‘A music journalist.’
‘What if the groom leads us to another expensive item and then another? It would be like a treasure hunt.’ She glanced around, as if expecting a ghost bride to appear and claim it. ‘What else are we supposed to do with it?’
‘Try it on. If nothing else, you can model it and we can get it on the internet with a song, asking the question of who the groom might be.’
Fern gawped at him. ‘Excuse me?’
‘It’s a brilliant idea. You dress up in it and let’s ask social media for clues about the groom.’ Daniel held the dress against her. ‘I think it’ll fit. People get invested in stuff like this.’
Before she could argue, he ushered her behind the wobbly antique privacy screen that was embroidered with exotic birds.
‘Just think! You could be the first person to wear that in nearly a century,’ joked Daniel.
‘That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.’
Fern reluctantly took off the sweatshirt and her PJ’s and slipped into the dress. The fabric was surprisingly soft, the lace intricate and fragile. It was a perfect fit. Which, frankly, was unnerving.
‘Oh no,’ she muttered.
‘What?’ Daniel asked eagerly.
‘It actually fits.’
‘Excellent. Come out then.’
She hesitated, but there was no escaping this. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out from behind the screen.
Daniel let out a low whistle. ‘Bloody hell. You look like you belong in a portrait.’
Fern smoothed her hands over the bodice. ‘This is weird, right? Like, actually weird.’
‘Oh, absolutely.’ He circled her, taking in the details. ‘If you suddenly start speaking in riddles and demanding a dowry, I’m running.’
She shot him a look. ‘If I start speaking in riddles, you have my permission to burn the dress.’
Daniel chuckled. ‘Not a chance. If I sell that dress, the sales for this month would be amazing.’ He nodded towards the note. ‘So? What do you think it means? “Find the groom”?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s metaphorical.’ She struck a dramatic pose. ‘Find the groom… find oneself.’
Daniel considered this. ‘Or maybe it’s literal, and some poor sod lost his bride a hundred years ago and still haunts Puffin Island, waiting.’
‘Or the bride was waiting and the groom didn’t turn up.’
Before Daniel could answer, the shop door jingled, and in swept an elderly woman whose presence was as warm as the morning sun spilling through the freshly cleaned windows. She had the kind of face that put people instantly at ease; laughter lines framed her bright blue eyes, and her silver-streaked hair was gathered into a loose bun, secured with awooden spoon she’d clearly forgotten was there. She wore a cosy knitted cardigan over a floral apron, lightly dusted with flour, as if she’d just stepped away from kneading dough.
‘Hello!’ she chimed. ‘I just thought I’d come and introduce myself. I’m Betty, the owner of The Café on the Coast, and you must be Fern!’
Fern took an instant liking to her. There was something undeniably comforting about Betty’s presence, like a grandmother who always had time to listen, and always had a tin of biscuits at the ready.
‘Yes, that’s me. Matilda’s great-niece,’ Fern replied, glancing down at herself with a self-conscious chuckle. ‘Do forgive my appearance. I’m fully aware I look like a runaway bride.’
Betty’s gaze flicked over the billowing vintage wedding gown. But before she could respond, another woman stepped into the shop, her dark curls bouncing as she moved.
‘Granny, I told you to wait for me! I’m Clemmie,’ she said, turning to Fern with a smile, ‘co-owner of The Café on the Coast, and granddaughter to this one,’ she said, gesturing ruefully at Betty. ‘Amelia told us you were here, so we thought we’d come and say hello. And, like we do with all new arrivals to the island, we’ve brought cake!’
She held out a well-worn cake tin, and Fern’s eyes widened.
‘Wow, I wasn’t expecting this, thank you!’
