“You, too, Mr. ’Dillo,” said Sera, who had decided that was her new friend’s name. She smiled and waved, feeling mellower than she’d felt in a long time. “Byeeee!”
* * *
“I think we left her in here too long. Damn it, Pauline, you and your loco ideas. Look at her, babbling and muttering like that. We cooked her darn brains!” Hortencia sounded halfway between scared and exasperated.
A hand was patting Sera’s cheeks, none too gently. “C’mon, kid-bean, snap out of it.”
Her aunt’s voice, Sera thought dreamily. Pauline sounded worried. But why? Everything was going to be just fine.
“Pauline?” she murmured, coming slowly to awareness. The door to the hut had been propped open, and someone had draped a fat, fluffy towel over Sera to shield her from the chilly breeze drifting in. The brazier had been banked, the steam dissipated. The others were dressed, and had donned concerned expressions along with their attire. Sera sat up and looked around, feeling calm and slightly out of focus, as if she’d smoked some really nice pot—another thing she didn’t do anymore. “Hey, guys. Are we ready to go now? Don’t let me forget to stop at the drugstore on the way home. The armadillo told me to stock up on tissues.”
After that, the Back Room Babes decided to give it a rest.
A good thing, too, because the next day, Sera’s contractor called and told her she’d better get her ass down to Bliss, tout de suite.
Chapter Twenty
Sera rushed down to the placita all in a lather upon receiving McLeod’s curt message, nearly mowing down a troupe of late-afternoon tourists as she gunned Cupcake through the streets of Santa Fe’s chi-chi shopping district. Inexpertly parallel parking the beast, she leapt out and dived for her place of business, tout de suite indeed.
She found her contractor waiting outside the shop, wearing a thunderous scowl.
“Now look, woman,” he greeted her, “I don’t want any fuss or shenanigans when ye see what I done inside. Promise me ye won’t have a fit of the vapors or nothin’, or I won’t let ye in.”
Momentarily, Sera wished for a weapon. Perhaps the tire iron from Cupcake’s rusty bed. But not having thought to bring one, she realized it would be faster to agree than to argue. She could always renege and strangle her contractor with his own ponytail later if necessary. Right now she had to see what he’d done to her store. She nodded tightly, swallowing a tight breath.
Malcolm ushered her in (“shoved” would have been more accurate) and flipped on the lights.
“Oh,” she said, a mere breath of sound.
Malcolm had made her dreams come true.
The shop was exactly as she had envisioned it, from countertops veined in creamy white marble to cabinets of white-painted wood that were both cozy and contemporary. Stoves, ovens, and refrigerated storage had been installed and partitioned off with the two-way mirror that would allow the bakers in the back to see their customers while retaining the privacy to swear, sweat, and slave away unobserved. Up front, there were stations for cake decoration (a concession to those who loved to watch while the finishing touches were put on their delicacies) and shelves with cardboard boxes in various sizes for packing them up when they were complete. Display cases gleamed under fluorescent lights, aching to be filled with brioche, cookies, and cakes. Coffee and espresso machines gleamed with the promise of steaming caffeinated joy, just where Sera had pictured them, with enough room for a barista to maneuver and yet not get in the way of the counter help at the register.
The little touches they’d gone over—incorporating Pauline’s Victorian lamps, burnishing the pine plank floors to waxed golden perfection—were all in place. For customers wishing to linger awhile over their goodies, comfortable yet durable wingback chairs cozied up next to an eclectic assortment of shaker-style stools and ladder-back dining chairs, clustering around small, marble-topped tables the perfect height for resting a drink or a pastry on while one read the paper. (Sera had very much enjoyed the estate sales and antique store hunting that had gone into their purchase.) Hooks for coats and a stand for umbrellas stood ready by the front door. The stout log vigas had been sanded and were glowing with new life after her brilliant contractor’s attentions. Even the windows had been washed, the sills painted a cheerful turquoise against the diamond-finished white stucco interior of the shop. Outside, Asher’s plants, newly trimmed, framed the windows nicely without overwhelming the space. Inside, the overhead chandelier in brass and crystal Sera had special ordered from a supplier in New York sent light sparkling across the counters and seating arrangements.
