Bliss

by Hilary Fields

  You don’t always get to choose your angels, Sera reminded herself. But once they arrive, it can’t hurt to roll out the red carpet. She exchanged significant looks with her aunt, who was squirming with barely suppressed excitement. Sera winced internally. An excited Pauline was a garrulous Pauline—and lord only knew what she might say. “I got this, Aunt Pauline. Think you can man the register alone for a bit?”

  Pauline, standing in the nearly empty shop, gave her niece a disbelieving look. “Did I suddenly go senile in the last twenty minutes?” she muttered. Sera ignored her. Much as she didn’t want to offend her aunt, she really didn’t want Pauline’s unfiltered outrageousness to affect Ms. Pyle’s write-up. Sera came around the counter, ushering the woman gingerly over to a table. “Please, let me offer you a cup of coffee—Friedrich, would you make our guest whatever she’d like? Anything you want, Friedrich can make it—we rescued him from Starbucks and he’s still in the honeymoon phase,” she joked.

  Lego-head didn’t smile. “Coffee, black,” she said.

  Friedrich nodded and wordlessly poured a cup of joe—from the freshly brewed pot, Sera was glad to see. Sera brought it over to her “best” table, a lovely little inlaid marble square parked between a pair of squishy antique leather armchairs she and Malcolm had carefully Scotchgarded. She glanced back at her aunt, who was fulminating not very quietly by the register. Friedrich kept his head down, wiping up stray coffee grounds with a rag. “Maybe you could bring us an assortment of pastries, Aunt Pauline. You know all the best ones—not that there are any bad ones,” she added hastily, glancing at the reporter.

  “Let me see if I can get my feeble old brain to work well enough to pick a few,” said Pauline, sniffing.

  Sera wiped the wince off her face. “So!” she said brightly, watching as her guest settled stiffly into an armchair, “you’re here to write a review of Bliss?”

  Marnie Pyle coughed. “Less a review than a brief puff piece on the opening. When Burt’s feeling better, he may drop by for a more thorough story.” Her tone told Sera not to count on it.

  “Right, well…” Sera trailed off. “Uh, so what comes next?”

  The reporter dug into her messenger bag and placed a digital recorder and her notepad on the table between them. “I’ll ask you a few questions, then you answer them,” she said, her expression indicating Sera had been on the waiting list for a brain transplant too long. “I’ll try to make this quick.” Sera could almost hear the unspoken, For both our sakes. Marnie coughed; a single, Gollum-like bark. “So, we’ll start with your background as a baker, and then talk a bit about what brought you to Santa Fe from wherever it is you’re from.” She leaned back in her chair—a pose not so much receptive as infinitely weary.

  Sera hit all the high notes, weaving a highly sanitized version of her story for the bored reporter. Neither her education at New York City’s preeminent culinary school nor her experience in some of Manhattan’s finest kitchens seemed to impress the woman. She probably wouldn’t know Jacques Pépin from Jacques Cousteau. As she watched Lego-head’s eyes glaze over like honey dip on a donut, a thrill of panic swept over her. A bad review could spell the end for them before they’d barely begun. Sera well knew the effects of negative publicity—back in New York, Blake Austin’s smear campaign had effectively ruined her. But nothing she said elicited more than a sigh or a brief scribble on the reporter’s pad.

  Sera tried harder. She hadn’t slept for two days, and she was running mainly on sugar and caffeine. But she’d be damned if she didn’t give this interview her utmost. Forcing animation to replace her exhaustion, she rhapsodized about Santa Fe’s spectacular climate and bemoaned the kinks the high altitude had thrown into her well-rehearsed recipes. She shared how her aunt had invited her to set up shop, and how it had always been her dream to become a pâtissière. She talked extensively about their menu, being sure to mention McLeod’s famous pies. Still, nothing seemed to capture her guest’s attention.

  Until her aunt stepped in.

  “Here we go!” Pauline sang out, swishing over to their table with a swing in her hips and a plate piled high with samples of Sera’s treats in her hand. With a flourish, she set the plate down and plunked her bum on the arm of Sera’s chair. “My Bliss here is hands down the best baker in New Mexico—New York, too, I bet. I taught her everything she knows,” she confided.

