Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dearest Petal,
Couldn’t resist sending you a boxful of your namesake. Hope you enjoy them. I plan to put a few underneath my pillow tonight so my dreams will be of you. You could do the same, if you’d like.
Affectionately yours,
Drew (still waiting on a pet name).
August 23, 1909.
Dearest Drew,
The petals are exquisite, truly a perfect expression of apricot-yellow tinged with gold.
I would have commented on them in your garden, but for some reason, I was quite distracted.
I’ll put them by my bed tonight, but I’d much rather stroke them against my skin while I find completion. Would that be all right with you?
I also must confess I’m having a devil of a time coming up with your much-demanded pet name. I’ve even resorted to treating you like an enticing male specimen, with the hopes that inspiration will strike. See what you think:
Andrew Sutton, species: Amator Pertinax. Habitat: the greenhouse. Known traits: excessive confidence, unreasonable kindness, and an alarming tendency to make my knees knock.
So far, I’m torn between Brawny Bloom and Tenacious Tulip. Hmm, they’re both brilliant!
Affectionately yours,
Petal.
P.S. I’m only teasing, sweetheart.
August 25, 1909.
Dearest Petal,
I’ll take your teasing, and whatever else you’ll give me.
On a more serious note, Granddad says you and your mother are to come with us to the fairgrounds for Octogenarian Day.
He’s set on winning the prize for Most Sprightly, and he’s convinced the both of you are his lucky charm.
I don’t know about that, but I do know the whole day will be better if you’re there. Come with us?
Affectionately,
Your Sweetheart.
August 27, 1909
1 day until Cactus Dahlia Day
“That shameless geezer wants to steal my prize.”
Cecelia glanced up from her sandwich in time to see Mr. Sutton snatch his ornate silver loving cup from the dining table, hug it to his chest, and glare suspiciously over her left shoulder.
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Drew began.
“Who does?” Her mother interrupted, twisting subtly in her rolling chair to inspect the dining room at Michel’s Roast Beef.
“The one with the dyed eyebrows walking this way,” Mr. Sutton whispered theatrically. “As if that would convince the judges he was the Most Sprightly instead of taking part in the foot race.”
The accused gentleman, flanked by two younger family members, slowed as he neared their table, his gaze lingering on the trophy.
“See?” Mr. Sutton crowed. “Covetousness.”
“Impudence,” Mother added.
Cecelia ducked her head behind her glass of iced lemonade to hide a smile. Beside her, Drew caught her eye—perhaps for the twelfth time that afternoon—and gave an exaggerated roll of his own.
The easy friendship between their family members still astonished her.
Mother had cheered for Mr. Sutton during the contest as if she had known him for years.
Mr. Sutton had immediately decided Mother was one of the finest women he’d ever met.
They had spent the remainder of the day chatting, laughing, and very obviously arranging opportunities for Cecelia and Drew to fall behind them by several paces.
It was endearing and natural and just real enough to make Cecelia want to believe it could always be this way.
She had already risked more of her heart than she ever could have expected: that electrifying intimacy in the greenhouse, the teasing letters that followed, the way she and Drew kept finding excuses to brush hands when no one was looking.
She had been trying—quite deliberately—to believe this was becoming something real.
Still, some treacherous corner of her mind waited for the joke to reveal itself: Got you, Cecelia. Perhaps Drew would eventually admit that all this wooing was simply part of their bargain. A splendid performance for everyone watching while they battled through the Cactus Dahlia competition.
His boot tapped hers beneath the table, and she roused herself from her thoughts.
He sent her a sly wink, and longing nearly stole her breath.
Oh God, she hoped it was real. That whatever was growing between them might survive beyond the next two days.
That these feelings she had for Drew—feelings she now realized had lain dormant for years, never allowed to see the light of day because they had always been impossible and scary—could be allowed to grow.
“He’s gone,” Mr. Sutton announced, setting his trophy down with an unsteady clang. Drew caught it before it toppled. “Thank you, sonny. Must be getting a bit tired.”
“I should say so,” Cecelia said at once, grateful for the distraction. “The contest alone took all morning.”
“And we spent an entire afternoon in the Fine Arts Building pretending we knew what we were looking at,” Drew added with a chuckle.
“The merits of El Greco, Corot and Sargent don’t weigh themselves,” Mr. Sutton insisted. Cecelia smiled at the memory of his rather harsh verdicts on the paintings—alarming, boring, and better, but who would pay that much for some lady you don’t know?
