Page 76 of The Wexley Inn
Thomas sat across from Emma in his little kitchen, nursing coffee he didn’t want, while his daughter studied him with her concerned eyes.
“You look rough, Dad.”
“Well, thanks. You’re doing wonders for my self-esteem.”
“I’m serious. When was the last time you really ate a proper meal or got some sleep?”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. You’re not fine.” Emma clinked her mug against the counter. “You’re miserable because you screwed up and you don’t know how to fix it with Isabella.”
“There’s nothing to fix. She’s probably taking that Paris job and moving on. She’ll be eating expensive pastries with some French guy named Pierre on a small sidewalk, staring at the Eiffel Tower in a few weeks, moving on to the life she was meant to have if I hadn’t derailed hers years ago.”
“Oh, for the love of—” Emma stood up. “Dad, stop. Just stop with this. Yeah, you screwed up. You made decisions for her without asking, again. Treated her like she needed managing instead of a partner, and that was wrong.”
“I know. I’ve said that.”
“I’m not finished.” Emma’s voice was steely. “You screwed up, but so did she. She kept that major job offer a secret. She was so busy protecting herself from being potentially hurt that she didn’t even give the relationship a real chance.”
Thomas looked up, surprised by her defending him.
“You’re both human,” Emma said. “You both have trauma that causes you to react in unhealthy ways. You control because you’re scared of feeling helpless. She runs because she’s scared of being abandoned, and neither of you are villains. You’re just two wounded people who said some ugly things to each other.”
“So what do I do?”
Emma sat back down and reached across the counter to take his hand. “You do what Mom would have told you to do. You stop trying to fix things from a distance. You show up, you tell her the whole truth, you admit you were wrong and explain why you did it, and then you let her decide what happens next.”
“What if she chooses Paris?”
“Well, then you accept it and move on. But at least you know you were honest. At least you know you gave her the real you, not the version that has to be perfect or in control.”
After Emma left, Thomas sat at the kitchen table for a long time, thinking about Sarah—how he’d never told her the truth about why he married her, and how he managed her illness without always asking what she wanted. He tried to do the very best things for her, and maybe she went through treatments she wouldn’t have chosen herself. He couldn’t do that again. He couldn’t let Isabella leave without knowing the whole truth.
He pulled out his phone and typed: I need to tell you the real reason I do this - not the version that makes me look better, but the actual truth. When you’re ready to hear it, I’m prepared to tell it.
Isabella’s response came about an hour later: Saturday evening, at the inn, after the workers leave.
Luella found Isabella in the kitchen on Thursday afternoon, supposedly looking at the equipment layout, but she was actually staring at a commercial oven without really seeing it.
“Child, you look like death warmed over.”
Isabella turned, managing a weak smile. “Well, gee, thanks, Luella. That’s very comforting.”
“Wasn’t meant to be comforting. Was meant to be true.” Luella sat on a stool. “Heard about your fight with Thomas. The whole island’s heard about it, actually. Y’all sure didn’t keep it quiet. That man’s been walking around looking like his dog died.”
“I do not want to talk about Thomas.”
“Well, I guess that’s too bad, because I’ve got some things to say and you’re going to listen.” Luella’s tone showed that there was no argument to be had. “You interviewed for a job in Paris.” It wasn’t a question.
Isabella shouldn’t have been surprised. Nothing stayed secret on the island. “Well, I guess I did over the phone a couple of weeks ago, but I canceled the in-person meeting.”
“Because you don’t want it?”
“Because I want this,” Isabella said, gesturing around the kitchen. “I want the inn. I want to build something here.”
“But you kept it secret from Thomas? Just in case? Is that your pattern, sugar? When things get hard, you start planning a way to leave before anybody can leave you first?”
“And how would you know?”
