Chapter 4
Thomas arrived at the inn before dawn, his truck loaded with equipment for the day’s initial work.
The sky was starting to brighten, casting soft pink hues on the old building’s white clapboard.
He paused briefly, appreciating the peaceful beauty of the scene.
It was a grand structure silhouetted against the waking sky, and the morning mist wreathed the ancient oaks beside it.
The early hour had always been his favorite time to start a project. The world felt fresh and full of possibilities before any complications inevitably arose.
As he unloaded all his gear and tools, he noticed movement on the porch.
Isabella stood by the railing, wrapped in a white cardigan to ward off the morning chill, watching him.
She raised her hand to greet him but made no move to come closer, keeping a careful distance that had been part of their interactions since his first visit.
He returned her gesture and kept on setting up.
She arrived earlier than he expected. Most clients wouldn’t show up until at least a few hours into the workday, if at all, but Isabella had always been different. She had always fully engaged herself in whatever caught her interest at the moment, and apparently, that hadn’t changed.
His crew arrived shortly afterward, parking their trucks in the gravel lot behind the inn. Five men and two women, all locals who had worked with Thomas for many years, some since he first started his company. They knew their jobs well and trusted each other.
“Morning, folks,” Thomas called as they gathered around the tailgate of his truck. “Before we start, I want to introduce this project.”
He pulled out the original blueprints of the inn, carefully preserved and recently retrieved from the county archives.
“This is The Wexley Inn, built in 1872 by Charleston merchant Henry Wexley as a summer retreat. What we’re looking at today isn’t just a building. This is a piece of the island’s history.”
He traced his finger along the lines of the structure on the paper.
“Heart pine floors. Hand-carved black walnut banisters. Plaster walls with horsehair reinforcement. This is craftsmanship you rarely see nowadays, so our job is to preserve what can be saved and restore what cannot, while bringing all of the systems up to modern code.”
He looked around at his team. They all appeared interested, as usual. Most of them had lived on or near the island their entire lives, so the building was important to the community as a whole.
“So there’s a right way and a wrong way to approach a project like this,” he continued.
“Some contractors would come in here, gut it, and start fresh. Obviously, that’s faster and cheaper, but you know that’s not how we work.
We want to respect the bones of this building, the intention of the original artisans. This inn deserves our very best work.”
Wade Collins, Thomas’s foreman for the past decade, nodded.
"You know, my granddaddy used to tell stories about the grand dances they held here back in the day.
Said the whole island would turn out. Folks in their finest clothes, music spillin' out onto the veranda.
Even the service staff would sneak peeks from the kitchen windows. "
“I had my first date here when it was still operating,” added Eliza Wright.
She was the crew’s master carpenter. “Senior prom, dinner, 1985.
Bobby Crawford in his daddy's borrowed tuxedo, me in a dress I'd saved three months of babysittin' money to buy. Fancy white tablecloths, crystal goblets, felt like we were movie stars for one night. It’s been closed for so long, some people forget what it means to the community.”
Thomas nodded, glad they understood the project’s significance. “Well, today we’re going to do the preliminary assessment - foundation, structural integrity, systems. We need to know exactly what we’re working with before we finalize our plans.”
He assigned tasks to each member, and they dispersed to their respective work areas. Then Thomas headed toward the foundation access point and noticed Isabella had moved to the garden where she was talking with Luella.
The morning sun caught her honey-blonde hair, igniting it with golden highlights, and for a moment, he was transported back to their college days.
Isabella leaned over drafting tables, passionately explaining her design ideas, her hair flowing like silk across her face until she impatiently tucked it behind her ear, a gesture so painfully familiar it made his chest tighten.
Even now, thirty years later, she moved with the same graceful efficiency that first captivated him in Professor Martinez's class.
He pulled his attention back to the present. Foundation. He needed to focus on the foundation.
For the next several hours, he immersed himself in all the technical aspects of the inn’s structural systems. The foundation was primarily composed of brick piers, with a later addition of concrete infill, a typical feature of buildings from this era in the Lowcountry.
