Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Capitol Hill,
Dear Miss Townsend,
I hope you will forgive the liberty I take in writing, but I simply had to tell you how very marvelous I think you are. I have never seen anyone stand up to the Blount sisters as you did, and I have thought of your example ever since.
I ought to confess something. I did not actually faint. It merely seemed the quickest way to put an end to that dreadful game before anyone else could be humiliated. I cannot claim it was nearly so courageous as what you did, but perhaps it was a beginning.
You have inspired me to be brave in earnest. I have decided I will no longer seek the Blount sisters' friendship, and I mean to tell Mr. Corley that I am in love with him.
Cordially yours,
Miss Juliana Harcourt.
Theodore Townsend, Inc.,
People’s Bank Building, 2nd and Pike,
August 5, 1909.
Dear Drew,
Read an interesting tidbit in the gossip column this morning, you scamp.
The thing is, I know the gossip is true.
You know it’s true. The only question remaining is how long it will take you to convince my pugnacious cousin of the same.
I almost regret having Company responsibilities this week.
I would much rather be present to see how you manage this particular feat.
Respectfully yours,
Theo.
August 8, 1909
20 days until Cactus Dahlia Day
The esplanade swelled with Sunday fairgoers, a cheerful tide spilling from the attraction-filled Pay Streak to stroll along the lakeshore with sticky sweets in hand.
Drew kept a firm grip on Granddad’s arm as they navigated the crush. It wasn't easy. Granddad was as excitable as a puppy, straining at the leash whenever something caught his eye, which, at the World's Fair, was every few steps.
A chorus of delighted shrieks rolled across the water. Drew glanced up just as another brave soul hurtled down the Aero Plunge and splashed into Lake Washington.
“Golly,” Granddad breathed. “Would you look at that.”
“Care for a ride?” Drew teased.
“Ha! I’ll save my dime.” Granddad lifted the rice cake in his hand, took another bite, and let out a blissful sigh. “Especially since I’m going to need another one of these before we leave, sonny.”
“I’ll circle back to the Tokio Cafe once I get you seated for the rowboat races.” He scanned the crowded lakeshore. “I reckon we'll find some room in the grandstand.”
This time Granddad let himself be led across the floating pavilion, though his head continued to swivel, marveling at the curved roofs of the Formosa Tea House, the enormous tower of the Federal Life-Saving Station, and the fleet of gondolas currently docked by a group of loud-mouthed university students.
For all Granddad's claims of having seen everything worth seeing in his eighty years, the World's Fair had finally managed to surprise him.
Drew understood the feeling.
The day he’d learned he was one of the fifteen gardeners chosen to work in the university greenhouse, he'd been struck dumb. Him. Out of all the gardeners in Seattle. For once, nobody had looked at him and seen only a bruiser with a busted ear. He’d been given the job of growing the flowers destined for the Court of Honor.
If that weren't enough, he’d been entrusted with a crew of gardeners, overseeing acres of beds and helping coax millions of bulbs and young plants into bloom.
There wasn't a day he walked the ever-changing grounds without finding something new to marvel at—another attraction slotted into place, an ornate fountain springing to life, or another ivory building raised to gleam against the sky.
To be part of it was almost unbelievable.
“Sonny, look out now!”
Drew halted, his toes narrowly escaping the path of an invalid chair crossing the boardwalk in front of them. The handle clipped his thigh instead, drawing a low grunt before he could stop it.
“Oh! I do apologize…Mr. Sutton!”
His head snapped up. “Miss Townsend.”
His mind emptied of coherent thought. Too bad—he'd rather hoped to recover the wits he'd left strewn across the Edgewood lawn before seeing her again.
“So you're Mr. Sutton.” The woman seated in the rolling chair—Cecelia's mother, given the identical slender nose and jutting chin—regarded him with amused curiosity. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Mother,” Cecelia breathed, casting her eyes heavenward before offering him an apologetic smile. “Mr. Sutton, may I introduce my illustrious mother, Mrs. Townsend?”
Cecelia was smiling. That was good. He hadn’t seen her since the garden party, and he’d been half out of his mind wondering what she was thinking.
He must have replayed the moment she looked at his slate a hundred times in his mind.
Problem was, he still couldn't decide whether she'd been startled, pleased, or appalled.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
Mrs. Townsend cleared her throat. Belatedly, Drew realized her hand was floating in space between them. He whipped off his hat with one hand and accepted her offer with the other.
“A pleasure,” he murmured, feeling every inch the uncultured buffoon.
His intractable gaze strayed once again to Cecelia.
