Chapter 3 #2
“I have an idea.” Drew continued, and Cecelia could have sworn the crowd held its breath as one. “Seems to me Miss Townsend and I are both invested in the upcoming Cactus Dahlia competition. What if the loser forfeits one entry into the contest?”
“How many entries are you allowed?” Mr. Edgewood asked.
“There’s no limit,” Drew said. “I intended to enter all seven classes, though I cannot speak for Miss Townsend.”
Every head turned toward her.
Crafty, crafty man.
“I also planned to enter all seven classes,” she lied. The crowd erupted into conversation, loudly debating the odds. Cecelia took advantage of the distraction, leaning across the table. “What are you doing?” she hissed.
“Leaning into the spectacle,” Drew whispered back. “Your idea, remember?”
She stared at him for a moment.
So be it.
She held out her hand. After the briefest hesitation, Drew took it, and she shook it once. “It’s a deal.”
She had barely settled back into her chair when Nancy placed a carefully penned list of questions in front of her, then another before Drew.
“The three minutes begins now,” she said.
Cecelia scanned the page, her brows rising before she could stop them. These were no ordinary questions hastily dreamed up for a party. They required observation, a genuine familiarity with another person’s life. The sheer existence of such a game irritated her.
It also happened to favor her enormously.
Drew's life was practically a matter of public record. The newspapers had delighted in chronicling every exploit of the Fighting Florist, and Cecelia happened to be an unusually attentive reader. Her own life, by contrast, was gloriously uneventful—at least until this summer.
He didn't stand a chance.
“Time’s up,” Nancy said, whisking the slates from their hands. “Shall I read the first question aloud?”
“At once!” Mr. Edgewood bellowed. “My God, this is exciting.”
Nancy called for silence once more. “Mr. Sutton, the first question is for you. What was the topic of Miss Townsend’s lecture at the Tacoma Horticultural Society last November?”
“The Vascular Anatomy of the seedling of Dahlia pinnata,” he answered without hesitation, punctuating it with an infuriatingly smug smile.
Cecelia’s jaw dropped. Attendance had scarcely exceeded a dozen botanists from across the region. She hadn't imagined anyone outside those walls remembered the lecture existed. She snapped her mouth closed.
“Correct. Miss Townsend, who defeated Mr. Sutton at his first Seattle Smoker?”
“Jack Greb,” she blurted, far louder than intended. “Otherwise known as the Greenville Giant.”
“Correct. Mr. Sutton, which newspaper described Miss Townsend as abrasively brilliant?”
“The Puget Sound Post,” he replied. “Though I believe the new editor later apologized.”
That gave her pause. The apology had occupied barely a half-inch at the bottom of the final page. Hardly headline material. Still...it had been printed. It wasn't impossible he'd read it.
“Correct. Miss Townsend, how many greenhouse panes did Mr. Sutton lose in the March windstorm?”
She froze.
She knew the answer, but she hadn’t learned it from the newspapers.
Theo had mentioned it in passing while lamenting how long the repairs had delayed Drew's spring planting.
If she answered correctly, would anyone wonder how she knew?
Would Drew? She glanced around, noting every expectant face fixed upon her, and finally muttered, “Seven.”
“Correct. Mr. Sutton, which rival exhibitor once accused Miss Townsend of specimen tampering?”
Drew’s brow creased, and triumph fluttered through her chest. The accusation had happened years before they'd met. Humiliating, yes, but ancient history. Surely even Drew couldn't—
“Richard Jenkins,” he said. “Though I also heard he was the one who left Seattle in disgrace the following year.”
Her smile vanished. How on earth did he know that? The realization struck like a pebble between the eyes. It appeared they had one gossip in common—her damned cousin.
“Correct. Miss Townsend, which variety earned Mr. Sutton his first blue ribbon?”
She pondered a small wine stain on the tablecloth. “That depends," she said slowly, “on whether you mean his first local blue ribbon or his first regional one.”
“Just answer the question,” Nancy said tightly.
“Delphiniums locally. Hybrid tea roses at the state exhibition.”
Nancy frowned at Drew’s slate. “Correct.”
“It’s a tie?” Mr. Corley demanded.
“They know each other so well,” Miss Harcourt breathed, her hands clasped over her heart.
Now the young woman found the courage to speak?
Cecelia risked a glance at Drew. His corded neck was a shade pinker above his tall collar, though that could easily be the summer heat.
