Chapter 9 Maggie
Maggie had once considered the Atlanta interstates a form of modern warfare, something to be avoided at all costs. Today, she’d powered her T-bird up from Destin without incident, a much more confident driver after her life-changing road trip to Miami last month.
Still, she was relieved to get off the highway for Jo Ellen’s peanut-sized bladder.
“We can take surface streets to Crista’s neighborhood,” Maggie said when Jo Ellen came out of the mini-mart.
“Good, then let’s take the roof off Scarlett and go full Thelma and Louise,” she suggested as she settled into the passenger seat.
“It’s like you refuse to acknowledge those two die at the end of that movie, Jo.”
She shrugged. “I have a scarf,” she said, whipping out a piece of bright red silk. “I really want to put it on and ride in the convertible like Grace Kelly and Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief.” She waved her red flag, then playfully put it over her hair and tied it under her chin. “Do they die?”
“I don’t remember, but you might die….” Maggie cocked a brow. “Of embarrassment if anyone sees you wearing a scarf like that in this century.”
Jo flicked her fingers, not caring. “No one should see us, Mags,” she reminded her. “Remember, we’re incognito. Does Anthony know you own this car now?”
“I don’t know, but we won’t take a chance. He’s probably still at work. We can sneak in and park in Barbara’s garage. I called her last night and told her I was showing a friend around the neighborhood and asked if she minded if I put you up in her house.”
“‘What a cool liah you are, Melly,’” Jo drawled the line from Gone With the Wind with an arguably perfect Scarlett O’Hara accent, making Maggie chuckle. How far her Yankee college roommate had come.
“We’ll see how cool I am when I accidentally find myself face to face with Anthony.”
“We won’t come face to face with him,” Jo Ellen said with far more assurance than Maggie felt. “And if we do, I’ll make something up. You know it’s my secret weapon.”
One she hoped they didn’t need to wield.
The old Thunderbird purred beneath them, the warm evening sun making Atlanta’s wealthy suburbs glimmer like a magazine spread. Maggie took the last curve off a wide boulevard lined with homes that had columns, arched windows, and drama.
What happened behind all those closed doors? Cheating? Betrayal? Or…that happily ever after that every woman wants?
Maggie inhaled, then let it out slowly. “I so hope she’s wrong about Anthony,” she murmured, as much to herself as Jo Ellen. “Because if she isn’t, I’ll never trust my character judgment again.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Mags,” Jo Ellen said. “And we’re going to prove it. By the time we turn around and head back to Destin, we will have completely cleared Anthony of any wrongdoing, and we can tell Crista to rest easy and grow that baby.”
Maggie threw her a grateful look. “From your lips to God’s ears, Jo. I don’t want to think about being wrong on this.”
They turned into Crista’s neighborhood and the street widened, smooth as silk, with lush lawns that looked professionally manicured.
Tall oaks arched overhead, their branches meeting like a cathedral ceiling.
Everything was green, polished, and orderly, including Crista’s dream home that sat in the middle of one of the prettiest streets.
“We do have to pass Crista’s to get to Barbara’s house,” Maggie said. “I hope he’s not home early from work looking out the window.”
“Or home early looking…at his mistress.”
“Jo Ellen!”
“Just kidding,” she said quickly. “I know he’s not. You know he’s not. We’re here to make sure Crista knows he’s not.”
Maggie just bit her lip as they approached the brick Colonial she called home. Funny, she thought as she glanced at the place that really had been a sanctuary for her these last three years. It didn’t look like home anymore.
Still beautiful, still a monument to good taste and elegance, but was it home? For Crista, Anthony, Nolie, and a baby-to-be? Of course. But, oddly enough, Maggie didn’t have even the slightest twinge of homesickness or longing.
“That’s my room, in the front on the first floor,” she said, not slowing down too much as they passed.
“Such a pretty house,” Jo Ellen cooed.
“Eli designed it. Vivien decorated it. But Crista created perfection.” Which was something Maggie always valued. But she’d forgotten about perfection since she’d been sharing a small apartment with Jo Ellen, who never met a surface she couldn’t clutter.
She slowed the car two doors away, at a white farmhouse-style home with clapboard trim and deep green shutters.
“Our home away from home, Jo,” Maggie announced, pulling into the driveway. “There’s a garage thingy inside, but I have a key. Come on.”
“This is nice, too,” Jo Ellen said, looking up at it. “Our houses in Ithaca are so much smaller and older.”
“Well, this one is nice architecturally,” Maggie replied. “But Barbara, bless her heart, has made some questionable décor decisions.”
“Ooh. Fun.” Jo Ellen flipped off her seatbelt. “Let’s go judge.”
