Page 24 of The Wexley Inn
They went silent again, both of them lost in their private thoughts. Finally, Emma spoke.
“You should tell her the truth, Dad, about why you left. She deserves to know, and you deserve to be free of carrying that secret.”
He sighed. “It’s been three decades, Emma. Does it really even matter anymore?”
“Dad, you're standing at Mom's grave on the anniversary of her death, asking if the truth matters, while the woman you never explained yourself to is three miles away bringing your dream project to life. I think the universe is practically shouting that it matters.”
He couldn’t argue with her logic. They said their final goodbyes and walked back to their separate cars.
“I think I’ll head to the inn to take some measurements I forgot yesterday,” he said as they reached the parking area. “What are your plans?”
“You know, I was thinking of stopping by the Wexley Country Club for lunch. Maggie Beaumont invited me last time I was here, and I might take her up on it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Maggie Beaumont? Since when are you two lunch buddies?”
Emma shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe I reached out to her about some historical information for a client project. She suggested lunch to discuss it.”
“Uh-huh,” Thomas echoed. “And this has nothing to do with the fact that Maggie is now Isabella’s closest friend on this island?”
“It’s pure coincidence,” Emma said. “Just being sociable.”
She wasn't even trying to hide her matchmaking scheme, and honestly, he wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or grateful for her interference.
He shook his head but couldn’t help but smile. “You know you should be careful. Maggie sees everything and forgets nothing. She’s the island’s unofficial information broker and has been for decades.”
“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Emma replied, smiling. “See you back at your place later? We can grill those steaks in your freezer.”
“That sounds good,” Thomas said. “And don’t believe everything Maggie tells you.”
“Oh, only the interesting parts,” she promised, getting into her rental car with a wave.
Thomas's attic was stifling, despite the early hour; the humid Lowcountry air trapped beneath the tin roof made the space feel like a sauna. Dust motes floated in the slanted sunlight that streamed through the small dormer window.
He’d come home from the cemetery hoping to distract himself with some practical tasks, remembering that he needed the original blueprint samples for the inn’s windows. The specialist window restorer was coming tomorrow, and Thomas wanted to be prepared with all of the accurate historical specifications.
His father had been the unofficial historian for the island for as long as he could remember. After his parents died, Thomas carefully preserved and organized this archive, storing it in acid-free boxes in his climate-controlled attic.
He pulled down the box labeled Wexley Inn Original Elements and hoped to find the details for the windows that he needed. As he sorted through the papers, there was a smaller unmarked box that caught his attention. It had been pushed to the back of a shelf, half-hidden behind his father’s collection of island maps. He didn’t recognize it immediately, which was strange because he’d been methodical about cataloging everything when he had organized the space years ago.
Curious, he set the blueprint box aside and reached for the mystery container. It was a little wooden box with a hinged lid, dusty with age but still solid. As he lifted the lid, something caught in his breath.
Inside were letters - dozens of them - along with photographs and little mementos he hadn’t seen in decades.
Isabella’s letters.
After their breakup, he had packed everything away connected to their relationship because he couldn’t discard the pieces of his heart, but he was too pained to keep them out in plain sight. And then when he married Sarah, he’d put the box at his parents’ house for safekeeping, unwilling to dishonor his wife with a physical reminder of his first love. When his parents died, he must have unconsciously stored the box in the attic along with his father’s archives and then mentally erased it from existence.
He sat heavily on an old trunk with the box in his hands. He knew he should have put it away and continued his search for the blueprints. He should have left the past undisturbed. Instead, he found himself lifting out the first letter, carefully unfolding the now yellowed paper.
Thomas,
It’s only been three days since I got to New York for this internship, and I’m already missing you something fierce. It’s pretty ridiculous. The city is everything that we both imagined. It’s overwhelming, exciting, and endlessly fascinating. But I keep turning to tell my observations to you, only to find that you’re not there beside me.
The firm is amazing. Yesterday, they even let me sit in on a client meeting for the historical library renovation project. The lead architect’s approach is to preserve the original ceiling details while pulling in modern lighting solutions. It was brilliant. I took all kinds of notes to share with you once I get back.
Only eight more weeks until I’m home with you again, and it feels like forever.
All my love,
