Bliss

by Hilary Fields

  The man of the hour was following what few customers had come to his auction about with a gimlet glare, clenching his fists with barely suppressed ire every time someone so much as peeked their snoot in a pantry or hefted a pie pan to check for dings or scratches. The guy looked positively murderous.

  But it was worth enduring a little sourness. McLeod had some seriously state-of-the-art ovens. Ah, Blodgett, Sera thought. You may not look flashy, but you’ve sure got it where it counts. And Mr. McLeod had a lot of what counted—at least to Sera. His chest freezers and reach-ins were immaculate—and exactly what she needed. His convection ovens and industrial range showed the patina of use, but also the cleanliness of the well-maintained machines they were—not to mention, they were truly top of the line. His mixers were displayed next to every conceivable desirable attachment, and some Sera had rarely seen outside of a KitchenAid catalog. No dough roller, she noted. Too proud, probably, and she didn’t blame him for distrusting the damn things—horror stories abounded about crush injuries and maimed cooks. Plus, they took the precision, the intuition out of baking. (Still, she’d make an exception for a nice fondant sheeter, if she ever did wedding cakes again. Back when she’d had her custom cake orders piling up by the dozen, having one of those babies had really saved her bacon.)

  He had bun racks, worktables, baker’s scales, dough proofers, and more—all in tip-top condition and clean to the point of making one’s teeth ache. And his bakery cases—both dry display and refrigerated models—looked like they’d just rolled off the factory floor. New, they’d have run her upwards of $6,000 a pop. Used, Malcolm would be damn lucky to take in half that. Problem was, he didn’t look any too eager to part with a single piece, despite the starting bid stickers on most of the bakery’s fixtures, and the eviction notice glued to his front door. Indeed, the small, Santa-bellied Scotsman seemed set to slap the questing fingers of the first person who dared open an oven door for closer inspection.

  Boom!

  Some fool with a death wish had just sent an unwary elbow across a counter, knocking a rolling pin to the floor. Apparently, this was the ice cream on Malcolm’s pie à la mode.

  “Out, out, out, OUUUUUUUT!”

  Except it sounded more like “Oot, oot, oot, ooooooot!”

  Serafina smothered a giggle. And while the red-faced Scotsman chased the half-dozen or so other prospective buyers out of his joint, flapping his stained apron and shaking his fist, she stayed where she stood, leaning hipshot against one of his chest freezers. Swallowing chuckles, she observed the man she’d just decided was going to come work for her.

  With his waist-length, white wavy hair and long handlebar mustache, he could have been Arlo Guthrie’s twin. However, Serafina very much doubted Arlo would’ve chosen to sport Army surplus combat fatigues beneath a kitchen apron that looked like it had seen action in Da Nang. Nor would Arlo have condoned Malcolm’s Rambo-style bandanna, she suspected, though the paunch was probably just okay, maaan.

  Malcolm spotted Serafina.

  “What’re ye still doing here? Didn’t ye hear me say ‘out’?” He took a menacing step toward Sera. But Serafina Wilde was a veteran of Blake Austin’s kitchens—not to mention his bed—and she wasn’t afraid.

  “It’s not going to be much of an auction with only one bidder,” she pointed out. She crossed her legs at the ankle and leaned more comfortably against the freezer.

  “One bidder? I’ll have none of ye! I’ll rot in debtor’s prison before I’ll sell my beautiful ovens to a flock of philistines like ye. Now get gone, ye sodding vulture, before I call the cops.” He swooped down with surprising grace for such a stout man and swept up the toppled rolling pin, examining it for damage.

  Sera found the notion of debtor’s prison quaint. Compared to the modern hells of bankruptcy court and predatory debt collectors, such a place might be preferable.

  “Hard to part with it all, huh?”

  McLeod looked up from the rolling pin, suspicion beetling his caterpillar brows. “What would ye know about it?”

  “I lost everything that mattered to me not too long ago. I thought I’d never cook again, and it nearly killed me.”

  “What’re ye on about, ye loon? Ye hardly look old enough to reach the back burner on the stove, let alone cook on it.” If he’d scoffed any harder, he’d risk hocking up a lung.

