Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [67]
“Who knows?”
“It’s well after midnight.”
“He’s nineteen, Frank.”
“Well.” Taking a deep breath, Frank Reilly lowered his head and skewered his two daughters with one frightening, determined gaze. “Maggie. Mary Theresa. Would one of you tell me what’s going on here? Who’s the boy?”
Maggie sank onto one leather-bound cushion. Inside she was shaking and quivering and her lips were suddenly so dry they felt as if they would crack. Mary Theresa perched on the edge of the couch and stared at Maggie, silently encouraging her.
“Well?” Their father’s face was florid, his eyes shining black beads that didn’t show a glimmer of empathy.
Maggie swallowed hard. She opened her mouth and forced the hated words over her lips. “It’s…It’s me, Dad. I have a boyfriend.”
“Oh.” Was there a twinge of relief in his voice?
“You?” Their mother took a sip from the glass that had been sweating on the table and Maggie realized that she’d been above suspicion—the plainer tomboy of a daughter who was more interested in swimming laps and riding horses than being involved with boys.
“Y…yes. I have a boyfriend.”
“Who?” Frank demanded.
“No one you know.”
“Someone from the restaurant?”
“No.” Maggie’s guts churned painfully. “He’s—”
Brring! The phone jangled loudly. Their mother physically jumped. Frank glared at the instrument. “Who would be calling at this time of night?” Impatient and irritated, he crossed the room and snagged the receiver, cutting off the second ring. “Hello?” he nearly shouted, then paused. “Yes, yes. Frank Reilly.” All eyes in the room turned to him and witnessed the instant deterioration of a strong man. “You must be mistaken,” he whispered, his face crumpling, his broad shoulders sagging as if suddenly burdened with an incredible weight.
“Frank?” Bernice asked, her voice shaking.
Frank Reilly slumped against the wall. “No,” he whispered loudly, then more vehemently. “No! No! No!” His fist pounded on the wall.
“Frank? What is it?” Terror laced their mother’s voice. “Frank, you’re scaring me and the girls and…what? What is it?”
Maggie’s skin prickled and a dull, muted roar, the sound of waves crashing on a distant beach, caused a headache to build behind her eyes. “Dad?”
“Oh, God.” Mary Theresa began to shake.
“I’ll be right there,” he said, his voice cracking as he hung up the phone and stared at his family through eyes that shone with tears, eyes that Maggie was certain couldn’t see. “That was the police.” His voice was gruff with emotion. “It’s Mitch…they found him on the beach.” He took in a deep breath, crossed the brown sea of carpet, and wrapped his arms around Bernice. “He’s gone.”
“What?”
“He’s…oh, God, he’s dead.”
“No!” She started fighting then. “You’re wrong, they’re wrong, Frank, no. Not Mitch—”
“Shh.”
Bernice gave out a sharp keening wail that screamed through the house, bouncing off the walls, echoing in the rafters.
“No!” Maggie shook her head violently side to side. Tears filled her eyes. “I…I don’t believe it.”
“Honey, it’s true.”
Bernice, sobbing and screaming, began pounding with small, impotent fists on her husband’s chest. “Mitchell,” she cried, tears rolling down her face. “No, not Mitchell. He…he was a son to me. It didn’t matter that…that I didn’t give him birth…oh God, oh God…”
Mary Theresa sat stunned, her eyes dry and round, her face as white as death.
“There’s some mistake!” Maggie was on her feet. “Call them back, call them! Whoever called.” She reached for the phone, grabbed the receiver and, with tears streaking down her cheeks, shook the mouthpiece at her father. “Call them, Dad!”
It’s true. I feel it. Oh, God, Mitch is dead.
“What?” Maggie whirled on her sister who hadn’t moved, still sat like a statue on the couch. “How do you know?” Mary Theresa blinked and didn’t say a word.
“How does she know what?” their father asked, his lips beneath his mustache beginning to quiver slightly. Those once beady, suspicion-filled eyes had begun to glisten.
“She just said that…” Maggie let her voice fall away.
“She didn’t say a word!