Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [36]
As Mary Theresa brushed the offending water droplets from her body, Maggie eyed the long, rambling house set on the crest of the hill. This place had been her parents’ dream, and recently, she thought, it had turned into a nightmare. Ancient oaks, olives, and eucalyptuses shaded a well-tended yard and the stucco house where they resided. Painted a soft dun color and resplendent with a sweeping red-tile roof and terra-cotta patio that stretched to the pool—their father’s pride and joy—the house seemed cold and empty as a tomb to Maggie, and she longed for their little three-bedroom rambler in the valley.
But with his professional jump to a rival company, Frank Reilly had elevated himself to this house, a new pool and sporty red Mercedes while Bernice had been able to hire Lydia, their Spanish-speaking maid, and for the first time in her life was able to spend hours having manicures, pedicures, and facials between her tennis matches and bridge club.
Maggie wasn’t certain the move had been so good. She missed the neighbors and small yard where she could sneak through the broken fence into Jamie Tortoni’s vegetable garden. They could share secrets while watching Jamie’s father’s goldfish swim lazily in a cement pool he’d designed and built. Whenever Maggie had been fighting with Mary Theresa, she’d been able to count on Jamie as a friend and confidante.
But that was a long time ago. When they’d moved, Mary Theresa and Maggie had gone to a different high school. Maggie and Jamie never saw each other anymore.
In the meantime Mary Theresa had changed. At the old house Maggie and M.T. had shared a room decorated with lavender paint, matching twin beds covered with purple-and-pink patchwork quilts and a gold-shag carpet littered with Barbie dolls, stuffed animals, and clothes that never quite made it to the laundry hamper.
Maggie remembered a time when they were about eleven—God, it seemed like eons ago. Late at night, after everyone else in the house had gone to bed, she and Mary Theresa had huddled together, hidden under the covers of Mary Theresa’s bed with flashlights to read a dog-eared copy of Playboy magazine that Maggie, while searching for Mitch’s stash of licorice whips, had discovered buried under his bed along with his crusty old socks and dirty jockey shorts.
“Yuk. Look at that,” Maggie had said, horrified as she eyed the centerfold where a tanned model with huge boobs and thatch of blond hair at the juncture of her legs was pictured in a sprawled, come-hither position. Long-maned and almond-eyed, the centerfold wore nothing but an endless strand of pearls that, caught between perfect teeth were draped from her wet lips, past her breasts to nestle deep in the misty blond curls at the apex of her thighs and disappear to God only knew where. Maggie didn’t want to consider the possibilities.
“Don’t you think she’s beautiful?” Mary Theresa, awestruck, had asked as Maggie held the flashlight so that its beam shone straight on the pages.
Maggie had shaken her head, unable to tear her gaze away from the woman’s exposed private parts.
But Mary Theresa had rotated the magazine, looking at the model from all viewpoints, pointing out the fact that the naked woman had flawless skin, interesting green eyes, and high, sculpted cheekbones. Maggie only saw her buttocks, boobs with those silver-dollar-sized nipples and…well, all that other stuff that made her blush.
“You know this is art, don’t you?” Mary Theresa had said with all her eleven-year-old wisdom.
“Then why was it hidden under Mitch’s bed, beneath his dirty clothes?”
“Because Mitch is a moron.” Mary Theresa bit at her lower lip and sized up the slick pages. “Do you think she had a boob job?”
“A what?” Maggie felt something brush against her toes as they hung outside of the sheets. “Oooh!” She threw back the covers, certain her mother, arms crossed and an expression