Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [48]
“It’s a crock, if you ask me. I was just proving it to you. You know, you had me going for a while, but it’s all…all too weird.”
“Fine. I know. I can’t explain it, okay?” Maggie lifted a hand and waved off any more arguments as she ducked under a vine of bougainvillea that draped from the eaves of the house. “It’s whatever you want to think.”
She nearly plowed into Mitch at the door from the garage to the kitchen, and he grabbed hold of her arm. His face was hard; the angles seemed to have lost all of their boyish innocence overnight. “We’re cool, aren’t we?” he whispered.
“Wha—?”
“About last night.”
His fingers dug into the muscles of her upper arm. “Yeah, we’re cool.” The old, smothering feeling that she’d managed to discard while dealing with Thane Walker came down on her full force. Images of the night before played in her mind. She yanked back her arm. “Leave me alone.”
“Just so we’re straight,” he insisted, and then, as if sensing Maggie’s mother on the other side of the door, he backed off.
Maggie entered the kitchen and felt the drop in temperature and the breath of cool air, compliments of the air-conditioning unit that was blasting away.
“Maggie?” Mom peered around the corner. With short brown hair and freckles she tried desperately to hide, she was a twenty-five-year-older version of her daughters. “Where were you?”
“At the stables.”
“No note.” Her mother cocked her head to one side and lifted her eyebrows, silently reprimanding.
“I forgot.”
“Remember next time, will you?” She walked into the kitchen from the laundry area, and Maggie was relieved to see that she was steady on her feet. Her words weren’t slurred. No glass of “ice water” melted in her hand.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” her mother said, but Maggie wasn’t sure she believed her, for beneath the soft little smile and the crinkle of her green eyes, there was a hint of worry. The edges of her mouth didn’t quite turn up, and her gaze meandered from Maggie’s face to the patio. “You know,” she began, picking up a pitcher and turning on the faucet, “I think something went on here last night while your dad and I were out.”
“Oh?” Maggie stuck out her lips and lifted her shoulders, as if she didn’t have any clue. “What?”
“Don’t know.” Bernice Reilly turned off the tap and began watering the pots of African violets arranged on the counter. “But I’m pretty sure someone got into the liquor cabinet. I mark the bottles, you know, and I can tell if a bottle has been watered down.”
Damn! Maggie tried to keep her expression completely blank, and when the back door opened, she didn’t turn around, just hoped like crazy that her suddenly thundering heartbeat wasn’t visible in her throat or anywhere else.
“You know, not only is it just watered down, but sometimes a bottle is missing. Can you explain that?” Her mother didn’t look at her, just kept watering the damned plants while Maggie’s skin broke out in a horrible sweat.
“Explain what?” Mary Theresa asked as she breezed in. Smelling of suntanning oil and looking the innocent, she glanced at her mother. She plucked a grape from the fruit bowl on the table and winced as she plopped the grape into her mouth. “Ouch.” Turning, she pulled aside her coverup and craned her neck so that she could see the reflection of her back in the mirror mounted on the wall going into the dining room. “Damn, burned myself.”
Her shoulders were beyond red; there were actually tiny blisters visible.
“How many times have I told you to be more careful? Let me see.” Their mother eyed Mary Theresa’s shoulders and sighed. “I think I’ve got some cream that might help. Here.” She reached into the cupboard and pulled out a tube, handing it to Mary Theresa. “Now about last night.”
“What about it?” Mary Theresa smeared cream onto her lobster-red shoulders.
“Mom thinks someone got into the liquor.”
“I don’t think, I know.”
“Really?” Mary Theresa seemed to be barely listening as she applied the cream and readjusted her top. “Well, don