CHAPTER 1 : GRAVESTONES TO MILESTONES

I like to think of myself as a romantic, but that doesn’t make me an idiot.

Don’t mistake my use of the term ‘romantic’ to mean that I’m all about trite cliches like long walks on the beach and bubble baths by candle-light. I do love all of that stuff, but that’s not all I mean when I say that I’m a ‘hopeless romantic’.

I’m a romantic because I love to dream and I let those dreams get the better of me. I look at the horizon of life and all I see are welcoming shores and lush island paradise. I don’t get into a relationship because I want a summer fling. I do it because I’m looking for a life partner, an accomplice and someone to die with at the tail end of my twilight years in a retirement home. I didn’t go to cooking school so I could be sous-chef at some random pop-up restaurant in downtown Montreal. I don’t want a food truck. I slave away at these dumb classes, doing all the dumb assignments and listening to all the dumb teachers because I’m going to have a five star restaurant– No! A chain of

five star restaurants, with locations in Paris, L.A. and New York. When I die (with my life partner in that retirement home), my name will live on as the name of a legendary dish beloved the world over.

I’m ‘hopeless’ because no matter how often life tells me these dreams are the stuff of fantasy, that they will never become reality, I just keep getting back up and tossing myself at them again.

My mother used to say: “Miriam, you’re mistaking stupidity for perseverance.” And it used to believe her. That’s not fair though. Idiocy is trying the same thing over and over and expecting different results. When I got refused at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, I signed up for the Institue de Tourisme et d’Hôtelerie du Quebec. Not as prestigious, but all I need is to get my diploma and start an apprenticeship somewhere to be on my way. When I’m done, Le Cordon Bleu will be begging me to give classes. And I will say ‘non’.

So, as hopeless and romantic as I may be, I’m no idle dreamer.

Every day I get up, get cleaned, and get dressed. When I’m scheduled to work, I put on my green apron and I smile and serve caffeine and sugar to fellow students and dullards alike. I pull my shifts with as much enthusiasm as can be expected from a human machine whose function it is to provide fake cheer and chemical alertness.

When I’ve got classes, I drag myself there too. ‘Drag’ might not be the right word. I love the kitchen. Even the classroom kitchen at school. I’m at home in any kitchen. If I believed in magic and destiny, I’d think that kitchens and I have a mystical bond. It’s like there are invisible ribbons that grow out of me and connect to every kitchen, stove and oven in the world. They’re not just rooms and appliances, but extensions of my own self. See? A romantic.

But seriously, classes are little more than a formality. I can make a soufflé as easily as drawing breath, or layer a Mille-feuille

with as little effort as you’d need to make a bed.. I have a lot more fun with pastries and fancy cakes, which I suppose is what’s expected of a girl like me in the kitchen. But I can just as easily roast a lamb to perfection or caramelize veggies with the best of them. Simply put: I do by instinct what my teachers required years to learn.

And they hate me for it.

Which, I suppose, is why I’m sitting in Dean Mack’s office. Again.

“Miss DuFour, we have got to stop meeting like this.” The old man who essentially runs the school is trying to make light of the situation, but I can see in his pale, tired eyes, that this is serious.

“I didn’t start it,” I pre-emptively explain. I sound like a child, but it’s true.

"You called Chef Gagnon ‘pedestrian and incompetent’. Need I remind you that he is your teacher and mentor?"

"He tore me apart in front of the whole class. Called my Coq au Vin ’school cafeteria chicken broth’. That’s completely unfair! The recipe he’s shoving down our throat isn’t just uninspired, it’s barely edible. So I showed a bit of imagination and flair, and tried to improve on his catastrophe? Is that a reason to humiliate me in front of my peers?"

The Dean’s eyes narrow. I can see him struggling to disagree with me. We’ve had this dance before. I know he agrees with me that Gagnon acts like he’s some reality television star. He belittles students on a regular basis. As if stepping on the heads of those under his charge is the only way to elevate himself.

