Page 11 of The Wexley Inn
The older woman looked at her. "You can ask all you want, sugar. Whether I answer depends on what business it is of yours."
“How long have you known Thomas Langley?”
Her expression remained impassive. “Well, since he was a gangly boy about twelve years old, up in here with his daddy doing maintenance around this place. Used to sneak him leftover pie when no one was looking. He was too skinny back then.”
Isabella nodded, uncertain of how to phrase her next question. Luella saved her the trouble.
“If you’re wondering whether he told me why he left you all those years ago, no, he did not. Thomas keeps his sorrows to himself. But I'll tell you this much - that boy's carried a burden for years that's been eatin' at him like rust on iron. Maybe it's time some truths saw daylight." She stared at Isabella for a moment. “You know, I’ve been around long enough to know that most young men don’t walk away from the kind of love you two had without some mighty strong reason.”
Isabella felt a familiar ache at the memory. She tried to push that away. “Well, whatever his reason was, he never shared it with me. He just said he had to go home and couldn’t explain. That was it.”
Luella grunted. “Well, some stories aren’t mine to tell. But I’ll say this. Thomas Langley is a man who’s always done what he thought was right, even if it cost him.” She turned back to looking at the kitchen cabinets. “Now, if you’re planning to serve proper meals here, we’re going to need to expand the pantry area. The original layout had a better flow to the dining room.”
Getting the hint that the conversation about Thomas was finished, Isabella moved on to talking about the kitchen renovations. For the next hour, she listened as Luella shared all her thoughts about the inn’s operational history and the practical improvements that would help it run better if they wanted to turn it into a working business.
Later that evening, Isabella sat on the porch of her rental cottage and watched as the sunset painted the sky in spectacular pinks and oranges. She spent her day being evaluated by the Ladies Club, by Grayson Williams, and even by Luella in her own way. It was tiring but not unfamiliar. She had been assessed and judged throughout her entire corporate career by people who underestimated her abilities.
What was different this time was that the judgments weren’t just professional. There were undercurrents about her past with Thomas that created a personal layer she hadn’t expected to have to deal with when she moved to Wexley.
A familiar pickup truck slowly passed her cottage, and she recognized Thomas at the wheel. He raised his hand in a brief greeting before going on down the road. Her pulse quickened traitorously at the sight of him, and she found herself watching until his taillights disappeared around the bend. Damn the man for still affecting her this way. Such a simple gesture, but it sent a complicated swirl of emotions through her. Frustration, nostalgia, and a stubborn attraction she wished she could dismiss as easily as she had denied Grayson’s offer.
Thomas was still devastatingly handsome - more so, actually, with silver threading his dark hair and fine lines that spoke of years spent outdoors. She'd secretly hoped thirty years would have been less kind to him, that time would have dulled the sharp attraction she'd felt. Instead, he'd aged like fine bourbon - smoother, more complex, and far more dangerous to her peace of mind.
She sighed and turned her attention to the renovation plans spread across her lap. She’d come to Wexley Island to build something meaningful, something that was completely hers for once. She couldn’t allow an old heartbreak or any island politics to derail that.
Tomorrow she’d meet with Maggie, get more information about navigating the review board, and continue pressing forward.
As darkness fell, bringing with it the evening chorus of cicadas and frogs, the air grew thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine, and somewhere in the distance, she could hear the haunting call of a screech owl. These were the sounds of her youth, of those stolen spring break days when she believed her future was written in Thomas’s promises. Whatever invisible lines had been drawn in the sand today - between allies and opponents, past and present - she was determined to chart her own course through them.
The Wexley Inn would rise again, more stunning than ever. And if that meant taking on the island’s power brokers, navigating Vivian’s social battles, and working alongside the man who once held her heart—and then shattered it—well, she’d endured worse. She had built a career transforming rundown properties into welcoming, beautiful spaces.
This time, she was determined to do the same for herself.
CHAPTER 4
Thomas arrived at the inn before dawn, his truck loaded with equipment for the day’s initial work. The sky was starting to brighten, casting soft pink hues on the old building’s white clapboard. He paused briefly, appreciating the peaceful beauty of the scene. It was a grand structure silhouetted against the waking sky, and the morning mist wreathed the ancient oaks beside it.
The early hour had always been his favorite time to start a project. The world felt fresh and full of possibilities before any complications inevitably arose.
As he unloaded all his gear and tools, he noticed movement on the porch. Isabella stood by the railing, wrapped in a white cardigan to ward off the morning chill, watching him. She raised her hand to greet him but made no move to come closer, keeping a careful distance that had been part of their interactions since his first visit. He returned her gesture and kept on setting up.
She arrived earlier than he expected. Most clients wouldn’t show up until at least a few hours into the workday, if at all, but Isabella had always been different. She had always fully engaged herself in whatever caught her interest at the moment, and apparently, that hadn’t changed.
His crew arrived shortly afterward, parking their trucks in the gravel lot behind the inn. Five men and two women, all locals who had worked with Thomas for many years, some since he first started his company. They knew their jobs well and trusted each other.
“Morning, folks,” Thomas called as they gathered around the tailgate of his truck. “Before we start, I want to introduce this project.”
He pulled out the original blueprints of the inn, carefully preserved and recently retrieved from the county archives.
“This is The Wexley Inn, built in 1872 by Charleston merchant Henry Wexley as a summer retreat. What we’re looking at today isn’t just a building. This is a piece of the island’s history.”
He traced his finger along the lines of the structure on the paper.
“Heart pine floors. Hand-carved black walnut banisters. Plaster walls with horsehair reinforcement. This is craftsmanship you rarely see nowadays, so our job is to preserve what can be saved and restore what cannot, while bringing all of the systems up to modern code.”
He looked around at his team. They all appeared interested, as usual. Most of them had lived on or near the island their entire lives, so the building was important to the community as a whole.
“So there’s a right way and a wrong way to approach a project like this,” he continued. “Some contractors would come in here, gut it, and start fresh. Obviously, that’s faster and cheaper, but you know that’s not how we work. We want to respect the bones of this building, the intention of the original artisans. This inn deserves our very best work.”
