Page 47 of The Wexley Inn
The invitation slipped out before he'd fully thought through what he was offering - not just dinner, but a possibility, a hint that their relationship might grow beyond the inn’s completion. Her eyes widened slightly, and he knew she’d heard the unspoken question beneath his words.
“I’d like that,” she said. The words escaped before she could question them, before the cautious voice in her head could remind her that getting closer to Thomas Langley was risky. That she still didn’t understand why he’d left her or that trusting him again meant risking her heart a second time. But watching him with Emma tonight, seeing the man he'd become - devoted father, skilled craftsman, thoughtful host - made those old defenses feel increasingly pointless.
The taillights of her car vanished around the bend, but Thomas couldn’t shake the feeling that something important had changed tonight. The professional distance they’d carefully maintained had broken, maybe beyond repair. And he wasn’t sure if that scared him or gave him relief. When he went back inside, he saw Emma waiting in the living room, her video call noticeably missing.
“So,” she said, “how’d it go?”
“It was a pleasant evening,” he said neutrally. “Isabella is good company. She always has been.”
She studied him with knowing eyes. “You like her, and not just professionally, Dad. You genuinely like who she is.”
He sighed. “Yes, I do. She’s thoughtful, intelligent, passionate about her work, easy to talk to?—”
“And beautiful,” Emma added.
“And beautiful,” Thomas conceded with a smile, “though that’s hardly the most important quality, especially at my age.”
“Well, it doesn’t hurt,” she said, grinning. “So, what happens now?”
He started gathering dishes from the deck. “Nothing happens now, Emma. We continue working together on the inn. We maintain a friendly, professional relationship.”
“And you continue to avoid telling her the truth about why you left thirty years ago?”
Thomas set the dishes in the sink, turning to face his daughter. “It’s not that simple.”
“Actually, it really is that simple,” she said. “Difficult? Yes. Potentially painful? Absolutely. But simple in concept. You tell her the truth, and let her decide what to do with it.”
“And what if it damages the renovation project? If it makes working together absolutely impossible?”
“Then you deal with that consequence,” Emma said firmly. “But hiding from the truth isn’t fair to either of you. And Dad, I saw how you look at her. This isn’t just about clearing your conscience. There’s something real developing between you two. Something that probably never died. Whether you’re ready to admit that or not.”
He couldn't argue because Emma was right. Tonight had proven what he'd been trying to ignore - his feelings for Isabella went far beyond professional respect or nostalgic affection. When she'd asked who took care of him, when she'd looked at him across the table with those knowing hazel eyes, he'd felt seen in a way he hadn't in decades. Maybe hadn't felt since the last time he'd held her, thirty years ago, before everything fell apart.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, not committing.
Emma seemed to recognize this was about as much as she was going to get tonight. She kissed his cheek and headed upstairs to her room, leaving Thomas alone with his thoughts.
Alone in his quiet kitchen, Thomas washed the dinner dishes and reflected on the evening. Isabella burst into laughter when Emma shared fishing stories. The way she'd touched his arm when thanking him for dinner. How she'd looked standing on his porch with her hair down, like stepping out of a memory he'd locked away years ago.
Emma was right about one thing - something real was growing between them, something that seemed inevitable despite his best efforts to stop it. The real question wasn’t whether he had feelings for Isabella, but whether he was brave enough to tell her the truth that had kept them apart for thirty years, knowing it could ruin whatever fragile bond they were rebuilding.
Some foundations, once cracked, couldn't bear weight again without being rebuilt from the ground up. The question was whether they dared to do the work, or whether the safer choice was to leave some things buried.
CHAPTER 12
Isabella straightened her linen dress as she entered the Victorian-style headquarters of the Lowcountry Ladies Club. The monthly luncheon was in full swing - elegant women in their summer linens, perfectly styled hair catching the afternoon light, the melodic sound of Southern drawls blending with the gentle percussion of crystal against fine china. Money and tradition permeated every corner of the room. Although she had attended a few of these gatherings since arriving on Wexley, she still felt the subtle scrutiny that always followed her entrance. The brief lull in conversations was quickly replaced by glances masked with polite, closed-lip smiles.
“Isabella, darling,” Maggie Beaumont waved from a table near the window. It overlooked the carefully manicured gardens. “I’ve saved you a seat.”
Grateful for her friend’s reliable support, Isabella made her way across the room, exchanging greetings with several women who had warmed to her since the Architectural Review Board meeting. Their acceptance, while tentative, represented significant progress in her integration into island society.
“You look lovely,” Maggie said as Isabella sat beside her. “That color brings out your eyes beautifully.”
“Thank you,” Isabella said with a smile. “Although I think I could arrive in a potato sack and you would always find something complimentary to say.”
Maggie laughed, a warm, sincere sound that drew attention from nearby tables. “Oh, nonsense. You know I’m ruthlessly honest. Just ask Vivian.”
“Speaking of whom?” She nodded discreetly toward the entrance where Vivian Pierce had just arrived. Impeccably dressed in her pale pink suit that managed to look classic and yet intimidating.
