Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
MEYER
It wasn’t until I was five years old that it occurred to me that my mother and I look different. While my friends and classmates all had similar features to their parents, I had none.
My mother likes to think that the reason she found me was an act of God. I think it was the strings of fate being manipulated by the universe. Whatever the case, we both agree that it was some kind of divine intervention, God or otherwise, that led her to me.
Back in 1998, the Fraisier Creek Fire Department was made up of volunteers—mostly still is—which meant there was only one person in the building at the time. The chief was preoccupied listening to his Discman, so he didn’t notice newborn me wailing outside the front door where I had been left.
Mom is the gentlest woman I think I’ll ever have the privilege of knowing. But that day, when she happened to be walking by after her car broke down, she cradled me to her chest and then marched into the fire station to give the chief a piece of her mind.
Children’s Aid wanted to take me to a nearby city to a foster home. Mom reportedly said, “She was left in Fraisier Creek, so Fraisier Creek is where she’ll stay.” And then she did everything in her power to keep me.
Growing up, I didn’t always make things easy. I definitely put her through her paces, but she’s never looked at me with anything short of love.
When her arthritis started flaring up really bad five years ago, I made a promise to myself that I would take care of her like she’s taken care of me. And a few months ago, when it became apparent that she needed more care than Fraisier Creek had to offer, I got her set up in a retirement condo just thirty minutes down the highway.
Now, whenever I’m not at the inn, I’m travelling to Calderville to visit her.
My head throbs as I push through my mother’s front door. I don’t make it a habit to get drunk—especially not off of wine in the loneliness of my own company—but when I do, the hangover is brutal. However, just like Jackson hoped, I remember everything about last night.
Stupidity, thy name is Meyer .
“Honey, I’m home!” I call.
I toe off my shoes and enter the open-concept kitchen. I place the takeout bags on the counter and then I move into the attached living room. It reminds me of the inn a little bit, with all the floral patterns. I know my mother has contributed to some of the inn’s decor over the years .
In the corner, Mom is snuggled in her recliner, a mass market paperback romance in her hand.
“Beatrice Ellison, is that a dirty book you’re reading?”
She nudges her glasses further up her nose. “Mind your own business,” she says. “Besides, they’re not called dirty anymore. They’re open-door romances .”
I laugh, and then I point toward the kitchen. “I brought Chinese food.”
“With egg rolls?”
I give her an offended look. “Of course. Who do you take me for?”
She grins, placing her book on the side table after dog-earring her page. She sets her folded glasses on top. “The best daughter I’ve ever had,” she replies. “Does this mean you’re done giving me the cold shoulder so we can talk?”
Well, damn . I’ve been so focused on the pounding in my skull, I forgot that I haven’t exactly been on speaking terms with my mother since yesterday.
“Hacking my email, Mother?” I opt to dive right in, picking up our argument from before the meeting. “ Really ?”
She shrugs. “You need a better password.”
“Well, I do now .” I settle onto the couch opposite her chair. “What exactly was the purpose of that?”
Her sigh is full of weariness. Although she has assured me this is what she wants, I know this transition of power hasn’t been easy on her. I worry she’s having regrets.
“After Cherie’s passing, I knew it would only be a matter of time before Jackson would be looking to get in contact. Since you’ve been running things, those messages would have gone to you. I wanted to get in front of it, find a way to tell you myself.”
“And then you still didn’t tell me. I had to find out from… him .” It’s hard to keep the contempt from my voice, but I manage. I think. “Why?”
“I’m not sure,” she admits. Mom has always been brutally honest about her feelings with me, and this conversation is no different. I can see the shame in her expression. “Pride, mostly. I didn’t want you to know about my struggles. Especially not when you were a child.”
“But I’m not a child anymore.”
“No.” She shakes her head, a wistful smile curling her lips. “No, you most certainly aren’t, my darling girl. I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you. I should have been a long time ago.”
It’s weird to think of your parent as someone who is capable of making a mistake. Adults always seemed like they had their shit together when I was a kid. Now, though, I realize we’re all just a little too human for that.
Still, I have been known to hold a mean grudge from time to time. But I’ve never quite been able to manage that with her. My anger has already fizzled into a steady stream of frustration.
I nod. “I get it. It just…really sucked being blindsided.”
Not to mention, it was humiliating. And that doesn’t even touch on my behaviour from last night. Suffice to say, if I never see Jackson Vaughan again, it’ll be too soon.
The smile she offers me is sad. “I promise there are no more secrets. That was my one and only. ”
“One too many to keep from the likes of me,” I declare. “How did Cherie get mixed up in this anyway?”
“She found Dog Days by accident one summer, and she fell in love. You know that part already. What you don’t know is a few decades later, when the recession hit, she offered to buy part of the business so I could stay afloat.”
I sigh. “And now Jackson Vaughan, the bane of my existence, has stakes in my inn.”
“Come now, he can’t be that bad. He was perfectly nice when I met him yesterday!”
