Page 49 of The Wexley Inn
“How fortunate the mainland offers such opportunities for someone like your nephew,” Maggie said, smiling. “Oh, if you’ll excuse us, Isabella and I were just talking about the holiday decoration plans for the inn’s opening. We’d love your input at the committee meeting next week, if you’re available, of course.”
Effectively dismissed, Vivian had little choice but to retreat with as much of her dignity intact as she could when she departed. Conversations around the room gradually resumed their normal volume and flow.
“Thank you,” Isabella said quietly to Maggie. “That was a master class.”
“Well, island politics is a contact sport,” she replied with a shrug. “Vivian forgets I’ve been playing it much longer than she has.” She patted Isabella’s hand. “Don’t let her bother you. Her influence here isn’t what it used to be, especially since the review board approved your plans despite her relentless objections.”
Isabella nodded, but she couldn’t completely dismiss the discomfort of having her personal life become fodder for island gossip. She knew there was going to be some curiosity about her past connection to Thomas, but she didn’t enjoy the public scrutiny of their current relationship, whatever it might be. It felt invasively personal.
The luncheon concluded shortly after, with Isabella saying goodbye to several women who had become friendly over the past months. As she got ready to leave, Charlotte Stewart approached her privately.
“I wanted to mention,” she said in a low voice, “that most of us remember how Thomas was after Sarah passed away. He withdrew from everything except for work and taking care of Emma. It’s been fifteen years, and this is the first time any of us has seen him show interest in somebody. So whatever may or may not be developing between you two, it’s a good thing. Don’t let Vivian’s pettiness suggest otherwise.”
Touched by the unexpected support, Isabella thanked her. As she drove from the club toward the inn, she found herself thinking about the complex social dynamics of Wexley Island. What initially seemed like a unified wall of resistance had gradually revealed itself to be a tapestry of individuals with nuance, each holding varying perspectives, allegiances, and values.
At the inn, Isabella found Daphne Chen reviewing fabric samples with a local upholsterer in what would eventually become the main sitting room. The space was looking more beautiful by the day, with the original moldings restored and hardwood floors refinished to a warm glow that complemented the beautiful afternoon light streaming through the tall windows.
“Oh, Isabella, perfect timing,” Daphne called, waving her over. “We’re trying to finalize these upholstery selections for the custom pieces. I’ve narrowed it down to these three options for the main seating grouping.”
Grateful for the distraction from her luncheon, Isabella looked at the design decisions for the next hour. The work was progressing very well, with many of the upstairs guest rooms nearing completion and the main public spaces starting to reveal their restored grandeur.
As the afternoon progressed, Isabella found herself constantly aware of Thomas’s absence. He’d mentioned that he would be sourcing reclaimed heart pine for the dining room floor today, a quest that took him to a salvage yard in Savannah. She found herself missing his steady presence, his thoughtful insights, a realization that both pleased and unsettled her at the same time.
Around four o’clock, she was surprised to see Emma enter the inn, looking professional in her tailored slacks and silk blouse, with a portfolio tucked under her arm.
“Emma, I didn’t know you were still on the island,” Isabella said.
“I extended my stay through tomorrow,” she said. “I wanted to follow up on our marketing discussion, if you have some time. I wrote some preliminary concepts for the inn’s brand identity, and I even sketched some things.”
“Oh, I’d love to see them,” Isabella said. “Let’s go to the library. It’s the quietest space right now.”
They settled in a partially restored library, where built-in bookshelves lined the walls and comfortable reading chairs had been positioned near the windows. Emma spread her sketches across the table, showing the visual identity she’d developed for the inn that honored its historical character.
“Wow, these are remarkable,” Isabella said, genuinely impressed with her ideas. “You’ve really captured the balance I’ve been trying to articulate - respecting the tradition without feeling stuffy or outdated.”
“That’s exactly what I was aiming for,” Emma nodded. “The inn has such a rich history, but it needs to feel welcoming to guests of today, not like a museum where they can’t touch anything.”
They talked about concepts in detail, with Isabella offering insights while Emma explained her design choices from a marketing perspective.
“You have an extraordinary talent for this,” Isabella said. “Have you considered focusing your career more specifically on historical properties and their branding needs?”
A flicker of something - maybe surprise or recognition - crossed Emma’s face. “It’s funny you should ask that. I’ve actually been considering a career shift in that direction. There’s something particularly satisfying about helping historical places find their voice in the modern world.”
“Well, you would excel at it,” Isabella said. “Your understanding of how to honor history is exactly what these properties need.”
“Thank you. That means a lot, especially coming from someone with your experience.” She hesitated for a moment and then added, “I mentioned the idea to Dad this weekend. He was supportive of me potentially leaving the agency to start my own consultancy.”
“Why is that a surprise?” Isabella asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve always thought he took pride in my corporate success, you know, my steady climb up the ladder and being in the security of an established firm.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But he said he’s proud of me regardless of where I work or what title I hold - that what matters are my skills and character, not my employment status.”
“That certainly sounds like Thomas,” Isabella said, nodding. “He’s never been impressed by titles or status, only integrity and craftsmanship.”
“He hasn’t changed in that way, has he?” Emma said. “Even after all these years.”
They both understood the fundamental character traits that defined Thomas Langley, regardless of the decades that had passed or the circumstances that had shaped his life.
Before Isabella could say anything, her phone chimed with a text message.
