Page 105 of Middle Ground
My leave from my job in Toronto is quickly nearing its end. I thought I would feel grateful, but instead, all I can feel is an impending sense of dread. And with that thought is the realization that I don’t want to go back. I’d trade in my condo for Meyer’s cottage in a heartbeat.
Fraisier Creek feels like home in a way the city never has.
Sure, I would miss my parents and my friends, but I’ve found a new group of people to rally around me here.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” I mutter aloud. “You always had to have the last word.”
My grandmother was a lot of things, but in this instance, she was right. About me, the inn. Meyer. She knew exactly what she was doing when she left me that letter, and honestly, I couldn’t be more grateful. She gave me more than I ever could’ve thought to ask for.
All the pressure that comes with the inn doesn’t feel like pressure when I have someone to share it with. When I have Meyer. My only wish is that Cherie could have been here to see this—to see what Meyer and I have created together, despite all the things trying to set us back.
Instead of driving straight to the inn, I decide to make a detour into town. I manage to snag a parking space right on Main, a great feat these days. I cut the engine, but I don’t get out of the car yet. Pulling my phone from the cupholder, I begin to type out a text.
Know anyone in the market for a condo?
It doesn’t take long for a response to roll in.
Wells
Have I officially lost my best friend to the country?
I may be in the market for a good realtor.
Wells
Happy for you, man. Even if it does mean you’ll be ditching me.
You could always move here.
Wells
Maybe. If I had the right reasons.
Wells has never liked the city, not really. He tolerates it, at best. But I have a feeling that if I move to Fraisier Creek permanently, he won’t be long to follow.
Stepping out into the August sunshine, I lock my car. I only have a quick walk before I reach my destination.
The bell above the door chimes when I enter Little Treasure Flower Shop. Ilsa, the woman Meyer and I spoke with at the farmer’s market, stands behind the counter wearing a welcoming smile.
“Hi, Jackson,” she says. “What brings you in today?”
My eyes scan the displays. “I was hoping to find something Meyer might like,” I reply. Redness creeps up my neck at the admission.
Besides my mother and Cherie, I’ve never bought flowers for a woman before. But Meyer has me wanting to do all kinds of things I’ve never done. She makes it easy, though.One flash of that soft smile she pulls out just for me and I’m a goner, plain and simple.
Ilsa’s grin turns knowing. “Are you looking for cut flowers? Or a plant?”
Considering I’m not sure my girl has a green thumb to speak of, cut flowers are probably safest. At least their inevitable death will be through no fault of ours.
“Cut, please.” I eye the array of different coloured blooms. “Whatever you think will look the best together.”
As Ilsa turns toward the fridge, I wander around the store. On top of all things flowers, Ilsa also stocks a variety of trinkets from local small businesses. Along one wall, there are shelves filled with handmade soaps and artisanal crafts. I recognize a few products from the farmer’s market.
When the bell above the door jingles, I don’t bother looking up from the candle I’m inspecting. It seems like something Meyer might like.
“Hi!” Ilsa calls out. “I’ll be with you in a?—”
The sound of glass shattering causes my head to whip up. I abandon the candle and head back toward the front counter. Ilsa now stands with her back against the fridge. Her face has gone worryingly pale and her eyes are blown wide. A vase sits in pieces at her feet.