"Chef Gagnon is a reputable teacher and chef. You should have been honored to be counted amongst his students, Miss DuFour. He even said, after your application exam, that you were a promising baker. We’ve talked about this; he’s been demanding with you because he knows what you’re capable of."

“Of course he thinks I’m a promising baker! Just because I’m a woman he probably thinks all I’m good for is making eclairs and– Wait. ‘Should have been’?”

This was another dance we’d shared countless times. Gagnon loves me. Gagnon thinks the world of my skills. He thinks I’m just so gosh-darned talented, as a baker, of course. Then I ask why he keeps taking the piss out of me. Occasionally I spice it up by mentioning my suspicion that he’s actually jealous. Then there’s threats of suspension, I get a warning and we’re all on our way.

"What do you do you mean ‘Should have been’?" my voice shaky as I speak the tense.

"You’ve had sufficient warnings Miss DuFour, and Chef Gagnon has made it clear that he will no longer teach you. His class is a pre-requisite for graduation, so that leaves you, and us, very few options."

My vision narrows, contracted to a tunnel by the implication. Is he seriously kicking me out of school?

"Wait. No! I can learn to bite my tongue. Hell, I’ll even follow his stupid recipes. Don’t kick me out. I need this diploma!" I loathe the desperation in my voice. Like a different kind of child, one with no agency or self-respect. I feel stripped of pride, begging for the right to learn.

"These are old promises, Miss DuFour. You can’t expect to insult a teacher through a whole semester and not face some kind of consequences."

"I didn’t insult him," I say those words, but I already know it’s a lie the Dean can call me on. And he does.

"You said, and I quote : ’It’s true what they say; those who can’t do, teach.’ followed by something about how he uses too much flour. Chef Gagnon doesn’t teach because he’s incapable of a career in the field, Miriam. He owns two successful restaurants in Montreal and one in Quebec."

And I’ll have that many in L.A. and New York, I think, seething with contempt.

I can’t anger this away though. And I’ve already negotiated way passed the point of tolerance. I’ve spent all the good will I was going to get from the Dean, and Gagnon never had much to spare.

I walk out of the Dean’s office in something of a daze. I have– had a baking class that started half an hour ago, and I still feel like I should be running there and hope I didn’t miss too much. I loved the baking class. Easy credits.

Instead, I find myself stepping outside into the sun. The weather has no right being this hot, this late into fall. My mood demands a dramatic rainfall, or even a thunderstorm, instead I get sweltering humidity. Even the sky is turning its back on me.

I guess I should just go home, but the apartment I’m living in barely qualifies anymore. A quick look at my phone tells me if I go back to the apartment now, Trev is still going to be there and if he’s there, then that boyfriend-stealing bitch Cindy is also going to be there. I don’t know if I have the patience for her right now. It’s enough that I have to deal with a brand new catastrophe without

having to stare the fallout of the previous one in the face. I’d be liable to toss her, or myself, or both of us, off the third floor balcony.

I’m barely down the subway steps and I’m already regretting thinking it. Cindy’s fine. As far as boyfriend-stealing bitches go, she’s been far too kind and understanding. At times it helps me get through it, and other times I just want to strangle her with her stupid blond braid.

Sneaking into the apartment is usually damn near impossible. The front door opens directly into the living room, makes a deafening racket, not to mention the noise that echoes the stairwell heralding the arrival of guests and roommates. Sometimes, I get lucky and Trevor and Cindy are still in Trev’s room and I can walk in unnoticed. Considering how bad I just want to lock myself in my own room and sink into a cave of self-pity for the next decade, avoiding conversation is probably best for everyone involved.