  Sera tried not to wince. Please, please don’t embarrass me, she silently pleaded, remembering other times over the years when she’d futilely sent up this same prayer. It would be just like Pauline to start babbling about Sera’s orgasm quest… or the back room. Under the table, Sera crossed her fingers.

  Lego-head looked dubiously down at her plate. Pauline had arranged perfect bite-sized samples of some of Sera’s greatest hits—from a classic Napoleon to a hazelnut-infused mille crepe, plus a petite triple-chocolate mousse (the same that had first garnered Blake Austin’s attention) and the green chile quiche Sera had added to the menu as a concession to the locals (she had experimented with green chile cupcakes but had given it up as a bad job). Everything looked exactly as Sera would have hoped—mouthwatering, elegant, and fresh.

  Lego-head took a tiny bite of the mousse. Her mouth screwed up and she took a quick sip of coffee.

  “Is something wrong?” Sera couldn’t stop herself from asking.

  Lego-head coughed. “I’m sure it’s fine. I just don’t like chocolate.” Her scrawny fingers fumbled for her pen, and she wrote herself a note. She tried the quiche. Made another face. “Or eggs.” Another scribbled note. She sampled the mille crepe, its dozen delicate layers parting with a ghost of a sigh beneath her fork, oozing hazelnut crème and hours of effort. “Very rich,” said Lego-head, but not in a particularly approving tone.

  Sera shot her aunt a look. We’re dyin’ here.

  “Did my niece tell you about the back room?” Pauline asked brightly.

  Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no…

  “Back room?” asked Lego-head, eyes sharpening.

  Now it was Sera’s turn to elbow Pauline, which she did sharply enough that the older woman nearly lost her seat on the arm of Sera’s chair.

  But the reporter’s investigative instincts had kicked in. And Pauline’s pride in her life’s work would not be stifled—no matter how hard Sera prayed. “Oh, yes, it’s the real secret of this shop. We don’t call it ‘Bliss’ just because the baked goods are out of this world. Our mission is to offer sensual pleasures of all sorts—fulfillment for the senses, the earthier the better.”

  Ms. Pyle stood up. Her ennui had vanished, and Sera, to her horror, saw visions of bylines dancing in the woman’s unfortunately shaped skull. “Now we’ve got an angle,” she barked. “Show me this back room of yours.”

  Pauline was more than happy to do so. And Sera, sensing she ought not body-slam her last living relative to the ground in front of witnesses, was powerless to stop her.

  * * *

  The headline in the Chile Paper’s next issue read:

  Cupcakes and Climaxes: New Bakery Offers More Than Just Taste Sensations

  The day after the issue dropped, they were swamped.

  The day after that, a chance tweet from a certain vacationing celeb whose Twitter following exceeded half a million took the tale of Santa Fe’s new “dessert and dildo place” to the web. (Apparently, said celeb’s assistant had stopped by the store and brought her master—er, employer—a few treats and some spicy stories.) The celebrity thought his followers might get a giggle, and he was right—but so did the national news media.

  Because the day after that, the film crew from CNN arrived.

  And the day after that, her nemesis returned.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Oh, shit. Asher’s back.

  His figure was unmistakable—long, lean, and purposeful, edging his way through the throng of customers that had lined up outside the door and half filled the courtyard. His destination was clear… he was making a beeline for Serafina hersel
f.

  Sera froze. The world went a bit wonky, time slowing while the space between them seemed to wobble and shimmer. Sera gave up breathing as a bad job, had to lean her butt against the counter behind her lest her legs betray her.

  He looked good. Damn good. Tanned, burnished, fair glowing with good health and a lightness of presence she couldn’t fail to notice, even as she wondered at its cause. It was as though he was lit up from within—or, more accurately, that the fire she’d always sensed in him, banked, had flared into full-throated life. She guessed she had about forty-five seconds before he finished wending his way to the front and they were reunited. Her heart began to thrum like the harp in an angel’s chorus, her breath coming quick and shallow.

  “Helloooo… Peanuts?”

  “What?” Sera blinked, brought back to the customer in front of her with a start.