“We were very worldly,” Mother added, patting Mr. Sutton’s forearm. “What say we retrieve the carriage from the livery and head home?”
“A sound plan,” he replied, settling his hand over hers.
“We’ll all go,” Drew said, pushing his chair out.
“I’ll gather our things.” Cecelia reached for the bag at her feet containing the day’s souvenirs.
“Nonsense,” Mr. Sutton said. “I wouldn’t dream of asking you to leave before Miss Cecelia has seen the fireworks.”
Drew paused, mid-rise. “But you’ll need my assistance.”
“My driver can manage,” Mother interrupted. “He was hired both for his ability to drive and to assist,” she added, as if the matter were settled. And by the resolute look on her and Mr. Sutton’s face, it was.
Drew glanced at Cecelia, and she lifted one shoulder in a tiny shrug. If they were so eager to play matchmaker, why fight them? Besides, she wanted nothing more than to have more time with Drew.
“We’ll escort you to the livery,” Drew finally said.
The next half hour flew by, full of slow steps and endless pauses to admire an ornate lamppost here or ponder a vendor’s pitch there.
At last, the carriage rumbled off, and Cecelia and Drew were finally alone.
They showed their day passes to the attendants at the Main Entrance, then crossed beneath the middle arch.
Once they were inside the fairgrounds, Drew turned to her.
“The fireworks won’t begin for at least an hour. What should we do in the meantime? Play some concessions on the Pay Streak?”
She shook her head. “I’d rather not give the crowd cause to pit us against one another. Today has been lovely, and I’d prefer to spend the remaining part with you in peace.”
He ducked his head in a show of uncharacteristic shyness. “I’d enjoy that, too.”
“Besides, you haven’t yet shown me your part in all this.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners as his smile widened. “That’s an oversight I can fix.”
They drifted down the fairground paths without hurry, letting the stream of fairgoers carry them along.
The day's heat still clung to the walkways, but the evening breeze, carrying scents of nearby gardenias and roasted peanuts, cooled her cheeks.
Around them, the fair continued in a great, happy murmur of laughter, distant music, and the occasional delighted shriek from one of the attractions.
Yet walking beside Drew, she felt strangely removed from it all, as if they were the only ones that existed.
“We’re here,” he said when they reached the Court of Honor.
She turned in a slow circle. This wasn’t her first time visiting the court, nor her first time inspecting Drew’s contribution to the fair’s proliferation of plants.
She had studied every border bed, every plant, every clever bit of color with the critical eye of a fierce competitor, searching for flaws she could later exploit. Now, she looked with wonder.
The ivory buildings surrounding the court glowed pale honey in the evening light.
Thousands of leafy rhododendrons formed lush borders beneath the grand architecture, their deep green foliage softening the harsh lines.
At the foot of each bed, a riot of cactus dahlias in soft pastels and vibrant jewel tones lifted their starry flowerheads toward the sky.
“I wish you could have seen the rhododendrons when they were in bloom,” he said, rubbing his chest as he peered around him. “Or the foxgloves. They were—”
“Magnificent.” He glanced at her, surprise brightening his face. She gave a rueful little shake of her head. “I can give a compliment.”
“It’s just so unusual,” he teased.
She chuckled. “I know, but it shouldn’t be. Your work here is truly breathtaking.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “The Olmstead brothers’ landscaping plan gets the credit.”
“No, it doesn’t.” She pressed his arm, waiting until he looked at her.
“That’s not to say their plan won’t—or hasn’t already—transform the world of landscaping.
But I’m talking about the work you did. You spent more than a year growing thousands upon thousands of plants.
Now you roam the grounds every day, noticing what needs trimming, which spaces need filling, which plants need a little more care.
” She gestured toward the court. “You’re the reason people pause to admire. ”
“I…” He swallowed, a flush rising to his cheeks. “Thank you.”
“I can’t imagine accomplishing something on such a grand scale,” she admitted. “It is truly awe-inspiring, and I’m so proud of you.” She nudged his arm gently. “Take the compliment.”
“I suppose I’m not used to them,” he admitted. “Most people only want to talk about boxing.”
“You’re so much more than boxing, sweetheart.”
He looked at her with such naked hope and longing and trepidation that a physical ache swept through her. All she wanted was to step closer, to tuck herself against his side and assure him, over and over again, that there were no limits to what he could do.