2. Pascal

"I fucking hate people!I fucking hate everyone!" Of course, I said all this in French… I'm translating for the peasants out there who don't speak the language of lovers. Not that I've ever been in love. Perhaps that was for the peasants too.

"But Monsieur Dupont, you can't just close everything up and run away," said Francois, my quivering, begging, long-suffering ma?tre d' as he chased after me through the café while I shuttered the windows and locked the front door.

At thirty-two years of age, I had it all.

A thriving business.

A stunning reputation.

A chance to become the greatest pastry chef in Paris.

But with one humiliating review, I was about to lose it all.

"Monsieur Dupont, I beg of you. Don't shut everything down just because you're worried about what she thinks."

"It's not just what she thinks," I snapped, pushing my wavy black hair out of my eyes with frustration. "Now that it's been published, it's what everyone thinks. That I'm a fake. A fraud. That I don't have what it takes to follow in my uncle's footsteps. Well, fuck them all. All the readers of that bourgeois blog can go fuck themselves. All the reviewers who post on that bourgeois blog can go fuck themselves. And most of all, Gisele Chapelle, the creator of that bourgeois blog can take the longest, stalest baguette in all of Paris and shove it up her—"

"Monsieur Dupont, don't you think you're taking all this a little too personally?"

"Personally? Me… taking an attack on my pastries, my art, my career too personally? Of course, I am. That critic-loving creature of darkness has made me the laughing stock of Paris. She called me a hack, a has-been, a cheap imitation of my uncle and an insult to my family's legacy. She has challenged me to prove her wrong, which is exactly what I intend to do."

"By running away?"

"Precisely!" With a shove I pushed him out through the front door and followed him out onto the cobblestone pavement in the dead of night, closing and locking the door to my beloved café behind us. "But mark my words, the world has not seen the last of Chef Pascal Dupont."

And so it was, I had to leave Paris.

No, not simply leave… I had to escape Paris.

Unseen.

Unheard.

Undetected.

I knew Giselle Chapelle would have her spies everywhere—reporters, reviewers, restaurant critics wanting to use me as their scapegoat for the sake of a big fat juicy article in her bloodthirsty blog.

I didn't want any of it.

Not until I had that recipe—my uncle's masterpiece. Only then could I claim the crown of the greatest pastry chef in the world.

Unfortunately, to do that I had to run away from the capital of fine cuisine, I had to abandon the very heart of gastronomical delights, I had to turn my back on my beloved France and go to—

"Mulligan's Mill," I told the man at the check-in desk at Charles de Gaulle Airport.

"Where?"

"Mulligan's Mill. It's a small town somewhere in the United States."

The check-in clerk gave a smug laugh. "It's small all right. I'm afraid it's not coming up on my system at all, which means there's no airport in… what did you say it was called again?"

"Mulligan's Mill."

"Are you sure it's an actual town? It sounds like a farmhouse."

"It's not a farmhouse. At least, I don't think it is. Can you look again?"

"It's definitely not here. Do you know any other towns nearby?"

I took a look at the back of the crumpled envelope that I pulled from my pocket and saw the address from which that thief Flannery had mailed his letter. "Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Can you at least get me to Eau Claire?"

The check-in clerk tapped away at his computer as though I had just asked him to do the dishes. I'd seen that look from plenty of staff members at my award-winning patisserie and café over the years, usually just before I fired them. Unfortunately, the café was closed indefinitely now, such was the price I was willing to pay for the stolen recipe. It was a gamble, but what could I say? I was French, and there were only two things in the world worth risking everything for—love and food.

And since I'd never actually experienced true love before, then food it was… ah, oui, I would do anything for food.

"I can get you on a flight to New York's JFK," said the check-in clerk. "After that there's a connection to Milwaukee then another flight to Chippewa Valley Regional Airport in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. It's the scenic route, but at least it will get you close to… what was the name of that farmhouse again?"

I rolled my eyes. "Just book the damn flight."

Before arriving in Mulligan's Mill, I had tended to the necessary paperwork. As fate would have it, the bakery owned by Monsieur Flannery was still for sale. According to the realtor it was now classed as a deceased estate, information to which I was already privy thanks to Monsieur Flannery's letter. I moved swiftly to secure the property and the sale was complete the day before my arrival in—

"What the hell is this place?"