Problem with my room though, is that it’s the lair of chaos. A wall of packed boxes, piled high on the far wall, foretells of a

move that’s taking too long to happen. My desk is covered in a thick forest of coffee cups and plastic glasses from half a dozen cafés and coffee shops. The variety of shapes and sizes gives the ensemble a near-artistic quality. Move my desk, unaltered, into a modern art gallery, and it looks like an installation piece that’s a commentary on addiction and the desperate state of the rat race. Here, it’s a reminder that I drink too much coffee and am too lazy to throw the empty containers out.

Lost somewhere in the myriad cups sits my virus-stricken laptop. Like some geriatric patient in a hospital, immune system too weak to fend off even the most benign of illness, the poor thing is falling apart. It would be a catastrophe if it were to give up the ghost, since it’s my only link to the digital world. I have a smart-phone, I guess, but it’s not quite that smart, and without a data plan I have to rely upon the good will of public wifi.

There’s a lump in my throat as I trace back why I’m still relying on antiquated gadgets. I can’t afford new toys because I don’t have a good job and I’m saddled with student loans. Can’t

get the better job without finishing the program I just got kicked out of, but for which I’ll still have to pay at least a chunk of the tuition.

At the very least, I can request more hours from the coffee shop until I figure out what to do next. The distraction and extra bulk to my pay-check are probably the only way to cope. Especially if it gets me out of this goddamn apartment.

I’m greeted by a dozen emails, most of which are spam I don’t know how to rid myself of. All I want is to log onto our HR web portal and update my availabilities but, right there between a warning to upgrade my information with a bank I don’t do business with and a so-called long lost rich cousin promising me a fortune in broken English, there’s a message from my supervisor.

On average, those emails are about training on new products and whatever promotion is happening a week from now. "Miriam, I’m sorry to have to inform you that during the repaving of the street in front of the café, we won’t be opening passed seven PM. All evening hours are being cut and because

the owner is trying to keep every employee, everyone will be losing between five and eight hours a week. On the positive side, this will free up time for your studies and we remain as flexible for you and your schedule as always. Take care. Laura."

Empty paper cups go flying across my bedroom, some falling to the hardwood floor in a clatter, others landing quietly on my unmade bed. Unsatisfied, I let out a scream of frustration. Half rage and half despair, but all volume. It’s taking every ounce of self-restraint not to knock my laptop down, having it join the coffee cups on the ground.

I don’t even like the work. I don’t mind the customers or even the majority of my coworkers, but I hate making the stupid espressos and americanos. I especially loathe serving pre-made sandwiches and pre-cooked chili from plastic containers. I’m Miriam DuFour! One day my name will adorn the menu of the most prestigious dining establishments in the world. Tupperware containers filled with freezer burnt ground beef and canned tomatoes are beneath me.

But I need that job. If not for the money then for the few remaining crumbs of self-esteem scattered on the dish of my life. I still have it, but with so few hours, I’m going to have to start hunting for something different. On top of shopping for a new apartment which I probably won’t be able to afford.

By the time the knock on the door comes, I’m not sure if I’ve been asleep or just weeping for a minute. All I know for sure is that my face is as wet as from rain and my spirit broken as a shattered dish; with pieces strewn across the floor amidst the empty coffee cups.

"Mim?"

It’s Cindy.

Her pretty blue eyes peer from a crack in the door, wide with concern and worry. I both want to punch her for being herself, and leap into her arms for being there for me.

Cindy is the worst kind of person. The kind that sneaks into your life, making a nest in the middle of your day-to-day without you noticing. Like a bad parasitic infestation, by the time you

realize she’s there, it’s too late. She’s taken over your existence, moved into your home and stolen your boyfriend. And you thank her for it.

I can never decide if she’s intentionally manipulative and devious, or simply too good natured to hate. Usually, I’m happy despising her. It gives me a convenient target to vent my frustrations, muttering to myself on the way to, and back from school.

Today, I can’t find it in me to detest her as she deserves. The pretty little cow is there for me and, for once, I’m glad of it. "You okay, Mim?"

I can’t even hate her for the stupid nickname.

"I’m fine."

