Chapter 10
ten
On the tenth day of Christmas my true love sent to me . . . ten lords a-leaping.
The women’s dressing room crackled with happy tension as the ladies applied stage makeup, zipped red velvet dresses, and buckled ankle straps of high-heeled tap shoes.
Maggie’s breath skittered all over, and she glanced at her image in a lightbulb-ringed mirror. Even a new red suit, rouge, and powder couldn’t conceal her pale cheeks and red nose after a tear-soaked night.
Vi hugged Maggie’s shoulders, and her green eyes sparkled. “Don’t worry. The show will be swell.”
Those eyes would sparkle even more when she saw her Frank.
All night long, Maggie had wrestled with her plan. But it was a good plan, she knew it. Soon Prescott would see.
If he even came.
Maggie forced a big smile. “All right, ladies. Twenty minutes until showtime. Head to the wings as soon as possible. I’ll check on the men.”
If Prescott didn’t come, what would she do? How could she cover his many roles?
She knocked on the door of the men’s dressing room. “Good evening, gentlemen. Is everyone here?”
“We’d better be,” Albert called out.
“Great. Time to take your places.”
The door opened, and the men filed out in matching white shirts, black trousers, and green velvet jerkins. They looked fabulous.
Even Prescott, who came out last. He paused beside her, in profile, his face impassive. “You thought I wouldn’t come.”
Maggie kept her tone as calm as his. “It occurred to me.”
“The show must go on.” His gaze slid to her, lukewarm, and he strode away.
Maggie clutched at her belly. She could have handled hot anger or cold rejection. But lukewarm? As if she wasn’t worthy of regard. As if she’d disappointed him.
For two months, he’d been more than the star of her show. He’d been her partner, as they fed off each other’s ideas. He’d been her friend, as they encouraged each other. And for a few short minutes, they’d been in love, kissing with abandon.
Now he’d withdrawn his encouragement, his support, and his love. Because of his worries, his fixation on what might go wrong. She was better off without him.
So why did she feel as if she’d been sawn in two?
Prescott was right about one thing though. The show must go on.
Maggie drew herself tall and went to the prompt desk in the wings to stage left. There lay her script for the entire show, filled with notations on blocking and cues.
Tonight, with her role as director finished, she’d serve as stage manager, while Ria managed stage right.
Beyond the heaviness of the curtain, the band played Christmas music and conversation hummed. Out there, in the boxes along the theater’s circular walls, sat those admirals and civic leaders. Mr. Anderson planned to sit center front with the USO leaders.
And with Grandpa.
Maggie’s face crumpled. At least Grandpa loved her.
Bright lights reduced the audience to black silhouettes. Yet each man in the theater was far more than a silhouette, and Prescott wouldn’t abandon them.
“Good evening, San Diego,” he said with a grin. “My name is Prescott Duke, a name you may remember from film, a voice you may remember from film. But the face? Ah, I’m afraid I was burned in a bus accident on the way to Army training camp. I guess I should have joined the Navy.”
Nervous laughter rose from the blackened rows.
Prescott raised one arm. “USO-Camp Shows is proud to present ‘The Twelve Days and Twelfth Night of Christmas.’ We hope to bring you a little music, a few laughs, and even a bit of culture if it doesn’t kill you.”
More laughter, more relaxed.
“So here we are, about to spend the holidays in sunny San Diego.”
Now laughter poured like the rain that had fallen all day.
“Sandy beaches instead of sleigh rides. Palm trees instead of pine. Green instead of white. What would our partridge in a pear tree sing if she were assigned to the United States Navy’s Repair Base, San Diego?
May I introduce our lovely partridge, Miss Violet Lane?
” And he sang, “‘On the first day of Christmas my true love sent to me a partridge in a pear tree.’”
He made a sweeping gesture to stage right as he backed off to stage left.
The band played the introduction to “White Christmas,” and Vi came onstage, trailing her hand around the trunk of the fake pear tree. After a swing lowered from the “branch” at the top of the stage, Vi took her perch, and she swung and sang in her melodious soprano.
All night, Prescott had debated with himself. He’d wanted to warn Vi before the show, let her know Frank was alive, prepare her so she could rejoice at Frank’s arrival.
But what if the shock undid her? What if she was in no shape to go onstage?
The show could be ruined. That wouldn’t be fair to the cast, the audience, or even to Maggie. Even though she was making a mistake, she didn’t deserve to lose her job over it. And Mr. Curtis certainly didn’t deserve to lose his home and dog.
