Chapter Four
Lunch settled into that easy rhythm that the Margaret River wine region was famous for, the kind that coaxed even the most high-strung guests into lingering.
Margaret, having declared the meal “satisfactory,” had swept off to make a phone call, her raised voice already echoing faintly from somewhere near the main house.
Caroline and James lingered for a bit, gossiping with Emma before disappearing to finalise their outfits for the welcome party.
Richard had stayed behind and was now comfortably settled on the terrace, a glass of shiraz in hand, deep in conversation with Noah, who had turned up for dessert and was enthusiastically explaining the vineyard’s soil composition like it was a love language.
Elaine and Emma lingered at the table, very content with their coffee and lemon tart, chatting like they had nowhere else to be.
Meanwhile, Lucas had roped two junior waiters into joining him and Sophie in what he proudly called a “cork bocce tournament” out on the lawn.
He’d already loudly announced himself undefeated, and his amusement was carrying across the courtyard like he’d just discovered his life’s true calling.
In the kitchen, Cleo was ticking off names on the catering list, her hair escaping its clip in three different directions, her earpiece dangling around her neck, and somehow, despite the mayhem, everything still ran perfectly.
I stood back for a moment, watching. For the first time all day, I let myself breathe. Lunch had gone well. Everything had gone to plan.
For now, at least.
The guests were happy, the food was flawless, and miracle of miracles, not a single crystal glass had broken. That alone felt like a small victory worth celebrating.
Leaning against the terrace railing, I let my gaze sweep across the vineyard. The rows of vines shimmered silver-green under the breeze, their rhythm steady and hypnotic.
Somewhere beyond the hills, a kookaburra’s laugh rang out, bright and familiar.
“Lunch was perfect,” Cleo said, appearing beside me, a stolen chocolate truffle in hand.
“Don’t jinx it,” I warned, smiling. “It’s never perfect. Not for long.”
Cleo took a bite, eyes twinkling. “You’re just saying that because you haven’t had to deal with the mother of the bride yet.”
Before I could answer, the sharp, unmistakable click of heels echoed across the terrace. That sound could belong to only one person.
Margaret swept into view from the main hall, her expression calm but purposeful while clutching a small velvet box with both hands. Caroline followed half a step behind, her expression was polite, but her eyes were resigned.
Cleo jumped. “How does she do that?” she whispered. “I swear she’s got the place bugged.”
I straightened automatically, smoothing my shirt and putting on my most professional smile.
“Miss Sinclair,” Margaret said crisply. “Might we have a private word? There’s something rather important that requires your attention.”
“Of course,” I said, already bracing myself.
Caroline caught my eye for a fleeting moment, a look equal parts sympathy and amusement. Whatever this was, it wasn’t going to be optional.
Margaret gestured towards the French doors leading back into the main house. Her heels clicked in that brisk, unyielding rhythm that made people instinctively move out of her way. I followed, tablet in hand, while Cleo trailed behind, her expression curious.
Inside, the afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, catching the lazy swirl of dust motes in the air. Margaret led us into one of the lounge rooms, serene, elegant, and elegantly lit, with the kind of pale upholstery that dared you to spill something on it.
“Please, come in,” she said, though she remained standing by the window like a queen addressing her court.
Caroline sank gracefully into an armchair, while Cleo and I perched on the edge of the couch. The door clicked shut behind us, muting the chatter and clinking glasses from outside. The only sound left was the constant tick of a clock on the mantel.
Cleo leaned closer, whispering out of the corner of her mouth. “Feels like we’re about to get detention.”
I shot her a warning look. “Professionalism, please.”
She nodded solemnly. “Right. Silent mode activated.”
Margaret turned to face us, her posture flawless. “This won’t take long,” she said. “I have something of great importance to entrust to you.”
Caroline let out a sigh, affectionate but resigned. “It’s the brooch, isn’t it, Mother?”
“The family heirloom,” Margaret confirmed. “It must be handled with the utmost care.”
I straightened immediately. “Of course, Mrs Harrington. You can trust me with it.”
Cleo raised her hand. “And me. I’m very good with valuable things. I once carried a three-tier wedding cake across a gravel driveway without tripping.”
Caroline chuckled under her breath. I didn’t. Margaret certainly didn’t.
“Quite,” Margaret said coolly. “Then we understand one another.”
She reached out and set the velvet box on the table.
Deep navy, the size of both her hands, with worn corners that hinted at age and a metallic clasp that gleamed like it had been polished for the occasion. The kind of box that carried history, and a bit of pressure, even before it was opened.
Margaret’s composure loosened, though her tone stayed crisp. “It was loaned to me from my mother on my wedding day. She’d received it from my father, the Duke of Beaumont. It’s been in the family for generations. You can still see his initials engraved on the back, though they’ve faded over time.”
She opened the box slowly, reverently. Nestled inside was a brooch that seemed to glow from within, diamonds and pearls woven through delicate gold filigree, each gem catching the light like it was alive.
The design was unlike anything I’d ever seen: a swirling pattern that almost resembled a wave mid-crest, its golden edges curling around the pearls like sea foam.
Tiny leaves, or perhaps feathers, branched out from the centre in perfect symmetry, the craftsmanship so precise it could only have been handmade. It was the kind of piece that had a story, something too personal, too intricate, to have been mass-produced.
As Margaret tilted it in the light, I caught a faint glimpse of engraving on the back, two intertwined letters, maybe an E and a T, worn thin by time. I blinked, and the image shifted, making them vanish again like they’d imagined themselves into existence.
“It’s beautiful,” I said quietly. “Really stunning.”
“It’s priceless,” Margaret corrected, her tone crisp, closing the lid with careful finality. “And it will be pinned to Caroline’s gown right before the ceremony. Until then, I would like you to keep it safe.”