It’s such a dumb, blatant lie. The kind you say when you’re begging for a follow-up question. Cindy indulges because of course she does.

"That scream earlier didn’t sound fine at all," she says, letting herself in. For the first time in months, I feel self-conscious about my living conditions.

"They cut my hours at work."

I try to make it sound like it’s not that big a deal. I can’t stand to have Cindy pity me, but at the same time, I don’t know that I want to be alone either.

"Ouch," she says, now sitting on my bed amongst the dirty clothes, picking up empty cups. "You want me to keep an eye out in case I see something else? We were looking for a receptionist at the clinic, but I don’t know if that would work with your school schedule. I can always ask if they could use a part-timer."

There she goes, being generous and thoughtful. I’d probably hate working at her clinic. She’s just an intern there, shadowing a psychologist while she’s working on her thesis, but I’d have to see her cheerful face every day. I bet the pay is fantastic though. And I wouldn’t have to serve watery frozen chili anymore. "Doesn’t matter. They kicked me out of school too."

She makes a face like the news is a physical blow, cringing and wincing at the same time. It’s so sincere that for a moment I wanted to comfort her!

"Got into it with that teacher again?"

"Yup! Chef Gagnon. This time I went too far it seems. He didn’t so much kick me out as refuses to teach me anymore, which might as well be the same thing."

"Are they going to reimburse your tuition?"

"Does it even god damn matter?" I snap.

Cindy looks hurt. On any other day I would have taken that as a victory. Tonight I’m overwhelmed with remorse. "I’m sorry," I say, contrite. "It matters. And the dean says I’ll be partially reimbursed for the classes I can’t complete." I feel like absolute crap. Everything is falling apart, so much so that I’m contemplating moving back in with my parents, whom I hate. Yet, the one person who reaches out to me, I bite their hand. Then I notice it.

Cindy’s holding something.

"Oh!" she follows my eyes, settling on the thick ochre envelope between her fingers. She seems to be discovering it again for the first time. The thick paper has seen better days. Bits of tape to keep it from falling apart and a collection of stuck-on addresses and postage information testify to its long and storied life.

"Maybe this is good news?" Cindy says, handing over the envelope.

My fingers tremble as I grab it. I’m at the end of my rope and it’s difficult to keep up any pretence. But also, there’s something ominous about the thick package. I can see stains, like a coffee ring on the back and tears at the corner that come from wear rather than damage. How long has this thing been traveling? What has this envelop seen?

Why is it here, in my hands, my name written in elegant letters on top of a fresh, white sticker?

I connect with the used up nature of the paper. I can feel it sympathize with my own rips and scratches and stains. I stare

down, reluctant to rip it further and see what’s inside. If it’s anything like me, all I’ll find are more tears waiting to escape. "I’ll leave you alone to open it," Cindy says. I only recoil a little when she puts her hand on my shoulder. "I sent Trev out to get dinner. He’ll be gone for a while still. So, if you need me I’ll be in the living room and we can talk."

I don’t answer. What am I supposed to say? I can’t decide if I’m spiteful or thankful towards her for stealing Trevor away, and I can’t bring myself to think of her as a friend, even though she’s everywhere in my life. I hate that I can’t hate her.

I run my thumb over the letters of my name. My full name. ’Miriam Antoinette DuFour’. The slight relief of dried ink rubs against the pads of my finger. I try to look through the sticker and make out the previous destination, but all the blurry letters tell me is that they were written by the same hand.

That person, if the envelope can be trusted, is one ’Helen Edna, notary public’. I can think of very few professions that can send correspondence as ominous as a notary public. The amused

fatalism of a minute ago cedes its place to full on dread. I was right, I decide, to think this is more bad news.

I need to fish out a knife to cut through the layers of tape that hold the envelop closed. Careful not to ruin the contents, I run the blade inside to create a clean opening. No tears pour out, but instead I manage to pull a heavy stack of papers. Reams of documents held together with staples and paperclips. There’s more hardware in here than in a home-assembly office desk.

