Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [158]
Maggie. Where are you?
Maggie froze. The voice echoed through her head. “Mary Theresa?” She whispered. Oh, God, was it Marquise? Maggie spun as if she could see her sister, though she knew the act was foolish.
I need your help. Oh, God, I counted on you.
“Where are you?” Maggie asked, blinking rapidly, the pages in her lap forgotten.
Please come…I…I need you. I’ve made such a horrible mistake.
“Where are you?” Maggie screamed to the four walls, relieved that her sister was alive, convinced that she was sending her messages again, angry and frustrated that she couldn’t reach her. “Mary Theresa! Where the hell are you?” Her throat was rough, her eyes filling with tears. “Can you hear me?” Closing her eyes, she tried, as she had over and over again through the years, to throw her own inner voice. Where are you, damn it! M.T.—I’ll come to you, but I don’t know where you are…” She waited. The seconds ticked off. Tears began to fall from her eyes.
She thought she’d lost her again and, in exasperation, her fingers crumpled the pages still in her hands. “Damn you, Mary—Damn you, I can’t help you if I don’t know where you are!”
Maggie? Can you hear me? I’m going home…
Chapter Twenty
In the bustle of the airport bar, seated at a corner table, Thane ignored his drink—a bourbon on the rocks. The ice was melting, the drink becoming weak. He didn’t give a rip as he stared at the pictures of the teenage boy, snapshots Roy had taken. The kid was good-looking, with dark hair that waved a bit, green-blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a jaw that promised to become square as the years rolled by and he reached manhood. Pride pulled the corners of Thane’s mouth up a bit, bitter reality caused his eyes to narrow in anger. Mary Theresa, the bitch, had kept this secret to herself, only leveled with him when she was backed into a corner, when she wanted the upper hand.
“His name is Ryan,” Roy said. “His phone number and address are here.” He pointed to the manila envelope from which he’d extracted the photos. “You can call him if you want.”
“You’re sure he’s mine?”
“Not without a DNA test, no.” Roy, his short, clipped beard beginning to show signs of gray, took a swig from his beer and tried to catch the waitress’s attention. The bar was filled with travelers talking and laughing, drinking, snacking, and just killing time between flights. Carry-on bags, backpacks, laptop computers, and briefcases littered the floor under the tiny tables. “What I’m sure of is that he’s Marquise’s, er, Mary Theresa’s—she was still using her given name back then.”
The waitress, a freckle faced girl who didn’t look old enough to serve alcohol of any kind, glanced in Roy’s direction and he took advantage of the situation, holding up his near-empty bottle of Coors and wiggling it, silently asking for another.
“I’ll be right with you,” she promised.
Roy grabbed a handful of popcorn and motioned toward the picture. “But look at that kid, would ya? If he’s not your son, he should be.”
“You think he takes after me?”
“Not now. But when you were a kid. Damned straight. The spittin’ image. Ahh, here we go.” He grinned up at the waitress, whose lack of expression didn’t invite conversation or, Thane guessed, many large tips. “Thanks, sweetheart. You’re a love,” Roy said with a playful grin.
She barely smiled. “Anything for you?” she asked Thane in a toneless voice.
“No, I’m fine.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the glossy snapshots.
“He’s preoccupied,” Roy explained, as she scribbled on a notepad, slapped the tab onto the table, then moved onto the next group of thirsty patrons. Roy drained his first bottle before starting on his second. “Here’s the scoop. The kid is the only son of Vera and Bill Brown. The old man—well, he’s only forty-five, not exactly ancient, I suppose—is a firefighter, his mother a travel agent who works four days a week. They think this boy