At the bottom, she crouched and touched a brittle stem like she was checking a pulse.
“No one has deadheaded, fertilized, watered, or loved these roses,” she muttered. “He said he would! Look at this. Look atthis.”
Jo Ellen swung like a five-year-old in the egg chair. “Whee! This is fun! We can come back and prune while he’s at work.”
“Youcannotneglect roses,” Maggie snapped under her breath. “Roses are living things. These leaves are yellowing. That means?—”
“That means you’re about to get caught,” Jo Ellen said.
Maggie ignored her, reaching deeper into the bush. “Where is the fertilizer schedule? Crista would never allow?—”
Jo Ellen leaped out of the egg chair and shot toward the stairs. “Maggie!”
Maggie lifted her head, annoyed—and then froze.
The lights inside the house flicked on and the entire backyard flooded with warm, bright illumination.
“Get down here!” Maggie reached a hand up and practically yanked Jo Ellen down the two stairs, pushing them both to the ground so Anthony wouldn’t see their heads in the garden.
Not that he ever looked out here because if he had—and he had aheart—her roses would be thriving in the summer warmth.
They inched up like a couple of cat burglars, watching the light and movement. He was in the kitchen, then the eat-in area, to the den, then back to the kitchen.
“How do we get out of here?” Jo Ellen asked.
“We can’t without crossing the deck,” Maggie told her. “Maybe he’ll go upstairs and take a shower. Then?—”
One of the French doors opened, and Anthony stepped out, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, a phone in his hand.
“Or not,” Jo Ellen whispered as both of them ducked into a bush of crispy, nearly dead roses.
“Shh!” Maggie jabbed her. “Listen! He’s on speaker!”
They heard the tones of another voice on the phone…a woman’s voice.
“Crista?” Jo Ellen mouthed, brows raised in hope.
“I don’t think so,” Maggie murmured. “Listen.”
They heard Anthony’s footsteps, coming closer as whoever was on the phone finished talking, still unintelligible from here.
“That’s fantastic, Pamela.”
“What’s his assistant’s name?” Jo Ellen mouthed the question.
Maggie could have kicked herself for not asking Crista when she’d talked about the woman. She shrugged and the move caught her top on a thorny branch, making a rustling noise.
They ducked deeper, stayed very still, and listened to…was that the egg chair?
Maggie inched up and stole a glance. Sure enough, Anthony was swinging in the chair, holding the phone out, talking to a woman named Pamela.
Oh, this was not good. Not at all.
“We’ll definitely look at it tomorrow,” he said, and she replied, but even on speaker, he was too far away to make out anything but the tones of a woman’s voice.
“You better come with me.” He added a soft chuckle that sounded…oh, not good. “I can’t make that decision without you. I need a woman…”
The rest faded as he stood and Maggie bit her lip as he disappeared into the house, leaving the French door open—meaning they couldn’t escape this hiding place.
