead, laughing, and he shrugged at Maggie, who laughed right back at him.
He wasn’t much of a jitterbug, but he could swing, and Greta’s pretty face lit up as they danced.
Wearing a long red dress, Maggie twirled around the floor with Albert. Prescott caught her eye and grinned at her. She was responsible for the show’s success, and she was the one he wanted to dance with.
But when the song ended, Nan cut in. Then Carol. In the next hour, he’d danced with all nine ladies in the cast. Twice.
He kept glancing at Maggie and making her laugh with exaggerated exhausted expressions.
Not once did she act as she had when Vi had her hand on his knee. Not even when he danced with Vi. Either he was mistaken and she wasn’t interested, or she was interested but not the jealous sort.
Tonight he was determined to find out. He might not ever become a screenwriter, but he’d find work. He’d made inquiries, and the situation wasn’t as hopeless as he’d thought. The type of work didn’t matter, as long as it was honest and helped people.
The song ended, and Barbara heaved a sigh, her cheeks red from exertion. “I’m worn out. Hey, Nan, you ready to call it a night?”
All around, cast members picked up purses and gift boxes.
Prescott hadn’t danced with Maggie yet. And where had she gone?
The door leading outside stood open, and a long red skirt passed through. Maggie’s.
A fortifying breath. It was time.
Finally, a break in the rain. Maggie strolled out into the Palm Court on the roof of the hotel’s ground floor, surrounded by the three wings of the eleven-story hotel, its windows darkened for the blackout.
Potted palms and an ornate fountain adorned the court, and muted moonlight glimmered on the rain-dampened pavement.
She’d always wanted to see the Palm Court. Standing in Horton Plaza across Broadway, she could only catch glimpses of the elegance.
“You never gave me a chance to dance with you.” Prescott’s voice flowed from behind her, as velvety as the night sky.
He’d followed her? Now the evening was perfect.
Prescott sauntered closer, so manly and suave in his tuxedo, like a scene in a movie.
That was her cue, and she gave him a playful smile. “I already danced with you.”
Still closer he came. “Not tonight.”
She clasped her hands behind her back. “The song says, ‘Nine ladies dancing,’ and you already danced with nine. I wouldn’t want to ruin it.”
“What if I dream of dancing with Maggie Oliver?” Under the teasing tone lay a whisper of wistfulness.
How could she resist? She took his outstretched hand. “You need better dreams, Prescott Duke.”
He pulled her close, and his chuckle tickled her temple. Freddie had stopped playing the piano, but she rocked in romantic silence in Prescott’s sturdy arms. Maggie inhaled the scent of him, the warmth of him.
Prescott drew in a deep breath. “I’m surprised Frank Sebastian isn’t here.”
Maggie dipped her chin. She would have invited Frank if the party landed just one day later. “Only Ria and I know him, and not very well.”
“Oh? I . . . thought you might be sweet on him.”
Maggie pulled back to look him in the eye. He was serious? “On Frank? Goodness, no. He’s just a kid.”
“All right.” He pulled her close again to dance.
She resisted. She wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily. “Why do you ask?” She kept her tone light, although her heart galloped.
Prescott rearranged his hand on her waist. His gaze darted to the side and back again. “You were honest with me about my script, and now I’m asking for an honest answer. Do I stand a chance with you?”
She swayed a bit closer. “You aren’t sweet on Vi?”
“On Vi? She’s just a kid too. No, it’s you. It’s always been you. Be honest. Do I stand a chance?” His gaze plumbed the depths of hers. Such pain, such longing, such vulnerability.
“Oh, Press.” Even in the most dramatic of her dreams, she’d never imagined this scene.
“Please,” he said. “I’m falling in love with you, but if you aren’t interested, say the word. I’ll never speak of it again.”
Maggie released his hand, and she caressed his cheek, his beautiful scarred cheek. “I had a horrible crush on you on the silver screen. But in person—oh, Press, you’ve stolen my heart completely.”
He enveloped her in his arms, in his kiss, and he groaned.