As for the back room… well, it was discreetly curtained off, barred with a little silver chain like they used at movie houses, and labeled with a small, handwritten sign saying “Over Eighteen Only,” the way Sera had directed. Pauline had wanted to paint a lurid sign over the lintel calling attention to her lair of sultry delights, but Sera had nixed the idea, reminding her aunt that children would no doubt soon be running around the bakery, poking their noses into everything. She had no desire to spend the next sixty years of her life fending off lawsuits from outraged parents.
Everything was as she’d envisioned it—or better. Sera spun in a circle, taking it all in.
They were ready for business.
“McLeod, you’re a goddamn genius!” she crowed, throwing her arms about him and giving him a hearty kiss on each of his bristly cheeks.
“Och, ye promised me, no womanly theatrics,” Malcolm swore, but Sera could tell he was pleased with her reaction.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “Thank you so much.”
Malcolm stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coveralls, rocked on the balls of his feet, and cleared his throat. “Nothin’ to it,” he muttered, but Sera saw the pride in his eyes when he looked about at what he’d wrought.
The perfect place to make sweet dreams come true.
Too bad Asher’s not back yet, Sera thought. I’d have loved for him to see this before anyone else.
But Asher was still in Israel, at least as far as Sera knew. She’d had no word from him since he’d left her high and dry in Pauline’s kitchen, and she was beginning to wonder if she’d imagined the whole incident. Certainly, his professed passion hadn’t sent him winging his way back to her with any great haste. Perhaps he was having too much fun with his wife.
Never mind your landlord, Sera, she told herself. It’s go-time. Best get your head in the game.
Malcolm apparently agreed. “We can open anytime now,” he said. “Once we get to baking, that is.” Under bristly white brows, the look in McLeod’s eye was challenging, as if he still didn’t quite believe Sera could cook.
She smiled. This was one challenge she had no fear of facing.
“Just let me get my apron,” she said, and ran back to her truck.
* * *
They were alone in the bakery, and it was an hour before dusk. Sera was wrapped in her favorite warn-to-thread linen apron, a hair net, and all the determination at her command. Malcolm had just arrived to do his part, his “proprietary” pie-making tools in a sack over his back, making Sera think of a chef-coated Santa. She herself had been cooking ’round the clock since yesterday, prepping doughs, double-checking menus, timing out recipes to maximize oven space and temperature like the seasoned campaigner she was. Icings, fillings, and delicate decorations were complete, resting in refrigerators and on out-of-the-way shelves for the moment when they’d be called upon. Sponges and bigas bubbled away in rising buckets, while prepared dough, tightly wrapped in plastic wrap, awaited the magical moment when it would be set free to become fragrant, crusty bread. Quiche ingredients were laid out ready to hand in Sera’s mise en place, and flaky croissant dough beckoned, waiting to be folded into beautiful crescent shapes or wrapped around chocolate sticks for pain au chocolat.
Tomorrow was opening day, and she still had an avalanche of baked goods to prepare. Back home, Pauline was busy putting together her famous almond tarts and severa
l types of cookies, saving Sera time and space to work on the main events—the cakes, macaroons, mousses, and tortes that would soon fill Bliss’s display cases to mouthwatering effect. Hortencia was baking up a batch of her abuelita’s famous biscochitos, the recipe for which she’d promised to share with Serafina. Now Malcolm would add an array of his famous pies to the offerings.
Since they’d agreed on opening the bakery right away—Sera had placed a standing order with a supplier for her baking supplies weeks earlier, and arranging delivery was the work of a phone call—there was nothing to hold them back. An ad in the local weekly, the Chile Paper, and one in the Santa Fe New Mexican had pretty much maxed out her promotional budget. Since the decision, Sera had been running on adrenaline, excitement, and nerves. Neither she nor Malcolm would likely see their beds before tomorrow night—if then—but Sera was prepared for that. Hell, she’d been preparing her whole life for a moment like this. Sleep could wait. She took a deep breath and turned to the man at her side—pie maven, contractor, and—she hoped—friend.
