“That’s Noah’s grandfather Edward,” I said slowly. I recognised the Langston jawline immediately, softened by youth.
Then my eyes shifted to the woman beside him.
The light caught on her lapel, where something glinted faintly, a brooch, small and intricate, its details surprisingly sharp even in monochrome.
I leaned closer, a faint prickle of recognition tugging at me. The swirling shape, the delicate filigree, the cluster where the light caught… It couldn’t be, could it?
I lifted the photograph for a better look. The pattern was unmistakable now: filigree curling at its crest, pearls gatheredwhere the waves might form, and the faint suggestion of tiny leaves or feathers framing the curve. Even without colour, I could see it. The missing brooch, shimmering in a photograph taken decades before it should have been here at all.
Cleo pointed, eyes wide. “You can see it too, right? That’s it, isn’t it? That’s the same brooch. The little twist at the top, the wave thing in the middle, look!”
I took the photograph gently and turned it over. On the back, in faded pen, it read: 1963.
“That’s not right,” I murmured.
“What isn’t?”
“Noah said his grandfather didn’t come back from Europe until 1967. He didn’t marry until 1969.” I looked up, my voice lower now. “So if this was taken in ’63…”
Cleo’s grin widened. “Then it was taken in Europe?”
I sighed, though the same unease prickled at my skin. “Or the date’s wrong.”
“Or…” she surmised, eyes bright with the thrill of it, “maybe he had a secret girlfriend no one knew about.”
“Cleo,” I said reproachingly, “we don’t know that. She could be anyone.”
She folded her arms, still smiling. “Well, it’s definitely Noah’s grandfather. And that’s definitely the missing brooch. I mean, look at it, same design, same shape. That can’t be a coincidence!”
Her excitement was almost contagious, but I kept my tone measured. “Let’s keep this between us until we know more. The last thing this wedding needs is a generational scandal resurfacing before dessert.”
Cleo tilted her head. “Fair. But it does make you wonder.”
“About what?”
“If this photo is of Noah’s grandfather,” she said slowly, tapping the photo, “then how did the Harrington family get the brooch?”
I studied the image again, looking at the laughing faces caught in a moment that shouldn’t exist.
“Good question,” I said faintly.
I slipped out of the library, the photograph tucked safely into my folder.
Today was about fine-tuning. Dress fittings for the bridesmaids were underway in the main suite, the florist was refreshing the table arrangements, and the caterers were testing the timing for the entrée service.
Caroline and James were meeting their celebrant before lunch for a run-through, and somewhere in between all that, I needed to make sure the seating cards didn’t mysteriously change again.
But before any of that could claim my attention, I needed to find Noah. I wanted to show him what we’d discovered and see if he could make sense of it all.
Izzy intercepted me first, stepping out from the cellar doors with a clipboard in one hand and the faint scent of oak barrels clinging to her clothes. Her boots clicked across the flagstones, a fixed rhythm that matched her dry humour.
“Well, if it isn’t the wedding whisperer herself,” she said with a grin.
“Hey Izzy, have you seen Noah around this morning?” I asked.
“You and Noah seem to be clocking some serious hours together. Should I be worried you’re planning to run off with him and start a new venture?”
I stopped mid stride, caught off guard, my cheeks blushing at her comment. “We’re just making sure the wedding runs smoothly.”
