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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.”