“What do you think?”
He was looking around, obviously impressed with how much she’d accomplished since last they’d met. “Ye done a lot,” he conceded. “Looks like ye might just pull this off, lass.”
Sera grinned. “Damn straight we’re going to pull this off. You ready for the final push?”
“You just stay on yer side o’ the counter, keep yer mitts out of my piecrust, and we oughta do fine.”
Fourteen hours later, bursting at the seams with carbohydrate-rich delights, Bliss opened for business.
Chapter Twenty-One
Why the long face, kiddo? You don’t like the balloons out front?”
“The balloons are great, Aunt Paulie,” Sera assured the older woman. And they were—once she’d popped the cock-shaped ones (which Pauline had got from the Ecstasy Emporium) with a cake tester while her aunt wasn’t looking. She’d also taken a spit-dampened finger to the chalkboard sign Pauline had, with great zest, inscribed with the words “Cum in! We’re wiiiiide open!” and replaced the missive with a more decorous invitation for customers to attend the store’s grand opening.
“Then what? You look like someone swapped salt for sugar in your favorite recipe.” Pauline leaned against the counter, examining her niece with narrowed eyes.
Sera sighed. “I don’t know what I was expecting, Auntie. I suppose I was being unrealistic, but I had this fantasy that we’d be swamped from minute one. An addict’s grandiosity, I guess.”
Pauline gave Sera a squeeze that threatened to bagpipe all the air out of her. “It’ll happen, Baby-Bliss. Give it time. It’s early in the day.” She patted Sera on the shoulder.
Sera sighed. As grand openings went, she’d seen better. She’d also seen much worse. Or so she reminded herself throughout the day as she, Pauline, and Friedrich, the tongue-tied young barista they’d hired from the local liberal arts college, managed the steady trickle of customers who filed in and out of her new shop. She told herself to be patient, be realistic. Yet as the day progressed, there was no stampede for fresh cupcakes, no run on the croissants. Tourists wandered in, murmured appreciatively over the bright, cheerful décor, then bought a latte and a bear claw or two. Sometimes they stayed awhile. More often they moved on to the next stop on their agenda, be it museum, gallery, or boutique. Mr. Yazzie from next door came in around midday for his promised sticky bun and a minute of friendly chat. Even Lupe had wished them a sulky “good luck” on her way to opening Lyric Jewelry. And of course, Aruni was her biggest champion, not only dropping by for a green tea and a veggie breakfast mini-quiche first thing in the morning but sending all the students from her midday class over to check Bliss out after they’d finished twisting themselves into pretzels of serenity. Hortencia had bustled in toward three when her shift at Knit-Fit ended, carrying a hand-crocheted cozy for Big Mama’s container, along with a hug and a kiss for Sera and Pauline. The Back Room Babes had made a point of popping in for cups of kombucha, scones, and slices of pie, bringing a smile to Sera’s face with their cheerful greetings and loud exclamations of delight as they bit into their treats.
Overall, as the day went on, Sera found herself reasonably pleased, if not giddy with the triumph she’d secretly envisioned.
Her aunt, however, seemed to have developed some of Sera’s earlier malaise. Pauline had started out happily enough, decked out in her favorite rainbow-colored skirt, a screaming yellow bandanna, and a shirt that proudly proclaimed “Bakers Like It Hot and Steamy!” Between ringing up customers at the front register, she’d amused herself asking Friedrich all sorts of impertinent questions about his love life and clucking over his blushes and stammers. But as time went on, she’d soured. For Pauline, who stood at the ready, positively panting to show folks the “other side” of the business, had had not one customer. Sera could tell she was getting miffed. She kept glancing from the roped-off back room to the last customers lingering over their pastries, then over to Sera. But Sera had, in no uncertain terms, forbidden Pauline from evangelizing about the wares behind the curtain if customers didn’t specifically ask about them. Sera had no intention of becoming famous for peddling sexual aids—at least not before she became the toast of this town’s culinary culture.
At this rate, that might take awhile.
