Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [77]
“You’ve got to get out,” Mary Theresa insisted one day as she breezed past the pool where Maggie was listlessly swimming laps. M.T. had lost weight, and there was no vibrance to her skin, no luster in her eyes.
“I will.” Maggie dragged herself from the water and dabbed at her face with a towel.
“I mean it, Maggie, this place is like a mortuary.” Then she heard herself and let out a brittle laugh that was followed by tears falling from her eyes. “Oh, God, I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” They looked at each other and Mary Theresa’s facade of happiness cracked. Her perfectly made-up face crumpled like a empty, crushed can.
“Oh, shit, Maggie, I…I…” Her voice broke, and all at once Maggie was on her feet, feeling the hot cement under her soles as Mary Theresa fell into her arms. They clung together, crying, sobbing, holding each other up under the tonnage of anguish, the desperate heartache and guilt they each bore. “I think I killed him.”
“You didn’t.” Maggie held on tighter as Mary Theresa, her gauzy dress wet, her phony energy zapped, sagged against her.
She convulsed, her body wracked with horrible sobs. “I should never have—”
“Shh. It’s over. Let’s not talk about it.” Maggie couldn’t bear listening to any confessions now. Whatever had happened between her cousin and sister was now dead, buried with Mitch.
They rocked gently, their heads nestled in each other’s shoulders, their bodies shaking until their tears had run dry, their painful moans of grief finally silenced.
Mary Theresa lifted her head and, spying her image in the reflection of the patio door, cleared her throat and stepped out of her sister’s embrace. Swiping her eyes, brushing away tears from her red cheeks, she seemed suddenly embarrassed at her display of emotion. She sniffed and, biting her lip, looked away, as if afraid to see the pain in her sister’s eyes. “Sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”
“It’s okay.” Maggie blinked and lifted a shoulder. “It came over me, too.”
Mary Theresa managed a false, wobbly smile as they walked inside and through the house to Maggie’s room. “Let’s just forget about all this,” she suggested, clearing her throat and running anxious fingers through her hair. “It’s just…too…too depressing.”
“Of course it is. Mitch is dead.”
“But we’re not.” Desperation and fear flashed in her eyes. All the anguish, compassion, and tenderness they’d shared on the patio vanished. Swallowing hard, she hooked a thumb, jerking it toward her chest. “I’m not.” She picked up a brush from the top of Maggie’s nightstand and ran it through her hair so fiercely it crackled as if in protest. In the reflection, her eyes found her sister’s and for a split second Maggie thought she saw a glimmer of hatred, a dark glimpse of guile that made Maggie’s blood turn to ice, but it disappeared in a flash, and she thought she’d imagined it.
“I don’t know about you, Maggie,” Mary Theresa continued, “but I can’t stand all this…this wallowing in pain and self-pity and grief. It’s not that I don’t miss Mitch, but…but I’ve got a life to live.” With that she dropped the brush, turned on her heel, and walked briskly out of the room. End of subject. End of grief. End of memories.
Maggie hadn’t been able to believe it. She’d sunk onto a corner of the bed, feeling broken and bleeding. If only she could pull herself together as easily as M.T. apparently had. Instead she’d sat motionless for nearly half an hour, the minutes ticking by as she’d reined in her pain, the bottom of her wet bathing suit dampening her quilt.
Two nights later she worked up the nerve to call Thane. She and her sister were alone in the house. Mary Theresa was asleep, their parents were out, but still Maggie perspired at the thought of getting caught. If Frank Reilly guessed his daughter was intent on crossing him, he’d ground her for the rest of her life, take away all her privileges. But Maggie didn’t care. Crossing her fingers, she prayed she would connect with Thane as she punched out his number. The phone rang four times before he answered, and her heart was going crazy, her pulse pounding