Page 20 of Hers By Summer’s End

Dear Drew,

I’ve decided upon your punishment: An enormous hat decorated with my finest pink Pompons and an explosion of my dangling blue ribbons.

Everyone who sees you will know whose crown you wear.

As ever, your most devoted nemesis,

Cecelia.

Dear Cecelia,

Great minds do think alike. Please find enclosed the cross-body sash I commissioned especially for you.

Be certain the embroidered PROUD SUTTON SUPPORTER remains visible to all who come to admire our entries—and, naturally, your excellent taste in gardeners.

Yours,

Drew.

August 18, 1909

10 days until Cactus Dahlia Day

What was the harm in daydreaming about three little words?

Cecelia adjusted the unwieldy bouquet of French collarettes in her arms, the brown paper crackling softly as she strode toward the Children’s Fresh Air Cottage. The sound provided a pleasant accompaniment to the refrain that had occupied her mind for the better part of a week.

I meant it. I meant it. I meant it.

Analysis, after all, was hardly a crime. She analyzed plants every day. Branching habits, stem lengths, seedling variations. Why should language be any different? Surely every woman, at one time or another, had taken an intriguing remark and held it beneath the microscope until every conceivable interpretation had been cataloged. That seemed perfectly reasonable.

The trouble, perhaps, lay in the conclusion she'd reached.

After exhaustive study—if one considered replaying the same three words every other waking hour a legitimate form of research—she'd arrived at a startling certainty. Drew Sutton had reaffirmed himself her sole admirer, which meant, by the laws she had invented over the past week…

He was now hers.

The notion was preposterous, entirely unsupported by science or common sense, yet her mind was perversely unwilling to relinquish the conclusion.

Now all she had to do was figure out how to let him know—if she should at all.

She rounded the bend, and there was the Cottage, a house or two ahead, its front path cutting through a tumble of shrubs. A man emerged from the front door and started down the path. She knew those shoulders at once, that lazy, unmistakable swing to his step.

“Calm down,” she whispered to her leaping midriff. “We were bound to see him sooner or later.”

True, her belly whispered as it performed a few heel kicks, but that’s before he was ours.

Good Lord, she’d lost her mind over a man. An infuriatingly virile man who accompanied his elderly grandfather to the fair on his day off. One who got under her skin and did his best to help her win a rowboat race they hadn’t even signed up for. Ugh. He was so unpretentious and steady and thoughtful and good and⁠—

So not alone.

A petite nurse emerged from the Cottage and fell into step beside him, tipping her lovely face toward the sunshine as she smiled up at Drew. Cecelia’s midriff promptly excused itself from the dance and plopped down with all the other disappointed spinsters. Nurse Mary was the sweetest, most selfless, most intelligent nurse at the Cottage. Everyone loved Nurse Mary, including Cecelia.

A sudden rush of rich, peppery fragrance made her nose twitch violently. She glanced down and gasped. Her poor collarettes were crushed against her chest. Easing her grip at once, she scanned the broad, oxblood-red petals for signs of damage. Not only did she refuse to deliver any flower that was less than perfect, but Head Nurse Thelma would cluck her tongue with disapproval. Rather funny, considering the weekly bouquet was a gift, but Cecelia had to respect her standards.

By the time she had finished her inspection, the pair had moved down the sidewalk. Drew had shortened his stride to match Nurse Mary’s. Of course he had, the considerate jackass. She took one step after them, then stopped.

She was a successful, independent woman. She was not about to follow a gentleman through town simply because they’d had the smallest heart-to-heart in a rowboat. Turning smartly on her heel, she marched inside the Cottage. The instant Drew disappeared from view, however, her midriff emitted a mournful wail.