  “It doesn’t have any peanuts in it, does it?” repeated the anxious mother whose five-year-old was doing his best to get his grubby prints all over Sera’s nice clean display cases. “Billy’s allergic to peanuts. Well, not allergic, but his pediatrician says peanut allergies are very common among boys his age, so we don’t want to take any risks! So no peanuts. Does this have peanuts?”

  Sera collected her wits as best she could. “Um… it is a peanut butter pie, so yes, I’m afraid it does contain peanuts,” she said with an apologetic smile. She squelched the desire to point out the display card that clearly pronounced the nature of the confectionary beast, right in front of the woman’s nose. The mom had “frazzled” written all over her as it was.

  She wasn’t alone. Since the CNN crew had taken the story of her “salacious” new bakery national, interviewing Sera, Pauline, and their neighbors for a piece that had elicited a raised eyebrow from Anderson Cooper himself, tourists and locals alike had been flocking to Bliss, and the phone had been ringing off the hook. Sera was running out of brioche faster than she could bake. She was worn to the bone, practically swaying on her feet.

  And it was, hands down, the most fun Sera could remember having, drunk or sober.

  Even Malcolm, who’d sworn never to do customer-facing work again, had been drafted to do day shifts baking, prepping, and packaging in the back. Up front, Sera and Friedrich were being run off their feet, helping Santa Feans shop for Thanksgiving treats, birthday cakes, and pain quotidian alike. The tables were full, the armchairs overflowing, and patrons were wedged in every available space, munching, sipping, chatting, and comparing notes. Their cheeks were flushed, their eyes bright from sugar, and the din of the crowd was stadium-loud. Their energy fed Sera as if she were plugged directly into it with some psychic extension cord. It was like the very best buzz she’d ever had on booze—exhilaration, exultation, and ego keeping the need for sleep at bay and her reflexes sharp. But this high wasn’t about self-destruction.

  It was the fulfillment of a dream.

  Pauline’s dreams, too, were coming true. She had set herself up on a stool by the back room like some flower-child nightclub bouncer, and was taking numbers for customers curious about her little corner of the Bliss empire. Today’s T-shirt read, “Ask Me About Our Ben Wa Balls!” and she was sporting a purple felt beret angled jauntily over her salt-and-pepper hair. The line for the back room was nearly as long as that for the baked goods, but Sera couldn’t begrudge her. Not only had Pauline’s indiscreet comment garnered Sera the publicity she needed to make a go of her bakery, Sera had, quite simply, never seen her aunt so joyfully in her element.

  Solicitously, Pauline led those with a prurient interest into her domain of personal empowerment, guiding them through the purchase of pleasure-enhancing accoutrements, and then (on Sera’s recommendation), discreetly packaging their newfound treasures in opaque plastic bags printed with the store’s name in flowing pink script. She’d already had to place several orders with the folks at the Ecstasy Emporium to keep up with the demand.

  It was pandemonium—wonderful, glorious pandemonium.

  It was also just about all Sera could handle at the moment.

  Apparently, Asher Wolf hadn’t got the memo.

  “I so do not need this right now,” she muttered.

  “Excuse me?” the mother said sharply.

  “Oh, not you, you’re fine,” Sera said, waving distractedly. But I, on the other hand, am most definitely not fine right now. Even if he is the finest thing I have ever seen in my life.

  Part of her wanted to shove the lady’s cookies at her, vault over the counter, and launch herself into Asher’s arms. Another part wished he’d just disappear—at least until she had time to process her feelings. But Asher obviously wasn’t going away—in fact, he’d edged himself to the front of the crowd now, so close she could smell his signature, sigh-inducing pheromones. What’m I going to say to him? she fretted. It had to be something casual, something that wouldn’t reveal how much she’d missed him, how often she’d thought of him since he left, and damn it, how much sleep she’d lost replaying, over and over, their spectacular make-out session.

  Be cool, Sera, she warned herself.

  “Where have you been?” was what came out of her mouth.

  Loudly.

  Titters, snorts, and muffled laughs erupted from the crowd waiting their turn at the counter. Sera’s face flushed a painful near-purple, and she debated whether the storage cubby at her back might be generous enough to accommodate her.

