Page 1 of The Wexley Inn
CHAPTER 1
Isabella Montgomery pulled her rental car to the side of the road just before the bridge to Wexley Island, her hands trembling slightly on the steering wheel. Through the windshield, she could see the white columns and wraparound porch of The Wexley Inn rising above the marsh grass, like something from a dream - or maybe a memory that had haunted her for thirty years.
She'd been twenty-two the first time she'd seen this view, riding in Thomas Langley's beat-up pickup truck during spring break of their senior year of college. He'd brought her home to meet his daddy and show her the island where he'd grown up. "One day," he'd said, pointing at the old inn across the water, "I'm gonna restore a place just like that." She'd squeezed his hand and whispered, "We will."
Now, at fifty-two, she was finally here - alone.
“Oh, so you’re the one who bought the old inn,” the guard said, looking at her over his reading glasses with great curiosity. "Haven't seen that much excitement since the Ladies Club had their big dustup over the Christmas decorations last year."
“Yes, I’m the new owner,” Isabella said, smiling politely, although all she felt was impatience. “That’s all the paperwork right there.”
The guard studied the documents as if he were going to present a case in court, and then finally nodded.
“Well, welcome to Wexley Island, Ms. Montgomery. You can follow that main road right there until you reach our one little traffic circle. Take the second exit toward the historic district. You can’t miss the inn. It’s the big white building with the wraparound porch.”
She nodded. “Thank you,” she said, accepting the visitor’s pass he handed her, along with what appeared to be a huge thick booklet full of community guidelines.
She laughed to herself when she thought about how he described how to get to the house that she now owned. She knew exactly where The Wexley Inn was. It had been her dream for a long time. Well, since the moment Thomas had pointed across the marsh toward it.
For a split second, she allowed herself to wonder about him. To wonder where he’d ended up in life. To wonder if he ever visited Wexley Island. Doubtful. Thomas was the most talented person she’d ever met. Surely he was in some big city, designing skyscrapers or houses for the rich and famous.
As the gate lifted, she felt a strange mixture of anxiety and excitement. This moment represented everything she'd worked toward since her divorce two years ago, since she'd cashed in her retirement and walked away from over twenty years of managing other people's hotels.
Most people would be sad after a divorce, but the event had barely bothered Isabella. Not a tear was shed, in fact. Her marriage had only lasted five years, and two of those years were spent apart, as Todd had lived in London, running a hotel there.
Maybe she’d thought a woman her age should finally marry. She didn’t know why she’d said yes, but she knew it was the wrong decision from the moment she’d said “I do.”
Wexley Island was meticulously maintained, and the road wound through smaller neighborhoods and elegant homes with expansive porches and perfectly manicured lawns. Sprinklers cast rainbows in the morning light as they nourished beds of camellias and azaleas. She passed the entrance to The Palms, where a discreet sign announced the prestigious name of The Wexley Inn. A little further down, another sign was marked The Dunes, where the newer and larger homes overlooked the Atlantic Ocean.
Her rental cottage was located somewhere in between, not quite grand enough for The Palms, but certainly respectable from the pictures she’d seen online. She would move in later in the day after she’d had a chance to walk through the inn.
She had closed on the inn without seeing it in person, which was probably a crazy idea. But it didn’t matter to her. When she saw it on the market, there was never a question whether she’d buy it. It didn’t matter to her whether a family of geese lived in it; she was meant to own The Wexley Inn. Once the inn was somewhat livable, she would move into it, but for now, she figured staying in a cottage was better.
She saw a small family of deer grazing peacefully near the road, completely unbothered by her car. She slowed down and watched them, a smile spreading across her face. This wasn’t something she often saw, having worked in big cities for the last twenty-plus years. The guard had mentioned several things before she drove away, including the fact that the deer were protected on the island - wildlife in general, really - including raccoons, possums, and the occasional alligator.
Wexley Island was a real-life wildlife sanctuary.
As she rounded the corner to the Historic District, she saw The Wexley Inn. Her heart literally skipped a beat. The photographs she’d seen over the years certainly hadn’t done it justice, and it had been a long time since she had driven by it herself, back when it was still in good repair.
Even though it was neglected, it was magnificent. A three-story white clapboard structure with black shutters, a huge wraparound porch, and gabled windows. Ancient live oak trees stood on either side of the property, as if they were sentinels, their branches creating natural archways over an oyster-shell driveway.
She parked and sat for a moment, remembering Thomas's voice: "Look at those bones, Isabella. You can always fix up a house if the bones are good.”
“Well,” she said to herself quietly, “here goes everything.”
She stepped out of her car, the humid coastal air both embracing and assaulting her simultaneously. The scent of jasmine and salt water mingled in the air. She wore a simple white linen dress and comfortable black flats, practical for exploring an old property but still professional enough in case she encountered any of her new neighbors.
As Isabella climbed the steps to the porch, she noticed a few worn spots in the wooden floorboards, the peeling paint on the railings, and several missing spindles. This renovation would be extensive, but she’d budgeted for that, thankfully. What mattered to her was that the bones of the place were solid.
She unlocked the front door with the old antique key the real estate agent had given her, feeling a bit of a thrill as she turned it in the lock. The door swung open with a creak, revealing a grand entryway with a sweeping staircase. Dust danced in the air as sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating the faded grandeur of the space.
For the next hour, she moved methodically through the inn, making notes on her tablet about every room. The fourteen guest rooms would need to be completely updated. The dining room required restoration, and the kitchen would as well. She winced as she surveyed all of the outdated appliances and worn countertops that would have to be entirely gutted, but the hardwood floors throughout could be refinished instead of being replaced. The original moldings were mostly intact.
When she finally reached the back of the house, she found a set of French doors that led out to an overgrown garden. She pushed them open and stepped outside, surprising herself when she came face-to-face with an elderly woman sitting calmly in a worn wicker chair, sipping a glass of sweet tea.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was here,” Isabella said, extending her hand. “I’m Isabella Montgomery, the new owner.”
The woman looked at her with shrewd, dark eyes that contrasted her cloud of white hair. She wore a crisp white blouse and navy slacks and looked far more put together than one would expect for somebody who was apparently trespassing on Isabella’s new property.