Everything is small print and legal jargon. Lines of bullets cover each page like they were victims of a drive-by shooting. On each piece of paper, either at the top, hidden in text, or at the bottom next to a line crowned by an elegant signature, the name ’Helen Edna’.

The deeper I dig through the stack, the more yellowed and dog-eared each document becomes. It’s an archeological dig of notarized platitudes.

I flip back to the top page, white as virgin snow. Even the folds are crips and neat. Apart from addresses, titles and introductions, there is very little to the message.

Dear Miss DuFour,

It is with great sadness that I must inform you of the passing of Miss Doris Colette DuFour.

Doris was taken peacefully of a stroke on the night of April seventeenth of this year in her home in Achewillow, Vermont/ Quebec.

Attached you will find the specifics of her last will and testament, along with details of her inheritance. After going down the line of succession, Doris’s full estate has come to be in your name.

To receive the goods listed in the inheritance document, please make an appointment at my offices as soon as convenient. Should you wish to decline, please return the enclosed package, in its entirety, to sender.

Who the hell is Doris DuFour?

All of this feels like a terrible mistake. Somehow, someone mixed up some paperwork and, because of the similar name, this important document was sent to me.

It’s a painful reminder that there are worse tragedies in life than being kicked out of a school or losing a bad boyfriend. But it comes wrapped in a yellow envelope of false hope.

An inheritance. How fortunate a turn of events would that have been? It wouldn’t take much. A few thousand dollars to wipe out a chunk of my student loans. Enough to afford to move with maybe a buffer to allow me to find a new job and a new purpose.

What if it was enough to pay so I could study abroad? Start fresh in another cooking school in New York or L.A.? Hell, I’d study in Miami if it meant I could go back to cooking.

My hands lock step with my thoughts in their curiosity. Before I can stop myself, my fingers have already flipped through several stapled piles of paper.

Each starts with the same cover letter, promising an inheritance, but also offering the possibility to refuse. A privilege

that seems to have been popular amongst the half dozen or so people in the line of succession before me.

The names are all a little familiar. When they don’t straight up have ’DuFour’ inserted somewhere, they have a ring to them from deep in my memory. Like long lost uncles or aunts I haven’t seen since I was a toddler.

At the bottom of the pile, I get to the main course. There, on a simple page, is the bulleted list of items included in Doris DuFour’s inheritance. The sum total of her earthly belongings.

In the end, it’s seven points, each detailing the various parts and parcels, from building to real-estate, from private property to commercial owning, of a café with an apartment above.

Each item is listed twice. Once in the State of Vermont, and another in the Province of Quebec. The seventh bullet isn’t an item but a provision; that whoever accepts the inheritance must operate the business.

All of this sounded very exciting at first. My own café. I imagined a little place on the Plateau, here in Montreal. A perfect

springboard from which to build my name. I could rename it after myself and change its vocation to suit my ambitions better. From peddling coffee and pastries, it could move to offering gourmet meals and fancy but efficient lunches. It would be my own little laboratory to experiment with what would one day become my signature dishes.

Except, the address isn’t anywhere near Montreal, or any other reasonably sized city. It’s in Achewillow.

Where the hell is Achewillow?

Wherever it is, I doubt that it has anything to offer that would support my ambitions. No one builds a culinary empire from a coffee shop nestled between two farms. I can picture it now; old truck stop with art deco furniture. A Coca-Cola clock from the fifties behind a counter lined with red leather stools. A glass bell with a freshly baked apple pie next to a mechanical register. Maybe they have a signed photograph of some mid-level celebrity who ate there once a few decades ago. I’m sure the Achewillow

café is very quaint and serves a killer cheeseburger, but it’s the last place I ever want to be.

Still...

Even at a loss, a property like that has got to be worth a few bucks. Certainly enough to pay my loans. If I so much as break even on the deal, it’d be worth going through the paperwork. It’s not my adorable little bistro on Saint-Denis boulevard, but it may well be the fresh start I need right now.

