Bliss

by Hilary Fields

  Sera’s embarrassment paled by comparison with her gratitude for the strong women in her life. “Anyhow,” she told Margaret once her sponsor’s laughter died down, “the upshot is, I seem to have a bit of a unique opportunity brewing here. It’s going to take some time to see what that amounts to, and I’m actually really glad of that. I want to open myself to whatever possibilities present themselves, you know?”

  “I do know,” Margaret said approvingly, “and I think it sounds great, provided you keep your head on straight. Now listen, hon, CSI Miami’s about to start, and I’ve gotta order some dinner before they stop delivering and I’m forced to gnaw on the curtains for sustenance. But before we say good night…”

  Sera grinned, knowing what was coming.

  Sure enough… “Run your plans for tomorrow down for me, sweetie,” Maggie prompted.

  Sera rubbed her forehead once again, trying to massage away the last vestiges of headache and clear her thoughts. “Right now we’re just focusing on what’s right in front of us, the little stuff.” Sera’s lips twisted wryly. “‘One day at a time,’ right? Isn’t that what you’re always telling me? For tomorrow, Pauline’s going to show me around downtown in the morning and we’ll see the plaza and the most famous sights. She swears all else can wait until after I’ve had a taste of the City Different, which she likes to call ‘Fanta Se.’ Then we'll go see her shop in the afternoon. Anyhow, that’s my plan. Check out her store, see what we might make of it.”

  “And then?” Margaret prompted.

  Sera had to smile. “Then hit a meeting. Yes, boss.”

  “You’re a winner, kiddo. Don’t forget that.”

  Sera pressed the “end” button on her cell phone and set the device down on the Talavera tile counter next to her now-empty mug. She let out a shaky breath. She was in a strange house, in a strange city, sharing it with a woman whose major preoccupation in life was with whether or not one was sexually satisfied, and she had not a clue in the world about what tomorrow would bring. She was perched seven thousand feet up the side of a mountain, there were coyotes—real, live coyotes—howling away in the arroyo outside her window, and she was contemplating saying a great, big “fuck it” to everything she’d ever known.

  And for the first time in a very long while, she felt like a winner.

  Chapter Four

  Pauline’s House of Passion made itself comfortable in a spacious enclosed courtyard containing a cluster of small businesses sharing common walls around a terra-cotta-paved open space carved out of Santa Fe’s upscale Palace Avenue. A decorative iron gate with fanciful Spanish-inspired scrollwork and a long, arched entranceway gave only token resistance to the outside world; the discreet signage advertising the shops within flirted coyly with foot traffic from downtown Santa Fe’s main thoroughfares, as if daring shoppers to explore the hidden treasures at the end of the trail. At the apex of the gate, a rustic wooden sign announced “Placita de Suerte y Sueños,” and Sera’s Spanish, rusty as it was, translated it as something like “Place of Luck and Dreams.”

  Once inside, the visitor encountered a wealth of sunlight streaming through the open center of the miniature plaza, lending the area a warm, cozy feel that could not fail to entice shoppers to stay and browse. Each of the buildings had a wooden porch, so that one had to climb up a couple steps to enter the shops nestled within, as though to protect them from flash flooding, or simply to give them a more rustic feel. A few shade trees planted in terra-cotta pots provided hints of green. At the center of the courtyard, a Spanish-tiled fountain basin had been grafted to a whimsical modernist sculpture of a Native American earth mother type, water splashing merrily from an urn upheld in her ample arms. The one-story adobe dwelling that housed Pauline’s storefront was at the rear of the courtyard beyond the fountain, holding pride of place and drawing the visitor’s eye.

  The visitor’s wide, incredulous eye. Sera inhaled a long breath.

  Her aunt’s shop was a jungle.

  Or more precisely, the high desert equivalent. The storefront was overrun with a curtain of climbing vines, succulents, and cacti gone wild, their juicy, spiny petals plump and thriving across every surface. The wide, turquoise-trimmed front window was half obscured by tangled drapes of white moonflower, the fragrant, night-blooming petals now furled against the early autumn sun. Brushy yellow wildflowers competed with sweet-smelling lavender bushes to flank the front porch, while huge agave rosettes thrust their spears up from terra-cotta pots that stood like bristly sentinels on either side of the turquoise-painted wooden door. Purple passionflower twined round the weathered wood porch rails in a lover’s embrace. Red cactus buds and orange Indian paintbrush added vibrant splashes of color from their homes in planters hung along the window frames. The chocolate gelato–hued adobe walls of her aunt’s shop were barely visible through the profusion of foliage, and the sign painted on the front in faded purple cursive—Pauline’s House of Passion—could scarcely be read.

