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Isabella Montgomery pulled her rental car to the side of the road just before the bridge to Wexley Island, her hands trembling slightly on the steering wheel. Through the windshield, she could see the white columns and wraparound porch of The Wexley Inn rising above the marsh grass, like something from a dream - or maybe a memory that had haunted her for thirty years.
She'd been twenty-two the first time she'd seen this view, riding in Thomas Langley's beat-up pickup truck during spring break of their senior year of college. He'd brought her home to meet his daddy and show her the island where he'd grown up. "One day," he'd said, pointing at the old inn across the water, "I'm gonna restore a place just like that." She'd squeezed his hand and whispered, "We will."
Now, at fifty-two, she was finally here - alone.
“Oh, so you’re the one who bought the old inn,” the guard said, looking at her over his reading glasses with great curiosity. "Haven't seen that much excitement since the Ladies Club had their big dustup over the Christmas decorations last year."
“Yes, I’m the new owner,” Isabella said, smiling politely, although all she felt was impatience. “That’s all the paperwork right there.”
The guard studied the documents as if he were going to present a case in court, and then finally nodded.
“Well, welcome to Wexley Island, Ms. Montgomery. You can follow that main road right there until you reach our one little traffic circle. Take the second exit toward the historic district. You can’t miss the inn. It’s the big white building with the wraparound porch.”
She nodded. “Thank you,” she said, accepting the visitor’s pass he handed her, along with what appeared to be a huge thick booklet full of community guidelines.
She laughed to herself when she thought about how he described how to get to the house that she now owned. She knew exactly where The Wexley Inn was. It had been her dream for a long time. Well, since the moment Thomas had pointed across the marsh toward it.
For a split second, she allowed herself to wonder about him. To wonder where he’d ended up in life. To wonder if he ever visited Wexley Island. Doubtful. Thomas was the most talented person she’d ever met. Surely he was in some big city, designing skyscrapers or houses for the rich and famous.
As the gate lifted, she felt a strange mixture of anxiety and excitement. This moment represented everything she'd worked toward since her divorce two years ago, since she'd cashed in her retirement and walked away from over twenty years of managing other people's hotels.
Most people would be sad after a divorce, but the event had barely bothered Isabella. Not a tear was shed, in fact. Her marriage had only lasted five years, and two of those years were spent apart, as Todd had lived in London,
running a hotel there.
Maybe she’d thought a woman her age should finally marry. She didn’t know why she’d said yes, but she knew it was the wrong decision from the moment she’d said “I do.”
Wexley Island was meticulously maintained, and the road wound through smaller neighborhoods and elegant homes with expansive porches and perfectly manicured lawns. Sprinklers cast rainbows in the morning light as they nourished beds of camellias and azaleas. She passed the entrance to The Palms, where a discreet sign announced the prestigious name of The Wexley Inn. A little further down, another sign was marked The Dunes, where the newer and larger homes overlooked the Atlantic Ocean.
Her rental cottage was located somewhere in between, not quite grand enough for The Palms, but certainly respectable from the pictures she’d seen online. She would move in later in the day after she’d had a chance to walk through the inn.
She had closed on the inn without seeing it in person, which was probably a crazy idea. But it didn’t matter to her. When she saw it on the market, there was never a question whether she’d buy it. It didn’t matter to her whether a family of geese lived in it; she was meant to own The Wexley Inn. Once the inn was somewhat livable, she would move into it, but for now, she figured staying in a cottage was better.
She saw a small family of deer grazing peacefully near the road, completely unbothered by her car. She slowed down and watched them, a smile spreading across her face. This wasn’t something she often saw, having worked in big cities for the last twenty-plus years. The guard had mentioned several things before she drove away, including the fact that the deer were protected on the island - wildlife in general, really - including raccoons, possums, and the occasional alligator.
Wexley Island was a real-life wildlife sanctuary.
literally skipped a beat. The photographs she’d seen over the years certainly hadn’t done it justice, and it had been a long time since she had driven by it herself, back when it was still in good repair.