Maggie gasped and pulled away. “Oh no. Did that hurt?”
“Come back here,” he said in a husky voice.
She did as he asked.
If she were in a movie, she would have instructed her legs to go limp and her torso to melt into his, but her body needed no such direction. Only his strong embrace kept her standing. And her heart—the palpitations!
Prescott burrowed in her neck. “Oh, Maggie. ‘If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!’”
She smiled over the broad expanse of his shoulders. Sebastian’s line to Olivia and entirely appropriate. “I don’t want to awaken either.”
He chuckled. “Since Frank and Vi aren’t spoken for, perhaps we should introduce them. Let those two kids find love as well.”
Bubbles frolicked in her chest. “Want to hear a little secret? They’re already in love.”
Prescott’s chin drew back. “They’re dating?”
“They dated in high school. They were engaged.”
He tipped his head to the side. “I thought her fiancé was lost at sea.”
“That was Frank.” She rose on her toes to get closer. “By the time the news got home that he was alive, Vi had run away to Hollywood and changed her name from Vernice Lingenfelter to Violet Lane. Frank hasn’t been able to find her.”
“Violet Lane . . . That was the street—”
“Isn’t it romantic? And tomorrow night, they’ll be reunited.”
“Tomorrow?”
“After the curtain call.” Maggie settled her heels back to earth, and she played with the lapels of Prescott’s tux.
“Frank will be waiting in the lobby—I told him I had a surprise for him. Ria will let him in when I give the signal. Ria doesn’t know why.
It’s my surprise. And yours now too.” She reached up to kiss him.
He leaned back. “In front of an audience?”
“Won’t it be romantic? They’ll see each other. She’ll cry. He’ll run to comfort her. They’ll meet partway and—”
“If—if it were Hollywood.”
Why wasn’t he smiling? “What do you mean?”
“Maggie . . .” Prescott released her and stepped back, his hands low on his hips, his chin tucked to his chest. “In real life, people don’t act like they do in Hollywood. Or in Shakespeare.”
Maggie’s empty hands fluttered together, chilled. “I—I don’t understand.”
He waved one arm to the side. “In Twelfth Night, when Duke Orsino finds out Cesario is actually Viola, he instantly falls in love. In real life, he’d have some questions for her. Might even be angry that she’d deceived him.”
Maggie’s shoulders squirmed. “It’s a comedy.”
“Yes, but Frank and Vi’s story—it’s not a comedy. It’s a tragedy. Vi thinks Frank is dead. Dead, Maggie. She’ll be shocked.”
“Yes, but then she’ll—”
“How do you know?” Prescott’s voice grew in intensity, in severity. “People in shock—you never know how they’ll act.”
“It’ll be fine.” Maggie hugged herself and glanced away from that unwarranted severity. “They’ll be thrilled to see each other.”
“What if they aren’t? What if they don’t act the way you’ve imagined? It’s in public. In front of a crowd. This sort of thing should be a private matter, not in the limelight.”
Maggie winced. True, some people didn’t like a fuss—for reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom. But the vision for Frank and Vi wouldn’t leave her mind. “Don’t you see how beautiful it will be?”
“Beautiful?” Prescott’s tone dove deep and dark. “For you or for them?”
She gasped. “Pardon?”
“This isn’t entertainment.” His voice and his gaze sliced. “These are real lives, real hearts, broken hearts. Not actors on your stage to be directed.”
How could he say such things about her? Maggie’s fingers dug into her own arms. “That’s not what I think. Frank and Vi are my friends. I care about them. I’m helping them. After all their years of unhappiness, they deserve this. It’s a Christmas gift.”
Prescott’s face warped, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “If you truly cared for them, you’d tell them in private. In fact, you would have already done so.”
A twinge of pain. She did feel bad about the delay, but that was a moot point now anyway. “It—it’ll be fine. I know it.”
“Always so sure of yourself. You can be wrong, you know.”
“I know that.” Her voice warbled, and she swallowed hard. “But this—this feels right.”
