Page 65 of The Wexley Inn
“Son of a—” he started, and then stopped himself. There was such venom that it almost made her smile despite everything. “He’s done this before. Tried to create bureaucratic nightmares until developers gave up and sold. But he’s never been this blatant, never this targeted.”
“So what do I do?” The question came out smaller than she intended. She hated that pleading note in her voice, hated feeling so helpless. “I can hire attorneys and fight the complaints formally, but it all takes time we don’t have. And money I can’t afford to spend on legal battles when I need every penny for operations.”
“All right.” Thomas’s voice shifted, adopting that calm, problem-solving tone she recognized from when he faced technical or complex challenges. “Here’s what we’re going to do. First, we don’t respond to any official communications from the county until we’ve looked at them together. Don’t acknowledge the complaints. Don’t try to address them directly. We need to see exactly what’s been filed before we can craft our response.”
“Okay.”
“Second, I’m going to look into this. I have relationships with people at the county office. Bill Patterson handles permits, and he’s an honest guy. I need to understand what’s actually been filed, who’s behind it, and what the real exposure is.”
“But if you ask questions, won’t that—” She hesitated, Grayson’s words about damaging Thomas’s reputation echoing in her mind. “Won’t that make you look too personally involved? I don’t want to drag you into…”
“Isabella.” He cut her off gently. “I’m involved. This is my project, too, and I’ve been navigating these island politics my whole life. I know how to have a quiet conversation that doesn’t create exposure for either of us.”
“And you’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Grayson uses intimidation, making problems seem so overwhelming that people break down under the perceived pressure, but his actual power is limited. These anonymous complaints might sound threatening, but there are ways to handle them that won’t require months of hearings or costly legal fights. I need to understand what we’re really up against first.”
Some of the tension in Isabella’s chest eased slightly. He knew this world in ways she didn’t. He understood the unspoken rules, the pressure points, and the ways to navigate bureaucracy that weren’t in any manual.
“So what should I do in the meantime?”
“Get some rest. Don’t let this consume you tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll start making the calls, having the conversations. By the end of the day, I’ll have a clear picture of what we’re actually dealing with.”
“Thomas.” She paused, not sure what she wanted to say. Thank you felt inadequate. I’m scared felt too raw. What if we can’t fix this felt too defeatist. “I’m happy you’re here.”
She heard him exhale softly.
“I’m not going anywhere, Isabella. We’re going to figure this out together.”
After they hung up, she felt somewhat steadier, a little less like she was drowning. Thomas would help. He would navigate the politics, use his relationships, and find solutions that she couldn’t see from her position.
But what she didn’t know and what she couldn’t see was exactly what he meant by “having conversations” and “addressing the complaints.”
Thomas Langley’s instinct to protect the people he loved from burdens was as natural as breathing and just as unconscious, and she didn’t know exactly what he meant by those words.
Thomas hung up the phone and immediately started looking through his contacts, his jaw set in determination. Bill Patterson at the county office, Gerald Stewart at the bank, Robert Henderson, who chaired the Architectural Review Board. He would fix this. He’d use every relationship, every favor owed, every ounce of political capital he’d built over three decades. He’d protect Isabella’s dream and her investment and future, whatever it took.
The small voice in his head whispered that he was repeating the exact pattern that had destroyed them thirty years ago - making decisions for her rather than with her, prioritizing protection over partnership.
He pushed all of that firmly aside. This was different. She had asked for help. He was providing it. He wasn’t controlling anything. He was being a good partner. Wasn’t he?
Thomas arrived at the county planning office before most of the staff, parking in the nearly empty lot. He’d been awake since four, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, mentally rehearsing conversations he needed to have. By the time dawn broke, he had showered, made coffee that went cold while he looked at his notes, and then driven to the mainland with a sense of grim purpose.
Bill Patterson was just unlocking his office door when Thomas appeared in the hallway. Bill was mid-fifties, soft around the middle in the way that men who spent their days behind desks were, and had thin, sandy hair and reading glasses that were perpetually perched on the top of his head. They’d known each other for twenty-five years, served on the Historical Preservation Committee together, coached opposing Little League teams when their kids were young, and shared countless Thursday morning breakfasts at the diner where local contractors and county officials conducted the real business of building permits over eggs and grits.
“Thomas.” Bill’s expression held a mixture of warmth and discomfort as he stepped into his office. “I wondered when you’d be coming by.”
“So there are complaints filed about The Wexley Inn permits.” It wasn’t a question.
Bill sighed and set his coffee and briefcase down on his desk. “Three anonymous complaints filed Monday afternoon, right before the close of business. There are historical accuracy concerns, questions about safety compliance in the kitchen modernization, and environmental impact issues with the septic system upgrades. You know, all vague enough that they technically require review, but all specific enough that we can’t dismiss them out of hand.”
“Let me see them.”
Bill hesitated and then pulled up a file on his computer screen. “Thomas, you know I shouldn’t?—”
“Bill?” He interrupted. “We’ve known each other for two and a half decades. You were at Sarah’s funeral. You sent Emma a graduation gift when she finished college. We’ve done business together long enough to know that I’m not asking you casually.” Thomas leaned against the doorframe, his voice quiet but firm. “Let me see the complaints.”
After a long pause, Bill printed three pages and handed them over. Thomas read through them slowly, his jaw tightening with each paragraph. The complaints were skillfully written, clearly authored by someone who knew exactly which buttons to press.
