It was funny how the disparity between the money his family supposedly had and the amount the Nightingale family once hadn’t had played such a part in his life. Until he’d found himself with very limited funds, he hadn’t realized just how badly money could consume a person’s thinking.
Norma Rose had certainly wanted out of her life back then and had been furious with him for putting up a roadblock to her well-laid plans of a wealthy marriage.
His gaze went back to the red coupe. Twyla, on the other hand, had taken life as it came back then, and though he understood she now loved her life of influence as much as her sister, she still had her love of adventure. Nothing, not even the lack of money, had suppressed that in Twyla. He’d loved that about her back then, and still did.
He was a fool. He should never have taken her flying, never should have danced with her. Never should have kissed her.
The knock on his office door was no surprise, since he’d watched her walk all the way to the front door less than a minute ago. He turned around and leaned against the windowsill as the door opened and Twyla walked in. She was still wearing her yellow polka-dot dress. Still wearing her yellow scarf tied around her neck. Still the most beautiful women he’d ever laid eyes upon.
“You can run, but you can’t hide,” she said saucily, kicking the door shut with one perfectly placed heel.
“I’m not running or hiding,” Forrest responded, although internally he knew he was doing a little of both, and had been for some time.
“Why didn’t you tell me Galen was being paroled?”
He shrugged, watching as she crossed the room. Just like he’d done earlier, she paused near his desk to flick the propeller of his model plane. “It’s none of your business,” he said.
“None of my business?” she repeated as a question. “We’re friends, Forrest, almost family.”
“We are not almost family.”
A slight frown tugged at her finely shaped brows. “We could have been,” she said. “If you’d married Norma Rose.”
“I would never have married Norma Rose,” he said, moving from the window to sit down on the long couch that sat against one wall. “I’d never have married anyone from around here.”
She trailed one finger along his desk as she walked to the far corner of it before turning around to face him. “Why not?”
“Because it would have been like the prince marrying a commoner,” he said, purposely trying to sound snide. There were some secrets he’d never let out. He couldn’t if he wanted to make sure Twyla didn’t get caught up in all that was going on.
“Now you sound like your— Galen. Why?”
“Maybe I’m more like him than you know,” he said. “More like him than anyone knows.”
She laughed. It wasn’t a sarcastic giggle, but a genuinely tickled sound. He had to bite his teeth together to combat just how thoroughly it affected him.
“As I said, Forrest, you can run, but you can’t hide. Not from me.”
Afraid she might see through his facade, Forrest rose to his feet. If anyone could see through him, it would be Twyla. “What are you doing here?”
She’d moved to the wall where he’d hung several pictures. “You know Babe Ruth?” she asked, a bit in awe.
“I gave him a ride in my airplane a couple of years ago.”
“So you know him,” she persisted.
“Sort of, I guess.” He kept his distance. His lips had started twitching and his heart thudded as he remembered how it had felt kissing her back at the hangar. “Why? Actually, how do you know that’s Babe Ruth?”
“Everyone knows who Babe Ruth is.” She took a couple steps before pausing to gaze out the window.
Across the street from the parking lot was the city park. About the same time the council had put the noise ordinance and curfew law into effect, they’d turned the lot where an old hotel had once stood into a park, including ball fields.
“Look out there,” she said, “at those kids playing ball. I bet every one of them knows who Babe Ruth is, and they probably dream of meeting him.”
“Could be,” he said, not overly interested in the kids or Babe Ruth. Her silhouette was caught in the sunlight and even when he closed his eyes, he could see the breathtaking and shimmering outline of her curves. Disgusted by how easily he could be distracted, Forrest marched to his desk. “I have work to do, Twyla.”
She spun around. “Tell me about your airmail contract.”
“Who told you about that, and about Galen’s release? Your father?” Forrest had been home little more than an hour, and assumed he’d been the topic of conversation back at the resort. Still, things must have changed out there. He’d have expected Roger to be a bit more tight-lipped.
“My father mentioned your contract while telling me I couldn’t go flying with you again for the next five days,” she said. “But Norma Rose told me about Galen’s release.”
His mind snagged on one thing. “For the next five days?”
She nodded. “He’s going to Chicago in the morning, to get Ginger, and said I couldn’t go flying with you again until he returns home. He also said he’d like to go up in your plane someday. I told him how magnificent it was.”
“You did? He did?” Forrest shook his head, trying to find a lick of sense, or perhaps shake aside how adorable she looked when her eyes lit up as she spoke about flying.
“Yes, I did, and yes, he did.” Twyla continued her little jaunt around his office and ended up near the couch, where she gracefully lowered herself onto the cushions.
He’d found the sofa in one of the boarded-off rooms upstairs, and because it looked relatively new, he’d wondered why no one had taken it—other than the fact it was cumbersome and a rather eye-stinging shade of lime-green. However, right now, next to Twyla’s white-and-yellow dress and faded red hair, the couch didn’t look nearly as bad.
“So,” she said, looking up at him earnestly, “what are we going to do about Galen?”
