‘That’s your story and you’re sticking to it? But on a serious note, I think we’d make a good team running this shop.’
‘Daniel, I’m a music journalist. I’m not cut out to run an antiques shop on Puffin Island. This is all just junk and there are no customers. From what I’ve seen there’s no way this place is making money.’ Immediately, she saw the smile slip from his face. ‘I know you don’t want to accept it, but I’m here to clear out all this junk as quickly as possible and get back to London.’ Her voice was firm but not without a hint of hesitation. She hated upsetting him.
Daniel met her gaze. ‘This was Matilda’s life’s work. You can’t just get rid of it all. She’s collected most of these pieces herself. Each item in this shop tells a story.’
Fern could see the look of dismay on Daniel’s face. She tried to smooth things over while still making clear that the shop would be sold. ‘This place… it’s had its time. Matilda would never have wanted it to become a burden. Yes, she loved it, but things change. I mean, how much money can this place make? Is it really a business? No one’s bought anything today, and you’re living in a… haunted house,’ Fern said, gesturing around the shop. ‘I mean, it’s not even a place you can bring girls back to. It can’t be doing much for your love life.’
‘Matilda wanted this shop to go on.’
‘You can’t make me feel guilty.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to, she just…’
‘She just what?’
‘She knew her life was coming to an end, and she told me never to let this shop go as it would be my fortune and my future.’
‘Then why did she not leave the shop to you? Why would she leave it to me, someone she had never met?’
He shrugged. ‘She gave me the tenancy agreement, and she promised everything would work out.’
‘How long is the agreement for?’
‘A lifetime.’
Fern blinked. A lifetime? That was… not the sort of arrangement you could just brush off with a polite eviction notice and a scented candle. ‘You surely don’t want to live here for a lifetime?’
Her mind buzzed. Should she speak to the solicitor? There had to be paperwork, clauses, footnotes,somethingabout this. Matilda had left her a business and a flat, but also, apparently, a full-grown man with a lifetime lease.
Was that even legal? Could youinherita sitting tenant? What happened if you wanted to sell? Could you just turf someone out who’d been promised security by the person who left you the whole circus in the first place?
Her stomach churned. This wasn’t just an inheritance anymore. It was a minefield.
Yet here was Daniel, utterly relaxed, as if this situation was completely normal.
‘It’s all I have, and I will be forever grateful that Matilda looked out for me. The shop’s a mess, sure, but it’s got character. You can’t just erase all that. It just needs a good tidy-up.’
Fern raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, I’m not exactly in love with “character” in the form of creepy old clocks and moth-eaten tapestries. This place is practically a museum and that smell…’ She laughed– but Daniel wasn’t laughing.
A silence fell between them. Fern could feel the tension. She hadn’t expected him to feel so strongly, but she knew at some point there would need to be another difficult conversation as her job and home were both in London.
‘I’m going to take a breather,’ he said and pointed to the front door. She watched in silence as he wandered onto the lane, and when the cuckoo clock chimed loudly, she nearly jumped out of her skin.
This shop, and the memories of Matilda, seemed more important to him than she’d realised. She looked all around. What exactly was she going to do?
ChapterEight
The afternoon passed slowly. Fern had spent the last three hours perched behind the shop desk watching the dust particles dance in the afternoon sun and resisting the urge to lay down her head and admit defeat. Not one customer. Not even a window shopper. She shifted in the uncomfortable, lumpy chair and sighed. If this was what island life had to offer, she was doomed. A bell chimed in the distance, probably from the bakery down the street, taunting her with its promise of human activity. Why hadn’t she just shut up shop this afternoon and gone to find the local estate agents? She could have had the For Sale sign flapping in the wind by the end of the week. Daniel hadn’t reappeared. He’d taken his guitar with him and Fern thought he was probably busking somewhere, making more money in ten minutes than this shop probably did in a week.
She drummed her fingers on the wooden counter, then out of sheer desperation decided to at least pretendto be productive. Pulling open the drawer of the antique oak desk beside her, Fern was immediately engulfed in a cloud of dust. She coughed, waving the air clear, and peered inside. A single object sat in the drawer, a thick, battered accounts book, its corners dog-eared, the spine barely holding together. She hesitated, then picked it up and flipped to the most recent entry.
Her stomach dropped.
The last recorded sale was weeks ago. Fern blinked and doubled-checked the date, but she hadn’t misread it. The last item sold– she squinted at the scrawled handwriting– was aporcelain ballerina figurine, for £18.50.
All Fern could think was: how the hell wasDaniel even taking a wage from this place? She skimmed through the previous months, expecting to see at least some sign of a thriving business. But there was absolutely nothing. The numbers were sporadic at best. A dusty book here, an old brass key there. One month showed a total income of £62.
Fern shook her head in disbelief. This wasn’t just a struggling shop, it was a non-existent business. She leaned back in the chair. She classed herself as quite an intelligent person, with oodles of common sense, so she couldn’t fathom why Daniel was so certain that this rundown, neglected shop was something worth fighting for. Did he not realise how hopeless this was?
