Chapter 11
eleven
On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love sent to me . . . eleven pipers piping.
Backstage, Maggie’s shoes made wet, squishing sounds, and she suppressed a shudder.
At the door to the women’s dressing room, Prescott stopped without facing her. “Can you have Ria call my hotel tomorrow morning so she can help me meet with Frank?”
“Yes.” Maggie’s voice shook with cold despite her efforts. “I’m meeting with her and Mr. Anderson in the morning to discuss the show.” That was when she’d resign.
Rain had darkened Prescott’s khaki raincoat to the color of mud. “After I talk to Frank, I’ll have Ria call your house with the plan. Since you won’t be here tomorrow.”
No, she wouldn’t. “Thank you.”
A brisk nod, and Prescott strode toward the men’s dressing room. Not hot or cold or even lukewarm—just there. Present.
Why had he been so kind after she’d treated him and Frank and Vi so horribly? Not only had he performed in the show—and well—but he’d searched for her at the Lily Pond. He’d listened to her and helped her find solutions—solutions to problems she had created.
His kindness only intensified the ache of losing him, only made her love him more.
Behind the door, women’s voices mumbled.
Now Maggie had to face Vi—face all of them.
Droplets from her hair dribbled down her neck and joined the sodden mess of blouse and suit clammy against her skin.
“Lord, help me know what to say,” she whispered. “For Vi’s sake.”
She opened the door, and nine women stared at her.
Half a dozen sprang to the door. “You have some nerve.”
“How dare you show your face?”
“Just go away.”
“I want to apologize to Vi.” Maggie’s voice was swept away in the flood of accusations. Rightful accusations.
“Pipe down!” Greta’s voice climbed over the din.
The ladies spun to face her.
“Pipe down.” Greta stood with hands on hips. “Maggie’s trying to apologize. Don’t you think Vi deserves an apology?”
Nan flung a hand in Maggie’s direction. “Yeah, but Maggie doesn’t deserve Vi’s forgiveness.”
“Certainly not.” Carol glared at Maggie. “Just leave, would you?”
Maggie winced and folded shivering arms over her drenched midriff.
“Let her speak,” Greta said. “Carol, wasn’t Maggie patient when you didn’t learn your lines? And Nan, didn’t she help when you were hysterical about your costume?”
Reluctant grumbles.
“I’m not here for forgiveness.” Maggie paused while her teeth chattered. “I was wrong, and I have no excuse. I just want to tell Vi how terribly sorry I am.”
“Let her.” Vi’s voice rose from behind the protective wall of women.
Still glowering at Maggie, the ladies parted.
Vi sat in a chair in her street clothes, hugging herself, her eyes a very un-festive mix of red and green. Her mouth puckered. “What were you thinking?”
Maggie sank into a chair beside Vi. She didn’t want to excuse her inexcusable behavior. “I’m so sorry. I—I wanted to give you and Frank a happy reunion. It never occurred to me—”
“You knew Frank was alive?” With her stage makeup scrubbed off, Vi’s lovely face was marred by red splotches and tear tracks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Gritting her teeth, Maggie tried to dry her hands on her sodden skirt. “I was wrong to keep it from you, wrong to make a public spectacle, and wrong—so very wrong—to hurt two friends.”
A scoffing sound from Carol. “I’ll say.”
Maggie sucked in a breath to stem her tears. “I see now what a horrible shock it was for you. And—and I embarrassed Frank.”
Vi’s mottled cheeks agitated. “He hates to be in the limelight. Oh, Frank. Oh no.”
“He still loves you,” Maggie said in a soft voice. “He did look for you, but—”
“But I changed my name.” Vi pressed her hands over her eyes, and her Southern accent emerged. “He was looking for Vernice Lingenfelter, not Violet Lane. Oh, Frank.”
“Don’t make excuses for him,” Nan said. “He could have asked your family.”
“I don’t have family.” A muffled wail rose. “I never told anyone back home where I went. Just up and ran to Hollywood, changed my name. Poor Frank. He was searching for me? What have I done? He’ll never want to see me again.”
Maggie leaned closer. “Prescott will talk to him tomorrow. If Frank agrees, would you like to meet with him? Someplace quiet and private.”
Vi bobbled a nod. “I can’t believe he’s alive. All this time . . . oh, Frank.”
One more issue needed to be addressed, and Maggie drew a breath into her shuddering chest. “I’ll understand if you can’t perform in the show tomorrow—or ever.”
“I’m dropping out of the show too.” Carol crossed her arms.
That was worse than Maggie imagined—again—and her breath hopped around.
“Don’t be silly, Carol.” Greta rolled her eyes. “You have a contract.”
“I don’t care. I can’t bear to look at her.” Yet Carol did look at her—with contempt.
“You won’t have to look at me. I won’t be here for the rest of the run.” Mentioning her resignation might look like a ploy for sympathy, and she refused. “Prescott and Ria will manage the show. Greta, could you help stage left?”
