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“I told you to stay away from my sister,” Twyla squawked.
“I’m free to dance with whomever I want,” he said, twirling her in the opposite direction from where Ty spun Norma Rose.
“Not Norma Rose,” Twyla insisted. “She doesn’t want anything to do with you. Hasn’t for years. Don’t you see that?” With a well-aimed glare, she added, “You aren’t welcome here, Forrest.”
He didn’t react to the sting of her words. There was no reason to. He hadn’t expected any of the Nightingales to want anything to do with him. He didn’t blame them, nor did he blame Roger for putting Galen behind bars. Galen did, though, and had sworn vengeance. If what his mother claimed was true, Galen might get his chance, and that was what Forrest was here to stop.
They were near the edge of the floor when the music ended. There would be no more switching partners. The song was over.
Forrest used his close proximity to the tables to grab his jacket and tie. Flipping the suit coat over his shoulder, he gave Twyla a wink. “See you around, doll.”
She looped an arm through his before he’d taken more than two steps. “You’re leaving?”
He had no intention of stopping, but something in her tone stilled his feet. Glancing down, the shimmer in her eyes held a touch of sadness. He felt that, too, deep down where it had settled years ago. Not about to let the emotion show, he grinned. “Are you flipping sides already?”
“Fl-fl—” she stuttered before gathering her tongue. “I’m not flipping anything.”
“You aren’t?”
“No.”
“You just told me I’m not welcome here.”
Her mouth opened and closed a couple of times before she pinched her lips together.
The sight was comical and he laughed.
“Fine,” she said, pulling her arm out of his. “Leave. But you’ll be missing the best party this country has ever known.”
Slim was striking up another tune, so Forrest leaned close to Twyla’s ear and said, “I hate to tell you this, doll, but your ice sculpture is already melting. The fun will be over before you know it.”
With that he marched forward, through the ballroom doors, across the entranceway and out of the double doors that led to the parking lot. He could talk to Roger tomorrow. The man was an integral part of his plan. A plan he was seriously reconsidering. Drawing any of the Nightingales back into his family’s trouble wasn’t right. It was his fight, not theirs. Trouble was, Galen’s pending release wasn’t the thing eating at him. Twyla was. He could only handle small doses of her. She’d already gotten under his skin, too deep for comfort.
He was opening the door of his roadster when his name echoed over the parking lot.
Chapter Three (#ulink_442156b2-8523-5034-81f7-0917958cb621)
“What’ll it be, boy?” Roger Nightingale asked with his booming voice while gesturing toward the mass of bottles and crystal highball glasses set upon the credenza in his office.
Forrest didn’t take offense to Roger calling him boy; the man always had, and in a sense it brought back good memories. “I’m fine,” he said, shaking his head while taking a seat in one of the two red velvet chairs facing Roger’s desk. “I’ve learned to limit myself.”
“Limit? You a teetotaler?”
“I guess I am, sir,” he answered respectfully. “By choice. After taking the oath for flying, I learned I need my senses alert at all times.”
“Aw, yes, your piloting,” Roger said, pouring himself a good bump of brandy before walking over to sit down behind his big mahogany desk. The man might look the size of a bear, but he had the stealth of a mountain lion. “Hear tell you’ve got a lot of hours under your belt.”
“That I do,” Forrest said. “Flew airmail from Washington to Pennsylvania for six months and then to New York for another six.”
“I gotta admit those flying contraptions scare the dickens out of me, but they intrigue me, too. How’d you get involved in that?”
Forrest had no doubt Roger already knew. The man spoke to other people who talked with his mother, and she never shied from making his flying part of her conversations. “Mechanical engineering always interested me. After earning my degree I went down to Nebraska, to Lincoln and the air flight school there.” He didn’t mention that had been a year after graduation. It had taken him that long to learn to walk again after both his legs had been mangled. “From there I joined the air service reserve corps. The army didn’t have much use for pilots since the war had ended, but they used us occasionally for things, and then regularly once airmail started.”
“I heard you were one of the pilots that carried mail all the way across the nation,” Roger said, appearing to be genuinely interested.
“I was,” Forrest answered. “The route includes thirteen stops for fuel, mail exchange and aircrew changes. I flew the section from Chicago to Iowa City and back again. The entire trip, from ocean to ocean, took just a little over seventy hours when we first started.”
Roger let out a low whistle.
“Last year we got it down to little more than thirty,” he said. “With night flying.”