Maybe I should have spent more on advertising, Sera thought as she wiped down the counters and counted the leftover croissants she’d be donating to the food depot on Siler Road if they didn’t sell out. But she’d done what she could afford, and she knew she’d have to rely on word-of-mouth from satisfied customers to begin building a loyal fan base. I just need patience, and a little faith, she told herself. Of course, a nice review wouldn’t hurt either. But Sera’s polite message to the food editor at the Chile Paper, inviting him to check out her new business, hadn’t been returned.
And speaking of returns, Sera was still awaiting Asher’s. It had been over two weeks now, and even Lupe, whom Sera had risked cold shoulder-itis to ask, had no firm ETA for the enigmatic Israeli. She couldn’t help feeling he should have been there for her grand opening, though she had to concede that wasn’t quite fair—it wasn’t like she’d told him when she intended to open. Still, his absence hurt—more than she liked to admit.
Maybe he’s not coming back, thought Sera. Maybe that wife of his convinced him to stay, or… Sera had no answers.
But she did have one more customer, as she saw when she looked up in response to the chiming of the bell Malc had fastened over the door. A painfully thin young woman, perhaps mid-twenties, with the look of a computer sciences major entered the shop. The woman stopped, sniffed, and coughed, as though the scents of cinnamon, butter, and sugar were disagreeable to her. Then she lifted her chin and marched up to the counter, stiff-legged. She pulled out a pad and scanned it, then fixed Sera and her aunt with a gimlet glare.
“Are you Ms. Wilde?” she barked.
Both Pauline and Sera started. “Yes,” they answered in unison, then glanced sheepishly at each other. Pauline grinned, slung her arm around Sera, and elaborated. “I’m Pauline Wilde, and this-here genius is my niece, Bliss, the mastermind behind this oasis of oral delights.”
Sera winced.
The young woman coughed another dry cough, peering at the two of them as though they were specimens in a not particularly fascinating zoo. “So you’re the owner,” she said to Sera, who nodded.
“Proprietor anyhow,” she agreed. “Pauline will always be the real boss around here.”
The woman didn’t smile or acknowledge Sera’s distinction, except to scribble a note in her little pad. Awkwaaard, Sera thought. But she couldn’t afford to alienate someone who might be a local. “What can I get for you?” She gestured at the display cases. “The tarte tatin is very nice, and the chocolate ganache cupcake is, if I do say so myself, completely out of this world.” She smiled warmly at the woman. It had been awhile since she’d dealt with difficult customers, but her old skills f
rom her days catering to some of New York’s finickiest foodies hadn’t completely left her.
“I’m not hungry,” the woman said flatly. She cleared her throat again, as if the very notion of cupcakes made her gag. “I came because I was called.”
“Called?” Sera ventured. She could well believe the woman wasn’t hungry—she’d seen the type before: the soulless, hardly human sort who had no interest in food beyond how it might sustain them. The type, frankly, that gave Sera chills. Sera looked her over more closely. The woman’s face was startlingly square, with nearly no chin but incredibly wide jaws, like a living Lego action figure, or a less attractive Betty Boop. Her throat was so gaunt Sera could see the rungs of cartilage beneath the skin, and she could only imagine how skeletal the rest of her must be. Her long, mousy brown hair was tied in an untidy bun. It, too, looked thin. Eat a cupcake, lady, she wanted to scream. It’s obviously an emergency.
“Yes, called,” Lego-head said. She sighed irritably. “I’m Marnie Pyle. From the Chile Paper?”
In her excitement, Pauline elbowed Sera in the ribs hard enough that Sera yipped. “From the Chile Paper, you say?”
“Yessss,” the woman hissed impatiently. “Someone called the food section about this bakery, wanting a write-up. I’m who they sent.”
“Oh!” said Sera, her focus sharpening. “But we called Burt Evans, the regular reviewer. We never heard back, so we figured he wasn’t interested.”
“Burt’s got gout.” The woman’s disgusted expression clearly said, Serves him right, the fat bastard. “I’m planning to go into investigative journalism,” she said importantly, “but my editor seems to think I’ve still got some dues to pay. So I got assigned to cover this”—she looked around the bakery dismissively—“story.”
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