Page 23 of The Wexley Inn
“I know,” Thomas said. “You go focus on your meeting today. Don’t worry about me.”
After they hung up, he got his keys and a small bundle of flowers he picked from his garden early that morning. White camellias. They were Sarah’s favorites.
The cemetery sat on the far side of the island, a peaceful patch of hallowed ground overlooking the salt marsh. Ancient live oaks draped in Spanish moss stood sentinel over generations of islanders, their gnarled branches creating a natural cathedral against the morning sky.
As he drove, he thought about the timing of Isabella’s return to his life and how curious it was, coinciding so closely with this significant anniversary.
Fifteen years since Sarah’s passing. Thirty years since he’d left Isabella. These markers of his personal history seemed to be converging in ways he would have never anticipated.
The cemetery was empty when he arrived, which suited his mood. Thomas made his way along the oyster shell path to her grave, a simple little marble marker beneath a spreading oak tree. He put the camellias carefully against the stone, then stood quietly, his hands in his pockets.
“Mornin', Sarah," he said quietly, still feeling a bit self-conscious about talking to a headstone after all these years. He’d created a habit during his first year of widowhood, finding comfort in one-sided conversations. “Fifteen years. Hard to believe sometimes.”
The gentle breeze stirred the Spanish moss overhead.
“Emma’s doing well - crushing it at work, as she’d say. Still single, still married to her career, but she’s happy.”
He paused, thinking about his next words.
“You know, I’ve taken on a new project - the old Wexley Inn. It’s a little complicated. Isabella Montgomery owns it.”
He fell silent, trying to imagine what Sarah might say if she were here. She’d known about Isabella, of course, early in their marriage when they were still finding their way as a couple. He had told her about his college sweetheart, though not the full circumstances of its ending. Sarah, practical and direct as always, had just nodded and said, “Well, her loss was my gain, wasn’t it?”
“Things were simple with you,” he continued. “Not always easy, you know - towards the end, it wasn’t - but simple. We understood each other.”
He sighed and looked over the marshland.
“I never told her the truth, Sarah, about why I left, and now she’s here and I don’t know if I should dredge up ancient history or just let it be. I know I also didn’t tell you in life, but I’ve confessed it to you almost every year since you died. I guess that makes me a coward. But what do I do? Do I tell her the real truth? The one I couldn’t even tell you when you were alive?”
The question hung in the air, unanswered. He stood in silence for several more minutes, remembering his wife - her strength during her illness, her unwavering support of his business when they were just starting out, her fierce love for Emma.
Although their marriage had started with a lie and blackmail, it hadn’t been a terrible marriage. Sarah was his high school sweetheart, so there was affection between them. It was a good partnership for a long time. Passionate? Not really. Were they soulmates? No. But Thomas valued loyalty above much else, and he’d been loyal to her once the commitment was made.
“I miss your advice. You always knew how to cut through the noise and get to what mattered.”
The sound of footsteps on the oyster shell path alerted him that someone was approaching, and he turned to see Emma making her way toward him with a small bouquet in her hand.
“Emma, what in the world? What about your meeting?”
She smiled, and she looked so much like Sarah in that moment that it tugged at his heart.
“Postponed. The client’s flight got canceled due to weather, so I rescheduled for tomorrow and caught the first flight I could. I was already here when we spoke on the phone. I wanted to surprise you.”
She joined him at the grave, putting her flowers beside his. Thomas pulled her into a tight hug, and then they stood together in comfortable silence for a few moments.
“I was just telling your mom about the inn renovation.”
“And Isabella?”
“Well, that too.”
“And what would Mom say about all this, do you think?”
Thomas considered the question. “Probably something practical and direct. You know, ‘Do what needs doing and stop overthinking it.’”
Emma laughed softly, looping her arm through her father’s. “That sounds exactly like her. You know what struck me about Isabella? She actually listens when you talk about the work, not just nodding along, but really understanding what you're saying about the building. Most clients just want to know when it'll be done and how much it'll cost. But she gets excited about the same details that light you up. That's... that's pretty special, Dad."
“She’s a very intelligent woman. Always has been. My interests are the same as hers,” Thomas said.