  “I’m sorry, Bliss.” Asher’s eyes were earnest, his whole face radiating regret. “I would have returned sooner if I could. I had… obligations… to attend to back home.”

  Obligations like his wife? Sera wondered.

  “I see,” she said. She turned to her customer. “How about I arrange an assortment of those palmiers and some chocolate-dipped meringues? No peanuts, I promise.”

  “Fine, fine,” murmured the mom, stroking little Billy’s tousled hair as she gazed hungrily at the man Sera very much wanted all to herself.

  “I just got in less than an hour ago,” Asher explained. “And, ah… I brought you something,” he continued with unusual shyness. He reached behind him, and for the first time Sera noticed the long canvas sack slung over his shoulder, like a rifle case or a really, really big yoga mat holder. He swung it around front and reached inside, stripping the cloth away to show her what lay beneath.

  “Oh.” Sera’s hand flew to her mouth. Tears pricked her eyes.

  It was a sign for her store. A big, metal sign with “Bliss” forged in the most elegant calligraphy against a chased background of fanciful designs inlaid in silver, copper, and brass. Amid flowing abstract renderings of what looked like flowers and mountains, Sera picked out delicate little cupcakes, tiered party cakes, éclairs, cookies, and even… was that?... yes, a tiny chocolate babka. It must have taken him days, if not weeks, to create.

  “It’s wonderful,” she said.

  It was Asher’s turn to blush, just a tiny hint of rosy color staining those tanned cheeks. “It was the only thing missing,” he said. “Before I left, Malcolm showed me the store, and I thought, ‘It’s perfect, it has everything—except a way to let customers know how marvelous it is inside.’ So”—he shrugged—“I made this.”

  “Nice going, guy, but could you woo your girlfriend some other time? Some of us are crying for a latte and a cinnamon bun here.”

  The suggestion came from a burly, cowboy-hatted mountain man with a beard Grizzly Adams would have envied and a grin that took the sting from his words.

  “I’ve come at a bad time,” Asher said, reddening further as he took in, seemingly for the first time, just how crowded the shop was.

  “No… well, yes,” Sera admitted. “It’s a bit hectic right now, but I do want to talk to you, Ash.” And kiss you, and lick you, and make myself at home stark naked on top of your body…

  “After closing, then?” he asked. “I’ll just go and retrieve the dogs from the kennel, and check on Guadalupe in the meantime—she’s been managing the shop on her own far too long.”<
br />
  “Yeah, that’d be great—just maybe give me an hour after closing to set the place to rights,” Sera said, wondering if she’d have time to scrub off the sweat, sugar, and sinful thoughts she’d be accruing in the meanwhile. “You know where to find me.”

  “Until then.”

  Sera’s sigh was echoed by half (primarily, though not entirely, the soprano half) of her customers as Asher sauntered out of the store. And as the door closed behind him, Pauline experienced a sudden run on the back room that made her smile quite, quite broadly.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  At the last second, Sera snatched the forgotten snood off her hair and gave her head a shake, hoping she’d achieve “sexily tousled” rather than “bag lady chic.” Knowing her hair, she figured her chances were about fifty-fifty.

  An hour after closing, Bliss was empty, tidy, and gleaming with readiness to face the next day. What a change from earlier today, Sera thought, feeling a strong sense of satisfaction—and yes, pride as she surveyed her store. It was a feeling she’d yet to get familiar with. She still tended to see herself as a failure—an addict, a washout in her career. But look at me now, she marveled. A so-far successful store. A sweet little bungalow she shared with her aunt. New friends. Glorious sunsets every night, fresh mountain air, and chile-smothered Southwestern food to eat pretty much any night of the week. And an incredibly hot guy about to walk through her door.

  Just. Don’t. Fuck. It. Up.

  “Fuck what up?” Asher asked as he poked his head through the door.

  Did I say that out loud? “Oh, I was thinking of including a special later this week—it’s this little turkey-shaped fleur de sel caramel truffle that’d be perfect for people’s Thanksgiving tables. But it’s been awhile since I made them and I was worried about how they’d come out. The molds can be a bit tricky.” All true, if he’d interrupted her thoughts ten minutes earlier.