He was outwardly composed, if a touch stiffer in his chair.
Was he as surprised by the breadth of their knowledge as she was?
It was so hard to tell. Then he smiled at Miss Harcourt, causing Cecelia’s stomach to clench with something suspiciously like jealousy.
“Know thine enemy and all that,” he said.
Right.
“Thank you for the reminder,” she murmured.
“What was that, Miss Townsend?” Nancy asked.
“I said ‘What now, Mrs. Edgewood?’ Surely your silly game allows for such an eventuality. It would make sense considering we’ve all known each other for years.”
“It does indeed,” Nancy replied, ignoring her prickly tone. “This next round will test our contestants to a higher degree. There are ten questions. You'll hear each question only once and will have ten seconds to write your answer. Whoever answers the most correctly wins. Understood?”
Cecelia nodded, chalk already poised over her slate.
The questions came quickly. Which hand did Drew favor?
In which storm did Cecelia catch pneumonia?
His preferred sweet. Her most despised beverage.
The tool he refused to lend anyone. The poems she sometimes recited while she worked.
She wrote without pause; so did he. Every correct response drew a chuckle, a murmur, a slight intake of breath.
She suddenly realized that what she was doing was not proving herself clever. She was proving—to people she cared nothing about and to one she cared for more than she had previously known—that she had spent months collecting the small, ordinary details that made up Drew Sutton's life.
And he hers.
By the time Drew received yet another maddeningly simple question—what style of garden Miss Townsend cultivated at her house—Cecelia was ready to grind her chalk in half. He had only just seen the blasted thing! She scribbled woodlands with unnecessary force, then flipped her slate.
A collective gasp swept across the lawn.
She looked up, startled. Every eye was fixed on Drew’s slate, some with delight, others with disbelief. He’d written English cottage.
He’d written the wrong answer…on purpose. Her gaze flew to his, but he was too busy making grimaces of defeat to his adoring crowd.
What was he doing?
“Incorrect,” Nancy announced, unable to disguise her disappointment. “Which means Miss Townsend takes the lead. One final question remains.”
“This could be it!” Miss Blount crowed, bouncing on her toes beside the table.
“The final question is,” Nancy paused theatrically, “How many romantic admirers does Miss Townsend have?”
The words seemed to suck the air from the garden.
Ah.
So the game had never been about humiliating Drew.
He was, in all probability, beneath Nancy’s notice.
This was simply her way of reminding Cecelia that while they’d come from the same place, it was Nancy who had emerged the victor.
But the thing was, Cecelia had never wanted to compete with her.
She just wanted to live her own life. Why was that so difficult to understand?
“This is cruel,” Miss Harcourt fretted. Mr. Corely nodded, patting her gently on the shoulder.
Cecelia fiddled with the chalk. Everyone there knew the answer was none. But for her to be the one to confirm their suspicions that she was unlovable? That despite how content she was with her research, with how she’d chosen to live her life, she was alone?
Her pride recoiled.
She could write none and almost certainly win. Or she could preserve the last shred of her dignity, force another tie, and pray Nancy had already exhausted her supply of humiliations before the next round. She pressed the chalk to the slate and wrote before she could think twice.
“Contestants,” Nancy said brightly. “Show us your answers.”
Silence settled over the crowd.
Cecelia turned her slate over with agonizing slowness. In bold strokes, she’d written: One.
Drew stared at her for one long heartbeat. Then, without a word, he turned his slate around.
One. Me.
For the first time in Cecelia's life, words deserted her. Heat flooded her from collar to crown. Good heavens. Every soul on the lawn had just watched her reveal she knew Drew Sutton altogether too well, only for him to answer with...that. He couldn't possibly mean it.
Could he?
She searched his face for the familiar glint of mischief, for some hint that this was merely another jest, another performance.
Perhaps he was rescuing her pride. Perhaps he simply refused to let Nancy have the satisfaction of declaring before the world that Cecelia Townsend—his friend and foe—had not a single admirer. But Drew had never pitied her before…
The crowd was waiting. Someone had to speak. Unfortunately, that someone appeared to be her. But what was she supposed to say? Told you someone wanted me? Or how about Ha ha, ’tis all a joke! No, not that either. She opened her mouth, willing words to materialize—
At that precise moment, Miss Harcourt let out a peculiar little squeak. Every head, Cecelia's included, whipped toward the young woman just in time to see her sway once, twice, then pitch forward in a dead faint.