Even though it was neglected, it was magnificent. A three-story white clapboard structure with black shutters, a huge wraparound porch, and gabled windows. Ancient live oak trees stood on either side of the property, as if they were sentinels, their branches creating natural archways over an oyster-shell driveway.
She parked and sat for a moment, remembering Thomas's voice: "Look at those bones, Isabella. You can always fix up a house if the bones are good.”
“Well,” she said to herself quietly, “here goes everything.”
She stepped out of her car, the humid coastal air both embracing and assaulting her simultaneously. The scent of jasmine and salt water mingled in the air. She wore a simple white linen dress and comfortable black flats, practical for exploring an old property but still professional enough in case she encountered any of her new neighbors.
As Isabella climbed the steps to the porch, she noticed a few worn spots in the wooden floorboards, the peeling paint on the railings, and several missing spindles. This renovation would be extensive, but she’d budgeted for that, thankfully. What mattered to her was that the bones of the place were solid.
She unlocked the front door with the old antique key the real estate agent had given her, feeling a bit of a thrill as she turned it in the lock. The door swung open with a creak, revealing a grand entryway with a sweeping staircase. Dust danced in the air as sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating the faded grandeur of the space.
For the next hour, she moved methodically through the inn, making notes on her tablet about every room. The fourteen guest rooms would need to be completely updated. The dining room required restoration, and the kitchen would as well. She winced as she surveyed all of the outdated appliances and worn countertops that would have to be entirely gutted, but the hardwood floors throughout could be refinished instead of being replaced. The original moldings were mostly intact.
When she finally reached the back of the house, she found a set of French doors that led out to an overgrown garden. She pushed them open and stepped outside, surprising herself when she came face-to-face with an elderly woman sitting calmly in a worn wicker chair, sipping a glass of sweet tea.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was here,” Isabella said, extending her hand. “I’m Isabella Montgomery, the new owner.”
The woman looked at her with shrewd, dark eyes that contrasted her cloud of white hair. She wore a crisp white blouse and navy slacks and looked far more put together than one would expect for somebody who was apparently trespassing on Isabella’s new property.
“Luella Washington,” the woman said, accepting Isabella’s handshake with a firm grip. “I was the former cook at this establishment for forty-two years, and I’m the current resident of the staff quarters.” She pointed toward a small cottage partially hidden by overgrown camellia bushes at the edge of the garden. Her Southern accent was as thick as the moss hanging from the trees.
Isabella blinked in surprise. “I’m really sorry, but I didn’t think anyone was living on the property. I mean, the previous owner didn’t mention—”
“Mr. Harrington knew better than to try to evict me,” Luella interrupted, crossing her arms over her chest. Her tone wasn’t confrontational; it was just matter-of-fact, like her words were the law and that was it. “My quarters were not a part of this sale. You’ll find that in the fine print if you look carefully enough.”
a complication she hadn’t anticipated or wanted.
“Okay,” she said carefully. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Washington.”
“Luella, please.” Her expression softened ever so slightly. “I should warn you, this old place has a way of choosing its owners. It’s been standing here since before my grandmother was born. I’ve seen owners come and go, and the ones who try to change too much around here never last very long.”
Before Isabella could respond to her very cryptic comment, Luella set her teacup on the table and stood.
“You’ll want to check the attic. There’s a leak above the third-floor guest bathroom that never got fixed properly. People like to cut corners nowadays. The wiring in the east wing also needs replacing. That’s a fire hazard.”
With that, she picked up her teacup again and walked with a dignified slowness toward her little cottage, leaving Isabella staring after her.
Well, that was unexpected, Isabella thought. Maybe having someone with intimate knowledge of the property would prove to be useful, assuming Luella was willing to share more practical insights and fewer mysterious warnings.
Isabella continued her inspection of the property, confirming Luella’s information about the leak. She made additional notes. By midday, she had a comprehensive list of renovations that needed to be addressed immediately. The scope of it was more daunting than she ever could have thought, but it wasn’t unmanageable, not with the right contractor.
