Bliss

by Hilary Fields

  “Or cleaning,” Malcolm muttered. “Feckin’ dishes never do themselves, do they?”

  “I plan to hire help for that,” she assured him. “And a barista for the coffee bar, who can help out at the register. But my aunt Pauline will be the main counter person.”

  Malcolm’s face reddened again.

  “You mean to have some doddering old tart bumbling about while we’re working the breakfast rush? Are ye daft?”

  Sera drew herself up, taking a deep breath to remind herself—again—of her vow not to let Malcolm infuriate her.

  “There’s a lot you need to know about my aunt Pauline, Mr. McLeod. So listen up.” Sera stared him down until she was sure he was paying attention, obscurely comforted to catch Asher’s smile out of the corner of her eye. “Pauline Wilde is an extraordinary woman, capable of just about anything. She’s no more in her dotage than you are, and twice as energetic, if that gut of yours is anything to go by. Not to mention, she’s light-years more charming. And yeah, maybe just a little bit of a tart.” Sera let a grin peek through her stern demeanor for just a second. “Anyhow, my hiring her isn’t a matter for debate—though my hiring you is. Got it?”

  Malcolm looked as if he might roll up his mustachios and storm out, but Asher slapped him on the back and gave his shoulder a companionable shake. “You’ll love Miss Pauline, Malcolm,” he assured the stubby Scotsman. “She’s one of a kind, just like you. The two of you will get along beautifully.”

  Sera privately doubted that. “Back to the plans,” she said. “Now, Asher, you’re okay with us installing the ovens and sinks and refrigeration units along this wall, is that right?”

  Asher nodded. “I can show Malcolm the electrical grid and get him the specs he’ll need to learn the wiring before he goes knocking holes in the walls.”

  “Great,” said Sera. “I’ll also want a second bathroom installed and the one that’s there now renovated to accommodate greater traffic.”

  “What about back there?” Malcolm asked, pointing toward the bead-shrouded back room. “Why not just put the loos in the rear?”

  “Unfortunately, that area is sacrosanct.” Sera put on her no-negotiating face to cover the mischief that wanted to shine through. “Why don’t you go have a look at what’s back there,” she invited, waving Malcolm toward the beaded curtain.

  Malcolm went, muttering about women and their cryptic ways.

  He returned with a pinched look on his face.

  “I dinna want tae know,” he said tightly, his brogue thickening to porridge-like consistency. His red-apple cheeks were fairly glowing. “I kenned ye were a strange bird the minute ye darkened m’ doorstep, lass. But if yer money’s green and yer cookin’s half as good as ye boast, ye could stable a barn full o’ leather-clad llamas back there and ol’ McLeod wouldn’t blink. Just dinna, for the love o’ heaven, be asking me to bake ye any o’ them… ahem… anatomically shaped desserts. We clear?”

  “We are clear, Mr. McLeod,” Sera assured him. “Crystal clear.”

  After that, the plans went smoothly. Less than a half hour later, they were rolling up their drawings and Sera had sealed up Big Mama for the trip to her temporary storage at Pauline’s. She felt fairly confident she’d gotten her ideas across to the irascible Scot, and Asher appeared on board. Her heart lifted and a thrill of excitement raised goose bumps on her skin. It’s really starting to happen, she thought. Her heart did a happy dance.

  “So what’s next?” she asked, stuffing her notes back in the messenger bag that served as her purse.

  “What’s next is ye make yourself scarce,” Malcolm said, already turning back to his graph paper and pencil stub, measuring tape in one hand.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Ye heard me. Get out. Come back in six weeks, and I’ll have something to show ye.” He scratched his thick mane of hair with the blunt end of the pencil stub. “More’n like, I’ll have finished the whole works by then. But don’t ye be bothering me before then.”

  Sera stiffened. “You want me to leave.”

  “Ye slow, lass? Be gone. Vamoose. Take a hike. Literally. Yer surrounded by mountains and trails here, so why don’t ye get lost along some of them, and find yer way back here ’round the first week of November, like. I won’t have ye hovering over me like a hen with only one egg the whole time I’m working in here. I don’t work well around persnickety women.”

  Persnickety? Sera thought. Is he kidding with that shit? “And I should—what, just leave the store to your tender mercies during that time?”

