Page 12 of The Wexley Inn
Wade Collins, Thomas’s foreman for the past decade, nodded. "You know, my granddaddy used to tell stories about the grand dances they held here back in the day. Said the whole island would turn out. Folks in their finest clothes, music spillin' out onto the veranda. Even the service staff would sneak peeks from the kitchen windows."
“I had my first date here when it was still operating,” added Eliza Wright. She was the crew’s master carpenter. “Senior prom, dinner, 1985. Bobby Crawford in his daddy's borrowed tuxedo, me in a dress I'd saved three months of babysittin' money to buy. Fancy white tablecloths, crystal goblets, felt like we were movie stars for one night. It’s been closed for so long, some people forget what it means to the community.”
Thomas nodded, glad they understood the project’s significance. “Well, today we’re going to do the preliminary assessment - foundation, structural integrity, systems. We need to know exactly what we’re working with before we finalize our plans.”
He assigned tasks to each member, and they dispersed to their respective work areas. Then Thomas headed toward the foundation access point and noticed Isabella had moved to the garden where she was talking with Luella.
The morning sun caught her honey-blonde hair, igniting it with golden highlights, and for a moment, he was transported back to their college days. Isabella leaned over drafting tables, passionately explaining her design ideas, her hair flowing like silk across her face until she impatiently tucked it behind her ear, a gesture so painfully familiar it made his chest tighten. Even now, thirty years later, she moved with the same graceful efficiency that first captivated him in Professor Martinez's class.
He pulled his attention back to the present. Foundation. He needed to focus on the foundation.
For the next several hours, he immersed himself in all the technical aspects of the inn’s structural systems. The foundation was primarily composed of brick piers, with a later addition of concrete infill, a typical feature of buildings from this era in the Lowcountry. To his relief, the brick was in remarkably good condition, although the mortar would need repointing in certain areas.
Around mid-morning, as he was examining the crawl space under the east wing, he heard a voice call down to him.
“How does it look?”
He came out to find Isabella standing nearby, dressed in practical jeans and a simple blue button-down shirt, with her hair pulled back, holding a clipboard in her hand.
“Better than I expected,” he said, dusting off his hands. As he spoke, he noticed how the morning light played across her face, highlighting the determined set of her jaw he remembered so well. She was close enough that he caught the subtle scent of her perfume - different from what she'd worn in college, more sophisticated now, but it still made his pulse quicken in ways he had no business noticing. “Foundation is solid overall. There’s some water damage in the southeast corner where the downspouts have been misdirected, but nothing structural. The floor joists under the main parlor have some termite damage, but it’s localized.”
“Well, that sounds promising,” she said, making notes. “What about the wiring?”
“Well, that’s where things get complicated. The inn has been rewired at least three times over the years, and each new system was layered over the old one instead of being properly replaced. It’s a fire hazard, so we’re going to need to strip it all out and start fresh.”
She nodded. “I figured as much. And plumbing is the same?”
“Afraid so. The good news is we can access most of it without damaging the original plaster, if we’re really careful. Bad news is we’re going to add significant time and cost to the project.”
“Well, I’d rather do it right than cut corners.” She looked up from her notes. “I want this place to last another one hundred fifty years.”
Thomas felt a surge of respect for her. Too many property owners prioritized speed and cost over quality and longevity.
“Then we’re on the same page, I suppose,” he said. “I’ll have my structural engineer come out tomorrow to verify my assessment, but I’m pretty confident we can restore the building to its full glory without compromising its historical integrity.”
A small genuine smile curved Isabella's lips, the first real one he'd seen directed at him since her arrival on the island. For a moment, she looked exactly like the girl who used to light up when he'd share his ideas about historic preservation. The sight hit him like a physical blow, reminding him of everything he'd given up thirty years ago.
“Great. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”
The moment was interrupted by a shout from in front of the building.
“Dad? Are you here?”
Thomas recognized his daughter’s voice immediately. “Oh, that’s Emma. My daughter. I wasn’t expecting her today.”
Isabella’s expression shifted slightly. A flicker of something. Discomfort? Curiosity? It crossed her face before her professional mask returned.
“Oh. Well, you should greet her. I’ll check in with Luella about the kitchen assessment.”
Before he could respond, she turned and walked toward the back of the house with her movements brisk and purposeful.
Thomas found Emma on the front porch, dressed in what was her everyday business casual attire - a pair of tailored pants and a silky blouse that probably had some designer name he couldn’t pronounce.
“Emma,” he hugged her. “What brings you here in the middle of the week? I thought you had that big client presentation.”
“Finished it yesterday,” she said, stepping back and surveying him with a critical eye. “You’re filthy. Have you been in the crawlspace?”
“Oh, you know me too well,” he smiled. “Want to see what I’m working on?”
