Page 8 of The Wexley Inn
He hesitated, then added, “Listen, Isabella, about what happened?—”
She held up a hand, stopping him.
“Thomas, I meant what I said. This is a professional relationship. The past is the past.”
Her tone was firm, but he could see the flash of old pain in her eyes before she looked away.
“Of course,” he said quietly. “Well, then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As he drove away from the inn, Thomas's hands gripped the steering wheel more tightly than necessary. Seeing Isabella again after thirty years felt like walking into a wall of memories he thought he’d put behind him. She was so strikingly familiar yet totally transformed—successful, confident, and guarded in ways the young woman he’d known never was.
He expected her to be angry, maybe even hostile. Instead, she remained coolly professional, concentrating on the project rather than their shared history. In some ways, it was harder than outright resentment.
What right did he have to feel disappointed by her emotional distance? He was the one who walked away all those years ago. He made his choice—the honorable choice given the circumstances—but that didn’t change the fact that he hurt her deeply.
He drove past the turnoff to his cottage, choosing instead to go to his workshop on the other side of the island. He needed the peace of working with his hands, focusing on the grain of the wood and the precision of his tools, rather than the complications of the past.
As he parked outside the converted boathouse that served as his workshop, he decided to follow Isabella’s lead. They would keep a strictly professional relationship. He would give The Wexley Inn the restoration it deserved, and perhaps in the process, he could show her that he had become a man worthy of respect, if not forgiveness.
It was the most he could hope for, and probably more than he deserved. He'd been the one to walk away, choosing duty over love, responsibility over dreams. He’d lived with that decision every day for thirty years, telling himself it was the right thing to do. But seeing Isabella again, seeing the woman she had become without him, made him wonder if the biggest mistake of his life wasn’t leaving her, but staying away so long that coming back might no longer be an option.
CHAPTER 3
Isabella stood at the entrance of the Wexley Country Club, adjusting the sleeve of her green silk blouse before pushing the ornate wooden door. The Lowcountry Ladies Club’s monthly luncheon was her first official social event on the island. Despite navigating years of high-pressure corporate functions, she felt a bit nervous.
The gleaming marble foyer opened into the Blue Heron Restaurant, where floor-to-ceiling windows framed a panoramic view of the Atlantic. Spanish moss-draped oaks swayed in the salt breeze beyond the glass, and Isabella could hear the distant cry of actual blue herons fishing in the tidal marsh.
Crystal chandeliers shimmered above round tables, covered with crisp white linens, each featuring a centerpiece with a carefully arranged selection of local flowers. The room buzzed with conversations among elegantly dressed women.
“Ah, Ms. Montgomery, you found us.”
Vivian Pierce walked up toward Isabella’s elbow, perfectly attired in her mint green linen dress and her steel gray hair swept up into an immaculate bun.
“Let me introduce you to everybody who matters on Wexley.”
There it was again - everybody who matters.
“Thanks for the invitation,” Isabella said, noting how Vivian’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting more of the community.”
"Well, bless your heart, I'm sure you have. We're very selective about our membership here, but we always make an effort to welcome... suitable newcomers."
The slight pause before the last word spoke volumes. Isabella assumed one needed money or stature to be a part of the club. She didn’t have a lot of either, but she needed these connections, one way or the other.
“This way, please.”
As Vivian guided her through the room, Isabella kept a professional smile—the one she had perfected during countless hotel openings and tough board meetings. She had learned to read a room within minutes, identifying the power players, the followers, and the potential allies. These skills had served her well in corporate boardrooms from Atlanta to Charleston, and they would serve her here too.
She caught fragments of little conversations that hushed momentarily as they passed.
"Buyin' that old inn without any island connections whatsoever..."
"I heard she used to be sweet on Thomas Langley back in college..."
"Corporate hotel background, probably gonna turn it into some modern monstrosity..."
Isabella kept her expression as neutral as possible. She hadn’t expected her history with Thomas to come up so quickly, though she shouldn’t have been surprised. Heat crept up her neck. Apparently, her private heartbreak had become public entertainment faster than kudzu overtaking a fence line. The thought of these women dissecting her past with Thomas over their mimosas made her stomach clench.
Small islands, like luxury hotels, ran on the currency of information and gossip.
