Page 9 of Middle Ground
Although I’mloath to admit it, the three-hour drive from Toronto and the ensuing back-and-forth with Meyer totally wiped me out. Ever since I woke up in the hospital a few weeks ago, I haven’t been feeling in tip-top physical shape.
I do my best to hide it, though. Everyone in my life is already watching me a little too closely after Cherie’s death. I don’t need to give them more of a reason to worry over me.
As I sit behind the wheel of my car, the urge to drive back to the city is strong. But I’m beyond tired, and the meeting I scheduled for tomorrow morning, whether Meyer acknowledges it or not, is important.
Not for the first time, I’m tempted to say I don’t want this place and all the trouble it will inevitably bring. But I also don’t want to let my grandmother down.
I’ve always been the odd one out in my family. They were all cut from the same creative cloth. My analytical brain, on the other hand, has rendered me rather useless in that department. Although Cherie didn’t share my obsession withnumbers or concrete facts, she made it a point to connect with me. To understand just a little bit.
Maybe that’s why it hurts so much that she’s gone.
I haven’t let myself dwell much on my feelings since her funeral. For a time, I could safely say it was because I was focusing on my physical health. Now, I don’t have the luxury of that excuse. So instead, I’m going to do what she asked and kid myself into believing it’ll make up for her glaring absence.
I survey the inn’s parking lot. It really is atrocious, the amount of potholes. The sign out front has also seen better days. A coat of paint would help, but a total rebrand would be better.
Despite the small part of me that says I should run—away from this inn, from dealing with Meyer—I’m not going to. For Cherie, I’m going to do my best to help it thrive. For some reason, my grandmother was fond of this place, so letting it flounder is not an option.
Not that it seems to be floundering. Come lunchtime, cars packed into the lot, and families and couples of all sorts entered the building. Perhaps it isn’t the money pit I first painted it out to be.
It’s this thought that reminds me how very little I know of this place. How blindsided I felt when this piece of my grandmother’s life was revealed because I thought I knew about all her out-of-the-box endeavours. I truly could be shackling myself to a dying business, one steady lunch rush aside, for the foreseeable future. Maybe Cherie hoped I could work a miracle with the books.
Or maybe I am, as Meyer put it, just a big shot who likes to make assumptions.
I know one thing for certain—if I so much as suggested having lunch at a place like this, my colleagues back in Toronto would’ve laughed me right out of the city.
A year ago, I would’ve laughed right along with them. Now, knowing how much a place like this meant to my grandmother, I feel like a grade-A asshole. Even if it’s hemorrhaging money, the least I can do is try to fix it.
And in six months, I’ll be back in the city—back to my life.
It’s this thought that spurs me into action. The sooner I get situated here and start turning things around, the sooner I can go home.
As I round my car to grab my overnight bag from the trunk, a pair of voices coming from the back of the building captures my attention.
“Reggie!” She sounds young, maybe high school age. “Meyer told you that you couldn’t smoke back here anymore.”
“Beatrice didn’t care,” he snaps. “Not my fault she’s trying to throw her weight around and change the rules.”
“The rules have always been there. Beatrice just didn’tcatchyou. Come on, the smoke is getting inside and making the kitchen smell.”
“Fuck off, Ashley.”
A door slams, followed by a handful of muttered curses. My eyes narrow. I wait to see if this Reggie kid will round the side of the building, and I’m not disappointed. He does a moment later, cigarette held between hisfingers.
He’s wearing some bastardized attempt at the inn’s uniform, with ripped jeans and combat boots, but it’s the scowl on his face that makes him look like a punk. My eyes narrow further.
He leans back against the wall, kicking a foot up to rest on the white siding behind him. He raises the cigarette to his lips and takes a slow drag.
With a shake of my head, I find my bag and close my trunk, then make my way across the parking lot.
Although it feels a lot like admitting defeat, I reenter the inn’s lobby, and I let my eyes rove over the details I skipped earlier. There’s entirely too much floral, like a greenhouse threw up all over the wallpaper and upholstery. It’s undoubtedly dated, but there’s also something surprisingly endearing about the space.
The front desk is small. It hosts a rundown computer monitor and a phone. A young woman with dark braided hair sits behind it, mindlessly spinning in her chair. Big, colourfully beaded earrings dangle from her ears. A hardcover book is open in her hand, and a bag of chips rests in her lap.
“Hi,” I say. “I’d like to book a room.”
The woman blushes as she jumps up from her chair. She tosses both the book and the chip bag onto the counter. She then brushes her hands over her thighs to decrumb them.
“Sorry. Yes, sir, of course?—”
