remembered a time when they were about eleven—God, it seemed like eons ago. Late at night, after everyone else in the house had gone to bed, she and Mary Theresa had huddled together, hidden under the covers of Mary Theresa’s bed with flashlights to read a dog-eared copy of Playboy magazine that Maggie, while searching for Mitch’s stash of licorice whips, had discovered buried under his bed along with his crusty old socks and dirty jockey shorts.
“Yuk. Look at that,” Maggie had said, horrified as she eyed the centerfold where a tanned model with huge boobs and thatch of blond hair at the juncture of her legs was pictured in a sprawled, come-hither position. Long-maned and almond-eyed, the centerfold wore nothing but an endless strand of pearls that, caught between perfect teeth were draped from her wet lips, past her breasts to nestle deep in the misty blond curls at the apex of her thighs and disappear to God only knew where. Maggie didn’t want to consider the possibilities.
“Don’t you think she’s beautiful?” Mary Theresa, awestruck, had asked as Maggie held the flashlight so that its beam shone straight on the pages.
Maggie had shaken her head, unable to tear her gaze away from the woman’s exposed private parts.
But Mary Theresa had rotated the magazine, looking at the model from all viewpoints, pointing out the fact that the naked woman had flawless skin, interesting green eyes, and high, sculpted cheekbones. Maggie only saw her buttocks, boobs with those silver-dollar-sized nipples and…well, all that other stuff that made her blush.
“You know this is art, don’t you?” Mary Theresa had said with all her eleven-year-old wisdom.
“Then why was it hidden under Mitch’s bed, beneath his dirty clothes?”
“Because Mitch is a moron.” Mary Theresa bit at her lower lip and sized up the slick pages. “Do you think she had a boob job?”
“A what?” Maggie felt something brush against her toes as they hung outside of the sheets. “Oooh!” She threw back the covers, certain her mother, arms crossed and an expression resembling that of an army drill sergeant, would be standing at the foot of the bed. Instead, Flint, their silvery tabby cat, hopped onto the bed and walked with soft, tiny footprints on Maggie’s back. “Man, you scared me,” she said to the cat, and pulled him under the covers with her. She adjusted her flashlight again and noticed that Mary Theresa’s concentration hadn’t so much as glitched. “What were you saying?”
“I was telling you about this kind of surgery to make ’em bigger.” She pointed to the model’s enviable chest. “It’s called breast enhancement or something. Linda Stone’s mom had it done a couple of years ago.”
“How do you know?”
Mary Theresa tossed her a look that silently called her naive. “Linda said, and if you look, you’ll see that she’s a lot bigger than she used to be.” Her eyes narrowed on the picture. “I can’t see any scars.” Mary Theresa’s eyebrows drew together thoughtfully as she studied the photograph.
“Ick. Who cares if there are scars?”
“I care.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But it seems important. Boys like big boobs.”
“Would you ever have it done?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, I wouldn’t.” Maggie shook her head. No way would she have some doctor cut her open and…and do what? She didn’t want to know. “Besides, boys are stupid.”
“I know.” Mary Theresa smiled. “Real stupid. But they like big tits.”
That statement seemed profound today, Maggie thought as the lazy-afternoon sun dried the drops of water on her body. She watched Mary Theresa stretch out on the chaise again, perfect, nonsurgically enhanced breasts overflowing from the top of her neon orange bikini.
Toweling dry her hair, Maggie stood, her shadow daring to cross Mary Theresa’s legs.
“Careful,” her twin said. She felt Mary Theresa’s restlessness, knew that she was annoyed that Maggie had disturbed her. “Don’t you have something to do?”
“Don’t you?”
Mary rolled over and sighed in disgust. “God, you’re pathetic.”
Maggie wanted to chime, I know you are, but what am I, then decided that would sound far too childish, only driving Mary Theresa’s point home.
She didn’t bother to say goodbye, just walked into the cool house, changed, and badgered her mother to let her borrow the car so she could drive to the horse barns where her mare, Ink Spot, was leased. She spent the rest of the afternoon riding through the connecting paddocks of Rio Verde Canyon and relaxing. The sun was hot, heating her crown with lazy rays as it slowly disappeared into the western horizon.
Hours later Maggie stopped at a local drive-in, where she ordered fries and a Coke. She hung out with some kids she knew from school for a while, then, knowing she was late, pushed the speed limit on the way home and parked her mother’s car in its spot in the garage.
Her dad’s Mercedes was missing, thank God. Maggie smiled to herself as she pocketed her keys because she’d lucked out and avoided a lecture on coming home late. Obviously her parents were gone, out for the evening.
The house was dark, only the exterior lamps lighting the way to the front door, but Mitch’s Mustang sat in the driveway, its paint polished to a sheen that looked almost liquid in the lamplight.
Intent on swimming a few laps under the stars, Maggie sneaked around the outside of the house, avoiding the pools of light cast by the exterior lamps. She’d just cool off, swim three or four laps, then call it a night. She was rounding the corner and struggling to pull her T-shirt over her head at the oleander hedge when she heard the noises: the notes of a piano and Elton John’s voice singing a song Maggie barely remembered, soft, happy giggles and splashes of water over the gurgle of the hot-tub jets.
Maggie froze.
“Don’t!” Mary Theresa ordered, but her voice was playful, teasing.
The hairs on the back of Maggie’s neck raised slowly, one by one, as a deep male voice rumbled in laughter.
It wasn’t much of a surprise really. Mary Theresa attracted a lot of male attention; she always had a date.
“Why not?” the guy asked, and Maggie’s gut clenched as she recognized the voice.
“I said—oooh!”
Maggie’s stomach turned over. Her throat was cotton, and though she knew she was making an irreversible mistake of life-altering proportions, that she would never be able to undo what she was about to see, she peeked through the hedge surrounding the hot tub and stood frozen, eyes locked on the white mist rising from the bubbling water and the two heads that were visible in the muted light. Mary Theresa, her hair piled on her crown, wet tendrils framing her face, was locked in an embrace with a strong, muscular male, one who held her close, his hands splayed over her spine, his face buried in the perfect breasts that she was so proud of. A bottle of vodka—part of their mother’s stash, from the looks of it—was opened and sat on the tiled lip of the pool.
Mary
