Page 5 of The Wexley Inn
“Well, mornin’, Thomas,” she said. “You’re early.”
“Morning, Luella,” he nodded. “Just getting a feel for the place before the meeting. Haven’t been here in a very long time.”
Luella had been at the inn for as long as Thomas could remember. His father had often spoken fondly of her cooking, claiming her shrimp and grits could make a grown man cry with joy.
“She's inside, sugar. Been here since dawn, bustlin' around with her lists and measurements. Child's got more energy than a mosquito at a fish fry.”
Thomas felt a flush creep up his neck. “I’m just here to talk about renovations.”
“Uh-huh.” Luella’s expression remained neutral, but her eyes held hints of amusement. “Well, some things come full circle, don’t they? Time has a way of bringing you right back.”
Before Thomas could respond to her comment, Luella walked away, humming softly to herself.
He checked his watch. He was still ten minutes early. He considered waiting, but decided against it. Better to face this head-on than prolong his anxious anticipation. He climbed the steps to the back porch, noting the worrying sag in several of the floorboards, and knocked on the door.
For a moment, there was silence, but then he heard footsteps approaching, and the door swung open.
And there she was.
Isabella Montgomery stood framed in the doorway, a clipboard in her hand, looking both familiar and yet completely different. Her honey-blonde hair was shorter now, styled in a practical bob that framed her face. Fine lines had appeared at the corners of her eyes and mouth, but didn’t detract from her beauty, just spoke to the years that had passed. She wore a simple linen top and tailored pants, practical for surveying a construction site.
His chest tightened with an ache he thought he'd buried thirty years ago. Every carefully rehearsed professional greeting evaporated from his mind. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
“Thomas,” she finally said. Her voice was controlled, but he thought he heard a slight tremor that only somebody who knew her well would notice. “Thank you for coming.”
“Isabella,” he managed to say. “It’s been a long time.”
That was the understatement of the year.
Her expression gave away little as she stepped back to allow him to enter. “Please come in. I’ve set up in what was once the inn’s library.”
He followed her through the familiar back hallway, noticing how she moved with the same graceful efficiency he remembered. The scent of her perfume - something with a subtle note of jasmine - briefly took him back in time to university hallways and late-night study sessions. He found himself noting details he had no business noticing - the graceful line of her neck, the way she still twisted her pen when thinking, the wedding ring that was notably absent from her left hand.
The library was just as he remembered it, though the furniture was dusty and the once-rich curtains hung faded and limp. She had set up a folding table with her laptop, various folders, and what appeared to be preliminary renovation plans.
“Would you like some coffee?” she offered, gesturing to a thermos. “I made it myself, but it’s not too bad.”
“Thank you,” he said, accepting a cup, grateful for something to do with his hands. “So, about the inn.”
She appeared to relax a bit as they shifted into professional territory.
“Yes, I made an offer on it six weeks ago and finally closed last week. I plan to restore it as a working inn with modern amenities, while respecting its historical character and significance to the island.”
“It’s an ambitious project,” he said. “This place hasn’t operated as an actual inn in at least fifteen years.”
“Seventeen,” Isabella corrected. “The previous owner used it as a summer home for a few years and then left it vacant. But the structure is fundamentally sound, I think, according to the inspection.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow. “I would want to verify that myself. You know, these inspectors sometimes miss things in buildings this old, especially if they don’t know much about historical construction methods.”
“And I would expect nothing less.” Isabella pulled out a folder and handed it to him. “These are my preliminary ideas and the areas that I’ve identified as priorities. Of course, I would value your professional assessment.”
He took the folder and examined the contents. Despite the complete awkwardness of their reunion, he couldn’t help but feel intrigued by the project. The Wexley Inn was an important historical building and one that deserved a proper restoration.
For the next forty-five minutes, they moved through the building together, clipboard and camera in hand, discussing structural issues, preservation concerns, and renovation priorities. Their conversation remained strictly professional. He found himself overly aware of her proximity - when she leaned over to point out details on the plans, or brushed past him in narrow doorways.
As they inspected the grand staircase, he pointed out the craftsmanship of the original banister. “This is hand-carved black walnut. You know, you don’t see work like this anymore. It needs restoration, because replacing this would be a crime.” As he ran his hand along the carved banister, he remembered Isabella doing the same thing during their college visits to historic homes. She'd always had an instinct for quality craftsmanship. It was one of the things that had drawn him to her.
She nodded. “Of course, I agree completely. I want to preserve all of the original elements, if possible.”