Her next stop was the Wexley Island Bank to meet with Gerald Stewart. He was handling her renovation loan. The bank was located in a stately brick building right on the edge of the historic district. Inside, its interior was all polished wood and subtle luxury. The building was surrounded by live oak trees draped in Spanish moss, just like out of a picture book of the Lowcountry.
“Ms. Montgomery, welcome,” Gerald said. He was a ruddy-faced man in his early sixties with a booming Southern voice that contrasted with the quiet atmosphere of the bank. He waved her into his office, where several folders were neatly arranged on his desk. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. That inn has been an eyesore for far too long. It’s going to be good to see it restored to its former glory.”
“Well, that’s exactly my plan,” Isabella said, taking a seat. “I’ve just come from there. The renovation is going to be extensive, a lot more than I expected seeing it in person, but I know it’s worth it.”
“Oh, of course,” Gerald nodded enthusiastically. “That building is a part of this island’s heritage. Now, I’ve taken the liberty of reviewing the inspection report, and I’ve prepared some preliminary loan options for the renovation.”
They spent the next half hour discussing the financials, with Gerald explaining the intricacies of renovation loans for historic properties and all the associated details.
“So the architectural review board will need to approve any exterior changes,” he said, a hint of warning in his voice. “They can be, well… let’s just call it particular.”
“I understand. I’m committed to preserving the historic character of the building. It’s very important to me.”
“Oh, good, good. That’ll help. Now, about contractors.” He shuffled through his papers. “That might be a bit tricky. Most of the major renovation companies are booked solid with projects over on The Dunes.”
Isabella had anticipated this. “I’ve already reached out to several firms in Charleston who specialize in historic renovations. They’re willing
to commute.”
Gerald looked uncomfortable. “Well, you see, the thing is, our review board favors local businesses for significant projects like this. Obtaining approval for outside contractors to work on this island is a bureaucratic nightmare. Security clearances, temporary passes, insurance requirements.”
Isabella felt uneasy. “So then what do you suggest?”
“Well, there’s really only one local contractor that has the expertise and capacity to handle a project of this magnitude,” Gerald said. He pulled a business card from his desk drawer. “Langley Restoration. Thomas specializes in historic properties. He did the Beaumont place over in The Palms last year. Absolutely magnificent work. I feel sure that the committee would allow him to handle the work on The Wexley Inn.”
The room seemed to tilt sideways. Isabella stared at the card Gerald held out to her, her vision tunneling.
Thomas Langley.
Not just any Thomas Langley. Her Thomas Langley. The man who'd held her close on this very island thirty years ago and promised they'd build a life together. The man who'd vanished without a word one day after graduation, leaving only a brief note saying he "had to go home" and "couldn't explain."
“Is something wrong?”
“No, I just…” Isabella forced herself to take the card, her fingers feeling numb. “That name sounds familiar, that’s all.”
“Oh, Thomas has been on this island forever. His daddy worked maintenance for several of the old estates before he passed. Then Thomas went off to college, I think for architectural engineering, and later returned to start his business. He’s highly respected here, but he can be a bit particular about the projects
he takes on.”
Isabella nodded, but her mind was racing. What were the odds it was the same Thomas? Thomas Langley? That man who broke her heart all those years ago? He was now potentially the only person who could help her realize her dream.
“So I’ve set up a meeting for you with him tomorrow morning,” Gerald said, oblivious to the fact that she was losing her mind and having the world’s worst internal panic attack. “Nine o’clock at the inn. I hope that’s okay.”
“Wait, you’ve already contacted him?” She tried to keep her voice from sounding like a shrieking alarm bell.
“Of course.” Gerald looked surprised. “Property like the inn, that’s big news on a small island. He knows it’s being renovated, and he’s the logical choice for the job.”
She took a deep breath, trying to center herself, trying desperately to remember all those meditation classes she took. It didn’t seem to be helping her much right now.