  Sera stuck out her hand, ignoring the gibe. “I’m Serafina Wilde. I’m opening a new bakery here in town, and I want what you’ve got. Including you, Mr. McLeod.” She paused a beat, enjoying the way his jaw dropped. “I’d like you to come work for me.”

  “Are ye daft?” Malcolm couldn’t have looked more offended if she’d compared his pies unfavorably with Mrs. Smith’s. “Work for ye? As what? I’m no dish washer, and I ain’t bussing tables at no sissified, ginned-up Starbucks—ye can forget about that right now!”

  Serafina took this for the bluster it was. “It’s nothing like that. What I need is an experienced opener—someone to prep the goods and set the doughs rising before the rest of the staff gets in.”

  “Och, aye, I ken ye now. Someone to do the real work, while ye get yer beauty sleep and roll in just in time to put sprinkles on a few wee cupcakes and call yerself a baker.”

  He was really working hard to offend her. But Sera saw past it to the scarred, scared man beneath. “Mr. McLeod, let me put it to you straight.” She leaned forward, grabbing the rolling pin out of his hand and prodding one pointy end into his paunch. She couldn’t help feeling like she was poking the Pillsbury Doughboy, though she wasn’t likely to elicit any giggles here. “You’re a man out of options. From what I hear, you’re practically blacklisted in this town. No one will work with you; you’ve alienated just about every eating establishment in Santa Fe—and given how many restaurants this little city’s got, that’s no mean feat.” She poked him again. “Your place is out of business, you probably owe thousands on the rent and the fixtures, and let’s face it… you aren’t getting any younger.” Poke, poke. “You’ve got just one thing going for you.” She plunked the pin down on the freezer’s top.

  “Aye, and what’s that?”

  “You’re probably the single best pie maker on the planet.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  McLeod’s face went just a wee bit ruddy, if she wasn’t mistaken, but his eyes glared pure suspicion as he sized Sera up more closely. Then he huffed, chewing his mustaches and rocking on the balls of his feet. “Tell me something I dinna know.”

  “Oh, not that there isn’t room for improvement, mind you,” Sera went on, biting back a smile. “We should talk about your crust. I noticed you used lard instead of shortening when I tried the pie at the Sunshine—and lord love you for it—but I think the flour was somewhat inferior. Have you tried King Arthur Fl—”

  “They won’t sell ta me,” he grumbled, cutting her off as if her suggestion were so obvious as to be offensive. “I know they’re the best, but after I sent them that letter about their cheap, sleazy shortcut of a pie filler, I wound up on their no-sell list. Sure, I could’ve found a way around it—I could’ve bought what I needed on the sly—but it was the principle of the thing.”

  Must have been a hell of a letter. She smiled inwardly, picturing the scandalized expression on the face of the nice customer service lady in Norwich, Vermont, upon opening Malcolm’s vituperative missive. “Principle gets you in trouble a lot, doesn’t it?” Sera observed.

  Malcolm’s expression fell somewhere between aggrieved and caught out. He crossed his arms and said nothing, but he looked less likely to shove her out the door than he had.

  “What if I told you you’d never have to compromise if you came to work for me? I wouldn’t tell you how to make your pies, and you’d do most of your work alone, before anyone else gets in. No human interaction, unless you seek it out.”

  “What’s the catch?” Malcolm wanted to know.

  Serafina became all business. “You need to know a few things, Mr. McLeod. F
irst, I’m damn good at what I do—just like you. I don’t fuck around or cut corners when it comes to pastries. I intend to bake and serve the single finest desserts this town has ever seen, and I’m not going to let anyone’s ego get in the way of that. I’m no novice—I’ve been working in kitchens since I was eighteen, and cooked with assholes that make you look like goddamn Mother Teresa. It’s going to be my place, my rules, and my menu. All excepting your pies. Over that, you’ll keep total control—name, fame, and recipes. Got it?”

  Malcolm had begun to lose his set-in scowl at her first profanity, and by the end of her spiel, he had cracked open a full-fledged, albeit rusty grin.

  “Aye, I got it, lassie.”

  “You in?”

