Chapter 17
Lucy's finals at Le Cordon Bleu were brutal.
Three days of intensive practical exams—creating complex pastries under Chef Laurent's watchful eye, demonstrating techniques she'd learned over six months, proving she deserved to graduate from one of the world's premier culinary schools.
Lucy threw herself into the work. It was easier than thinking about the decision looming over her.
On the first day, she made pate feuilletée from scratch—the laminated dough that formed the base of croissants, napoleons, and countless other French pastries. Chef Laurent watched as she folded butter into dough, creating those perfect layers.
"Adequate," he said. Which from Chef Laurent was practically glowing praise.
On the second day, chocolate work. Lucy tempered dark chocolate, created delicate decorations, assembled a multi-layered entremet that looked like modern art.
"You have improved," Chef Laurent observed. "When you arrived, you were a baker. Now you are becoming an artist."
On the third day, her final exam: create an original dessert that showcased everything she'd learned.
Lucy made a deconstructed apple tart—her grandmother's pork bun spices (cinnamon, star anise, a hint of ginger) reimagined in a French context.
Caramelized apples, brown butter ice cream, a delicate tuile flavored with the spices of home.
Chef Laurent tasted it in silence. Lucy held her breath.
"This," he finally said, "is who you are. Not French, not American. Something new. Your grandmother's legacy translated through French technique. It is—" he paused, searching for words, "—exceptional."
Lucy wanted to cry. This was the highest praise Chef Laurent had ever given her.
"You should stay in Paris," Chef Laurent continued. "Take the position at Le Bernardin. Or Pierre Gagnaire. You have rare talent, Mademoiselle Chen. Do not waste it returning to a small town in Vermont."
"I don't know if I'm staying yet."
"Then you are a fool." But his voice was almost gentle. "The choice is yours. But know that if you leave Paris, you are walking away from something most chefs dream of their entire lives."
After finals, Lucy's cohort went out to celebrate. They got spectacularly drunk at a tiny bar in the Latin Quarter, toasting their completion of the program, their futures, each other.
"To Lucy!" James declared, already three glasses of wine in. "Who made Chef Laurent call something 'exceptional' which I'm pretty sure has never happened in recorded history!"
"To Lucy!" everyone echoed.
Lucy laughed, clinked glasses, tried to feel happy. But underneath the celebration was the weight of her decision. July first—five days away. She needed to tell the restaurants yes or no. Stay or go. Paris or Timber Falls.
"You're thinking about it," Amelie observed, sliding into the seat next to Lucy. "The decision."
"Am I that obvious?"
"You have been obvious for months. So—have you decided?"
"No. Yes. Maybe." Lucy set down her wine glass. "I keep making lists. Pros and cons. Reasons to stay, reasons to go. And every time, I end up exactly where I started—completely unsure."
"Lists are for grocery shopping, not for life decisions," Amelie said. "What does your heart say?"
"My heart says it's homesick."
"And your head?"
"My head says Paris is the opportunity of a lifetime."
"So you have a problem." Amelie smiled. "Your heart and your head want different things."
"That's not helpful."
"No. But it's true." Amelie paused. "Can I tell you something? When I decided to come to Le Cordon Bleu, I left behind a relationship. A man I loved. We had plans—marriage, children, a life in Lyon. But I wanted this. I wanted to be a chef. So I chose."
"Do you regret it?"
"Some days, yes. Some days I wonder what my life would have been if I had stayed with him. But Lucy—I would have regretted not doing this more. Does that make sense?"
"I think so."
"You need to ask yourself: which regret can you live with? Leaving Paris? Or leaving Jake?"
Lucy didn't have an answer.
June in Timber Falls meant summer hockey camps.
Jake spent his days at the rink, teaching kids skating technique, running drills, coaching the next generation. It should have been fulfilling. It was his job now—his chosen career.
Instead, he felt like he was going through the motions.
"You're distracted," Emma said one afternoon. She was eight now, confident and direct in the way only eight-year-olds could be.
"I'm paying attention."
"No, you're thinking about Miss Lucy. My mom says you guys broke up."
"Your mom talks about my personal life?"
"Everyone talks about your personal life. It's a small town." Emma adjusted her helmet. "Are you sad?"
"Yeah. I'm sad."
"My mom says when you love someone, you should fight for them. That's what she did with my dad—he wanted to move to California for his job but she fought to keep him here. And now they're happy."
"That's good advice."
"So are you going to fight for Miss Lucy?"