  The effect was intense. It was overpowering. It was beautiful—and vaguely frightening.

  “What happened here?” Serafina asked Pauline in a shocked whisper.

  “Oh dear,” Pauline murmured, pushing her battered straw cowboy hat back on her head and scratching the salt-and-pepper mane underneath. “It’s been awhile since I took a proper interest in the shop. Looks like the Wolf’s been letting his babies have the run of the place in my absence.” She tsked her tongue. “I’ll have to speak to him about it.”

  Sera tried to find a part of that pronouncement that made sense, and failed. Then she noticed there was not just one shop affected by the floral invasion, but two. Catty-corner to Pauline’s was another, somewhat smaller shop at the far right. A wooden sign hung above it, carved with silver-gilt letters.

  “Lyric Jewelry,” Sera read aloud, moving closer to investigate.

  If possible, the jewelry store was even more overgrown with foliage than her aunt’s. Sera couldn’t be sure, but it looked as though the migration had begun from the smaller shop and crept inch by inch until it engulfed its neighbor like some primitive jungle.

  Then, out of that jungle, stepped Indiana Jones.

  Or at least, his doppelganger.

  Tall. Lanky. Sandy blond, beneath a battered leather outback hat. Dressed in slouchy olive cargo pants and a waffle-knit thermal shirt that clung almost indecently to the angles and planes of his lean torso. He sported scuffed motorcycle boots and a heavy, intricately wrought silver chain about his neck. Another chain snaked from his belt around to his back pocket, probably anchoring a wallet as beat-up and worn-in as the rest of his attire.

  The man brushed aside a stray vine and exited the jeweler’s shop, pausing momentarily to adjust to the afternoon light. As he encountered the oddly lucent sunlight that seemed unique to Santa Fe, he squinted and tipped down his hat, but Sera had already caught a glimpse of the most astonishing green eyes beneath the battered brim. Her breath caught as the man vaulted easily over the porch rail, eschewing the two wooden steps and landing lightly on the dusty pavement beside the two women.

  “Miss Pauline, so nice to see you today,” said the adventurer, nodding politely to Sera’s aunt and tipping his hat to them both. “We have missed you around here.”

  Sera’s imagination couldn’t have picked a more intriguing accent for Indy had she been writing his dialogue herself. It wasn’t Southern, or British, or even Australian. No, it was… Israeli? It was very faint, but she’d lived and worked in New York long enough to recognize the distinctive lilt of the soft vowels, and the exaggerated precision of his diction.

  “And who is your lovely friend?” Moss green eyes sized Serafina up from beneath the brim of that hat—a hat that should have been ridiculous, and somehow wasn’t.

  Lovely, my ass. Sera had the unmistakable impression that his choice of words was no more than a courtesy. There was something chilly and imponderable in that green gaze—like the opaque waters of a hidden forest pond. She knew she was no supermodel
; working around so much rich food meant she would never be anything but pleasingly curvy, and her petite stature—just five feet two—had earned her the nickname “short stack” in culinary school. Still, Sera wasn’t used to such casual disregard from the male sex.

  She squelched a childish urge to sniff her pits, crossing her arms defensively under her breasts instead. Well, he’s not that good-looking either, Sera consoled herself. Ruggedly appealing, yes. But closer inspection of his features revealed they were a bit too strongly stamped upon his visage to be called traditionally handsome. His nose was a little too prominent, his incisors just a teensy shade crooked. He was on the south side of his thirties, with deep laugh lines around his eyes. And those lean cheeks could use a good going over with a razor—his five o’clock shadow, she guessed, probably started around eight in the morning. Plus—ugh—she’d always hated guys who wore chains around their necks. Still, with eyes like that, who was complaining?

