Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [51]
“Don’t believe it.”
“I’ve talked to her. She’s so damned naive that she wouldn’t believe anything bad about either one of us. I’m her best friend, and you’re, well, believe it or not, you’re her hero. She thinks you’re gonna help her get onto the swim team.”
“I said I’d talk to the coach.”
“Mitch, forget about her, will ya? Leave Maggie to me. I know how to handle her.” Her voice lightened. “That’s the good part of being a twin; understanding another person inside and out.”
Maggie bit her tongue to keep from saying anything.
Their voices became more distant, as if they were walking away from the pool, and Maggie slowly let out her breath in a soft, nearly silent sigh. Oh, God, what was happening to her perfect little universe? How could she look either one of them in the eye? She didn’t know what they’d done together, how far their flirting, kissing, and touching had gone, didn’t want to think about it. Ever. So she’d block her mind. That was it. The way prisoners of war did when they were finally released, so that they could survive. She’d read about it once in history class and now convinced herself that if a man could withstand the atrocities of war, then somehow lock the painful memories away once the war was over, she could certainly push aside any thoughts of Mitch and Mary Theresa.
Besides, she really didn’t know anything about them, did she? Only suspicions that bothered her. She lifted her head, looked out the window, and saw that there was no one by the pool. The water was placid, the stars bright in the heavens, but deep in her heart, Maggie knew that things were far from calm. As surely as if the wind had picked up and raced into her room, she felt her skin prickle with the knowledge that a storm was brewing—a storm that no one, not even God Himself, could stop.
“…and thank you, Father, for the blessings of this family. Give us the strength to hold together during good times and bad. Amen.” Frank Reilly lifted his head as did his entire family. It was the first meal they’d had together since the night when Maggie had found Mitch and Mary Theresa in the hot tub together, and she couldn’t begin to guess what her father suspected or what her mother knew.
Silently they began passing platters of food around the table. Plates of barbecued chicken, potato salad, sliced fruit, and cold asparagus slipped from one hand to the other. No one said a word, and aside from the purr of the air-conditioning system and soft notes of instrumental renditions of old Beatles’ hits floating in the air from hidden speakers there was no noise but the clink of silverware and an occasional quiet cough.
Maggie’s father, a slight man who at five feet ten kept his weight down to a trim 175 pounds, “fighting weight” as he called it, was the patriarch of the clan. Frank Reilly’s word was, and always had been, law. Rigid and determined, ambitious to a fault, he never gave an inch. His thick brown hair had the audacity to silver at the temples, and his mustache, one he’d had since his army days in the mid nineteen-fifties, was more gray than brown these days.
“Excellent dinner, Bernice,” he said, as he always did.
“Thanks.” She managed a smile that seemed slightly rubbery. They exchanged glances and Maggie’s guts clenched. Something was up. Frank slowly set down his fork. “I think we should discuss something as a family.” He placed his elbows on the table and, as if he were praying, tented his hands together. “The other night when your mother and I were out, it seems that you, all three of you, had some kind of party. Not only is liquor missing from the cabinet, but there was evidence of someone getting sick on the other side of the hedge by the hot tub and wet towels left in the laundry room.” He cleared his throat as everyone set the silverware down.
Mitch looked guilty as hell, wouldn’t meet Frank’s gaze, Maggie stared down at her plate and tried to swallow the ball of potato salad that seemed wedged in the back of her throat. In desperation she reached for her glass of water. Only Mary