Never one to give up easily, Twyla’s wits returned, at least partially, before he was completely out of arm’s reach. She stopped herself from grabbing his arm, but did ask, “You’re just going to leave me out here?”
That wasn’t the question she wanted to ask, but she couldn’t very well beg him to kiss her. Not when he’d always been in love with her sister.
Turning to glance over his shoulder, Forrest said, “You’re in your own front yard.”
Inhaling through her nose, she insisted, “I know.” Pulling up a bit of charm that never failed when she wanted her way, she tilted her head and twirled an earring with one finger. “But it’s dark.”
He laughed. A joyful trill that echoed in the night air.
She dropped her hand and cast him a glare.
“I don’t remember you being afraid of the dark.”
“I’m not.” A great desire to pout rose up in her and she wanted to ask if he remembered how years ago, he’d always chosen her to be on his hide-and-seek team for that very reason. She certainly remembered.
With little more than a nod, he turned and started walking again. “Walter’s standing next to the first boathouse. He’ll make sure you get back inside safely.”
Twyla let out a growl instead of screaming as she really wanted to do, and kicked at the grass, now slick and damp with dew. One shoe went flying. She barely caught herself before going down. As Twyla stood there wobbling, to her utter dismay, her shoe landed in the water fountain. How Forrest knew that—he hadn’t turned around so he hadn’t seen it—she wasn’t sure, but his laughter said he knew her shoe was submerged in the bubbling water.
She stomped—well, hobbled—to the fountain, retrieved her shoe and, wet or not, stuck it back on her foot. Forrest disappeared around the side of the resort, and Twyla instinctively knew this time he was leaving for sure. She also knew she was no closer to—and perhaps even further away from—hating him than ever.
* * *
Forrest stopped in the shadows on the side of the massive three-story resort building and watched to make sure Twyla did indeed make her way back to the balcony stairs. The plunk of her shoe hitting the water had left a grin on his face, and despite all, it felt good. Her temper hadn’t lessened over the years. Considering there were no rocks on the highly manicured lawn, he’d assumed the plunk and splash he’d heard was her shoe. She wasn’t wearing anything else heavy enough to throw. He should be glad she hadn’t thrown it at him. Maybe she had.
He should be glad, too, that he’d seen Walter, one of Roger’s night watchmen, standing in the darkness next to the boathouse. Otherwise, he might have kissed Twyla in a bit less of a brotherly way.
Once she had made her way up the stairs, Forrest turned and walked along the building to the front parking lot. In love with Norma Rose. He never had been in love with Norma Rose, but he had been fond of all of the Nightingales, and had been diligent about keeping Galen away from them.
He climbed in his roadster and sat there, staring through the windshield at the building. It never used to look anything like this. No bricks. No second or third stories. No fancy lights framing the double front doors. No manicured lawn, little concrete statues or big water fountain. The dance pavilion had been a white wooden structure with doors on all four sides to let the air in and out. He and the girls had played tag inside it, their laughter echoing off the walls as they raced across the floor, which was slick and shiny from years of people dancing on it.
The old pavilion was gone, and he had to wonder if, had it still been there, it would be as large as he remembered. A child’s mind did that. Inflated things.
He used to leave here and go home to his bed, where he’d pretend he didn’t belong. He’d plot there, too, in his bed, trying to find ways to make his presence at the Nightingale household permanent. A child’s mind also imagined things could become different just with hope. He’d grown out of that belief, but would never grow out of trying to protect the Nightingale girls from Galen’s corruption.
The entire time he’d been at his aunt’s house, he’d kept in touch with Scooter Wilson. Scooter had assured him that Roger had all of his daughters well protected, and kept them far away from Galen. Forrest had seen that for himself when he’d returned home after learning to walk again.
He pulled his eyes away from the resort and started the car. After that one visit, he’d had no intention of ever returning. Not even when his mother called, telling him about Galen’s “move,” as she put it, to California to appear in court in order to clear up the charges brought against the film company.