Her usual bowler had been replaced by a broad-brimmed straw hat encircled with a narrow ribbon—the only indication she’d given the extravagance of the World’s Fair any thought at all.
As was her habit, she wore a plainly cut skirt, pale-blue today, and a cream shirtwaist. An exposition ribbon was pinned neatly above her breast.
He tore his gaze upward, only to find a smile dancing across her lips.
“Introduce me.” Granddad’s low hiss widened Cecelia’s smile.
Christ. Clearing his throat, he said, “Mrs. Townsend, Miss Townsend, this is my grandfather, Mr. Sutton.”
Granddad stepped forward with renewed vigor. “Miss Townsend, aren't you a pretty picture? Just like Sonny said.”
Wonderful. Now there were two people determined to ruin his composure.
“Mrs. Townsend, an honor. Mighty pleasant day, isn't it?” Granddad continued, his grin broad enough to shame the sunshine.
“It is indeed.” Mrs. Townsend said. “The perfect occasion for the rowboat races.”
Granddad's hat fairly danced in his hands. “That's exactly where we're headed.”
“Splendid! You shall escort us.”
“A gentleman never refuses a lady,” Granddad said, already reaching for the chair.
“Granddad—”
“And a lady never refuses a kind offer,” Mrs. Townsend replied.
“Mother—”
Neither elder so much as glanced their way.
Granddad seized the chair handles, braced his lean frame, and started pushing. Drew stared after them, partly in shock of what was happening, partly in worry.
“Is it too much for him?” Cecelia asked.
Drew studied his Granddad, who was already talking the ear off Mrs. Townsend. “Might be, but there’s no changing his mind now. At least the chair provides balance.”
“Mother seems to be enjoying herself.” They watched as Mrs. Townsend extracted a white parasol from a bag attached to her chair and promptly used it to prod obstacles—including several unsuspecting fairgoers—out of her path. Cecelia snorted. “Definitely enjoying herself.”
He chuckled. “The cheek is hereditary.” That earned him an elbow to the ribs, but damn, it only redoubled his smile.
They had just reached the gated entrance to the dock when an excited shriek pierced the steady splash of oars.
“Look! It’s the Fighting Florist!”
Heads turned along the esplanade. Several rowboats drifted sideways as competitors twisted in their seats to look. The identifier, a young woman who looked vaguely familiar, was halfway standing in her rowboat, her companion grabbing her sleeve before she toppled into the water.
“He’s here for the competition,” she insisted.
“Afraid not,” Drew said, lifting a placating hand.
“What sort of competition?” Cecelia asked, stepping neatly in front of him.
Another delighted squeal from the woman in the rowboat.
“Mr. Swish, look!” She pointed so enthusiastically she nearly lost her balance a second time. “That must be Miss Townsend. Oh, please, miss! Is it really you?”
“It is,” Cecelia answered, glancing from the boat to Drew, her brow knitting with growing confusion.
“I knew it!” She waved toward a harried gentleman with a clipboard and called at the top of her lungs, “Mr. Johnson! Surely we can squeeze in one more pair, especially one as famous as they are.”
Mr. Johnson glanced over, distracted at first. Recognition flashed across his face, followed by the unmistakable delight of a man who’d been handed a better show than he’d planned.
“Well, now,” he boomed, breaking into a broad grin. “I believe we've just found our final pair for the Sweetheart Race.”
The word seemed to ripple across the dock.
Sweethearts.
Beside him, Cecelia was a statue but for a slight widening of her eyes. Was it alarm? Embarrassment? Blast it, he still couldn't tell. How could he be so good at reading a crowd, but unable to decipher the expression of the one person that mattered?
“I’m afraid I’m accompanying my grandfather—”
“That’s it, Sonny! Show them what’s what!
” Granddad’s shout carried over the water.
When Drew cast a glower his way, he found both Granddad and Mrs. Townsend with arms overhead, clapping with enough enthusiasm to set the nearby geese to flight.
More fairgoers craned their necks for a better look at the commotion.
Drew groaned. “You’d think they planned this.”
“Pure chance,” Cecelia replied. “Though one conniving soul always recognizes another.”
He dipped his head toward hers and lowered his voice. “We don’t have to do this.”
“Why wouldn’t we?”
“Because we didn’t choose this. It’s like you said—”
“We can choose it now.” She gave a small shrug. “It's only the next act in our very public play. Better to walk onstage than be shoved there.”
The remnants of his smile vanished. “Is that what you think the garden party was?”
“What else would it have been?"