The bus driver who had driven me—his only passenger—from Eau Claire to Mulligan's Mill gave me a dullard's stare as the bus idled outside the town's general store. "This is Mulligan's Mill. That's the town you wanted to go to, right?"

"Town? You call this a town? I've seen bigger postage stamps."

The bus driver didn't respond. He simply pulled the lever that opened the bus door. "So, are you getting out or are you going back to Eau Claire? Because if you are, you'll have to pay for a return ticket."

I had to admit I pondered my options for a moment. Then the face of that sneaky smiling assassin Giselle Chapelle popped into my head. "Of course I'm getting off. I have things to prove."

"Hooray for you. I'll get your bags."

My vintage Louis Vuitton suitcases crash-landed onto the pavement as the driver dragged them out from the coach's cargo hold and tossed them in my general direction. "Careful with those, you reckless oaf! Do you want to scratch the leather?"

"Mister, all I want to do is get your bags off my bus and get my ass back to Eau Claire. There's a game on TV and I'm gonna miss the start if I don't hurry things up."

He began to clamber back into his bus, but as the door started to close, I caught it with one hand and held it open. "Wait. I have no idea where I am. Can you tell me how to find the old bakery that Monsieur Flannery once owned?"

"What do I look like, a Google app? I'm sure you'll figure out where it is. It can't be that far away. After all, you've seen bigger postage stamps, right?"

He pumped the lever, and the door opened a few inches then closed hard on my arm. "Ow!"

I lurched backward as the bus chugged into motion, leaving me with my dumped luggage in front of the general store. Already I was beginning to regret my decision to leave Paris.

What if Francois my ma?tre d' was right?

What if I was overreacting?

Worse still, what if Giselle Chapelle was right?

What if I was nothing more than a hack, a has-been, a cheap imitation of the great pastry chefs in my family who had gone before me.

Was I an insult to my family legacy?

Did a long, illustrious line of talent and creativity and fine culinary French finesse end with me?

Or could I prove to the world that I was indeed worthy of my family name… if only I could find the secret recipe to my uncle's masterpiece.

Which would start by finding the old bakery I just bought.

I looked around at my surroundings. From where I stood, I could see a park with an old wishing well in the middle of it. Beyond that was a bridge that crossed a river, leading to the other side of town. And beside my pile of dumped luggage were the steps heading up to the porch of the general store… more specifically, Raven's General Store, according to the sign.

I figured it was the obvious place to ask for directions.

I tended to my luggage, trying not to focus on any scuffs and marks as I sat it all upright, realizing a little sadly that it was not just an expensive pile of Louis Vuitton I was trying to stack so neatly; it was all that was left of my life. Or at least, the life I had chosen for now.

Was it any wonder I worried about the scuffs?

With a reluctant sigh I left my luggage unattended and trudged up the steps to Raven's General Store.

It looked like something straight out of the old frontier, its Wild West character making me question for a moment whether I'd stepped back in time. On the porch I saw an old fortune telling machine, a soda vending machine stocked with cans of Tab, and a rack of postcards covered in more dust than a desert relic. That's when I truly began to wonder which decade I was in.

When I opened the door and stepped inside the store, a dreamcatcher with a bell attached jingled over my head. The place was a maze of shelves and stands and bargain bins crammed full of everything from transistor radios to trucker caps, from peanut butter to perfume, from fishing lures to sardine cans, from peach tins to moonshine gin to moccasins made from moose-skin and oh-so-much more.

There was no rhyme to the place.

No reason.

And above all, no style.

I was about to turn and leave when I heard a voice say—"New in town?"

I turned and tried to peer through the chaos to see where the voice was coming from. That was when I saw an old man with brown, wrinkled skin and long gray hair tied in a ponytail emerge from behind a stand of sunglasses so old that they may well be back in fashion again.

"Yes, I am." I stepped up to him cautiously, eyeing him up and down. I noticed the beads around his neck, the leather bracelets around his wrists, the feather tied to his ponytail. "Are you what's called an ‘American Indian'?"

The man's brow creased ever so slightly as he calmly replied. "No. I'm what's called a ‘Native American'. Are you what's called an ‘asshole'?"

I gasped. "Sacre bleu!"

"Oh, pardon me," he said. "I didn't mean to offend you. Let me rephrase the question. Are you what's called a ‘French asshole'?"

I gasped again, this time sucking in so much air that words failed me as I began to splutter.