He stared down toward Maggie’s shoes. His jaw ground in circles. “I can’t love a woman who cares more for spectacle than she does for people. I can’t.”
She refused to raise her voice, refused to cry or make a scene. “So that’s it? It’s over?”
With his gaze still fixed on her shoes, he gave one sharp nod.
One thing Hollywood had taught her was how to make a graceful exit, so she kept her chin high, crossed the court, and opened the door to the reception room.
The charms on the bracelet flashed gold in the lamplight.
Twelve days of Christmas . . .
Oh no. The show.
Not only had she lost the man she loved, but she’d also lost her star.
To think he’d thought he was in love with her.
Maggie paused with her hand on the doorknob, then she darted inside.
Another door slammed in Prescott’s face, and he winced and pressed his hands over his eyes.
She didn’t love him enough to listen to him. Maggie was just like Ma, choosing her own path heedless of other people. Could Maggie’s scheme work as she imagined? For Frank and Vi’s sakes, he prayed it would. But if it failed . . .
Maybe he could find Vi and warn her.
Prescott trudged back to the reception room, empty of all but dirty dishes, rumpled napkins, and shreds of wrapping paper.
Grief ballooned inside. Only half an hour earlier, this room had overflowed with laughter, celebration, the hope of love.
He slapped a hand to the table for balance. Red paper. Green paper. Opening night.
How could he pull himself together enough to play the emcee and act and dance and sing? And why should he? For her?
Prescott crumpled some paper.
What would happen to the show if he didn’t perform?
Disaster. And disaster would serve her right.
He groaned and bowed over the table. How petty could he get? What about the men in the audience who came to be entertained? What about the cast who’d poured their hearts into this show? Even Maggie.
He refused to turn his back on her. He’d be the better person.
Not terribly difficult when she wasn’t quite the person he’d thought she was.
He’d thought he loved her.
And that kiss . . .
An older gentleman in a suit entered, a member of the hotel’s staff. “Ah, you’re still here, Mr. Duke.”
“Just leaving.” Prescott straightened up. “Thank you for everything. It was wonderful. Please make sure it’s all on my bill.”
“Actually, you have a telephone call. The gentleman has called several times this evening. I’ve told him you were hosting a party, but he’s insistent.”
Prescott glanced at his watch. Who would call at nine o’clock?
He followed the gentleman to the lobby, entered the phone booth, and picked up the receiver. “Prescott Duke.”
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Prescott’s eyebrows sprang high. “Melvin?” He’d never heard that tone from his agent.
“You pitched to Ruben? After I told you to let it go?” A jab of a punch to Prescott’s ear.
He sank back against the wall of the booth. Mel thought Prescott had gone behind his back. “I didn’t mean—”
“Come on, Press. It was handwritten. I saw two misspellings on the first page—and I’m not that good a speller. How could you show that to him?”
Maggie had typed it, cleaned up his spelling. “That wasn’t what I—”
“You made me look ridiculous.” A cross punch to Prescott’s heart. “My actors begging for work? Pitching half-baked scripts to producers?”
Combination punches pummeled his gut. Half-baked? Was that what Val had said?
Melvin cussed. “It takes time to build credibility in this town. Producers know when I come to them with talent, it’s good. The right man for the right part. The right script for the right studio. Then . . . Press, what got into you?”
The story. The story got into him. A low groan flowed from his battered gut.
A sigh from Melvin. “It’s all right. I smoothed things over with Val. Told him you were going through a rough patch, but you’d get through. He’d only read a few pages anyway, so no harm done.”
Prescott rubbed at the pain in his stomach. If his script had been any good, Val would have read more than a few pages.
“Listen, Press. I know all about rough patches. But you’ve got to take my advice. You always have—I’ve always liked that about you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“All forgiven. Now, first thing in the new year, come to the office. We’ll talk, find some hobbies for you. Birdwatching, stamp collecting, something. We’ll figure it out.”
The pain drained away, leaving nothing but nothingness.