Lauri Robinson - The Rebel Daughter

“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.