  “Something like that, aye.” Seeing her ire, Malcolm sighed. “Look, lass. Ye just got to our fair city a wee bit ago. Ye probably haven’t had much time to sniff around; get to know what she’s all about. But ye need to understand this place to become a part of it. Ye need to feel it in yer bones and yer heart. Ye can’t do that while yer breathing plaster dust and getting in my way.”

  “Wow, that was… unexpectedly poetic, McLeod,” Sera said with a grudging grin. “But I’m guessing you’re a lot more concerned about me being underfoot than fearful for my spiritual welfare.”

  “Believe as ye will,” Malcolm grumbled. “Just don’t be blundering about whilst I’m working.”

  “And you?” Sera asked, looking over at her landlord. He stood slightly to the side, with his arms crossed over his chest, making his knit shirt pull indecently across his corded arms and pecs. “What do you think about all this?”

  “I think Malcolm has a point, actually,” Asher said mildly. “This may be your best chance to acquaint yourself with your new home before you become too busy to take advantage of its offerings. Besides, there’s little you can do to help with the renovations, Bliss—unless you’re adept with power tools or drywall?”

  Sera had to admit she wasn’t.

  “Then I suggest you go explore our fair city. I’ll happily keep an eye on our contractor friend, since I’m just next door. And of course, I’m sure you’ll be stopping in frequently to check on Malcolm’s progress. Malcolm, surely you have no objection to that?”

  “I suppose not,” he grumbled. “So long as the lass ain’t planning on telling me how to install my own ovens.”

  Sera stopped to consider. She’d pictured herself wading knee-deep in the renovations, maybe wielding a hammer or painting walls—at the very least, supervising the contractor and his assistants daily. But she had to admit, she’d probably be more in the way than helpful, considering her utter incompetence with power tools. Maybe her pie Nazi did have a point. Maybe she could afford to take a small step back here, just for a little while. Once the bakery opened, Sera would be on her feet night and day, baking and serving from 4 a.m. ’til 4 p.m., then handling shop business until she collapsed. She was more than willing to put in the hours to make her dream come true. But Malcolm was right. She knew less than nothing about drywall, nail guns, and electrical engineering. If she hovered over the construction like a hen with just one chick, she’d only get in the way. For sure, she didn’t intend to traipse off on a Caribbean cruise for the next month and a half while her half-crazed contractor bashed down walls willy-nilly, but he was right—better take advantage of this last hurrah to see some sights and get to know her new home.

  “You’ll really help me keep this wild man on a short leash?” she asked Asher.

  “I will—if you’ll promise to take his advice and go explore Santa Fe while you have the chance.” He drifted closer, until Sera could smell a hint of that special Asher scent—clean cotton, hot metal, and man, man, man. “Perhaps you’ll let me show you some of my favorite spots,” he offered. “It would be my pleasure, Bliss.”

  Sera’s face warmed. Oh, she’d like to explore some of Asher’s favorite spots, that was for sure. And maybe she could introduce him to a few of her own…

  Focus, fool, she told herself sternly. You’re here to start your life over, not blow it all to hell again over a guy who’d be way out of your league even if you didn’t have that pesky no-O problem.<
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  Sera slung her messenger bag more securely across her body and hoisted Big Mama onto her hip. She turned away from the men, heading for the door.

  “I’m gonna need some wheels,” was what she said.

  Chapter Fifteen

  There are times in life, Pauline, when a woman just needs a man.”

  Hortencia had been arguing as much to her lover for the last twenty minutes. It wasn’t going over well. If they hadn’t had an audience, as a matter of fact, Sera feared it might have come to blows. Fortunately, they were at Hortencia’s place of business, and even Pauline had enough decorum to keep her outrage at a simmer within the hushed confines of the yarn shop.

  As Hortencia and Pauline bickered, Sera busied herself examining a ball of something that looked remarkably like one of the Tribbles from Star Trek. Orange, fluffy, and incredibly soft, the mohair puffball perched on the top of Hortencia’s counter among dozens of its friends in a rainbow array of colors. She wondered if it would start cooing if she petted it, as she was tempted to do. All around her, similar poofs in all shapes and sizes crowded bins and shelves, threatening to tumble forth in an avalanche of crafty softness.