“Night flying? How do you fly a plane in the dark?”
“With navigational instruments,” Forrest answered. A familiar longing rose up in him by simply talking about flying. He loved it, and missed it daily. He also knew his flying opportunities would be limited if he couldn’t update his plane. Currently, his controls consisted of an oil pressure gauge and a horizontal indicator, not enough for night flying. “Things change,” he said, not realizing he was responding to his internal reactions. “In February of this year the government passed a new bill. It took the airmail contracts away from the army and opened it up to private aviation companies. Right now anyone can put a bid on flying a route, especially new ones that connect with the transcontinental route between New York and San Francisco.”
“Are you putting in a bid?” Roger asked.
Forrest smiled. Roger had always been able to read between the lines. “I already did. I’ve surveyed and established a route between Minneapolis and Iowa City. It’ll be Minnesota’s first opportunity to have airmail. I won’t know whether or not I’ve got the contract until October, but I’ve already sent in my paperwork along with the fee they required.”
Roger guffawed. “The government, they get money from us in every way possible.” He leaned back then, folding his thick arms across his chest. “What about the Plantation?”
An undeniable ball of disgust rose in Forrest’s stomach. If not for the Plantation, he’d have a new plane, which would guarantee his contract for mail service. Right now, if the government did accept his bid, he wouldn’t be able to fulfill it.
“I’ve heard you made some remarkable changes.”
“I wouldn’t call them remarkable,” Forrest admitted. His goal had been to erase Galen from his mind and life. It still was. “You know Galen never owned the Plantation.”
“I do,” Roger answered. “Your grandfather willed it to you before he died.”
“I wish I’d known him,” Forrest said sincerely.
“He was a good man, but hard, and one hell of a master brewer,” Roger said with a laugh. “Hans was one of the originals in the brewery business. He knew about the artesian wells over in Swede Hollow and said it would be the perfect spot for a brewery, being that close to St. Paul. That’s where they built it, and in no time it was the second-largest brewery in the state. It still is, although right now it’s bottling little more than soft drinks. It’ll make a comeback, though, once Prohibition is recalled. We all know that.”
“That the brewery will make a comeback, or that Prohibition will be recalled?” Forrest asked, interested in the man’s opinion. It was well-known that almost every brewery had caves lining the river or back rooms where plenty of illegal beverages were still being brewed, bottled and sold.
“Both,” Roger said. “Prohibition isn’t working. Not for the government anyway,” he added with a laugh. “For me, it’s been a gold mine, but I only look for it to last a few more years. So do the brewing companies. They’re voicing their objections. They’ve got legislators writing up repeals one after the other.”
Forrest had no desire to get deep into a conversation about Prohibition. It was obvious Roger looked upon the laws governing alcohol as many others did—that they’d been made to be broken. He, on the other hand, held no solid opinion. Though he should, as owner of a nightclub. “How well did you know my grandfather?” he asked, going back to their earlier conversation.
“Very well. Hans Swenson was known and liked by everyone. He got me the job I had at the brewery. He’d already sold out his shares by then, and made a good sum doing so,” Roger added with a wink. “He used that money to build the Plantation, which is where he made his wealth. This entire area was a vacation spot for the rich mill owners in the cities, and they loved the idea of a yacht club. Hans had visitors coming all the way from England. They’d haul their little sailboats on ships into Duluth and then down here by train. It was amazing. Those were the days. They’d sail their boats all day at his place and then come over here to my father’s dance pavilion and dance the nights away.”
Roger sighed as if the memories were turning dark. “A few bad years, and resorts opening up in other places, closer to the cities, made our area wither and dry up like worms left in the sun. Some folks burned their places down. They’d never admit it, but so many insurance claims were made companies stopped insuring resorts in this area. That didn’t stop your grandfather. He built the amusement park to keep folks coming to this area. That’s why the Plantation survived when everywhere else around here dried up. Because it was unique.”
Forrest nodded. He knew a whole lot more than that but couldn’t say any of it. Family secrets were ugly contenders at times and had thrown many a wrench in his plans over the years.
“You could make it that way again,” Roger said. “Hans would like that. He was never impressed with your father.”
“Was anyone ever impressed with Galen?” Forrest asked sarcastically.
“No,” Roger replied swiftly. “No one.”
“What about when he first moved here?” Forrest asked, fishing for information. “I know my mother and your wife were friends—were you and Galen ever friendly?”