Forrest crossed the room to his desk and leaned against the edge. Seeing her look up at him with such trust and expectancy stirred a powerful protectiveness inside him. “We are not going to do anything,” he said. “You are going to go back home where you belong.”
She grinned coyly.
“Immediately,” he added.
She glanced around the room, and Forrest wished he knew what was happening inside that adorable head of hers. Her thoughts included him, of that he had no doubt, and it only increased the reasons why he should send her back home.
“I like the changes you’ve made here.” She rose to her feet. “Will you show me the bowling alley? I’ve never seen one.”
Just as she was able to see through him, he could see through her. The bowling lanes were not her interest right now. However, if it got her out of here, he’d indulge her.
He gestured for her to precede him across the room, but neither of them had taken more than a step when the door opened.
Nasty Nick Ludwig strolled in the room, flipping a wooden bowling pin with one hand. “I see you built yourself a nice little playground for you and your friends,” Nick said, “but that’s what’s to be expected from a little rich boy.”
Forrest stepped in front of Twyla. “What do you want, Ludwig?”
“So you do recognize me.”
Forrest refrained from admitting anything with Twyla near.
Lifting one corner of his mouth, Ludwig flipped the pin again. “Just thought I’d knock over a few pins. See what fun folks find in it.”
Forrest snatched the pin out of the air. If he needed proof someone had been sneaking around, here it was. “The likes of you aren’t welcome here.”
“Well, now, I don’t think your pappy would take kindly to hearing you talk to me like that. He ain’t gonna like what you did wit
h the place, either.” Leaning slightly to shoot a leer at Twyla, Ludwig added, “For the most part, that is.”
Forrest tossed the pin onto the couch before he stepped forward and grabbed Ludwig by the shirt front. “While you’re telling my pappy,” Forrest said, “tell him he’s not welcome around here, either.”
Nasty Nick struggled and tried to tug off Forrest’s hands, but his hold merely tightened. Being half a foot taller than the thug, Forrest lifted Ludwig until his toes dangled above the floor.
“Remind him, too—my pappy, that is—that’s he’s not dealing with a scared little kid anymore.” Tossing Ludwig against the wall, Forrest waited until the man had found his feet before he added, “Remind him of that, would you?”
Ludwig glared, but spun around. However, before he was all the way through the doorway, Nick turned around. “You’re gonna be sorry you returned.”
“I already am,” Forrest snapped. Catching the surprise in Ludwig’s eyes, he added, “And you just made it worse.”
The man dashed down the hallway, and a moment later, the slam of the glass-paneled front door echoed over the noise of the people bowling on the other side of the dining room.
Forrest spun around, half expecting to see Twyla a shivering heap on the couch. She wasn’t shivering. Or on the couch. Instead, she was standing right behind him, holding the bowling pin with one hand. Slapping the fat end of the pin against her other palm, she asked, “Ready to show me those bowling lanes? I suspect someone wants their pin back.”
A mixture of shock, anger, pride and disgust swirled inside him. He’d never been oblivious to his home life, but he’d tried to keep the corruption hidden from the Nightingale sisters at all costs. Now was no different.
Twyla lifted an eyebrow in question. He didn’t want her leaving right now, not with Nasty Nick hanging around, so Forrest said nothing as he once again gestured toward the door.
* * *
If her legs gave out on her now, Twyla swore she’d cut them off at the knees, or maybe even at the thighs, considering it was her knees that were shaking. They had been ever since that nasty thug had thrown open the door. If a fistfight had come about, she was certain Forrest would have won. He was taller and beefier than the other man, but she’d collected the bowling pin and stood ready just in case. The pin was heavier than it looked, and she figured a couple of good clubs over the head would have sent the thug to the floor.
Questions swirled in her brain, but she knew Forrest wasn’t prepared to answer any of them, so she wouldn’t ask. There’d be time for that later. Once he realized he wasn’t alone in this fight against Galen. Never would be again.
With a slight nod, she started for the door, and thanked her legs profusely for cooperating. Ludwig, as Forrest had called the man, had been at Palooka George’s party last night. Twyla set the name deep in her head to ask Norma Rose about him. Right now, she was focused on Forrest, and would pretend to be amazed by his bowling alley.
And that notion turned out to be easier than expected. Her reaction was a surprise because it wasn’t a nightclub. Speakeasies such as the resort—though it irritated everyone else in her family when she referred to Nightingale’s as that—were her favorites. That was where fun was to be had.
Although she’d rarely been inside the Plantation, visiting only a few times when Forrest had lived there years ago, she did remember how impressive it had been. With its large white pillars and three stories, the building had always been the most magnificent for miles around. It might as well have had curtains made of dollar bills, it shouted money so clearly, and that, too, was what she loved above all else.
From Forrest’s office they’d turned left and walked down the hallway to the front entrance, which held a coatroom on one side and a wide, curving staircase leading upstairs. A red velvet rope with gold ties was stretched across the staircase, discouraging people from going up.