To his relief, the brick was in remarkably good condition, although the mortar would need repointing in certain areas.
Around mid-morning, as he was examining the crawl space under the east wing, he heard a voice call down to him.
“How does it look?”
He came out to find Isabella standing nearby, dressed in practical jeans and a simple blue button-down shirt, with her hair pulled back, holding a clipboard in her hand.
“Better than I expected,” he said, dusting off his hands.
As he spoke, he noticed how the morning light played across her face, highlighting the determined set of her jaw he remembered so well.
She was close enough that he caught the subtle scent of her perfume - different from what she'd worn in college, more sophisticated now, but it still made his pulse quicken in ways he had no business noticing. “Foundation is solid overall. There’s some water damage in the southeast corner where the downspouts have been misdirected, but nothing structural. The floor joists under the main parlor have some termite damage, but it’s localized. ”
“Well, that sounds promising,” she said, making notes. “What about the wiring?”
“Well, that’s where things get complicated. The inn has been rewired at least three times over the years, and each new system was layered over the old one instead of being properly replaced. It’s a fire hazard, so we’re going to need to strip it all out and start fresh.”
She nodded. “I figured as much. And plumbing is the same?”
“Afraid so. The good news is we can access most of it without damaging the original plaster, if we’re really careful. Bad news is we’re going to add significant time and cost to the project.”
“Well, I’d rather do it right than cut corners.” She looked up from her notes. “I want this place to last another one hundred fifty years.”
Thomas felt a surge of respect for her. Too many property owners prioritized speed and cost over quality and longevity.
“Then we’re on the same page, I suppose,” he said. “I’ll have my structural engineer come out tomorrow to verify my assessment, but I’m pretty confident we can restore the building to its full glory without compromising its historical integrity.”
A small genuine smile curved Isabella's lips, the first real one he'd seen directed at him since her arrival on the island.
For a moment, she looked exactly like the girl who used to light up when he'd share his ideas about historic preservation.
The sight hit him like a physical blow, reminding him of everything he'd given up thirty years ago.
“Great. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”
The moment was interrupted by a shout from in front of the building.
“Dad? Are you here?”
Thomas recognized his daughter’s voice immediately. “Oh, that’s Emma. My daughter. I wasn’t expecting her today.”
Isabella’s expression shifted slightly. A flicker of something. Discomfort? Curiosity? It crossed her face before her professional mask returned.
“Oh. Well, you should greet her. I’ll check in with Luella about the kitchen assessment.”
Before he could respond, she turned and walked toward the back of the house with her movements brisk and purposeful.
Thomas found Emma on the front porch, dressed in what was her everyday business casual attire - a pair of tailored pants and a silky blouse that probably had some designer name he couldn’t pronounce.
“Emma,” he hugged her. “What brings you here in the middle of the week? I thought you had that big client presentation.”
“Finished it yesterday,” she said, stepping back and surveying him with a critical eye. “You’re filthy. Have you been in the crawlspace?”
“Oh, you know me too well,” he smiled. “Want to see what I’m working on?”
“That’s why I’m here. Ever since you mentioned you’d landed the inn renovation, I was curious to see the inside.” She looked over the building. “It’s spectacular, even in its current condition. Tell me again about the new owner.”
Thomas hesitated, unsure how to navigate this unexpected complication.
“Her name is Isabella Montgomery. She retired from the hotel industry, and she wants to restore the inn and use it as a functioning business.” He’d already told her this on the phone, but Emma was a curious person.
Actually, she should’ve been a detective in one of those dark rooms with a single light hanging above a table.
Something in his tone must have alerted Emma. She studied him with narrowed eyes. “What are you not telling me?”
Before Thomas could respond, the front door opened and Isabella emerged. There was a moment of silent assessment between the two women from different chapters of his life.
“You must be Emma,” Isabella said, extending her hand. “I’m Isabella Montgomery. Your father’s doing a great job assessing the renovation needs here.”