“No. Even before Rose died, there had been no friendship between Galen and me.” Leaning forward, Roger rested both elbows on his desk and tapped the ends of his fingers together. “You didn’t answer my question earlier—what about the Plantation? Who’s going to run it while you’re flying mail across the country every day?”
Forrest nodded, mainly to give himself a moment to respond. Slowly, precisely, he said, “Galen, if he has his way.”
Roger’s scowl turned darker than his black shirt.
“He’s being released,” Forrest said.
“Hell!” Roger erupted from his chair, slapping his desk. “That’s a lie.”
“It’s true,” Forrest said. “My mother called. Said Galen was getting a new trial and most likely, due to time served, will get out shortly.”
“Trials can’t happen that fast,” Roger insisted. “They can’t.”
“Well, apparently they can,” Forrest replied, without further explanation. That wasn’t important. “And Roger,” he said seriously, “when Galen gets out, he’s going to be gunning for you.”
* * *
A noise had Twyla spinning, glancing up and down the hallway. The long walkway to the kitchen was empty, as was the shorter distance that led to the entrance of the resort. The coast was still clear. She lifted the glass to the door again and pressed her ear to the other end. So far all she’d heard was her father shout once. Even then the only word she’d heard was hell. Her father used the expletive often, so that didn’t necessarily mean the conversation he was holding with Forrest was a bad one, but her insides said it couldn’t be good. She was also betting the topic was her.
She’d knocked down two dancers and a waitress trying to get out of the ballroom when she’d spied her father and Forrest heading toward his office. By the time she’d helped everyone up and found someone to clean up the mess, the office door was shut tight. Everyone knew you didn’t interrupt one of Roger Nightingale’s closed-door meetings.
“What are you doing?”
She spun around so fast the glass tumbled to the floor. Seeing Josie, Twyla released a sigh of relief and picked up the glass. “Forrest is in there with father,” she whispered.
“So?”
“So?” Grabbing her sister’s arm, Twyla dragged Josie down the hall toward the kitchen. “You know what that could mean, don’t you?”
“What what could mean?”
Twyla wanted to shake her sister. “Forrest,” she hissed. “He’s still in love with Norma Rose.”
Josie shook her head as if Twyla had just said the sky was falling, as if what she’d said was an impossibility.
Twyla crossed her arms. She was right. Josie had to know that.
Her sister made no move at first, but then Josie straightened the buckle on the gold belt she had around her waist. Her red-and-gold outfit was gorgeous and she looked fabulous, which was strange. Josie normally wore pants and loose-fitting shirts, claiming she went for comfort long before fashion. Twyla couldn’t understand that. Fashion was everything. She’d walk around with blisters on her feet before wearing a pair of shoes that didn’t match her dress.
Pulling her attention away from her sister’s outfit, Twyla repeated, “Forrest is still in love with Norma Rose.”
“I doubt that,” Josie said.
“I don’t,” Twyla insisted.
Josie shook her head. “Forrest caring about Norma Rose is a moot point. She’s in love with Ty.”
“Forrest could make her question that,” Twyla replied. “Maybe cause her and Ty to break up, and turn everything back to how it was.”
“You really believe that?”
“Yes,” Twyla said. “I don’t want things to go back to how they were. And you shouldn’t, either.”
“I don’t, and they won’t,” Josie said confidently. “Norma Rose and Ty will soon be married. Which means we’ll both be needed more than ever to keep this place running.” Taking the glass from Twyla’s hand, Josie added, “Now stop being silly. We have over three hundred people here tonight. You need to be in the ballroom ensuring they are having a good time.”
Twyla wanted to insist she wasn’t being silly. She was being serious. Josie needed to take her blinders off. Things changed in little more than a heartbeat. They’d all seen that. Josie, though, wasn’t one for bickering. Or idle talk. “What are you doing?” Twyla asked, and then followed up by asking, “I mean, aren’t you making sure the guests are having a good time?”
“I am,” Josie said. “But the ice sculpture is melting and water is dripping onto the floor. I’m on my way for a mop to clean it up before someone slips.”
“I have to know what they’re talking about,” Twyla said, reaching for the glass her sister had confiscated.
Josie hid it behind her back. “No, you don’t. Stop worrying about Forrest and go see to the guests, or I’ll tell father and Norma Rose you’re resorting to your childish ways.”
Twyla growled, but Josie had already spun around and was marching down the hallway toward the kitchen and storeroom, where she’d find a mop.