“He assumed I was a man before he met me, he wears pretentious suits, and he wants to sell .” Sure, he didn’t actually say that, but I just know it. I cross my arms defensively. “He’s the devil come to be a pain in my ass.”
I spent a great deal of time scrolling through his LinkedIn profile—because he’s totally the type of guy who uses LinkedIn—last night, confirming most of my suspicions about him. He lives in Toronto, works at some fancy office there, and he’s the son of some music producer guy.
Mom frowns. “Cherie wouldn’t like the sound of that.”
“I know , right? Like, tone down the Tom Ford. Even if it does look really goo?—”
“I meant the fact that he wants to sell,” she interrupts. “Did he say why? He didn’t mention that during our meeting with Louis.”
I grimace. “Well, he didn’t exactly say, in so many words, that he wants to sell…”
She sends me a look that she has perfected over the years. It’s the look she has given me every time she wants me to fess up about something .
“You just made an assumption,” she supplies when I don’t say anything.
Touché, Mama .
“Why did Cherie have to leave it to Jackson?” I lament. “Doesn’t she have a more pleasant grandchild?”
A sparkle of amusement enters my mother’s eyes. “Cherie had her reasons. She always thought you two would make good partners. Business and otherwise.”
I cough as the notion of me and Jackson becoming a couple chokes me.
“As if. And you were in on it!” I scoff, and Mom simply shrugs. “What happened to setting your daughter up on a blind date like a normal mother?”
She laughs. “I know you better than that.”
I glower. “Apparently not. Because your guy is horrible . I’m officially sinking your ship.”
She pats my hand. “Cut him some slack. He just might surprise you.”
“Highly doubt it.”
Now, she raises a brow. “You’re being awfully judgmental for a woman who was raised better than that.” Then she smiles that patented soft smile. “I know you don’t like change, my prickly pear, but it’s not always a bad thing.”
“It’s not always a good thing either,” I counter.
No one seems to recognize the real possibility that Jackson is bad at business. Having a fancy degree does not preclude you from sucking. But, like always, my concerns aren’t being taken seriously.
Mom just shakes her head. “Serve me up some of that food. I’m starving.”
When I make it back to Fraisier Creek after my dinner with my mom, I stop at home to feed my cat, then trek across the path to the main building to make my rounds of the inn.
Trystan, the manager in charge of the hotel aspect of the business, mans the front desk again this evening. I compliment him on the new pin tacked to his lanyard—a heart the colours of the bi flag.
I then swing by the restaurant. Even though it’s only been a day, Pippa has already transitioned gracefully into her role as manager here, just as I knew she would. She’s not working tonight, but the staff are keeping things running smoothly.
I always feel a bit uneasy leaving this place, like as soon as I drive out of the parking lot, a sinkhole will open and swallow the inn whole. I wonder if this is how parents feel when they start letting their children have bits of independence. It’s not a pleasant feeling, which is why I barely leave.
As I’m just about to head inside my office, a thought occurs to me. I catch myself on the doorframe and stick my head back out. When Trystan finishes up with a guest, I call his name.
“Have you seen Mr. Vaughan?”
We haven’t said anything official to the employees yet, but Pippa has been in the loop since the beginning, so it only seemed fair to bring Trystan in, too.
It doesn’t take long for news to spread in Fraisier Creek, especially when you have an argument as loud as ours on Sunday. By now, I’m sure everyone and their mother has heard some version of the latest development, but only Pippa and Trystan know the full truth.
Trystan shakes his head. “Not since he was down for breakfast this morning.” He glances at the computer and clicks a few buttons. “Looks like he checked out.”
Huh .
I nod, my thoughts whirring. “Thanks.”
When I fall into the chair behind the desk, I try to focus on the paperwork crowding the surface in front of me. Instead, all I can think about is Jackson.
Why did he leave? He seemed very intent on making my life miserable by inserting himself into the inn’s operations, so where did he go?
Not having to face him today means that my pride has undoubtedly been spared a blow. I remember everything about our interaction last night, and there is no doubt that he does, too. The last thing I need is his smug reminder. Yet I still find myself oddly disappointed by his absence.
“Stupid Jackson Vaughan,” I mutter.
Even when he’s not here, he’s messing with my life. With my head. I’ve been wanting nothing more than for him to leave, and now that he has, I question it?
My office door clicks open, and then Trystan pokes his head in. “Sorry, did you say something, Meyer?”
I wave a hand. “Just talking to myself. Don’t worry about it.”
He holds up a piece of paper and approaches my desk with it. “After you walked away, I remembered this was left out front for you earlier.”
“Thanks, Trys. ”
When he leaves, I unfold the paper.
My cheeks heat. For one, because I find the slight messiness of his scrawl kind of endearing. But mostly because he has a penchant for figuring out exactly how to burrow his way under my skin. To press on the bruise that is just beginning to fade.
I crumple the note and toss it toward the wastebasket. It circles the rim and promptly falls to the floor. A fitting metaphor for my life. I slump in my seat, utterly defeated.
Stupid Jackson Vaughan .