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“No, you don’t,” he said. “I heard Moe tell you everything was under control.”
“In the kitchen,” she said. “But there’s—”
“Nothing you need to see to right now.” Turning her toward him, he said, “Let’s cut a rug.”
“I don’t want to dance,” she said, spinning around. The flash of a camera bulb momentarily blinded her. Newspapermen were everywhere today, hoping to get a picture of Babe Ruth.
“Too bad,” Scooter said. “Whether you want to or not, we’re dancing.”
She truly didn’t have much of a choice. Others were pushing their way onto the dance floor, hurling her and Scooter forward with their momentum.
Brock hit the piano keys and the first notes ripped through the crowd like a buzz saw. People shouted, their hoots and hollers loud enough to frighten the seagulls from the air.
Josie stifled her protest as Scooter glided her into his arms and she allowed him to whisk her across the floor. He was an excellent dancer, especially of the Charleston. The two of them had been paired up in an impromptu dance-off a few weeks ago, which had been more fun than she’d had in ages.
The tempo of the song increased and she and Scooter held hands as they spun forward to rush through the steps of the popular dance. People bumped into her and Scooter pulled her closer before swiftly guiding her around to his other side.
“I don’t want someone to step on your toes,” he shouted above the ruckus. “Your feet have already been damaged enough from wearing those ugly green shoes.”
Josie had to laugh. “Thank you,” she shouted in return. “Your gallantry is outstanding.”
In the middle of his fast dance steps, he gave her a brief bow, which had them both laughing. Having grown up with him, she’d never felt uncomfortable around Scooter, as she’d felt around others, and she’d gone to him, on more than one occasion, when she’d needed things. Mechanical things usually. Having a car she could count on was an important aspect of her life.
They danced through the next two songs Brock played, and when, after striking the final chords as only Brock could, he stood up from behind the piano, Josie was more than a little winded.
Scooter was, as well, or at least he acted that way, and said, “Water, I need water.”
Laughing, Josie led him away from the dance floor, to where a table of nonalcoholic punch and soda was set up. She picked up a soda and drank half of it as Slim Johnson made his way to the piano. Wayne Sears, another musician they’d hired for the night, was somewhere at the resort, too. When the dance-off started, they’d need more than one. A large number of people had signed up for the contest.
Her father was beside Slim and as the musician sat down, her father once again held up a hand, drawing everyone’s attention to him. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, as a hush came over the crowd. “I want to thank all of you for attending this first ever Fourth of July barbecue here at Nightingale’s.” Once the applause died, he added, “It’s been so successful, we’ll have to make it a yearly event.” Finding the baseball player amid the crowd, he asked, “What do you say, Babe?”
Babe Ruth held his glass up in salute, and once again the crowd went wild.
“You’ve all met my daughter Twyla,” her father then said, “the girl who got married today, and I want to introduce you to my other daughters.”
Josie’s heart sank. He’d never publically introduced them before. Although she was proud of her father, never being in the limelight suited her. She liked being the mediocre sister. The one no one recognized. It meant she could wear britches and go barefoot when she wanted to.
Scanning the crowd, her father said, “Norma Rose, you and Ty come up here. Twyla, you and Forrest. Ginger? Where’s my baby girl? Aw, there she is. Brock, bring her up here. And Josie...?”
She wanted to slink under the table. Particularly when her father said, “Scooter, bring Josie up here, will you?”
“Come on,” Scooter said.
Scooter’s hand landed in the middle of her back. It might appear he was simply guiding her forward, but in actuality, he was shoving hard.
“Everyone’s watching,” he said, without making his lips move.
“I know,” she answered in the same manner.
“It’ll only take a minute,” he said.
The dread that had been inside her doubled. She’d always known it would happen someday, that she’d be pointed out as one of The Night’s daughters, and that it would change her life. She’d no longer be able to hide in the shadows.
She and Scooter arrived near her sisters, but the pounding of blood in her ears was too loud for her to hear what her father was saying. Something about Nightingale’s being a family business, and that this was the family. The family. Her sisters claimed they’d felt like prisoners, trapped in their bedrooms, but this was where she felt the iron bars surrounding her. Being a Nightingale had come to mean being something she wasn’t. It had given her a station in life she’d never wanted. And it was full of expectations. There were things being a Nightingale provided, but the list of things they couldn’t do was longer. Unfortunately, those were the things that made her who she was.