  Hortencia was one of three employees at Knit-Fit, all comfortable-looking women in the fifty-plus age bracket who took their art with deadly seriousness. Today, Hortencia was sporting one of her own creations: a cable-knit Aran sweater of astonishingly intricate design in a soft salmon shade Sera wouldn’t personally have chosen. She also had a little crocheted flower brooch in a slightly rosier hue pinned to her bosom, and her homemade socks, peeking out of her sage green Merrell mules, were an alpaca blend in complementary tea rose ripples. She looked utterly at home in the shop.

  She also looked pretty pissed off.

  “We need a man,” she was insisting to Pauline. “I’ve been buying my family’s cars for decades, and I’m telling you, you get a better deal if you go with a caballero.”

  “I am physically nauseated that you would suggest such a thing, Hortencia Alvarez.” Pauline made a gagging sound, grabbing up a ball of yarn and squeezing the fiber until it bulged out between her fingers. “What did our sisters march for, what did we sacrifice and fight for all these years if, here and now in the twenty-first century, we’re still depending on men to do our haggling?”

  “Which do you think Sera cares more about? Her principles or her bank balance?” Hortencia shot back.

  Both women turned their attention to Serafina, who was suddenly very busy examining the wool-to-alpaca ratio on the label of a ball of worsted weight.

  “Well? What do you say, kiddo? Do you want that knuckle-dragging Malcolm McLeod along to infantilize and disempower you, or can you stand on your own two feet and make your own bargains?”

  Sera smothered a grin. “Oh, I don’t know, Aunt Paulie. I think I could use all the help I can get.” She gave Pauline’s shoulder a squeeze to mitigate the sting of her betrayal, taking a moment to appreciate her aunt’s T-shirt du jour, which was silk-screened with a faded image of Helen Reddy in her heyday. Underneath, someone—undoubtedly Pauline—had scrawled a caption in Sharpie marker: “I am Woman. Hear me r-O-ar!”

  “See?” Hortencia indulged in a moment of genteel gloating. “Sera sees the sense in what I’m saying. We need a man for this mission, and Mr. McLeod was available—and suitably threatening-looking. So quit your bitching, drop that stitching, and let’s get on the road already.”

  “You just like the way he flirts with you,” Pauline grumbled to Hortencia, arms crossed beneath her braless breasts, innocent yarn skein squashed in the grip of her white-knuckled fist.

  Sera smothered a grin. It was true, Malcolm had looked a whole lot more amenable to the suggestion of playing token Y-chromosome for their car-shopping expedition once he’d caught his first gander at Hortencia. In fact, when she’d introduced them the other day, it was the first time she’d ever seen her pie Nazi completely bereft of his customary bluster.

  Pauline, who had already taken a deep dislike to the Scotsman when she’d met him a few days earlier, had been quick to notice his uncharacteristic pleasantness. She’d been even quicker to disparage the Scotsman’s character, appearance, and capabilities both culinary and contractorial once McLeod was out of earshot. Though she was raring to take on her new career as late-in-life counter commander at the new bakery, Pauline wasn’t at all keen on working with a “chauvinistic, unkempt caveman” who saved his only sweetness for his pies—and her life partner. Hortencia had pooh-poohed her disparagements, claiming to find McLeod a rather winning individual. That, of course, had set off a whole new round of arguments between the lovebirds, which they appeared to have resolved in the privacy of Pauline’s boudoir. Sera was just glad the house’s adobe walls were a foot thick.

  In truth, Sera didn’t know whether to be amused at or envious of the two women’s closeness. What, she wondered, would it be like to have someone—Asher, for instance—jealous over her?

  Don’t be ridiculous, Sera, she chided herself. Who’s his competition? The last man you dated was so fond of you he’s spent the last year trying to ruin your life and crush your career. You’re not exactly a man-magnet. You’re lucky Asher’s as kind to you as he has been, but you better forget any fantasies that he’s suddenly going to develop a mad, passionate crush on your sorry self.

  Then Sera shook herself mentally. Whoa. Who hit the bummer button? It’s too damn nice a day to go feeling sorry for yourself, said the healthier part of her mind—the part she’d been working on developing since she’d stopped pickling it with booze. Think about it. Maybe you’ve had a few romantic disasters. Maybe relationships aren’t your forte, but you’ve still got a lot going for you. You’re young (well, youngish), you’re free, and you’re about to buy your very first car. Stop being a dweeb about your landlord and get with the program.

