Page 16 of Hers By Summer’s End

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.