1909

Rosemary Levoux, for all of her extroverted characteristics, felt so small as she walked through the streets of New Orleans, Louisiana. She felt so out of place in her fine clothes as she walked through the gaslit streets. She felt the stares and heard the heckles of the streetwalkers as they poked fun at her garments, jeering at her for being a snob, saying that she thought herself better than the rest. She was nearly in tears as she made her was inside a hole-in-the-wall joint. Joints were not her scene, but at least it was clean and empty.

You shouldn't be here, was the first thing she heard. It was said by the clean shaven man behind the bar, doing his best to clean the beer stained surface. She couldn't have agreed more. What was she doing here? Why had she been so foolish? Sure, she wasn't ready to settle down, but why had she left the provinces? All of these questions were running through her mind as she made her way to the bar.

"Can I get a cup of hot water", she asked. The bartender smiles and nodded, filling a teapot with water and setting it on to boil.

"I suppose you're going to want a bottle of catsup to go with it"?

Nearly to the point of tears she meekly nodded her head. She had no money left, no hope of lodging, and no hope whatsoever. The bartender said nothing as he went to the back room. He came back when the teapot started whistling, but he immediately went again to the back. Sometime later he came back with a bowl of some kind of soup.

"Homemade gumbo. It's not fresh, but it's better than makeshift tomato soup", he said, placing the reheated cajun dish in front of her. Rosemary immediately refused. All she had left was her pride, and she was not about to sell it for a bowl of soup, no matter how delicious it smelled.

"I don't have any money", she said, "thank you though".

"Ma'am, I spent no money making this, so it's only fair that i don't take any money in giving it to you".

Rosemary Levoux finally broke. She collapsed on the bar, crying. The bartender said nothing as he handed her a handkerchief. Rosemary thanked him, her eyes noticing the delicately embroidered initials, L.B.

Having spent herself on tesrs she looked up at the man.

"Do you need a waitress"?

1911

Two years later and Lucas Bouchard's hole-in-the-wall dive had become the talk of New Orleans. People from all over the city were visiting the French Quarter to experience, first hand, the delicious delicacies and live entertainment of his fine establishment. Lucas, of course, couldn't cook anything aside from his grandmother's gumbo recipe, but his best friend, Rosemary, had turned out to be quite adept at embracing the cajun culinary landscape. Although he, now and again, would make s breakfast of grits for her, something he onew she despised with a passion.

Gumbo aside, the one thing that he excelled at was playing piano, and he loved to play. during the evenings he would play and Rosemary would sing. Over the years Lucas decided that his business had outgrown the little dive location and, upon purchasing a larger location, moved his restaurant Rosemary had refused to work in a joint and had made Lucas drop his sale of alcohol. She was horrified to learn that Lucas had divided the space into a restaurant and casino. Upon asking him why he would do such a thing he brushed it off, saying that in their new location there was a much larger clientele in gamblers than in diners.

1914
Three years later, Rosemary learned why Lucas had established the casino. It was not his choice, it was the choice of the man he had borrowed money from to purchase the building. Then, to her horror, she learned that Lucas was in debt further still by engaging in the black jack tables, and losing over and over. She was thankful that her restaurant had been left alone, but the noise from next door had driven out any respectable customers.
One dark night, men came calling for Lucas, demanding that he pay what was owed in cash, or in his life. Rosemary saw no other way out, in order to save her friend, who had become so much more to her, she grabbed her derringer and, with two well placed shots, killed the men. That very night, they fled with what money they could take with them and left New Orleans, running for over a year until they found themselves back in Rosemary's home province of Ontario, in the tiny town of Hope Valley.