Caroline made her way through to the back storage area, her ballet flats silent against the wooden floors. She flipped on the storage room light, revealing racks of additional gowns arranged in Ellen's particular non-system – some in garment bags labeled with bride names, others displayed openly.
A soft, steady sound drew her attention – a liquid patter too rhythmic to be the rain outside. Caroline looked up and inhaled sharply. A dark stain spread across one ceiling panel, and water dripped in a thin but steady stream onto the floor below. Worse, this new leak was positioned directly above a rack of vintage dresses, the water already threatening the protective covers of several gowns.
"Damn it," Caroline muttered, switching immediately to crisis management mode. She scanned the room for something to catch the water and spotted a metal trash can in the corner. She emptied its contents – mostly paper scraps and thread ends – and positioned it beneath the leak. The droplets pinged against the metal, providing momentary relief from immediate danger.
The ceiling stain was spreading, however – a slow bloom of moisture that would soon create additional drip points. Caroline needed to move the dresses, but she hesitated before touching them, remembering the tags that indicated some had been waiting for their brides for years. If she damaged one in Ellen’s absence...
"Focus," she told herself firmly. With careful hands, she began to shift the rack away from the leak, wincing at each creak of the ancient casters across the uneven floorboards. The rack was heavier than it looked, the combined weight of twenty vintage gowns creating significant resistance. By the time she'd moved it to safety, her woolen sweater clung to her backwith perspiration and her carefully styled hair had fallen loose around her face.
The leak was worsening, water now flowing in a thin but steady stream. The trash can would overflow within an hour at this rate. Caroline needed professional help – more specifically, she needed that guy from before, Finn Calder.
The thought sent a flush of heat across her neck. Their last interaction had ended with his clear disapproval of her presence and purpose. But this wasn't about her discomfort or his judgment. This was about preserving inventory assets – preserving Ellen's dresses, she corrected mentally. Either way, the leak definitely required immediate attention.
Caroline returned to the counter where she'd seen a list of contact numbers taped beside the ancient landline phone. The paper was yellowed, the handwriting varying as names had been added or crossed out over the years. She ran her finger down the list until she found it: ‘Finn’ followed by a cell number. The fact that he warranted a first name contact rather than being listed under "Plumber" or "Handyman" spoke volumes about his role in the shop's ecosystem.
She pulled out her phone, hesitated, then quickly dialed before she could reconsider. The call connected after three rings.
“Calder Construction." His voice was distracted, background noise suggesting he was at another job site.
"This is Caroline Doyle. Ellen's niece." She kept her tone brisk and professional. “We met yesterday at the store. There’s now a more significant leak in the storage room ceiling that's threatening the vintage collection.” She checked her watch. “Sorry, I know it’s short notice, but would you be available to address it?"
A pause, then the background noise dimmed as if he'd moved to a quieter location to talk. "How bad?"
"Steady stream, expanding water stain. I've moved the dresses and positioned a container to catch the immediate drip, but it's worsening."
Another pause. "I'll be there in twenty. Don't touch anything else."
The call disconnected before she could respond. Caroline stared at her phone, irritation flaring at his presumption that she would damage something.
Still, he was coming – that was what mattered.
15
The setting sunpainted The Dune Deck in shades of amber and rose, as Jess followed Nadine and Megan up the slightly-damp wooden steps from the beach path.
The day’s rain was beginning to clear, and now the sun’s lingering warmth clung to the salt-soaked boards beneath their feet. String lights, not yet illuminated against the still-bright sky, draped in lazy curves above the sprawling covered deck where earlybird diners lingered over drinks and conversation.
"There - that corner table just opened up," Nadine pronounced, already moving toward it with the efficient stride that had carried her through high school hockey championships and twelve years of marriage. “Undercover in case it rains again, and we'll be able to catch uninterrupted views of the sunset."
The table she’d claimed offered a clear view of the harbor, where sailboats bobbed gently at their moorings, their white hulls turned golden in the fading light. Beyond them, the sun still hovered above the horizon, a perfect orange disk slowly beginning its descent into the water.
"So this is where you spent most of her misspent youth?" Megan teased, settling into a weathered Adirondack chair and dropping her oversized bag beside her.
"Not misspent enough," Jess replied with a small smile.
Nadine was arranging their seating, shifting chairs to ensure optimal sunset viewing while simultaneously scanning the drinks menu.
“Watermelon mojitos. They're mandatory for any proper girls' night at The Deck." She raised a decisive hand, immediately catching the eye of a passing server. “And another chair please,” she added. “One more friend is joining …”
As if on cue, a brand new voice cut through their conversation. “So this where you learned your thing for fruity cocktails with little umbrellas …”
The final member of Jess’s bridal party appeared at the steps, a carry-on suitcase at her side and dark sunglasses pushed up into her tousled fiery hair. Her linen blazer looked impossibly unwrinkled despite the taxi journey from the airport, and her observant gaze swept over the group with journalist precision.
"Sloane!" Jess jumped up, embracing her old college roommate with genuine delight. "You made it! How was the flight?"
"Delays, crying babies, a man who insisted on mansplaining the Nantucket whaling industry to me after I mentioned I was a journalist,” Sloane shrugged, returning Jess's hug with one arm. "But worth it to see your face." She pulled back, studying Jess with the penetrating gaze. "You look good. Tense, but good."
"I do not look tense," Jess protested.
