up and tugged at his shirt collar, but found little relief.
He tugged harder. It didn’t help, but the smile that appeared on Twyla’s face did. Her eyes had changed, too. They were no longer shooting daggers. Instead they’d softened with something he couldn’t quite explain. Sympathy? He didn’t want that. Not from her. Not from anyone.
“Here,” she said, grasping his hand and pulling it away from his neck. “You’re twisting your tie.” She straightened it and asked, “Isn’t that awfully tight?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
With deft fingers, she undid the bow and pushed his chin up when he tried to look down. A moment later she had it retied and he was no longer choking.
“How’s that?” she asked.
“Fine, thank you.” No one had tied his tie in years and the intimacy of it twisted something inside him. He’d missed that. Intimacy. At one time he’d had a close relationship with all the sisters.
Twyla’s smile never faltered as she turned toward the door again, greeting more couples and directing them to her sister at the front desk.
That was Josie at the desk. She was the tomboy of the family. The one who’d dug worms and caught frogs beside him, and together they’d chased Norma Rose and Twyla, even Ginger at times, dangling their latest finds. Being only two years older than Norma Rose, he’d grown up playing with all four sisters. His mother and Rose Nightingale had been the best of friends at one time. Right up until Rose had died. The flu epidemic had taken their baby brother, too, and his. That was the thing Galen had never gotten over. The loss of his only son.
Forrest shoved his hands in his pockets again, where they balled into fists. His gaze went back to Twyla. She was chatting with a woman who, despite the warmth of the June evening, had a fox fur draped around her neck. Twyla’s laughter, light and carefree as it was, caused dread to churn in his stomach.
Galen Reynolds, who almost everyone thought was his father—only he, his mother and aunt and uncle, besides Galen, knew it wasn’t true—had all but crucified and burned Norma Rose on a stake years ago. She’d overcome that, the entire family had, and Forrest had to wonder if he shouldn’t just walk out the door. It was over. He should let sleeping dogs lie, as his mother had told him to do when he’d returned home once a couple of years ago. Even now, every time they talked, she’d ask if he’d seen any of the Nightingales and didn’t miss an opportunity to point out it wouldn’t be fair to Norma Rose to dredge up the past.
The trouble was, he’d needed the Nightingales as a kid, and he needed them now, in more ways than he cared to admit. For a moment Forrest considered Twyla, how stirring up the past might not be fair to her, either, but if he didn’t, Galen would win, and that was what he had to stop.
If things had remained as they’d been, he’d have let it all go. He would have forgotten what Galen had done to Norma Rose, to him, and eventually, perhaps he would have reclaimed his friendship with the Nightingales, but as it was, everything had changed again.
He had to do this.
Twyla was as bold as she was beautiful, and he’d make sure she didn’t get hurt. He knew something else, too; her anger toward him, or her dislike, was a ploy. She was just being Twyla. She hated to lose, or to be called out. Their mother had burned plenty of decks of cards and games because of Twyla. She’d pitch a fit every time she lost or got caught cheating, and into the woodstove the games had gone. In truth, she could be a brat when she wanted to be.
Now that he thought about it, Twyla could be the most beneficial to him. She fought to the death but was known to flip sides, and having her on his side would all but guarantee his success in drawing out the information he needed to gain.
Convinced he was doing the right thing, Forrest turned toward the hallway. Norma Rose and Ty were gone. Scanning the open doorway into the ballroom, he took a step to see past the crowd.
“Wandering away already?”
Coming up with the first excuse he thought of, he turned back to Twyla. “Just thinking I should go and see if Slim has everything set up.”
Her rather stoic expression said she didn’t believe that any more than she believed monkeys could fly. “Well, don’t wander too far,” she said. “We’ll be sitting down for dinner soon. I’ll have them add a place for you at the family table.”
“I wouldn’t miss that for the world,” he said. On impulse he flicked the end of her pert little nose. “Not for the world.”
Less than half an hour later, Forrest found himself right there at the family table, sitting directly across from Norma Rose with Twyla on his left and Josie on his right. There were eight of them in total. Roger Nightingale sat at the head of the table and Palooka George sat on the other end. Ty Bradshaw sat on Roger’s right, opposite Twyla, with Norma Rose beside him. Palooka George’s wife, the woman with the fox fur around her neck and named Dolly, sat on Norma Rose’s other side, across from Josie.
“Thought you’d have stopped out before now, Forrest. I’ve missed seeing you around,” Roger said. “I’m glad to have you back in town.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ve been busy,” he answered. “But thanks to Twyla, I’m here tonight.” Forrest turned to her with a smile that was a bit mocking. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“You’re welcome,” she said demurely. “I’ve always been benevolent, and I hate to see anyone eating alone.”
The family members at the table reached for their glasses or turned to each other, clearly trying to appear as if they hadn’t heard her jibe.
Forrest’s smile didn’t falter. It had always been this way between the two of them. A competition. There had never been a prize, other than getting the best of each other. “Nice one,” he whispered next to her ear.
“I thought it fitting.”
“It didn’t draw blood,” he told her quietly.
“I wasn’t attempting to,” she said, taking a sip from her wineglass. “You’ll know when I am. You’ll need a tourniquet.”
His laugh drew everyone’s attention, including Norma Rose’s. He lifted his glass. “May I propose a toast?” Norma Rose’s startled look held a frown. He could understand why, as their parting hadn’t been pleasant. All the same, Forrest smiled. “For George’s birthday.”
“Hear! Hear!” Roger said. “To George.”
Having been a professional boxer for years, Palooka George was full of stories—animated ones—which entertained everyone at the table while the meal was served. The man was no longer boxing. He was now the leader of a different kind of ring, headquartered in Chicago. Plenty of his cutthroat boys were here tonight, along with several well-known dames who were as hard as the men they clung to. Forrest recognized some faces. These were men who used to visit the Plantation on a regular basis, and Forrest took note of the curious stares generated by his seat at The Night’s table.
All five courses of the meal consisted of delicacies that few in the area would ever have tasted if not for the spectacular chefs Nightingale’s employed, and each course was paired with an accompanying alcoholic beverage. However, each of the Nightingale women had been served only half a glass of wine at the beginning of the meal. After that, they’d been provided nothing but water.
He’d also noticed how Twyla eyed the glasses the men and Dolly consumed, with an almost longing look. Making sure everyone else was engrossed in one of George’s tales, Forrest leaned over. “Remember when we snuck into your grandfather’s basement and took sips out of several of his wine casks?”
Her cheeks turned almost as red as her hair had been right after her dye job. “Shush up,” she said under her breath.