Chapter 36
CHAPTER 36
JACKSON
“For the third time today, I’m fine .”
Meyer’s voice rings out through the speakers of my car, and hearing it eases something in my chest. Leaving her this morning was the last thing I wanted to do, but one of us needed to stay back to help at the inn while the other picked up supplies in Calderville. Having Meyer surrounded by a group of people that love her seemed like the safest option to me.
“Just checking,” I say.
She laughs. “I know you’re just checking . I’m safe and sound, right where you left me.”
“Good, let’s keep it that way. I just left Calderville, so I’ll be back soon.”
“I’ll be waiting for you. Bye, Jackson.”
“Bye, baby.”
The calls disconnects, and I let out a sigh.
Driving back from the city, setting aside the stressors that come with an anonymous stalker, it occurs to me how relaxed I feel. Even the most stressful days at the inn leave me feeling a sense of peace when I climb into bed at night. The same couldn’t be said for the life I lived back home.
My leave from my job in Toronto is quickly nearing its end. I thought I would feel grateful, but instead, all I can feel is an impending sense of dread. And with that thought is the realization that I don’t want to go back. I’d trade in my condo for Meyer’s cottage in a heartbeat.
Fraisier Creek feels like home in a way the city never has.
Sure, I would miss my parents and my friends, but I’ve found a new group of people to rally around me here.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” I mutter aloud. “You always had to have the last word.”
My grandmother was a lot of things, but in this instance, she was right. About me, the inn. Meyer. She knew exactly what she was doing when she left me that letter, and honestly, I couldn’t be more grateful. She gave me more than I ever could’ve thought to ask for.
All the pressure that comes with the inn doesn’t feel like pressure when I have someone to share it with. When I have Meyer. My only wish is that Cherie could have been here to see this—to see what Meyer and I have created together, despite all the things trying to set us back.
Instead of driving straight to the inn, I decide to make a detour into town. I manage to snag a parking space right on Main, a great feat these days. I cut the engine, but I don’t get out of the car yet. Pulling my phone from the cupholder, I begin to type out a text.
Know anyone in the market for a condo ?
It doesn’t take long for a response to roll in.
Wells
Have I officially lost my best friend to the country?
I may be in the market for a good realtor.
Wells
Happy for you, man. Even if it does mean you’ll be ditching me.
You could always move here.
Wells
Maybe. If I had the right reasons.
Wells has never liked the city, not really. He tolerates it, at best. But I have a feeling that if I move to Fraisier Creek permanently, he won’t be long to follow.
Stepping out into the August sunshine, I lock my car. I only have a quick walk before I reach my destination.
The bell above the door chimes when I enter Little Treasure Flower Shop. Ilsa, the woman Meyer and I spoke with at the farmer’s market, stands behind the counter wearing a welcoming smile.
“Hi, Jackson,” she says. “What brings you in today?”
My eyes scan the displays. “I was hoping to find something Meyer might like,” I reply. Redness creeps up my neck at the admission.
Besides my mother and Cherie, I’ve never bought flowers for a woman before. But Meyer has me wanting to do all kinds of things I’ve never done. She makes it easy, though. One flash of that soft smile she pulls out just for me and I’m a goner, plain and simple.
Ilsa’s grin turns knowing. “Are you looking for cut flowers? Or a plant?”
Considering I’m not sure my girl has a green thumb to speak of, cut flowers are probably safest. At least their inevitable death will be through no fault of ours.
“Cut, please.” I eye the array of different coloured blooms. “Whatever you think will look the best together.”
As Ilsa turns toward the fridge, I wander around the store. On top of all things flowers, Ilsa also stocks a variety of trinkets from local small businesses. Along one wall, there are shelves filled with handmade soaps and artisanal crafts. I recognize a few products from the farmer’s market.
When the bell above the door jingles, I don’t bother looking up from the candle I’m inspecting. It seems like something Meyer might like.
“Hi!” Ilsa calls out. “I’ll be with you in a?—”
The sound of glass shattering causes my head to whip up. I abandon the candle and head back toward the front counter. Ilsa now stands with her back against the fridge. Her face has gone worryingly pale and her eyes are blown wide. A vase sits in pieces at her feet.
I take a step closer. “Ilsa, are you alright?”
She looks like she has seen a ghost. I thought I understood the expression before, but seeing her now tells me I hadn’t.
She holds a hand out in front of her, as if to ward someone off. “You need to leave,” she says, her voice shaking.
But she isn’t talking to me.
My head swings to the right, finally taking notice of the man standing just inside the shop. He looks to be in his early forties, roughly Ilsa’s age. Nothing about his outward appearance—jeans and a plain black t-shirt, hair going a little grey at the sides—raises any red flags, except for the wired look in his eyes.