“You didn’t hear me.” Carol’s eyes formed icicle daggers. “I’m dropping out, and the rest of you should too.”
“No, Carol.” Vi lowered her hands. “This isn’t about Maggie. We aren’t doing this show for her. We never were. We’re doing it for those sailors and soldiers and Marines. I’ll be here tomorrow, and you’d better be here too. All of you.”
Carol lowered her chin and mumbled her agreement.
Tomorrow they’d come, and the show would go on.
Without Maggie.
Saturday, December 11, 1943
Soft rain, a chilled breeze, and an opportunity recklessly thrown away. With an umbrella overhead and an empty suitcase in hand, Maggie paused outside the USO-Army-Navy YMCA building. Then she trudged up granite steps.
Time to pay the piper.
After she checked in her raincoat and umbrella, she crossed the tiled lobby, passing Mrs. Laverne at the front desk with a civil exchange of “good morning.” Mrs. Laverne must not have heard about last night’s disaster, or she’d be gloating.
The morning meeting had been scheduled to discuss opening night and any changes needed for the upcoming performances. Never once had Maggie imagined she’d resign at the meeting.
Maggie made her way down the hallway. Apparently her imagination had serious limitations.
If only she’d listened to Prescott’s concerns about the reunion and to Grandpa’s warnings about keeping secrets. If only she’d asked God for wisdom rather than success. She might have avoided heartbreak for Frank and Vi. For Prescott. For Grandpa.
A wave of dizziness, and Maggie braced herself against the wall and caught her breath. “‘O time, thou must untangle this, not I; It is too hard a knot for me t’ untie!’”
Yet she was the one who’d tied a knot of Shakespearean proportions, and she was the one who had to pick at that knot.
Poor Grandpa. He’d turned ashen when she’d told him she planned to resign. Later today, she would apply for work at Consolidated Aircraft. If she couldn’t find a high-paying job before Papa arrived from Iowa, Grandpa would lose his house.
Grandpa had said he’d make do. But he’d held Tobias even tighter as he’d said it.
Maggie squared her shoulders and forged upstairs and into her office. She set her suitcase on a chair and opened it to fill with her belongings.
Cheerful voices in the hallway, and Mr. Anderson entered the office with Ria.
Before her courage ran out, Maggie straightened her blue suit jacket, the one Grandpa said made her eyes look as blue as Grandma’s. “Mr. Anderson, I apologize for last night.”
“Last night?” His frown tugged down the corners of his mustache.
“I let down your confidence in me, let down the USO. And Ria, I let you down too. I let down the whole cast, the Navy, and most of all, I let down two friends. I created a fiasco because I prized spectacle over people. I am resigning from my position immediately.”
“A fiasco?” He glanced at Ria. “That hiccup at the end?”
“More than a hiccup.” A growl entered Ria’s voice.
“It was entirely my fault, Mr. Anderson.” Maggie firmed her jaw. “Mrs. Fernandez knew nothing about my plan, and I take full responsibility.”
Ria’s mouth shifted to one side. “Frank is pretty upset.”
“Vi is too, but she realizes Frank could never have found her after she changed her name. She wants to meet with Frank.” Maggie took one step toward her assistant.
“Could you call Prescott? Could you help him meet with Frank? Tell Prescott that Vi has agreed to see Frank. That might help when Prescott talks to him.”
Ria’s mouth softened. “I’d be glad to. Those young people deserve another chance.”
“They do. Thank you.” Maggie picked up a framed photograph of Grandpa and Grandma from her desk and tucked it into her suitcase. “I’ll be out of the office in a few minutes.”
“I don’t see why,” Mr. Anderson said. “Mr. Duke smoothed things over, and everyone loved the show.”
Maggie straightened up and set one hand on the desk for balance. “Mr. Duke did what?”
Ria shrugged. “He joked about how dramatic show people are, made a nice little speech, and led everyone in singing ‘Joy to the World.’”
He’d done that? The ache of losing him dug even deeper into her chest, as if anything remained in her chest at all.
“As I said, all smoothed over.” Mr. Anderson took a seat and tugged down his suit jacket. “Everyone raved about the show, from the admirals to the enlisted seamen. Outstanding. Best show they’ve ever seen. Best I’ve ever seen. They’ll be talking about it for months.”
“I’m glad.” Moisture blurred Maggie’s vision. “It’ll continue without me.”
“Without you?” Ria’s black eyebrows jammed together. “We can’t do it without you.”
“Yes, you can. As emcee, Prescott keeps the show running. You can manage stage right, and Greta can help stage left.”
“That won’t work.” Ria shot a glance at Mr. Anderson. “Who will manage when Greta’s onstage? We need Miss Oliver.”
“I agree,” Mr. Anderson said.
“No, no.” Maggie’s hand fluttered to her belly. “You don’t understand. The ladies are furious with me. I promised them I wouldn’t be there. They might not perform if I’m there.”