She was no longer that naïve twenty-two-year-old college student whose world had been shattered when Thomas Langley had walked away without any explanation whatsoever. She was a successful businesswoman with decades of experience handling all kinds of difficult situations, and she would handle Thomas Langley.
“That’s fine,” she said, her voice sounding way steadier than she actually felt, “and I appreciate your help setting that up.”
As she left the bank, Isabella walked straight to her car, closed the door, and blew out the most extended breath of her life.
Of all the complications she had anticipated, running into Thomas hadn’t even been on the list. Why would it? What were the chances he’d still be on this small island after all these years?
She looked at the business card in her hand.
Langley Restoration.
tention to craftsmanship she remembered him displaying in their architectural projects.
Isabella started the car and was determined not to let this development derail her plans. She would meet with Thomas tomorrow and maintain strict professionalism. Who knows, maybe he wouldn’t even remember her. Of course, that was unlikely given their long relationship in college.
She was determined to focus on what mattered - bringing The Wexley Inn back to life. And if he were the best contractor for the job, she’d hire him, despite their personal history. After all, it had been thirty years, and they were probably both different people now.
Whatever had been between them was long gone, relegated to the past, like the faded old photographs she had packed away decades ago. He was probably married with kids, and she had her own life going on, as well. There was no need to let the past get in the way.
By the time she arrived at her rental cottage, a charming one-bedroom bungalow closer to The Palms than The Dunes, she had convinced herself that the meeting would be nothing more than a professional discussion between two people.
She spent the evening unpacking her essentials and creating a vision board for the inn on the dining table, pinning various fabric swatches, color themes, and photographs of the historic hotel interiors that inspired her. The physical activity helped keep her mind off the impending reunion. Of course, she could do all of this online, maybe even create a Pinterest board, but Isabella was old-school.
As twilight fell, she stepped onto the small porch with a glass of sweet tea in her hand and watched as fireflies danced among the oak trees.
Despite her anxiety, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of rightness about being here, finally. This was her chance to create something meaningful, something that was truly hers, and she wasn’t going to let anything or anyone stand in her way, not even Thomas Langley and the ghosts of what might have been if he hadn’t run away all those years ago.
She took one final sip of her tea and went inside to get ready for bed.
Tomorrow would be challenging, but she was ready, because she had to be. There was no other choice.
Thomas Langley woke before dawn, as he most always did. The last remnants of moonlight were still filtering through the plantation shutters of his bedroom window, casting striped shadows across the hardwood floors that desperately needed refinishing. It was funny how contractors could handle everybody else’s work but always left their own to the end of the list.
He lay still for a moment, listening to the crickets and frogs that served as Wexley Island’s natural alarm clock. The humid air drifting through his windows carried the familiar scents of jasmine and salt marsh - smells that usually comforted him but today felt heavy with the weight of impending confrontation.
He’d had trouble sleeping for most of the night, his mind circling relentlessly around the information Gerald Stewart had shared yesterday afternoon when they were on the golf course.
“Isabella Montgomery,” Gerald had said casually, lining up his putt. “That’s the name of the woman who bought the old inn. Apparently, she’s some retired hotel executive for one of those big luxury chains. She’s meeting with you tomorrow morning to talk about renovations.”
The name had hit Thomas like a physical blow, causing him to miss his own putt by several inches.
“Hey, something wrong with your swing today?” Gerald had asked, looking up from retrieving his ball.
“No, I just thought I recognized that name,” he said, struggling to keep his composure, “but I must be mistaken. It’s a pretty common name.”
He knew he wasn’t mistaken. There couldn’t be two Isabella Montgomerys in the hotel industry, both with ties to South Carolina. It had to be her - the woman he had walked away from three decades ago, making what was both the most honorable and most heartbreaking decision of his life.
Thomas had watched Isabella’s career growth for years, sometimes checking her out on social media or reading articles about her rapid climb through different companies in trade magazines.
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.
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, ...
