Page 68 of The Wexley Inn
Robert sighed, shaking his head slowly. “Thomas, I’ve known you since you were a kid. I watched you build this magnificent business from nothing, raise your daughter by yourself after Sarah died, and establish yourself as the finest restoration specialist in this whole area. You’re one of the most honorable men I know, but you tend to try to protect people by making decisions for them rather than with them.”
“This is different.”
“Oh, is it? Or are you doing it again? What did you do thirty years ago? Deciding what’s best for someone you love without giving them a say in the matter?”
His reference to Thomas’s past with Isabella - which Robert knew something about, although not the whole story - made Thomas flinch.
“I’m fixing a problem,” Thomas said quietly. “Using all the resources I have to address an unjust situation. That’s not me just making decisions for her. That’s me being supportive.”
“Well, supporting her would be telling her about the guarantees you’re making and letting her decide whether she wants you taking on this level of risk on her behalf.” Robert leaned back. “But you’re not going to tell her, are you?”
Again, Thomas didn’t answer.
“I’ll expedite the review,” Robert said after a long silence. “I’ll make sure the process is fair and thorough, and I’ll push for a reasonable timeline. But that’s the best I can do within the board’s regulations.”
“That’s all I’m asking. Thank you.”
“Oh, don’t thank me yet.” Robert’s tone turned grave. “Because if this goes sideways - if this project fails, and your relationship with Isabella implodes when she learns what you’ve done - you’re going to have to live with the consequences of keeping her in the dark. And that’s a burden I sure wouldn’t want to carry.”
Thomas sat alone in his workshop after his crew had left for the day, surrounded by his tools and half-finished projects. The familiar smell of wood shavings and linseed oil was usually comforting, but tonight it reminded him of all the careful work that could be undone by his good intentions gone wrong.
He had done it. He had signed Bill’s letter of assurance, risking his professional reputation for the inn’s compliance. He had signed Gerald’s co-signer agreement, making himself personally liable for Isabella’s loan if the bank called it in. And he had secured Robert’s commitment to speed up the review process.
In two days, he had risked his reputation, his finances, and his political capital to protect Isabella’s dream. He used every relationship, favor owed, and ounce of influence he’d built over thirty years on the island, yet he told her none of it. She knew he was “looking into” the complaints and having “conversations” with county officials. She didn’t know he’d staked everything on protecting her, didn’t realize that if this project failed, he would lose nearly as much as she would.
He convinced himself it was the right choice. She had asked for help, and he was providing it. She was already stressed about the complaints, without adding more worry about his financial risk. Why burden her with details that would only make her feel guilty or obligated? He was handling the problem before it could turn into her crisis. That was love, wasn’t it? Protecting the people you cared about from burdens they didn’t need to bear alone.
But Robert’s words echoed in the quiet workshop: You tend to protect people by making decisions for them rather than with them.
And Emma’s voice from weeks ago: You decided what was best for Isabella without asking. How is that different from what Sarah’s parents did to you?
Thomas pushed the thoughts away. This was different. He wasn’t forcing Isabella to do anything. He was clearing obstacles for her, using his resources to solve a problem that threatened her dream. That was a partnership, not control. At least that was the rationalization he was giving himself.
He thought about calling her and telling her what he had done, explaining he’d co-signed her loan, that he’d put his reputation on paper vouching for the project. But what would he say? I’ve risked everything to save your project without asking you if you wanted me to. It would either sound patronizing or manipulative.
Besides, she’d probably get upset, would feel guilty about the risk he had taken, and feel undermined, like he didn’t trust her to handle her own challenges. Why had these things never occurred to him while he was signing papers all over town? Isabella had made it clear from the beginning that she wanted to build something on her own, make her own decisions without any oversight or interference.
No, it was better to just let her believe the complaints were being addressed through normal channels. It’s better to let her focus on opening preparations without the stress of knowing how much he had put on the line. This wasn’t about him.
Once the complaints were resolved, the review process completed, the inn opened successfully, and her loan was secure, maybe then he would tell her - when it was all settled and safe, when she could see it as a loving gesture instead of interference or control.
Yes, that was the right choice. The mature choice. The choice that protected both of them - both the project and their relationship.
He tried to convince himself of that as he locked up his workshop and drove home on the dark island roads, tried to ignore the still small voice whispering that secrets kept for someone’s own good were still secrets, that decisions made to protect somebody without their knowledge were still decisions that usurped their agency, that the patterns we convinced ourselves we had outgrown had a way of coming back when fear made us forget the lessons we thought we had learned.
Isabella’s phone rang at 9:15 in the morning, with the screen displaying an unfamiliar number that had a Paris country code. Thankfully, she was alone in the inn’s library, supposedly reviewing finalization of staff training schedules but actually just staring at the same page for twenty minutes as her mind churned with worry about permit complaints, timeline delays, and whether she’d made a catastrophic mistake putting all of her money and time into this one project.
She almost didn’t answer the phone. Her policy was always to let unknown international numbers go to voicemail, but when she saw it was Paris, she tapped her thumb to accept the call.
“Ms. Montgomery, this is Claire Rousseau. I hope I’m not calling at an inconvenient time.”
The cultured French accent, warm and professional, sent a jolt through Isabella. She quickly stood up and stepped out onto the front porch, ensuring she could talk without the workers overhearing her. The morning was beautiful, calm, clear, and the kind of low country autumn day that made you understand why people had been living here on these islands for centuries.
“Not at all, Ms. Rousseau. Your email this week was very unexpected.”
“Please call me Claire. I know it was unexpected, and we typically don’t pursue executives who’ve left the industry, but Isabella, your work speaks for itself. I mean, twenty-five years of building programs that balanced profitability with preservation - you understand that luxury hospitality isn’t just about all the amenities, but about creating meaningful connections between properties and guests. And that perspective is rare. It’s exactly what Rousseau International needs.”
They talked for twenty minutes, and Isabella found herself drawn in despite her better judgment. Claire wasn’t like the corporate executives she’d worked with. She had a genuine passion beneath her polished professionalism, a fundamental understanding of what made historic property special.
