Page 3 of Middle Ground
Fraisier Creek, here I come.
CHAPTER 2
MEYER
Haveyou ever had that feeling? You know, the one that says you’re exactly where you belong.
I hadn’t known that feeling until I clocked in for my first shift at Dog Days Inn when I was fifteen. Long before that, I haunted the halls, following my mother around as she demonstrated what it meant to be a fair but firm business owner. But it wasn’t until I started working at the inn myself that I really understood.
I thought the feeling would fade over time. Perhaps I would get tired of catering to the public. But if anything, it's only gotten stronger—the notion that this inn is my destiny.
Maybe that's a little dramatic, but what else do you call the thing that feels so inherently like home?
I won’t pretend it doesn't feel like work. A job is a job after all, though it’s one I take on each day with pride. The business ebbs and flows, but the one constant is my commitment to showing up for my guests and my employees.
I run my hand along the wall as I walk down the corridorleading from the main entrance to the attached restaurant. The floral wallpaper is somewhat outdated. One day, I’ll get around to upgrading it, but for now, it serves as a reminder of Mom and the mark she has left on this place.
Just outside the entrance to the restaurant, I straighten the picture frame hanging on the wall. It’s a photo of my mom and her best friend the day she bought the inn. They met years before when my mom was just an employee here, and they were friends up until the day Cherie died.
I don’t pretend to know why a woman like Cherie, who grew up in Toronto and travelled the world, ever gave our little inn the time of day. I don’t think even Mom knows. But it’s an indisputable truth that Cherie will be missed by us all.
Cherie is the reason that my mother even owns the inn in the first place. She encouraged Mom to buy it from the previous owners—the owners both my mother and her mother had worked for as housekeepers once upon a time.
Taking over this business was a full circle moment for my mother, and the fact that she is getting ready to hand it down tomeis nothing short of nerve-wracking. Because failure is not an option, but right now, it’s all I can see. Every night when I try to sleep, I’m bombarded with all the ways I could potentially let her down.
In the empty corridor, I let my stress swallow me like a storm cloud. But as I gear up to enter the restaurant, I steel my spine. I take a deep breath. I outwardly become the confident businesswoman that I pretend to be.
As they say, fake it ’til you make it.
“What’s cookin’, good lookin’?” I call.
Behind the bar, a harried Pippa scowls down at the wornrag in her hand. I round the bar and grab my apron, tying it around my waist as I wait, well-adjusted to my best friend’s mannerisms. Many think that Pip is shy, but really, she just chooses her wordsverycarefully.
Her scowl turns to a frown as she meets my gaze. “Sorry I had to bring him again, Meyer,” she says. “His regular sitter has the flu. I called Tommy’s mom for a playdate, but they’re out of town. And I tried to get Shawn to come over, but he’s…busy, I guess.”
Ignoring the anger I feel toward her shitty boyfriend, I set a hand on her arm. “It’s fine, Pip. You know that. What’s really bugging you?”
The restaurant is experiencing its typical Sunday morning lull before the after-church crowd starts to trickle in. I watch Pippa scan the room for anyone who is sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong—par for the course in Fraisier Creek—but we’re essentially alone.
“My parents have been sniffing around again,” she finally says.
I suck in a breath. At the same time, we both cast sidelong glances at a nearby table. Pippa’s son Atticus sits forlornly on a chair much too large for his five-year-old body, halfheartedly maneuvering a T-Rex across the tabletop.
“Assholes,” I mutter, turning back to Pippa. “They don’t know where you are, do they?”
She shakes her head. “No, not as far as I can tell.”
“Good. They don’t deserve you. Either of you.”
Her frown deepens. “I don’t know. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing, keeping him away from them.”
“Pippa…”
She twists the rag in her hands. If I were her, I’d be pretending it was my parents’ necks to practice wringing them. But that’s just me. Pippa Rhodes doesn’t have a violent bone in her body.
As quickly as her frustration manifests, it disappears. She sets her shoulders and tosses the rag back onto the counter.
“Whatever.” She shakes her head, her russet tresses swishing with the movement. She tips her chin, standing tall, and her pretty green eyes hold a fire in them that I’m damn sure going to watch burn. “We don’t need them. I’m more than enough for Atticus.”