  Pauline drew Sera forward, beaming fit to crack her face. “Kiddo, I’d like you to meet Asher Wolf, who owns that marvelous jewelry store next door and is single-handedly responsible for every exquisite work of art inside. He’s also the author of that floral exuberance that’s been…ah…decorating our shops. Not to mention, quite easy on the eyes, if you hadn’t noticed.” She winked outrageously at Asher, who seemed to think nothing of it, merely winking back companionably.

  Oh, she’d noticed. This guy was a jewelry maker? With an Incredible Hulk–sized green thumb? And a name like Asher Wolf? She would have pegged him for a biker, maybe, or a kung fu expert—or maybe an artist’s model. Ladies probably tucked panties with their phone numbers embroidered on them into his pockets as he strolled down the streets. The women he dated would be sensual, uninhibited, sophisticated. And probably stellar in bed. It should come as no surprise, Sera acknowledged painfully, that he failed to take notice of her.

  “Asher, allow me to introduce you to someone very special,” Pauline continued warmly, interrupting Sera’s thoughts. “This is my niece from New York, Serafina Wilde. My very single niece. Everyone calls her Bliss.”

  “No one calls me Bliss,” Sera mumbled uncomfortably, squirming under the Israeli’s curious regard. “You’re the only one, Aunt Pauline.” As Sera’s godmother, Pauline had had the honor of gifting her niece with that fantastical middle name. Sera had secretly always liked it, even as it made her feel vaguely embarrassed to cop to it.

  The lanky artisan had the grace to pretend not to notice Sera’s ungracious tone. “Your aunt has a way with words,” Asher complimented in his lilting accent, filling the awkward space. “It is a true pleasure to meet you, Bliss. Any relative of Miss Pauline is a welcome addition to our little town.”

  Now why did she get the feeling there was not a chance in hell of getting him to stop calling her Bliss and start using her given name?

  And why, further, was she having an even more unsettling fantasy upon hearing the way the word “bliss” rolled off his tongue, of that name being a promise he might collect on?

  “You had a delivery a few days ago,” Asher told Pauline, interrupting Sera’s squirrelly thoughts with disheartening practicality. Somehow, she’d expected the guy to spout movie dialogue, not prosaic everyday stuff. “When you couldn’t be reached, I put the boxes inside for you.”

  “Oh, dear. I’m sorry, Ash. I did mean to call you back, it’s just that things rather got away from me since…since Hortencia…” Moisture gathered in Pauline’s coffee brown eyes, and she crinkled them valiantly to keep tears at bay. Sera felt a pang, and reached out instinctively to rub the older woman’s shoulder. There were so many reminders of her life with Hortencia, and it had to be hard on her to carry on alone. They may have found each other late in life, but there was little doubt the two women had been soul mates.

  Asher’s quick gaze took note of her gesture and seemed to warm a bit. Sera wasn’t sure what to make of that and glanced away uncomfortably. She did not need to get herself enthralled by another charismatic man, damn it! Especially not one as inscrutable as Indy over here. ’Cause yeah, that had worked out real well for her last time.

  “Thank you for taking care of that for us, Ash,” Pauline resumed when her composure returned. “I always said you were a good egg, and I have great instincts when it comes to men.”

  Unlike her niece, Serafina thought.

  “It was no trouble, I assure you,” Asher demurred gallantly.

  Even the tiny half smile he offered was enough to threaten the steadiness of Serafina’s knees.

  “Bliss here has been thinking of taking over the shop and turning it into a bakery,” the older woman informed Asher blithely.

  “Thanks for spilling the beans on that one, Aunt Paulie,” Sera muttered with a wince. She wasn’t at all sure she was ready to share her secret hopes with the world just yet.

  Pauline just rolled her eyes at Sera’s modesty. “She’s a famous pastry chef back home,” Pauline further confided.

  Sera blushed. “Infamous, more like,” she mumbled, shooting Pauline a quelling glance.

  One slashing eyebrow rose beneath the hat. “Is that so?” Asher murmured.

  “Oh, well, I… that is, yes, I was fairly well known in the industry at one time…” Sera muttered uncomfortably. “Laughingstock” would have been a better way to describe it. “As for opening a bakery, well, Pauline and I have discussed it briefly, and I’m really not sure yet, but I thought it would be worth taking a look at the space just to see… you know, whether it might be something I could try… that is, if it’s suitable…”

  Gawd, why am I blathering on like this?