  For a wonder, her brain actually behaved. Sera refocused on the day ahead of her and the women she was with. Gratitude, she heard Maggie’s voice remind her. Think about where you’ve been, and feel blessed at how much better things are now. She brought herself back to the present—the brisk, sunny day, the woolly-smelling, colorful yarn shop, and her family. Nutty as they were, she wouldn’t change them for the world.

  “For the last time, you ludicrous woman,” Hortencia was saying as she gathered up her windbreaker and tugged it on over her sweater, “we are not having this argument again.” She slung her handbag over her shoulder. “I swear to God, you’d think I was Miss America if you listen to that one,” she said to Sera, winking. “Just this morning she was ready to belt the bag boy at Trader Joe’s for offering to double bag my groceries.”

  “I’m sure there was a double entrendre in there,” Pauline muttered, lobbing the well-squeezed skein into a bin of matching yarn. “You should have seen the outrageous wink he gave her, Bliss,” Pauline insisted. “Like I wasn’t standing right there!”

  “He had an eyelash in his eye, fool,” Hortencia snickered, chivvying them out the door and waving good-bye to her coworkers, who were sipping Earl Grey and poring over a pattern book at the back of the store. The door closed behind them with a jingle as light as Sera was determined to keep her mood.

  The three women walked the block and a half from Knit-Fit to Placita de Suerte y Sueños, and Sera was pleased to hear the sound of hammering and saws from within her half-baked store by the time they passed beneath the portico and caught sight of the earth mother fountain. Things had been going well with the renovations as far as she could tell. She was no expert on demolition, but Malcolm seemed to have done the deconstruction in record time—probably eager to get his fixtures out of storage in the moving truck and installed in their new home. Aruni, she imagined, was probably a bit less pleased, as the commotion was sure to be harshing the mellow of her students’ yoga classes at Tantrastic. The yogini had assured her everything was fine, however. “Every time I hear the hammering,” she’d chirped, “I just think, “we’re that much closer to homemade croissan
ts and cupcakes!” Sera had been keeping Aruni’s students in yoga-suitable treats as a special thank-you for their patience with the construction. Though multigrain energy bars sweetened with brown rice syrup were personally not Sera’s bag, she was more than happy to whip up a batch now and again for a good cause.

  “Why we couldn’t just ask Asher is beyond me,” Pauline was saying as they passed Lyric Jewelry. “If you’re so fired up to lug along a Y-chromosome on this mission, you could have at least gone with someone easier on the eye. I’m sure he’d be happy to help us…”

  “We’re not asking Asher,” Sera said quellingly, keeping her voice low as they brushed past the extravagant foliage that shaded his shop. It wasn’t the first time she’d vetoed the idea. “The man’s done enough for us as it is, and I’m not taking advantage of his good nature for every little thing,” she insisted. What she’d like to take advantage of was hardly his good nature, but Sera wasn’t about to cop to that. She kept her eyes studiously averted from his shop windows. Though things had been cordial between them since the kiss incident, Sera hadn’t wanted to push her luck, and she still wasn’t sure what the deal was with her and Asher. Was he interested? Was she?

  Oh, c’mon, you liar. You’re interested.

  But Sera had decided that, interest or not, she wasn’t going to pursue her sexy landlord. Even if she could catch his fancy—and she wasn’t at all confident of that, kiss notwithstanding—things were simply going too well in her life right now to take such a risk. She’d rather focus on what she could control, rather than her unmanageable attraction to a man who was way out of her league, and whom she could never hope to satisfy.

  Speaking of things I can’t control… Sera’s eyes widened as Malcolm barreled out of the store, dusted head to toe in white plaster and cursing up a storm.

  “I canna go w’ye today, and that’s all there is to it,” he blurted out, his brogue thicker than the dust that blanketed his coveralls. “Damn plaster won’t set right and these idjits”—he waved back toward the shop, where his crew of day laborers were doing their best to ignore him—“wouldn’t know spackle from shite if I dunked their fool heads in a bucket of it. So dinna give me no grief, woman. ’Tis impossible.” He stopped short when he saw the two older women. His florid face was all set to fall into a scowl at the sight of Pauline when his gaze was arrested by the shorter, grandmotherly Hortencia. Malcolm rocked back on his heels, one hand self-consciously moving to dust off his long ponytail and smooth stray strands back from his whiskery cheeks. “Och, sorry, Miss Alvarez. I dinna see ye there.”