“Of course,” I said, voice steady though my pulse quickened. “I’ll take care of it personally.”
“Good,” she said, with the faintest nod. “I know I can rely on your discretion.”
With that, she gathered her handbag and swept out, every step purposeful. Caroline lingered, smiling apologetically.
“She means well,” Caroline said gently. “Just… in a very particular way.”
“I’ve noticed,” I said. “Don’t worry, it’ll be safe with me.”
Caroline looked visibly relieved. “Thank you. Honestly, this wedding feels more like a board meeting than a love story. The brooch is just another prop in the family show.”
I smiled faintly. “Then we’ll make sure it shines.”
When she left, Cleo exhaled loudly and leaned towards the table. “That thing looks like it could fund a small nation.”
“Exactly why it needs proper storage,” I said, closing the lid carefully and holding the box in both hands. “I’ll see if Noah has a safe.”
Cleo grinned. “And now you have an excuse to see Noah again. Convenient.”
“It’s work,” I said firmly. “Purely professional.”
“Sure,” she said lightly. “Still, he’s very handsome.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
Cleo tilted her head. “Really? Because I noticed immediately. He’s got that rugged confidence thing going on. The kind that makes you want to rip off his clothes.”
I felt a small, reluctant smile tug at my mouth. “Is it confidence, or arrogance?”
“Either works.” She smiled, slow and sly.
I stood, gathering my notes. “Well, I’m only here to run a wedding.”
“Of course you are,” she said sweetly. “So, want me to guard the royal jewels while you go flirt with Mr Vineyard?”
I gave her a look. “Keep the door locked. Don’t let anyone in. Not even if they say they just want to ‘have a peek.’”
She mock-saluted. “The heirloom and I will be right here. Bonding.”
I left her there and stepped back into the courtyard, the hum of conversation and the kitchen sounds greeting me again.
I eventually found Noah by the cellar door, leaning against a wine barrel. He was wearing a snug t-shirt today, one that seemed particularly committed to highlighting his arm muscles.
Right.
Absolutely not engaging with that.
“Do you have a moment?” I asked, keeping my tone brisk.
“Sure thing,” he said, humourless. “What’s the problem?”
“No problem,” I said, though my voice had that clipped edge it always did when I was one logistical hiccup away from losing patience. “I need somewhere secure to store something valuable. May we use your safe?”
He paused, studying me like he was trying to decide whether I was serious. Then he shook his head slowly. “There is no safe. Never needed one. This place is as secure as it gets. We lock the gates at night, and the staff are like family.”
I blinked, certain I’d misheard him. “No safe? In the entire estate?”
“Not unless you count the locked wine cellar,” Noah said with a hint of amusement. “But most people guard these barrels with their lives.”
I exhaled slowly, the kind of breath usually reserved for runaway bridesmaids and missing florists. “That’s lovely in theory,” I said evenly, “but I’m responsible for something worth more than a small suburb.”
He folded his arms, casual as ever. “Relax, Sinclair. Nothing goes missing around here. You could leave a diamond ring on the veranda, and it’d still be there in the morning.”
“That’s not comforting,” I said bristling at the new nickname. “That’s the kind of thing people say right before something does go missing.”
He laughed. “You need to trust that I know what I’m talking about.”
“I trust people,” I said. “But I also trust locks.”
“You’re overthinking it. This is Margaret River, not a heist movie.”
My lips pressed together. “Fine. If you don’t have a safe, I’ll take care of it myself.”
Back in the lounge room with Cleo, I picked up the box, feeling its faint but significant weight settle in my hands. Then I carried it down the still corridor, my footsteps feeling loud against the polished floor.
I let Cleo into my room and closed the door before setting the box carefully on the bedside table. The lamplight made the navy velvet gleam faintly against the pale wood. Cleo’s curiosity was practically radiating off her.
“So, what did Noah say?” she asked.
“That there’s no safe. And that I’m overreacting,” I muttered.
Cleo blinked. “He actually said that?”
“Pretty much.”
She pulled a face. “That’s comforting. Should we hang it from the ceiling while we’re at it? Maybe tie it up with fairy lights to draw attention?”
“Not funny,” I said, though I couldn’t stop a reluctant smile.
Cleo perched on the edge of the bed. “So, where are you going to put it?”
I scanned the room. The wardrobe felt too obvious. The minibar too risky. The bathroom too humid. My gaze landed on the bedside drawer. Inside were a few personal things, lavender hand cream, my organiser, a packet of emergency mints.
I slid the box in carefully, then shut the drawer and gave it a firm tug to make sure it stayed closed. “There,” I said. “Safe and hidden.”
Cleo nodded approvingly. “You want me to stay here while you finish up?”
I shook my head. “No, go and get some dinner. I’ll check on things once more before clocking off.”
Cleo tilted her head, smirking. “You’re going to check it every hour, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely not.”
But as dusk settled and the garden lights began to glow gently through the window, I found my eyes drifting back to the drawer more than once.
Below, the courtyard buzzed with energy as the wedding party gathered together, talking of their dinner plans in town. Someone called out directions, someone else joked about whose driver they would use. Then came the sound of car doors closing and engines humming down the long gravel drive.
One by one, the taillights disappeared into the dusk until the estate fell quiet again, the cicadas taking over the soundtrack of the evening.
It should have been peaceful. Instead, I couldn’t stop thinking about the box.
My eyes flicked to the drawer, suddenly far too aware of what was tucked inside.
Just to be sure, I opened it.
It was still there, the soft navy velvet catching the lamplight.
I exhaled, closed the drawer again, and stepped out of my room. Everything was exactly where it should be.
I just hoped it would stay that way.