Jake looked at this eight-year-old who somehow understood things better than he did.
"I don't know, Emma. Sometimes fighting means letting someone go."
"That's a dumb kind of fighting."
"Yeah. Maybe it is."
After practice, Marcus cornered Jake in the locker room.
"I booked you a flight to Paris."
"You what?"
"Flight leaves July second. Returns July tenth. I used my credit card points. Early birthday present."
"Marcus, I can't—"
"You can and you will. Lucy's program ends July fifteenth. Which means she's making her final decision soon. You need to be there."
"She needs space—"
"She's had space! She's had three months of space!
Now she needs to see you. To remember what she's choosing between.
" Marcus crossed his arms. "Jake, I've watched you be miserable for three months.
Moping around, coaching like a robot, pretending you're fine.
You're not fine. And you won't be fine until you know for sure. "
"Know what for sure?"
"Whether Lucy is choosing Paris or you. And she can't choose fairly if you're just an abstract concept. You need to be there. In person. Real."
"What if she still chooses Paris?"
"Then at least you tried. At least you didn't just give up."
Jake wanted to argue. Wanted to insist that giving Lucy space was the right thing to do. But deep down, he knew Marcus was right.
He'd been hiding. Telling himself he was being supportive when really he was just protecting himself from potential rejection.
"Okay," Jake said. "I'll go."
"Good. Because the ticket is non-refundable."
That night, Jake texted Lucy.
Jake: Can I come visit? Early July?
Three dots appeared immediately. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.
Finally: Why?
Jake: Because I've been an idiot. Because I told you to make this decision alone but that's not fair. You need to see both options clearly. So I'm coming to Paris. If that's okay.
More dots. Then: When?
Jake: July 2-10. I know your program ends the 15th. I want to be there before you make your final decision.
Jake: Is that okay? I'm not trying to pressure you. I just want you to see me. Really see what you'd be choosing if you came home.
A long pause. Jake stared at his phone, willing Lucy to respond.
Finally: Okay. Come to Paris.
Jake: Thank you.
Lucy: But Jake? I haven't decided yet. I don't know what I'm going to choose.
Jake: I know. That's okay. I'm not coming to convince you. I'm just coming to be there.
Lucy: Okay. See you soon.
Jake set down his phone and felt something shift in his chest. Hope, maybe. Or just relief that he was finally doing something instead of just waiting.
One week. He had one week to prepare. To figure out what he wanted to say to Lucy. To be ready for whatever decision she made.
And then he'd go to Paris. He'd remind Lucy of what they had. Of what they could have if she came home.
And then—whatever happened next—at least he'd know he'd tried.
When Jake texted about coming to Paris, Lucy's first instinct was panic.
She wasn't ready. She hadn't decided. Having Jake here would make everything harder.
But also—she wanted to see him. God, she wanted to see him.
"He's coming?" Amelie asked when Lucy told her the next day.
"July second. Staying until the tenth."
"Good. You need to see him. You need to remember what you're choosing."
"What if seeing him makes it harder?"
"It will make it harder. But harder is not the same as wrong."
Lucy spent the next week in a state of constant anxiety. She had to respond to the restaurants by July first—tell them yes or no about the positions. But how could she decide without seeing Jake first? Without knowing if what they had was still real or just a memory?
On June 30th, Lucy called each restaurant and asked for an extension. Just two weeks. She'd know by July 15th.
All three agreed. Barely. They weren't happy about it, but they agreed.
"You're stalling," James observed. They were at their usual café, celebrating the end of finals.
"I'm being thorough."
"You're being scared."
"That too."
Yuki, who'd been silent as usual, finally spoke. "Fear means it matters. If you weren't scared, the choice wouldn't be important."
Lucy looked at her friend—quiet Yuki, who rarely shared but always understood.
"How did you decide to come to Paris?" Lucy asked. "You left Japan, left your family. How did you know it was right?"
"I didn't know. I just knew I had to try. Not trying would have been worse than failing."
"But what if I try and I'm wrong? What if I choose Paris and regret it? Or choose Timber Falls and spend my life wondering what could have been?"
"Then you will learn something. But Lucy—" Yuki looked directly at her, "—not choosing is also a choice. And regret from inaction is worse than regret from trying."
On July first, Lucy woke up with no answers.
The restaurants expected her response today. She'd asked for an extension until July 15th, but they wanted some indication of her intentions. Some sign she was seriously considering staying.