Now what was she going to do? She hadn’t seen her father in almost two years. That last time had only made things worse. “Make amends my . . .” Stepping behind the bar, she grabbed a bottle of vodka. She’d managed to avoid this inevitable confrontation, but something in her mother’s voice had touched that all too familiar spot in her stomach, the wussy place her guilty conscience called home. The same spot had kicked her when her mother had caught her staring at Davy Wilkins in church, and had made her want to vomit when she told her parents she got a lousy mark in gym. Of course, baseball had been to blame for that particular failure. Hand-eye coordination had never been her strong suit, although she’d managed to get through shooting lessons. Maybe schools should focus on teaching girls how to fend off attackers. They’d still be smacking balls—but the right kind of balls. She scooped ice cubes into a rocks glass, spilling some onto the counter. She flung those into the sink, As a teenager, Maggie had tried not to care about her father’s opinion, though he gave it often and regularly.
