Page 6 of Middle Ground
Admittedly, I expected it to be a bit run-down. Looking at it now, I’m pleasantly surprised. The building was, at one time, some kind of estate house from the nineteenth century, but it has since been renovated and expanded. There is a modern addition at the back of the building as well as a glass-panelled atrium off to the right side. Based on my minimal research, the atrium holds the inn’s restaurant.
An incoming call sounds over my car’s speakers, pulling my attention away from the building. I accept with the press of a button on my steering wheel as I maneuver into a parking spot. At least, I think it’s a spot—with no yellow lines to delineate, I’m just crossing my fingers that no one gets too close and scratches my paint.
“Hey,” Wells says, “have you made it yet?”
I’ve known Wells McKenna for as long as I can remember.We grew up together in Toronto, attending the same private schools. My father is a bigwig in the music industry, while Wells’s father is a movie producer and his mother is an actress. As a consequence of this, Wells and I share a healthy aversion to the spotlight.
“Just pulled in.”
“I Googled the place. It’s really in the middle of nowhere, huh?”
Fraisier Creek is three hours north of the city, but it might as well be on a totally different planet. As I drove, I traded in the skyscrapers and bumper-to-bumper traffic for sprawling farmland and the occasional gas station that reminds you civilization isn’ttoofar out of reach.
“Just how Cherie liked it.”
My grandmother had a knack for going off the grid. When she decided she’d had enough—attention, social interaction—she would simply pull out a map and choose a spot at random. She would lie low for a while, and then she would come home, starting the cycle all over again.
“How’s the heart?” Wells asks.
My lip curls at his question. “You sound like my mother.”
“Hey, I choose to see that as a compliment. Your mother is a gem.”
“Try being on the receiving end of her incessant phone calls and then tell me how much of agemshe is.”
“She’s just worried, man. It was scary for her.” He clears his throat. “It was scary for all of us.”
My grandmother’s request for me to take care of myself flashes in my mind. One way or another, Cherie alwaysgets what she wants. Because now I’m here in Fraisier Creek to pay my dues.
I sigh. “My heart is fine.”
Maybe fine-adjacent is a better descriptor. But he doesn’t need to know that.
“Glad to hear it,” he says. “I’ve gotta run, but I’ll talk to you later. Let me know how your meeting goes.”
I say a quick goodbye before exiting the car. Then I tug my suit jacket from the passenger seat and shrug it over my shoulders, adjusting the cuffs before buttoning it at my front.
After wearing a suit nearly every day for five straight years, it would be a hard habit to break. I’m not sure I even want to—putting on a suit feels like donning armour and gearing up for battle. Something I have a feeling I’m going to need today if I don’t want the cracks in my façade to show.
I don’t pay much attention to the main lobby of the inn as I enter. After all, I have six months to thoroughly inspect the place—and I plan to do just that. Instead, I make my way toward the restaurant that juts off the side of the main building.
On my walk, a framed photograph catches my eye. I recognize Cherie—though she’s about thirty years younger than she was when she died—standing next to an unfamiliar woman. They’re both smiling as they embrace in front of the inn. I touch a hand to the frame, and then I carry on.
The atrium appears bigger inside than it does on the outside. Square-panelled glass stretches the perimeter and over the roof, allowing the spring sunshine to filter in through translucent panes. It’s only April, but the weather is mild and the sun is blazing, warming the space.
“Take your pick,” a willowy redhead calls from behind the bar, gesturing to the slew of tables. “As you can see, we’ve got a full house.”
I glance around the decidedlynotfull house. Other than two people at a booth in the far corner, and a man and little boy at a square table in the centre, the place is empty. This lack of customers doesn’t seem to bode well for the business’s bottom line.
Yet another sign that Cherie shouldn’t have been involved in this place. It’s probably a money pit.
I make my way to a table across the room, away from the few other patrons. Unbuttoning my jacket, I take a seat as I let my gaze roam the restaurant.
“Can I get you a drink?” the redhead asks, still standing at the bar.
“Please. Water’s fine,” I reply. “Thank you.”
My perusal continues. The interior, much like the outside, is charming. It’s certainly nothing like the hotels and restaurants I generally frequent. They’re all modern finishings and sleek lines. Although the atrium is clearly an addendum, the bones of this place have stood the test of time, and features like the wallpaper in the hallway suggest a string of renovations over the decades.