Maggie stood in the prompt corner as the cast lined up in the wings for “Winter Wonderland.” She met his gaze, her face puckered, and she glanced away.
An ache grew in his chest.
Sometime before dawn, he’d decided not to tell Vi. He’d chosen not to reveal the truth for fear of harming the show. He’d chosen one potential harm over another. Was he any better than Maggie?
What if she’d considered the same factors? Last night he hadn’t delved much before she’d run off. Had he leapt to conclusions about her placing entertainment above people? For the past two months, compassion had shone at the core of her character. Had he been hasty in judging her?
Vi finished her solo and flitted off like a bird. Applause erupted, pierced by whistles. Her star quality had shone, and Prescott went to center stage. “Isn’t she wonderful? Miss Violet Lane.”
When the applause faded, Prescott sang, “‘On the second day of Christmas my true love sent to me two turtle doves.’”
He ambled backward to his mark for the song.
“You know what they say about turtle doves—they’re together for life.
All around me this Christmas, I see couples in love, enjoying San Diego’s winter wonderland of sunshine and seashore.
But will I ever find my own turtle dove?
” He heard the pang in his own voice. No acting required.
The band launched into “Winter Wonderland.” Greta and Freddie strutted out stage left, Nan and Ferdy stage right, their feet tapping to the rhythm as they danced. Both couples paused on their marks, performed their little solos, and pranced offstage.
Flirty, perky, energetic, and Prescott’s smile rose as he sang. No acting required.
How he’d enjoyed the past two months, working and laughing with these men and women. He refused to let last night’s devastation knock him out for the count. He’d learned too much.
He’d lost Maggie and soon he’d lose contact with this cast, but he would make new friendships. He’d lost his purpose of writing, but he’d find a new aim or create one.
No matter what, he would use his hurt to help people.
Never had the cast performed so well, and a tiny laugh bubbled through the persistent damp grief in Maggie’s chest.
“‘Ten lords a-leaping,’” Prescott sang, and the men played leapfrog onto the stage as the drums pounded and the audience laughed.
Something had changed in Prescott during “Winter Wonderland,” brightening his voice and enlivening his demeanor, and his brightness and liveliness had flowed out to the cast.
What was that something? It had arisen without any encouragement from her. In the middle of the aching realization that he didn’t want or need her glowed an ember of contentment. He would be fine without her, and she did want the best for him.
“‘Nine ladies dancing,’” and the women pirouetted onstage for their bows.
Sure, there had been some glitches in the show. Carol forgot a few lines, but only a Shakespeare expert would have missed them. Some dance steps were botched. Two missed cues, easily smoothed over.
“‘Eight maids a-milking.’” Barbara and Nan reprised their comedy duo as a milkmaid chasing a cow who didn’t want to be milked and only wanted to “jingle her bells.”
The audience cheered for the women. They’d applauded the songs, whistled at the dances, and even laughed at Shakespeare’s wit.
This was what she’d dreamed of—to bring smiles to men who might be lonely, broken, or afraid. To show them what their service meant to the American people.
From the prompt desk, Maggie resisted the temptation to peek out to the audience.
How proud Grandpa would be. And Mr. Anderson. The USO would see that single women could be entrusted with responsibility. Her job was secure. Papa would relent and not sell Grandpa’s house. All would be well.
“‘Five gold rings.’” Greta performed an acrobatic backbend through her big rings.
If all was well, why did Maggie have a hopping sensation in her belly?
Prescott. He stood center stage, his smile crinkling his face as he sang.
Losing him hurt. But disappointing him hurt possibly even more.
What if he was right?
From the beginning, she’d had second thoughts about Frank and Vi’s reunion, but only about delaying until opening night. Not once had she imagined Frank and Vi doing anything but falling tearfully into each other’s arms.
What if they . . . didn’t? What if it were all doom and gloom as Prescott imagined?
Would a private reunion have been better?
“Happy Holiday” resounded from the stage, and Maggie blinked at the sight of the cast holding hands in alternating red and green costumes. Where had the rest of the curtain call gone?
That meant Frank was already in the lobby with Ria standing at the lobby door.
It was too late to change plans now, and Maggie huffed away her misgivings.
The applause died down, and Vi introduced Maggie so she could dismiss the sailors to their buses. “Now a word from our director, Miss Margaret Oliver.”
The cast cheered for her.
Maggie’s eyes filled. She gave herself a little shake, and she came onstage applauding her cast, avoiding Prescott’s gaze.
She stopped center stage. “May I have the house lights, please?”