Page 4 of The Wexley Inn
Now, as the first hint of dawn lightened his bedroom, Thomas swung his legs over the side of the bed and ran his hand through his salt and pepper hair. He was going to need an extra cup of coffee this morning.
In the kitchen of his modest but meticulously restored cottage - except for the floors - Thomas ground fresh beans while the kettle heated on the stove. He made coffee every morning like it was a ritual, but today his hands weren’t quite as steady.
He opened the drawer beside the sink, the one that had all the miscellaneous items that didn’t belong somewhere else, and pushed aside batteries, rubber bands, and spare keys until he found the worn envelope hidden at the back. He hadn’t looked at it in years, but he’d never been able to throw it away.
Inside was a photograph, its colors faded, but the memory was still as sharp as broken glass. A younger version of himself stood with his arm around Isabella, her honey-blonde hair catching the sunlight, those hazel eyes bright with dreams they'd planned to build together. They were standing in front of their senior project, a detailed architectural model of a restored antebellum home. Both wore college sweatshirts and matching expressions of pure joy. 'Someday we'll do this for real,' she'd whispered that day. 'Just you and me, bringing old places back to life.’
Funny how things turned out.
He had made the only choice he could thirty years ago, but that didn't stop him from wondering what his life might have looked like if circumstances had been different.
He carefully put the photograph back into its envelope, then placed the envelope in its hiding spot. He poured his coffee and took it out onto the back porch to watch the mist rising from the tidal creek that bordered his property.
His phone rang, disrupting the morning quiet. Emma, his daughter, always seemed to sense when something was troubling him.
“Morning, Dad,” she said in a cheerful voice. “I was up early prepping for a client presentation, just thought I’d check in.”
“Well, you sound chipper for someone who’s never been a morning person,” he said, smiling.
Emma had always been a night owl, even as a kid, a trait that had made those sleepless nights after Sarah's death harder when it was just him trying to manage bedtime routines alone.
“Well, lots of coffee and the fear of failure works every time,” she said, laughing. “How are things over on the island?”
He hesitated. “Oh, you know, the usual. Gerald and I played golf yesterday, and I’ve got a meeting about a potential new project this morning.”
“Oh, really? What is it?”
“The old Wexley Inn is being renovated. New owner wants to restore it, you know, turn it back into a functioning inn.”
“Wow, that place has been empty forever,” Emma said. “Well, it’ll be good to see it fixed up. Who bought it? One of those investment firms that’s constantly trying to buy up the island property?”
Thomas paused. He had never told Emma anything about Isabella. There’d never been a reason to talk about a relationship that ended before Emma was even born.
“Oh, it’s a woman named Isabella Montgomery, I think they said. Apparently, she’s retired from running luxury hotels and wants to create something of her own.”
“Well, then, she came to the right place. Has she hired you?” Emma asked. “No one knows historic restoration better than my dad.”
“She hasn’t hired me yet. We’re just meeting to discuss all the possibilities.”
They chatted for a few more minutes about Emma’s work in Atlanta and her plans to visit the island next month.
When they were about to hang up, Emma said, “You sound a little off, Dad. Is everything okay?”
“Oh, sure, just didn’t sleep well. Good luck with your presentation.”
After ending their call, Thomas finished his coffee and took a shower. An hour later, he was dressed in his usual work clothes - a well-worn but clean button-down shirt, navy today, with khaki pants and sturdy boots. He considered wearing something more formal for the meeting but chose not to. This was his island, his territory, and he would present himself just as he was.
He drove his pickup truck slowly through the island’s winding roads, taking the long route to the inn to give himself a little more time to prepare mentally. A great blue heron stood motionless in the tidal creek beside the road, fishing with the patience Thomas wished he possessed. Spanish moss swayed in the breeze, and the air shimmered with heat that promised another scorching Lowcountry day.
He passed Maggie Beaumont’s elegant home, where he’d spent six months restoring the original woodwork last year. Further down, he noticed Vivian Pierce’s pristine garden, where every plant seemed to grow in perfect submission to her will, much like she expected the island’s residents to behave.
He arrived at the inn twenty minutes early, parking his truck out of sight. He didn’t want to seem too eager, even though he couldn’t explain who he was trying to fool.
The morning was already warming up, promising one of those typical Lowcountry summer days where the humidity made the air feel like a damp blanket. He walked the grounds, evaluating the property professionally while he tried to calm his racing thoughts.
The gardens had given way to the Lowcountry’s relentless growing season - camellias and azaleas battled for space with aggressive kudzu vines, while palmetto fronds rustled secrets in the breeze. But he could see the structure of formal design beneath the chaos, the ghost of what had once been the island's showplace.
As he rounded the corner to look at the back garden, he almost collided with Luella Washington as she was carrying a watering can toward her cottage.