I wake my geriatric laptop. I think, for a moment, that maybe it’s just the right age to remember a lost little city like Achewillow. In the end, it’s the internet I ask.

Information is scarce and anything but reassuring. Geographically, it looks to be located just on the border between the United States and Canada, deep in Quebec’s South. Maybe there are two locations to the café? One on each side of the border? That’s twice the properties to sell.

Where I was expecting a sleepy town where nothing happens, I’m surprised to find that Achewillow has something of a

story to tell. The little town without even its own website has been popping up on the news in Southern Quebec. Not for their apple festival either.

Over the last few months, there have been three bodies found in the vicinity of the little village. There’s precious little information available. No names or cause of death, only that foul play is suspected and that provincial police (it would be too much to hope Achewillow might have its own cops) are looking for clues on both sides of the border.

And that’s it. No information on the gender of the victims or their age or anything. Achewillow is so small and remote that little to no information can escape its pull.

Despite, or maybe even because of, this new air of mystery about the small town, I quickly find myself shopping around for a lift South. I figure I might as well take advantage of my reduced hours and have a look at this inheritance. If I skip a meal or two, I can afford to pay for gas and get transportation to Achewillow.

I post my message on a commuting website, and I lean back, thinking that I might have to wait an extra week before I find someone willing to make the trip. After all, there can’t be that many people going back and forth between Montreal and Achewillow. Hell, I’ll be lucky if I can find a direct trip.

I let my mind wander, now that it no longer insists on venturing towards my dreadful day. Instead it lingers on the idea of owning a café in a small town. My brain tries to figure out who Doris DuFour is and if she is indeed a relative. I’m tempted to call mom and ask what she knows, but then she’d ask how I’m doing and I’d have to confess to another failure. I don’t think I’m ready to do that.

For a moment, I wonder if I’m even allowed to inherit a property. I’m eighteen and therefor an adult, but are there other limitations I’m not aware of?

I’m about to dig into a fresh search to find out more, when a notification pops up.

It’s from the commuter website.

Going to Achewillow tomorrow. Leaving from Place Versailles at seven in the morning. Be happy to give you a ride. Gulliver

That is a lot faster than I thought. Much too convenient also. Any reasonable woman would decline or maybe delete the original request. What are the chances someone would be going to Achewillow of all places and coincidentally hanging out on the same commuter board she decided to use? If movies have taught me anything, it’s that if I go to Place Versailles tomorrow at seven, hours before the mall opens, my body is likely to end up like those three victims in Achewillow.

Awesome!

I’ll spring for gas for the trip. How do I know which car is yours?

Miriam

After all I’ve been through today or in the last few weeks, I’m anything but reasonable. After all, I am a romantic, and what romantic wouldn’t face a little risk for a little adventure?

Intoxicated on purpose, I try to pick up the coffee cups that litter my floor and bed. It takes a few trips to get all of them in the kitchen’s recycling bin, but I get it done.

That makes two victories in one night. Ever since opening that envelope, I feel a new sense of hope and exhilaration. Even if this whole thing ends up being a waste of time, or worse, a scam, at least for a brief moment, I had something to look forward to.

Absent minded, I run my finger on the handle of the filet knife. It, along with all the other kitchen utensils, pots and pans, mixers and measuring cups, are the only things that truly belong to me in the apartment.

I pull the knife out of the block and appraise the edge. It’s as sharp as a razor’s. I try to keep my knives sharp enough to cut through bone and this one is no different.

I never hear Trevor come back. Instead, I put in my earphones and some soothing music, forcing myself to get as much sleep as possible so I can make my way to Place Versailles

and catch my lift to my potential inheritance with a potential murderer.

Knowing my filet knife is hidden in my purse helps me find slumber : I may be a romantic, but that doesn’t make me an idiot.