  Maybe it was how fragile this opportunity felt, how badly she wanted the chance for something new, and how afraid she was that something would come along and dash her dream before she could even fully develop it in her mind’s eye. Maybe her hopes would sound foolish to him—a little girl’s fantasy of being surrounded by sweets and sweetness 24/7. Then again, the guy was practically wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the word “iconoclast.” And wasn’t she in a town famous for its free-spirited dreamers? If she were ever to find herself not judged for taking a flyer on an out-there idea, she had to hope it would be here, in the land of enchantment. But she’d get nowhere with a faint heart. Serafina took a deep breath.

  “What I mean to say is, yes, I might open my own business here if the conditions are right.” There, that sounded dignified, didn’t it?

  “Indeed?” Asher smiled politely. “I should enjoy hearing more about this venture sometime, Bliss.”

  Her heart fluttered. Wow, he sounded legitimately interested in her plans! Despite her determination not to let this ludicrously sexy man distract her, she couldn’t help feeling flattered. Then she mentally smacked herself upside the head. Duh, Sera. He probably just wanted to scope out whether she was going to be competition or good for his business, given that his own shop was located right next door. “Um, right, ah… thanks, yeah, I’ll be sure to let you know what I decide,” Sera muttered, going crimson for no particular reason she’d care to admit.

  “Now, where did I put those darn keys?” Pauline was muttering, fully engrossed in rummaging through her voluminous tapestry bag. Sera half expected her to pull a Mary Poppins and drag forth a lamppost or a midsized potted plant from that monstrous sack. “Dang it! I was so sure I swapped them from my big bag the other day. But maybe they’re still in Hortencia’s purse? Of all the stupid…”

  Pauline’s voice wobbled and her eyes threatened to well again.

  She’s going to have to talk about it sometime, Sera thought. But right now didn’t seem like the moment. Pauline would share her grief when she was ready. “That’s okay, Auntie,” she soothed. “We can come back tomorrow.”

  “Not necessary,” Asher said smoothly. “I have a set of keys.”

  Oh, right, he’d mentioned he had put their delivery inside the store, hadn’t he? So he must have his own way in. But why would this man have keys to Pauline’s
business? Maybe people were just more neighborly around here than she was used to back in Manhattan?

  Asher dragged forth the heavy silver chain from his pocket, revealing a massive array of jangling keys at the end of it. Sera noticed that, similar to the one he wore about his neck, the chain was wrought from large, intricately scrolled silver links, handsome and masculine in design, yet with an almost musical flow. Before she could inquire into why he had the means to enter, he bounded up onto the porch ahead of them and wrestled with the locks, swinging open the door to Pauline’s House of Passion and gesturing with a flourish for them to precede him inside. Sera suppressed a little shudder of purely feminine awareness as she passed in front of him to enter the store, close enough to appreciate the scent of strong, healthy male—pheromones mixed with the sharper aromas of metal, oil, and wood. Tools of his trade, perhaps?

  “I’ll stay until you’re finished looking around so I can lock up for you after,” he offered, and Pauline nodded. Sera smiled her thanks, feeling as tongue-tied and awkward as a high school girl.

  Asher flipped on the lights for them, though it barely made a difference. There was precious little illumination to be had.

  Sera forgot pheromones momentarily as she gazed around at her aunt’s establishment. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. Inside, the shop resembled nothing so much as a cozy Victorian tea parlor. Well, cozy verging on gloomy. Shawl-like draperies swaddled every window, and tasseled shades encased the low-wattage lamps scattered about the room. Dusty mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, half-filled with little figurines and knickknacks. Sera could barely make out the massive rafters and spacious expanse of smooth-planed pine floors that formed the framework of the shop. She could tell that the walls were whitewashed adobe, but the Southwestern flavor of the structure had been effectively smothered in kitsch and weighted down with heavy pieces of vintage-looking drawing room furniture. What was odd, however, wasn’t so much the décor as the fact that she saw little evidence of the “items” her aunt had so enthusiastically promoted over the years. Where were the Kama Sutra posters and Day-Glo sex toys? Where were the strawberry-flavored edible undies and belly-dancing costumes?