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1. Renovate dad's bar.
2. Sell the bar.
3. Use the money to enroll in Pierre Trouffant's pastry course in New York.
I’d be living in the trailer rent-free while I fixed up the bar, as long I could make it habitable enough. There was no point worrying about selling the trailer, though. It was pretty much worthless, so I’d focus all of my efforts on the bar. It was good news that the main street seemed to have been improved lately. It meant the unit that the bar was in would likely sell if I could get it in a good enough state.
I was definitely going to need the money. Trouffant’s pastry course wasn't cheap. Luigi hadn't been exaggerating—it really was $25,000. But the course had produced more Michelin-starred pastry chefs than any other in the world. And Luigi was right: my pastry skills weren't good enough. If I wanted any chance of opening my own Manhattan patisserie one day, I needed to get good. Gooder than good. Trouffant's course was the surest way of doing that.
I'd already applied, submitting my CV and a fawning cover letter. I was expecting to hear back in the next few weeks and was hopeful they’d accept me. I had some relevant experience and had really hammed up just how important the course was to me and my future. Which, of course, it really was.
"I hope I can make you proud, Dad,” I said under my breath.
If Dad hadn’t died, I’d have probably grabbed any old kitchen job I could find, and stayed in Astoria, trying to work my way up the impossible career ladder. But as soon as I realized that I had this opportunity, it had felt like a gift from my father to try to better myself. I’d initially planned to sell the bar in its old state as soon as possible and get on with my life. That all changed when I ran into Patrick McCoy at Dad's funeral.
"Let me renovate it for you," he offered. "You'll get a much better price that way. Pay me after the sale—it's the least I can do for Mike's daughter."
It was a no-brainer. If I sold the commercial unit for enough money, I’d be able to afford the pastry course and cover an apartment rental while I did it. Then, I’d snag a job at a patisserie where I could slowly build up the experience I needed to open my own place.
"What do you think, Dad?" I whispered to the empty room. "It’s a pretty good plan, huh?"
Dust motes danced in the sunlight as I waited for his answer. Maybe the dust motes were his answer. With a sigh, I stood up.
I creaked my way down the hall to my old bedroom. I'd spent countless hours in there, reading, chatting to Lily, and dreaming about boys and baking.
It was just as I'd left it. Giant stuffed toys in every corner. A dressing-up box from all the Halloweens Lily and I used to go trick-or-treating. And of course, the shrines to my heroes.
Above my desk was a four-foot, black-and-white poster of Chef Marco Pierre White, eyes intense as thunder, a cleaver gripped in his powerful hand, bicep tense, ready to chop. On the wall opposite, a shot of Chef Ramsay, bright blue eyes shining, blond hair like spun gold, jaw set in a grimace. Then, in pride of place above my bed, Anthony Bourdain, his face radiating charisma and soul, deep brown eyes twinkling with intelligence and humor.
I sighed.
I'd always gravitated toward worldly, confident men who could whisk me away from small-town life. Of course, in New York, there had been no time for men. How would I have fitted a relationship into my brutal work schedule? The most I managed was a two-week fling with a busboy. But a real relationship was not on the menu.
In my bedside drawer, I discovered a long-forgotten treasure—my old diary. Skimming the pages painted a portrait of a small-town girl aching to spread her wings. The final entry, penned the night before I left, said it all: "I can't believe it's happening! I get to escape boring Bluehaven Beach for the bright lights of New York City. Bring on the future!"
As I put the diary back, I found something I'd completely forgotten about: a good luck card from my dad.
Elara, my ambitious girl. Go find yourself, but never forget where you came from.
Tears pricked my eyes, but a sharp bark from Anthony snapped me back to the present. I headed back into the kitchen and saw that he was right up next to the front door, sniffing frantically at something.
"What's up, boy?"
"Ghosts! We know you're in there! Show yourselves!" It was a young girl's voice.
"Yeah, we're gonna bust you!" A second voice, even younger than the first.
"There's no ghost in here," I said, then I opened up the door.
Two adorable girls, one blond and one brunette, stood on the stoop. The blond one was wearing a pink and white striped dress, and her younger sister was in a Bluey T-shirt and shorts. The two of them looked very different from each other.
The smaller one peered at me through backward binoculars.
The other girl thrust an accusatory finger at me. "It's a positive for ectoplasm!"
"I promise not to haunt you," I said, smiling.
"Don't even think about using your ghosty powers on us. We know jujitsu!"