Balling her hands into fists, Twyla spun around and walked the other way. Passing her father’s office was torture. Not knowing what was being said behind that door would haunt her all night. Forrest was thwarting her. If he told her father all about her escapades, and Josie told him about her listening at the door with a water glass, she’d be banished to her room until she turned thirty.
It wasn’t fair. Surely wasn’t. The world was at her fingertips and it was as if Forrest had stomped on her freshly painted nails right before she’d been able to grasp it all.
Music and laughter caught her attention as the hallway gave way to the front entrance. The doors to the ballroom and dining room were open, and she paused to survey the scene. People dancing, drinking, smoking and having a good time were laid out before her. This was the world she wanted. She gave a slow, lingering glance down the hallway. Forrest might be telling her father all he knew, but that wouldn’t stop tonight.
A smile formed on Twyla’s lips. Tonight she’d prove who was the most spectacular hostess of the family. Her father couldn’t banish her to her room then. Not after she ensured Palooka George had the best birthday bash ever. She entered the ballroom with all the persistence of a bee buzzing toward a fresh-blooming flower. She knew how to gather nectar when needed.
Twyla headed straight for the bar, where she downed two shots of Minnesota’s finest corn whiskey. Then, with the whiskey burning her throat and belly—even though Reggie had watered it down as he always did with her shots—she made a beeline for the guest of honor. The show she made of pulling Palooka George onto the dance floor got the crowd rolling with laughter and she didn’t let it die down.
Not once.
Not even when she noticed her father leading Ty and Norma Rose out of the dining room.
* * *
Forrest kept himself concealed among a group of men on the balcony smoking and sipping tall bottles of beer while he watched Twyla single-handedly entertain the crowd. She did so naturally, with her smile and outrageous yet charming behavior. Nightingale’s hadn’t needed Slim. They could have just set Twyla loose. She was the real draw and the reason people filled the dance floor. There wasn’t a man at the shindig who wasn’t captivated by her, including several he’d recognized from here and there. A man didn’t do the amount of traveling he’d done without hearing the latest news. These days that news included gangsters. From small-time mobsters to big-time bosses. A good number of them were here tonight.
Loose Lenny, Mumbles and Knuckles Page, Gorgeous Gordy and Fire Iron Frank were all sitting along the bar, eyeing one another as if they weren’t sure who was going to pull out a piece first. Sylvester the Sly and Point Blank Luigi were at a table playing poker in the dining room along with a few others.
Forrest couldn’t say he was too worried about any of the mobsters causing trouble tonight. Roger had his own entourage. Bronco Mitchell, Tuck Andrews, Duane Luck, Tad McCullough, Danny Trevino and Walter Storms. They’d all been with Roger for years and were stationed throughout the property, inside and out. Bronco was around Forrest’s age. The man’s uncle, Jacob Wertheimer, worked for Forrest, had worked for the Plantation for years. Although Bronco was devoted to Roger, he stopped at the Plantation now and again to see his uncle, which was how Forrest had learned about Twyla’s escapades. Just last month Bronco had swung by while looking for her and admitted she’d escaped their watchful eyes once again.
He grinned. She was still a brat. In a sense, Forrest felt sorry for Bronco, and he would never admit the man had told him anything, not even under fire. Dealing with the Nightingale women was more than Forrest could ever have handled, and he’d assured Bronco his secrets were safe with him. Every man needed to vent now and again. Besides, Forrest enjoyed hearing about her escapades. It proved she hadn’t changed.
As if he could read his mind, Bronco caught Forrest’s eye and gave a friendly nod as he continued to weave his way through the crowd, making sure everyone was behaving. The man paused behind two rather rowdy fellows being a bit brash when it came to encouraging Twyla to dance with them. With nothing more than a meaty hand laid upon each one’s shoulder, Bronco mellowed the two men. They took their seats, nodding at something the watchman said.
Forrest shook his head. Though well over six feet of muscle and brawn, Bronco had his work cut out for him. That was for sure. Forrest held up the bottle of beer he’d been nursing all night, in a silent salute to his friend, and then turned around to once again gaze over the lake reflecting starlight back into the heavens. He set the bottle on the rail beside him, but then picked it up and spun it around. No label. That didn’t surprise him. Beer was harder to find during Prohibition than whiskey, but he had a good idea where it came from.
His grandfather may have found Roger a job at the brewery, but Roger had worked his way through the ranks all on his own. By the time Prohibition hit, Roger had made some very tight connections, and from the looks of things, he was still using them.