"Are you choking to death? Do you need a drink to clear your throat? I'm trying to get rid of the Tabs in the machine out front. They're two for the price of one at the moment. Sure, they may be a little past their due date, but who can ignore a bargain like that, huh?"

I coughed and shook my head. "Absolutely not. That stuff is poison even if it's not past its due date."

The man nodded. "I hear you. I'm a Pepsi man myself. So now that we've got the pleasantries out of the way, what can I do you for?"

It took a few more lungfuls of air to get my breathing back on track. "I'm looking for the old bakery once owned by Monsieur Flannery. Do you know if it?"

"Oh, so you're the guy who bought it, huh?"

I felt the need to introduce myself, partly to apologize for any unintentional albeit inappropriate racial slurs, and partly to stop the old man from trying to kill me with a decades-old soda in the future. "Yes, that's me. My name is Pascal Dupont."

I offered my hand, which the man eventually decided to shake. "I'm Old Man Raven, and if you're looking for Flannery's bakery, it's just across the bridge on Main Street, a hundred yards down the road. Turn left and it's the first building on Riverside Promenade. You won't miss it, it's right next door to all the racket that's going on in Bud's new shop."

"Racket? What racket? I don't like rackets."

"Oh, you're in for a racket alrighty. Bud is getting his flower shop ready for its grand opening. Him and his friends are drilling and sawing and hammering and doing a bang-up job of the old place. Looks great inside. Just yesterday I took a peek through the front window, right before Maggie told me to buzz off and come back Saturday. She could use some customer service training, you know. Maybe pick up a few tips on how to ‘surprise and delight' your patrons."

I looked around dubiously. "Are you suggesting that you know a thing or two on how to ‘surprise and delight' patrons?"

"Sure. I surprised you by calling you an asshole. Then I delighted you by offering you a drink. Mmmm, perhaps I should try to sell Maggie my soda machine, she could lure a few customers in with a Tab or two. She bought an old newspaper vending machine off me once. What she ever did with it is anyone's guess."

"As is everything you've just said to me. I have no idea who or what you're talking about, which means this is where I take my cue and bid you adieu. I'd like to say it's been a pleasure, but what I'd rather say is, may we never meet again."

Old Man Raven smiled for the first time. "A man who speaks his truth. You and I may well be kindred spirits after all."

"Oh, I really don't think so. I'm like a glass of fine wine, whereas you…" I spotted an item on the shelf behind him. "You're more like spam in a can. No offense. Now if you'll excuse me, my luggage is waiting outside."

As I opened the door to the jingle of the dreamcatcher, Old Man Raven said behind me, "I look forward to seeing you again, Monsieur Dupont. Good luck with your new home… and welcome to Mulligan's Mill."

There was not just drilling and sawing and hammering going on in the place beside Monsieur Flannery's old bakery. There was laughter and music and singing… really bad singing.

"You can dance, you can mime, having some time with your wife? Those aren't the lyrics to Dancing Queen," I muttered to myself.

I chose to ignore such a hullabaloo; the sound of people having fun had always grated on my nerves. I crouched down to the old welcome mat at the front door, embroidered with the words—Life is what you bake of it.

"Well, that's going straight in the trash," I said, flinging the mat aside to reveal the key that the realtor had left for me.

I hesitated in picking it up.

I knew it was the key that he had held—Monsieur Flannery.

That fuck.

That thief.

I didn't want to taint myself with it, even though I knew the realtor had probably handled it a hundred times since that culprit had fled town. I pulled the handkerchief from my pocket and used it to pick up the key.

I heard the door to the shop next door open.

Quickly I stood, hastily jiggling the key in the lock to get inside before anyone noticed me. I was not interested in small talk, I was not interested in meeting my next-door neighbor, and I sure as hell was not interested in anyone trying to make friends with me.

I jiggled harder.

Suddenly a man stepped out of the front door of the shop next door, a sheen of sweat on his brow and a smile on his handsome bearded face. And there was something else to him.

A look.

Of happiness.

Of gratitude.

Of satisfaction… at whatever work they were doing inside, I suppose.

Before I knew it he turned and caught my eye.

Oh yes, he was handsome indeed.

And far too friendly looking.

He waved.

The key turned.

The door unlocked.

I pushed it open so hard I almost fell inside.

I yanked at my luggage trying to drag it along with me, not giving a fuck about scuffs anymore, then quickly I slammed the door, shutting out Mulligan's Mill as fast as I could.