  His hesitation was briefer than Serafina would have bet. He must be truly desperate.

  “Aye, I’m in.”

  “Good. ’Cause I don’t have time to spend all day coddling your artistic sensibilities. I’ve got to find a contractor and get the ball rolling. I want my grand opening to happen before I hit thirty. That is, if we can agree on a price for these fixtures.” She waved indicatively. “I’ll take the lot if you can arrange transportation—and you don’t try to gouge me.”

  “Might be we could come to an understanding,” Malcolm conceded. He pulled an order pad from the pocket of his apron, along with the stub of a pencil. He scribbled a figure on the paper, tore it off, and passed it to Sera with a flourish.

  Sera examined his curiously neat schoolboy writing. As the figure registered, she paled, gulped, and snatched the pencil from him. She crossed out the number in two decisive strokes. In her own considerably messier handwriting, she scrawled a counteroffer.

  His face grew apoplectic.

  Hers grew pugnacious.

  The pencil and paper flew back and forth several more times. In the end, Sera was left wanting a cigarette and perhaps a nice Thai massage, but they’d arrived at a figure that wouldn’t bankrupt her.

  She felt a wave of relief she worked hard not to show. She was running on a tight budget as it was. Her own savings were modest, and opening an eatery was probably one of the riskiest, most expensive gambles a small businesswoman could undertake. Pauline had been unbelievably generous, offering not just to pay the rent until she got on her feet, but to underwrite her initial expenses and construction costs, in return for being one of the principles of the business and a guarantee that she’d always have a job at the bakery (and get to make her own hours). Sera had known Pauline had money, but never really grasped exactly how lucrative her “Ourgasm” movement and the attendant book sales had been for her aunt. Since the seventies, Pauline had invested wisely, and she swore she could afford to take a flyer on a new venture without risking her retirement. Still, even knowing Pauline could afford the “investment,” as she called it, she didn’t like to gamble with her aunt’s money. Any way she could minimize costs, she’d take, and gladly.

  “Okay, Mr. McLeod, seems you’ve got a deal, provided this figure includes delivery.”

  He nodded. “Aye, though now ye’re breakin’ my back as well as my balls,” he grumbled.

  “The ball-breaking’s a freebie,” Sera said, giving Malcolm a cheeky grin as she turned to go. “I’ve got to be going. I have to start interviewing builders or your equipment’s not going to do me much good anytime soon.”

  Malcolm’s face took on a cunning expression. “Need a contractor, do ye?”

  “Why, you know someone?”

  “Know someone?” His chest puffed proudly. “Lass, I am someone. Licensed and bonded, and all.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “’Tis true, though ye may not credit it. I did all the work on this place m’self. Had a lot of trades in my day. Helps, when ye’ve had a few differences with folk here and there.”

  Sera took a closer look at the man she was putting so much trust in. She’d place him in his early sixties, with hands that bore scars and calluses that could have come from construction work rather than baking. Beneath the extra weight his pies had put on him, he looked solid, built like a bull. She could see him exchanging his apron for a tool belt. But there was no way to tell just by looking if he was as honest as he was strong. Sure, Asher had put in a good word for him, but how well did she know Asher? “Got references?”

  “We-ell, that depends on what ye mean when ye say references,” he hedged. “Ye want to see examples of my work, I’ve those a’plenty—and customers that’ll swear by it. Ye want to hear some aspersions cast on my character… well, ye’ll likely hear those, too, and from some of those same clients.”

  Sera considered it. “I’ll take their names. Meet me at my place Tuesday afternoon, and we’ll talk about installing your fixtures and supplies, and whether you’ll be doing the work. I’ll have made my decision by then.” Sera passed Malcolm the address, and he passed her the names and numbers of several clients he’d hastily scribbled down. She’d spend the intervening time making calls and comparing contractors. She might have a good feeling about the irascible Mr. McLeod, but she wasn’t stupid.

  “Ye’re new in town, am I right?”

  She nodded. She must still have some New York clinging to her.

  “How’d ye come to hear about me then?”

  “Oh, my new landlord, Asher Wolf, told me I should come.”

