Page 2 of Middle Ground
My mother is waiting for me on the sidewalk. “What did the lawyer want?” she asks.
For some reason, telling her about the letter feels wrong, like Cherie meant for only me to know about it. I have no idea what it says, but that seems like something my grandmother would do.
“He was just giving me those contact details for the inn,” I lie. “How did no one know about this place?”
Mom places a comforting hand on my arm. Her smile is sad. “You know what your grandmother was like. But I agree, that was a lot to take in. Are you doing alright?”
Am I? Truthfully, I’m not sure what I’m feeling. But I know that if I stand here any longer, she’ll start to pick me apart, looking for things she can fix.
I know my ending up in the hospital again dredged up a lot of memories for my parents. And I know it scared all of my family and friends.
More than anything, though, it was embarrassing. Collapsing at work in front of a conference room full of executives was not part of my five-year plan. That, or being forced to take six months off of work to get my stress levels and blood pressure under control. At twenty-seven, I shouldn’t be having these types of issues.
I return her smile as best as I can. “I’m okay, Mom. Just tired. I’m gonna head home, so I’ll see you later.”
I don’t give her a chance to reply before I’m walking down the street toward my car, the letter burning a hole in my pocket.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
My mother wrings her hands in front of her as she follows me around my condo while I stuff clothes and toiletries into an overnight bag. Five days after the reading of the will, I’m on my way to check out this inn. I’ve been emailing with someone named Meyer, who seems to be managing the inn for my grandmother’s business partner.
Zipping up the bag sitting on my bed, I say, “I’m sure.”
When I meet her worried eyes, I have to look away. She sighs. “I just don’t want you feeling like there’s all this pressure on you. Taking something like this on is a big responsibility.”
Giving in, I pull Mom into a hug and press a kiss to her cheek. “I know you’re trying to help, and I appreciate it. But you’re busy. You don’t have to drop what you’re doing to come follow me to the middle of nowhere.”
“You’re my son. I’d drop everything in a heartbeat.”
I hold back my own sigh. While this behaviour isn’t uncharacteristic for her, it has gotten increasingly more overbearing in the past two weeks. I know I’m partially to blame for that, but it doesn’t make the feeling any less oppressive.
“I think this is something I need to do on my own,” I admit. “It’s what Cherie wanted.”
She goes to say more, but her smartwatch chimes with a notification. She reads it, and then she turns apologetic eyes on me. “Your father wants me to meet him for brunch.”
“Go,” I say. When she hesitates, I start guiding her toward the front door. “Seriously, Mom. I’ll be alright, I promise.”
After another minute of back and forth, she finally gives in and says goodbye. When the door shutsbehind her, I let out a breath, leaning against it for a minute. I’ve had to weather these waves of fatigue for weeks now.
Once I’ve caught my breath, I cross the condo and enter my office. The space is tidy, as it always is, but the letter on top of my desk feels out of place. Sitting in my chair, I take up the paper and read over it again.
Jackson,
If you’re reading this, that means I’ve finally kicked the bucket. That also means my lawyer has read you my will, so by now you should know all about the inn.
I was a guest of this inn for many years. I became great friends with the owner, Beatrice Ellison. Dog Days and Bea both hold a special place in my heart. When she fell on hard times a number of years ago, I didn’t hesitate to buy into the business so my friend could keep doing what she loves. Now that I’m gone, my half of the business belongs to you.
I know what you’re thinking. Why did my beloved grandmother leave this small-town inn to me when I’ve got my fancy pants job in the city? Well, if I told you, that would make things too easy. Soon enough, you’ll understand.
If I know my grandson (and I do), you will wish to be rid of this unwanted responsibility as soon as possible. To that, I say: give it six months. Stay in Fraisier Creek, work at the inn. After that, if you truly still want to wash your hands of it all, I won’t blame you.
And for the love of all things holy, take care of yourself.
Love, Cherie
With no work to return to for the next few months, I suppose my grandmother will get her wish. Although I’m inclined to believe this inn isn’t as great as she made it out to seem, going there beats staying cooped up in my condo, dodging my family’s efforts to hover.
Resigned, I grab my overnight bag from my bedroom and then I head down to the parking garage to find my car.
