Twice Kissed. Lisa Jackson

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СКАЧАТЬ Maggie had yelled, but it had been far too late.

      Marquise began falling, her arms and legs frantically flailing as she became ever fainter, and the yawning black hole swallowed her completely. Thane, his features once again calm, had turned and faced her as if she was his next victim. That’s when she’d heard Mary Theresa’s voice again.

      Now, the nightmare still palpable, Maggie sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her insides were shaking, her pulse thudding deep in her brain.

      “Mom?”

      She gasped, only to see Becca, a pale figure in the doorway. “Good Lord, you scared me,” she admitted, clicking on the bedside lamp.

      “You scared me.” Becca, still wearing the jeans and sweatshirt she’d had on when she’d been thrown by Jasper, was leaning on the doorframe, her injured foot cocked, her other leg bearing all her weight. She blinked against the sudden wash of light, and her hair was a tangled mess, evidence that she’d been sleeping.

      “Sorry. I had a bad dream. A nightmare.”

      “About Marquise,” Becca guessed.

      “Yes.” Giving herself a quick mental shake, she stood and walked to the doorway. “I’m sorry, honey. I guess I’m just worried.”

      “Me too.”

      “Let’s get you back to bed, and I’ll get some more ice and—”

      “I’m okay, Mom, really.” Becca yawned. “You just weirded me out. You’ve been acting so strange lately. Today in the barn when you were on your knees, and now with the screaming.” Becca’s teeth sunk into her lower lip. “It’s kinda creepy.”

      “Oh, honey.” Without thinking, Maggie wrapped her arms around her daughter, and for once Becca didn’t squirm away. “The last thing I want is to be creepy.”

      Becca managed a nervous giggle as she slid out of her mother’s embrace. “I know you’re worried about Marquise, and I heard you and Thane talking about you helping him.” Maggie’s eyes narrowed on her daughter. “I wasn’t really eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help but overhear,” Becca added hastily, her gaze sliding away from her mother’s. “So why don’t you go find out what happened to her?”

      “It’s not that easy.”

      “Sure it is. The neighbors will take care of the horses, your book isn’t due for another couple of months, I could miss a few days of school and stay with my friends or Aunt Connie and Uncle Jim in L.A….”

      “So that’s what this is all about,” Maggie said, wondering how conniving her daughter was becoming. As the years rolled by it seemed that Becca was developing her own sense of how to manipulate people. Just like Mary Theresa.

      “But you could help find Marquise.”

      “I could?”

      “You write mystery novels, Mom. True crime. You talk to policemen all the time, and you worked for a private investigator, didn’t you?”

      “That was a long time ago.”

      Becca lifted a shoulder. “Isn’t it kind of like riding a bicycle?”

      “Not quite,” Maggie said, chuckling a little as the effects of her nightmare faded away. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed.”

      Becca offered a shy smile. “How about that hot cocoa now?”

      Maggie wasn’t so groggy that she didn’t realize she was being conned, but she couldn’t help herself. If this was Becca’s self-centered and manipulating way of bonding, so be it. “Okay, okay, but then back to bed, and don’t try and talk me into this trip to Denver, okay? I’ll decide on my own.”

      She helped her daughter into the living area of the house, where Becca curled on the sofa with an afghan tossed over her shoulders. The fire had burned low until only red embers glowed behind the screen and the house was taking on the chill of night. Maggie, barefoot and shivering, took the time to throw on a fleece robe and slippers, then quickly heated water for the instant cocoa. As the cups circulated in the microwave, she rummaged in the pantry for marshmallows whose shelf life had expired eons before. “Perfect,” she thought aloud. Culinary creativity had never been one of her attributes. She considered herself the Sergeant Friday of the kitchen: “Just the facts, ma’am.”

      Plopping the hard mini-marshmallows into the cups, she asked, “What makes you think if I do go to Denver that I’ll send you to—L.A.? Why wouldn’t you stay with a friend here?”

      “Who?”

      Maggie stirred the cocoa. Becca had a point. They didn’t know anyone well enough to leave her with for more than a night. “I don’t know.”

      “This way I could see my friends.”

      “And miss school?”

      “I’d make it up.”

      “Promise?” Maggie carried a cup to Becca, who, for the first time in weeks, grinned up at her. An eager spark lit her eyes as Maggie sat on the far corner of the couch, tucked her knees up inside the voluminous folds of her dressing gown, and pulled the edge of the afghan over her feet.

      “Promise.” Becca blew over her cocoa.

      “I’ll think about it,” Maggie said, though her mind was half–made up. Something had to give. She and Becca were always at each other’s throats, the cryptic messages from Mary Theresa, real or imagined, had to be dealt with, and finding out what had happened to her twin was a priority, whether she wanted it to be or not.

      Maggie had never been one to sit back and let everyone else handle her problems and, now, it seemed, Mary Theresa needed her.

      “Mom?” Becca’s face was serious again, worry evident in the way she chewed on the corner of her lip.

      “Yeah?”

      “Is something wrong with you?”

      “You mean other than the fact that I can’t seem to get along with my daughter?” she teased, as the marshmallows melted into a gooey white mass. She took a swallow of the sickeningly sweet brew.

      “No. I mean like are you sick?” Becca swallowed hard and her gaze shifted away. “You know…”

      “No, honey, I’m not sick. Not physically. Not mentally.” She sighed and wished she could confide in her daughter, tell her the truth about hearing Mary Theresa’s voice, but that would only add fuel to the fire, scare Becca and bring back all the old, painful memories and concerns that her mother might not be sane, just because Maggie had seen a psychiatrist after her husband’s death. It hadn’t been a big deal, but Connie and Jim had insinuated time and time again that Maggie’s mental health was an issue. Clearing her throat, she said, “Drink up, then we’ll go back to bed.”

      “So what’re you gonna do?” Becca asked. She took a final swallow, then handed her half-drunk cup to her mother.

      “I wish I knew,” Maggie admitted. There wasn’t an easy answer. None. Life was getting much more complicated СКАЧАТЬ