Something about him seems familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.
His head cocks to the side. “You don’t recognize me?” he asks. “It’s me, Ilsa. You remember.”
She nods. “I remember, Felix. And that’s why you need to leave.”
To her credit, her voice doesn’t waver this time. But I can see her hands begin to shake. I inch closer to her as I keep an eye on the man.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he replies. He means it, too.
“Hey, man,” I interject, stepping forward, “I think it’s best if you head out. Ilsa asked you to leave.”
He flat-out ignores me, his eyes never straying from their target. “ I’m not leaving ,” he grinds out.
“You have to. You’re— You’re trespassing.” Despite the small stumble in Ilsa’s words, her voice remains strong. Her eyes flick to me quickly. “Jackson, call the police.”
I have no idea what is going on, but a sinking feeling has begun to grow in my gut. I don’t question Ilsa—I reach for my phone, but that simple action sends Felix into a rage. With a yell, he sweeps an entire table of flower arrangements to the floor. Glass and soil and broken blooms litter the concrete at his feet.
“ No .” His voice has sharpened. “Don’t fucking move. ”
Then he lifts his other arm, producing a gun. It was concealed at his side before, hidden by his leg and the table he stands behind, but now I’ve made him angry enough to brandish it.
“Felix.” Ilsa’s voice is little more than a whisper now. Tears have gathered in her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. “ Please . What are you doing?”
His hard glare lands on me. “Taking back what’s mine.”
My brain spins as I try to connect the dots, but I have no idea what he means. I don’t have time to mull it over before he’s gesturing with the gun, telling me to stand beside Ilsa.
I keep my eyes on him, my hands in plain sight, as I move. He watches me, too. When he’s satisfied that I’m corralled, he walks back toward the front door and flicks the lock. Then he shuts off the fluorescent Open sign in the window.
“Who the hell is he?” I whisper.
Ilsa seems to shrink in on herself, looking both scared and ashamed. “My high school boyfriend,” she replies.
Her thumb rubs absentmindedly over a scar on her wrist. My eyes flit to Felix, who is looking through the window to the sidewalk out front. When I’m sure he’s still far enough away to not overhear, I turn back to Ilsa.
“Did he hurt you?”
Her eyes snap to mine. “What?”
“You’re rubbing your wrist while you talk about him.” I grab it gently, eyeing the scar. It’s faded now, but it’s still visible. “Did he hurt you? Is that why you’re so scared?”
“Yes,” she says on an exhale. “I haven’t seen him in so long. His family moved while we were still in school. I thought I was rid of him for good. ”
I nod. “You will be. We’re going to get out of this,” I vow. “Everything is going to be okay.”
Somehow. I have to believe this won’t end in tragedy. I have too much to live for. I’m not dying before I get the chance to tell Meyer that I love her.
Tears fill her eyes once more. “I am so sorry, Jackson. This is the last thing I wanted to happen. You don’t deserve to be caught up in this.”
Shaking my head, I say, “Neither do you.”
Felix stalks across the shop, back toward us. He makes a move in Ilsa’s direction, but I step in his path. He sneers. Gun or not, I’m not letting him get anywhere near her. He’s already hurt her enough.
Before I have time to react, he swings the butt of the gun up and into the side of my head. I stumble back a step, the force throwing my centre of gravity off, and knock into another table. More planters crash to the floor, but I can hardly hear the sound over the ringing in my ear.
My temple throbs, and when I reach up to touch it, I hiss at the sharp pain. My hand comes away covered in blood. I can feel it trailing down the side of my face and soaking into the collar of my shirt.
Ilsa gasps. “Jackson!”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. She places a hand on my arm, turning me to face her. “Ilsa, it’s okay.”
Her chin dips. “It’s not.” Lower, she whispers, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll fix this.”
I shake my head. This isn’t hers to fix, and I don’t want her doing something rash because of her misplaced guilt. Whatever happens next, we have to be strategic. Felix doesn’t seem to be operating within reason.
Felix pulls something off the front counter and shoves it at Ilsa. Her phone, I realize.
“Text her,” he demands.
“Please, Felix,” she begs. “Don’t do this.”
His stare is unrelenting. The anger in his eyes never falters. “Text. Her. I want our daughter here. Now .”
Ilsa fumbles to take the phone. The threat of the gun in his hands feels heavy as he watches her. Ensures she does as she was told. He would know—if we tried to run, tried to call for help. We wouldn’t stand a chance, and then the town would be left unsuspecting of the danger that lurks in its midst.
“Who?” My gaze swings from Felix and then back to Ilsa. “Who is he talking about?”
Her watery gaze meets mine, and even before she speaks, ice is filling my veins. Because I know what she’s about to say.
“Meyer.”