Biting back a laugh, Maggie led the way to the side entrance by the garage, using the key that she was so happy she’d kept on her key ring and not in Crista’s house.
“This feels like breaking and entering,” Jo Ellen whispered as Maggie slipped the key in.
“There’s no breaking, Jo. Just entering. Nice and legal.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” she whined, making Maggie laugh as she pushed the door open, entering the mudroom.
“Oh, yeah. Wallpaper.” Jo Ellen looked around at the black and white walls, which were just one giant flower too many.
“Right? Borderline ghastly. One wall, maybe. But four? In a mudroom? Too much.” Maggie waved Jo into the kitchen, which would be beautiful except—
“Oh, she likes her copper pots,” Jo Ellen noted, looking up at the massive rack above the island where enough pots to cater a wedding hung, blocking the sightline and creating chaos up to the ceiling.
“A little too much, if you ask me,” Maggie said. “Brace for the dining room.”
“Oh, dear. More wallpaper explosion?”
“Worse. Accent walls run amok.”
“I can’t wait.” Jo Ellen blew through the door into the formal dining room, letting out a groan.
“What is this woman’s motto? If one is good, four is…goodest?”
“She doesn’t understand the concept of editing,” Maggie said, leaning against the door jamb, simply enjoying the heck out of a good judgefest with her best friend. “The living room isn’t so bad, but—”
“But the den?” Jo Ellen had already stuck her head into a small room off to the side. “That lamp is…a choice.”
Maggie knew the lamp—shaped like a pineapple.
“A choice,” Maggie agreed. “And not a good one.”
Jo Ellen wandered into the living room, hands clasped behind her back like she was touring a museum.
“And then Barbara reached her neutral era,” Jo Ellen said in a narrator’s voice. “As if once she’d done all the wallpaper, bad lamps, and floor-to-ceiling wainscoting, she stepped into the safety and surrender of blending the two most meaningless colors into one…graige.”
Maggie cracked up. “You have no idea how right you are.”
“I love this!” Jo Ellen exclaimed. “Shall we march upstairs and critique some more?”
As much as she wanted to, Maggie shook her head. “We have to remember the mission, Jo Ellen. Let me pull that car into the garage and then let’s change and walk to Crista’s house.”
Jo Ellen gasped. “And see Anthony?”
“There’s a trail that connects all these backyards, leads right to Crista’s gate—and my magnificent rose garden—and we can easily see in the back windows of the family room and kitchen. We’ll know if Anthony came home on time, if he’s alone—”
“He will be,” Jo Ellen interjected, making Maggie smile.
“And if he’s making himself dinner and settling in for a night by himself. That’s a man who’s faithful, loyal, and working so hard he doesn’t even think about anything except how much he misses his wife.”
“Amen!” Jo Ellen clasped her hands. “Let’s get on with the mission then. We’ll come back and cast aspersions on the bedrooms later.”
“Oh, yes we will! Aspersions with a cocktail.”
“Nothing better,” Jo agreed.
Having changed into sneakers and capri pants—old lady shorts, Jo Ellen called them—they walked quickly, staying close to the tree line, the sounds of sprinklers and a distant lawnmower fading as dusk descended over the suburbs.
When they reached Crista’s backyard fence, Maggie slowed and peered through the slats.
The yard was perfect, of course. A massive wooden deck spilled from French doors, with a firepit and a summer kitchen, and lounge area.
“Oh, an egg chair.” Jo Ellen pointed to the oval seat hanging from a hook by the pergola. “I’ve always wanted to sit in one of those. They look so cozy.”
“Anthony and Crista got me that for my birthday last year,” Maggie told her. “I can sit in it and look over to the other side, where my rose garden is. It’s the prettiest view from up there. Want to see it?”
Jo Ellen squinted at the house, which was dark and looked empty. “Do we dare?”
Maggie didn’t answer but stood on her tiptoes, searching the windows upstairs and down for any sign of movement. “He’s not here.”
“Working late, no doubt.”
Oh, how Maggie wanted to believe that.
“Come on, let me sit in that chair.” Jo Ellen reached for the gate latch. “And see your garden. Or can we walk there from here?”
“No, you have to go down the stairs on that side of the deck. Okay.” Maggie gave a nod. “Let’s go very quickly and I’ll peek in the windows.”
Jo Ellen flipped the latch and they both cringed when the gate squeaked. Not that there was anyone around to hear, but still.
They walked into the grassy area, taking the steps to the deck.
“What a beautiful home,” Jo Ellen said. “How lucky that you live here with your daughter and her family. It’s perfect.”
“It is,” Maggie conceded. “But I’m pretty happy down in Destin with you.”
“Aww! Maggie!” Jo slowed so she could hug her. “That’s downright sentimental for you.”