“Of course you are,” she said, eyebrow arched. “That’s usually how the good stories start.”
I smiled, trying not to rise to it. “Trust me, the only story I’m starting this week involves flowers and mild panic.”
Izzy chuckled, leaning against a post. “I’m just saying, it’s been a while since I’ve seen him smile like that before nine in the morning. Whatever you’re doing, keep it up.”
“I’ll add that to my list,” I said, as she stepped past me.
I watched Izzy disappear down the path towards the cellar, the sound of her boots fading beneath the rustle of vines. Her teasing lingered longer than it should have. She thought Noah and I were… what? Flirting over florals and timelines?
The truth was far less romantic. The only thing holding our unlikely partnership together was a missing brooch and a pile of questions that refused to make sense. Still, if Izzy had made assumptions, maybe that was for the best. Better to let people think it was mild workplace chemistry than admit I was spending my mornings looking for a thief.
I eventually found Noah in the kitchen, standing by the window with a cup of tea and a half-read briefing folder beside him. He smelled like fresh soap.
He looked up when I entered, that cautious half-smile flickering into place.
“Morning,” he said. “Just looking over today’s plans. Looks like a busy one.”
“Before you drown in schedules,” I said, setting the folder down, “there’s something I came across that I can’t quite explain.” I said, holding up the photograph.
He frowned, setting the cup down as I passed it to him.
“That’s definitely my grandfather,” he said after a moment, studying the image. “But he didn’t come back from Europe until ’67.”
“Exactly,” I replied.
He tilted the photograph under the light, squinting at the woman beside his grandfather. “I’ve got no idea who she is.”
“Well, look what she’s got pinned to her dress.”
He leaned closer. “Wait, hang on. Are you saying that is the same brooch?”
“Positive. The design’s identical. It’s way too specific to be a coincidence.”
He let out a low whistle. “So either the date’s wrong… or my grandfather had a secret life no one knew about.”
“Cleo’s betting on the secret life,” I said.
He chortled, shaking his head. “Of course she is.”
“So,” he said slowly, “if this photo’s real, then maybe the brooch wasn’t stolen from Langston Estate at all.” He seemed thoughtful. “Maybe it was returned to us.”
I frowned. “Returned?”
He nodded. “Think about it. If my grandfather actually knew this woman, whoever she was, maybe he gave it to her. A gift. Then somewhere along the line, it ended up with the Harringtons instead.”
“That would make a very expensive love token,” I said dryly, crossing my arms.
He smiled, faintly amused. “You’d be surprised what people do for love.”
I glanced over at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. Until now, Noah had been mostly all business, quick to frown, slow to joke. But something in the way he said it made me pause.
There was history there, maybe not dramatic or scandalous, but something that had left a mark. I found myself wondering what love had cost him.
For a while, we stood shoulder to shoulder, studying the photograph like it might confess something if we stared long enough.
“You know,” he said after a moment, “I’m starting to think you missed your calling. Forget wedding planning. You’ve got an inner detective trying to break free.”
“Only part-time,” I said.