“Except me,” I said. “No.”
“But dear,” Mother said. “It would be such a help—”
“No, Mother.”
“Won’t you even think about it?”
“No.”
“But dear—”
“No.”
Mother and Michael were looking at me as if they’d never seen me before.
“Sorry, but much as I’d love to organize the show. I can’t,” I said. “I have a few other things I need to be doing in the next month. But don’t worry. I know someone who would be a much better organizer.”
“Who?” Mother said, sounding dubious.
“Rose Noire,” I said. “She really enjoyed working on Mrs. Sechrest’s roses. I heard her say so. The one thing that has really hampered me in organizing the rose show was that I didn’t really know that much about roses. But here you have someone who’s already a keen gardener and very interested in expanding into roses. Who could be more perfect?”
“She doesn’t have your organizational skills, dear,” Mother said. “Now all you have to do—”
“That’s because she hasn’t had you guiding her,” I said. “But now she will. Go ahead. Ask her.”
“But it would be so much easier if you’d do next month’s show,” Mother said. “Then you could start training Rose Noire if you think she has promise and—”
“No,” I said. “Go ask Rose Noire.”
To my relief— and, I admit, my surprise— Mother frowned slightly, and then sighed, and sailed away, presumably in search of Rose Noire.
“Wow,” Michael said. “That was—”
“Horribly rude,” I said. “You don’t have to tell me. But I just can’t deal with organizing something else so soon, and I don’t think anything short of rude would have gotten the point across.”
“I was about to say amazing,” he said. “I don’t think you’ve ever stood up to your mother like that before. Well done!”
“We’ll see,” I said. “I hope Rose Noire—”
“Meg? Is your father in here?”
Horace had appeared in the doorway behind us.
“He’s over there, fretting with the rest of the exhibitors,” I said. “Why?”
“I have something for him,” Horace said.
I peered out the door. He and Sammy were standing on either side of a large plastic pot containing a rose bush.
“Michael, can you find Dad?” I called over my shoulder.
I reached down and parted the branches. Yes, there was the plastic strip, still imbedded in the stem.
“Matilda!”
I think Dad and I said it simultaneously. Dad stepped forward and squatted down beside the bush to finger the plastic strip.
“We’ve photographed it in situ,” Horace said. “So the chief said it was okay to dig it up and give it back to you.”
The chief appeared behind them.
“Meg convinced me that we should get Matilda out of Mrs. Winkleson’s reach before she gets out of lockup,” he said.
“Thank you,” Dad breathed. “She looks all right. A little spindly, but nothing a few good feedings of manure can’t make up for.”
We all beamed as Dad examined every inch of Matilda’s foliage with the same intensity he’d have used on a human patient.
“Let’s take her to your car, then,” Michael said.
“We’ll take her,” Horace said. He and Sammy hoisted Matilda up again. Spindly or not, it took a fairly large pot to hold her. Dad went running ahead to open the car, while Michael followed.
“Just one more question,” the chief said.
“Fire away,” I said. I was tucking the brown paper bag into my tote and trying to decide if I had room for cheesecake.
“When you found the rose bush—”
Just then two of the exhibitors came running up.
“The judges are finished!”
“Look, chief,” I said, “I know you probably have a million more questions, but—”
“But the judges are finished,” he said. “You have responsibilities.”
“Thanks,” I said, and headed toward the barn.
“Besides,” he said, falling into step beside me, “Minerva will skin me alive if I don’t come see how her blasted dwarf roses did.”
“Miniature roses,” I said.
“Whatever.”
We arrived at the doors of the barn. One of the judges was looking out. The exhibitors had crowded around the door, trying to see over his shoulder.
“Looking for me?” I called out.
“Ms. Langslow,” he said. I slipped inside the door and slid it closed behind me. The judges gathered around me.