Double doors leading from the entrance led to a dining room, one she barely recognized. She’d been in this room for Forrest’s graduation party. Heavy drapes had hung from the windows then and dark carpet had covered the floor. Charcoal-colored linoleum with white specks now stretched from wall to wall, and several small round tables with two or four chairs were spread about. Sunlight filled the room from windows covered with nothing but short valances across their tops. The wooden bar, with a long mirror behind it, still lined the far wall, but the people sitting on the stools were drinking soda pop or slurping up ice-cream sodas. A short stage, one step up from the floor, was angled in the far corner and right now two young boys were pounding on the piano keys.
Twyla glanced up at Forrest, expecting him to yell at the boys, but he merely grinned and gestured to the other side of the room. Galen Reynolds would certainly have put a stop to those boys. Children were never allowed to touch anything in his presence.
At his side, Twyla walked with Forrest toward where the top half of a wall had been removed. A waist-high barricade had been left, and on the other side of it, what had once been the ballroom now held five long and shiny alleys that stretched clear to the other side. Several groups were gathered at each alley, rolling balls toward the pins. Two young boys ran back and forth, setting up or pulling pins out of the way before they rolled balls back down long open chutes that framed the alleyways.
Forrest led her through an opening in the waist-high wall and pointed out the back of the wall that held rows of bowling balls.
“Why do you need so many?” she asked.
“Because they weigh different amounts,” he answered. “Women and children like lighter balls than men.” After rolling over a few balls, he pointed at one. “Try that one.”
She picked up the ball, taken aback by the weight. “I’m supposed to throw this at the pins?”
“No,” he said, with a grin that showed his dimple. “You roll it.” Picking up another ball, he gestured toward the one she held. “Put your fingers in the holes like this.”
Copying his actions, she cringed. “Oh, yeah, that’s real comfortable.”
He shook his head, but chuckled. “Come on.”
Twyla, carrying her ball with both hands, followed.
“That over there,” he said, gesturing past all the lanes, “is the billiards room. There are three pool tables.”
She nodded, seeing people through the arched opening holding cue sticks. Forrest led her to the last lane before he stopped. Twyla was a bit surprised when a black-haired man helping a young boy maneuver a ball out of the side chute turned out to be Scooter Wilson.
“Hey, Twyla,” Scooter said, after the boy had rolled the ball down the lane and knocked over several pins.
“Hello, Scooter,” she replied. “You come bowling?”
“Sure do. Brought my nephew, Jonas, over today. It’s his birthday.”
“Happy birthday, Jonas,” she said to the boy, who had hair as black as his uncle’s.
“Thanks,” the boy said. “Tomorrow is my real birthday, but Uncle Scooter brought me today ’cause his fueling station will be open tomorrow and he’ll have to work.”
Twyla grinned at Jonas’s explanation while Forrest stepped forward and ruffled the boy’s hair.
“Happy birthday a day early,” Forrest said. “Are you winning or is your uncle?”
“I got two strikes,” Jonas said proudly. “He hasn’t gotten any.”
“So you’re winning, then,” Forrest said, laughing.
“What are strikes?” Twyla asked.
“When you knock down all ten pins in one shot,” Jonas answered before sending his ball rolling.
Twyla lifted her gaze to the end of the alley, where the young boys were tossing pins over a short wall and rolling balls into the side chutes. Then the boys jumped over the wall, waved and disappeared. “Why’d they do that?” she asked Forrest.
“Firs
t they get the pins out of the way, then they throw the balls back and hide so they don’t get hit,” he answered.
She watched a few other bowlers send their balls down the alleyway. The speed astounded her, and the clatter when the ball hit the pins made her glad those boys had a wall to protect them. “Oh, goodness.”
“I’m going to be a pin boy for Forrest when I get old enough,” Jonas said.
“Oh?” Twyla asked. “Does your mother know that?”
“Yes,” Jonas answered. “But just like Forrest, she said I have to wait until I turn fourteen.”
Forrest nodded as the boy looked his way questioningly.
“The boys have to be old enough to keep focused,” Jonas told her seriously.
“Your ball’s back,” Forrest said, gesturing toward the ball rolling down the chute.
Scooter and Jonas went over to pick up the ball and Twyla asked, “Don’t the balls just fall in those little chutes along the side?”
“Yes, then it’s called a gutter ball. Those little chutes on each side of the lane are called gutters. Bowlers need to keep their ball out of the gutters and hit the pins. When all ten pins are knocked down in one shot it’s called a strike, as Jonas said, and if it takes two balls, it’s called a spare.”
“How many times can you throw the ball?” she asked, watching as Jonas once again sent the ball spinning down the lane.
“Roll the ball,” he said. “Your turn consists of rolling the ball two times.” Turning to Scooter, he asked, “Mind if Twyla takes a turn?”
“Of course not,” Scooter said. “We just started a new game.” Bowing, he gave a grand sweep with one arm. “Right this way, my lady.”
Twyla grimaced at Scooter as she stepped up to the red line. He’d always been a teaser.
The Rebel Daughter (Daughters Of The Roaring Twenties Book 2) Page 14