  Without a word, Malcolm snatched the slip of paper with the number scrawled on it out of Sera’s surprised hand. He crossed the figure out and wrote something in its place. “Any friend of Asher Wolf is a friend of mine,” he said gruffly. “Give ye a good deal on the construction work, too.”

  Sera looked at the number and her heart did a happy little boogie. “One more thing, Mr. McLeod, before we seal the deal,” she cautioned.

  “What’s that, lass?”

  “When you come on Tuesday, bring pie. No pie, no deal.”

  Malcolm’s guffaw followed her out the door.

  “Another time, Highlander,” Sera murmured, a broad smile lighting her face as she headed for her car.

  Chapter Nine

  There was something wrong with Sera’s feet.

  Or maybe they just knew something she didn’t. No matter how she chivvied, cajoled, and commanded, they simply would not take her farther into the courtyard.

  Seriously, feet? You’re that afraid of a few sexually liberated ladies? C’mon, it’s not like they’re going to stage a production of The Rocky Horror Picture Show and force you to play Janet.

  Or were they?

  Since coming to Santa Fe, seeing the little plaza laid out before her had never failed to suffuse Sera with a feeling of excitement and satisfaction, but this evening her pleasure was tempered with anxiety. In fact, she’d approached Placita de Suerte y Sueños with something like dread. She’d spent the afternoon picturing the Back Room Babes’ gathering as anything from a Roman orgy to a quilting bee—and unsure which would be worse. Pauline, damn her cowardly hide, had absented herself all afternoon—probably not wanting to face her niece’s ire over her massive deception—so Sera had had no one to ask what to expect.

  Thus, the stuck feet.

  The placita seemed quiet, no ambushes or hazing rituals lying in wait for the unwary newcomer. Dusk was just falling, laving the adobe buildings in rose-colored light that painted them a deep mauve. A breeze murmured through the scattered shade trees and stroked Asher’s extravagant botanical arrangements into a soft chorus of sighs. Even the earth mother fountain’s cheerful splashing seemed hushed. The shops were shut down for the evening, but a blaze of warm light spilled out from P-HOP’s front window, beckoning—or daring—Sera forward. A burst of feminine laughter erupted, Pauline’s propped-open door funneling it out into the twilight.

  Laughter is good, right? Just so long as they’re not laughing at me. Sera took a deep breath, smoothed her outfit free of nonexistent wrinkles, and prepared to meet her new… well, she wasn’t quite certain what they’d be. Friends? Clientele? Nemeses? Feet, listen here, she ordered. We didn’t get
all dolled up to spend the evening rooted to the pavement. Besides, with those kicks on, you gotta want to show off a little, right?

  Not being sure whether the dancing shoes Aruni had recommended were meant for ballroom or mosh pit, she’d settled on a pair of calf-high black leather slouch boots that made her legs look good and had a low enough heel that she’d make it through whatever the night might bring. Since she was so short, she’d decided against a skirt, instead pairing them with leggings and a silky tunic in an azure hue that complemented her skin and lent the slate gray of her eyes a shimmering blue overtone. She’d belted the tunic with an obi-style leather wrap belt, feeling as though she were gearing up for battle. Okay, I’m about as gussied up as I get. Hopefully these ladies don’t eat me alive.

  Maybe I should have brought more treats, she worried. It never hurt to meet new people with a heaping handful of sugary delights, particularly since she no longer had the option of offering liquid social lubricants to smooth the way. Sera hefted the box full of Meyer lemon squares she’d whipped up this afternoon after her meeting with Malcolm. They might be humble, and hardly innovative, but nobody didn’t like lemon bars. Three dozen ought to be plenty, unless the Back Room Babes were a veritable army. Granted, they sounded like quite a gathering, if the noise spilling from within P-HOP was anything to judge by, but the place couldn’t fit more than a couple dozen full-grown adults, so…

  “Wondering whether or not to go in?” an unmistakable voice called to her from beyond the fountain. Asher—once again wearing his adventurer’s hat—leaned over his porch rail, keys in hand after having obviously just locked up his shop. Guadalupe, she was glad to see, was nowhere in evidence, and Sera very much doubted the snooty sales clerk was in Pauline’s shop with the BRBs.