Bliss (24 page)

Sera was embarrassed to admit, she'd actually given it a whirl. Yet no matter what aids she employed, nor what pleasant memories of Asher's embrace she conjured, the result was… disappointing. She kept picturing her aunt tiptoeing up to the window to see how she was doing, or pressing a glass to the door… or worse, offering a tutorial on the proper usage of her “tools.” In the end, almost without conscious design, Sera had found herself in her aunt's kitchen, baking up a half-dozen almond
galettes
she had no good home for. She hadn't been able to look either woman in the eye after they'd returned from the theater, merely serving them up the delicious dessert with a side of
crème fraîche
before retiring to her room to nurse her shame.

Now, melting to death in the ever-increasing heat of the sweat lodge, Sera knew she could never tell Pauline that the real reason she couldn't achieve orgasm was Pauline herself. Her aunt would be devastated.
Maybe I should just fake it,
she thought.
It's worked for me before… and it would get me the hell out of this convection oven.
But Serafina believed in rigorous honesty—it was one of the tenets of her recovery program. And so she sweated it out.

At least the lighting was nice and low, Sera thought hazily. And the sage was actually quite pleasant, once her nostrils got accustomed to it. The rosy glow from the brazier was… hypnotizing. The heat curled around her, lulling her, though she fought to stay alert.
This isn't so bad,
she told herself.
It's just like a sauna.

A very steamy sauna.

Curtains of white condensation swirled about the hut, obscuring Sera's vision. Somehow, as the mists parted, Sera wasn't surprised to see the sweat lodge had admitted another guest. A very ugly, odd-looking guest, about a foot tall and walking on all fours. It trotted right up next to her in the hut, bold as it pleased. The other women had faded from Sera's awareness, banked in clouds of steam, and it was just her and the wrinkly, vaguely phallic-looking beast.

“What are you supposed to be?” Sera, somehow unsurprised, asked the creature.

“Can't you tell? I'm an armadillo,” the armadillo said proudly.

“Sorry,” Sera apologized. “I'm more used to subway rats and pigeons. I don't think I've ever seen an armadillo in real life before.”

“And you ain't seeing one in real life now, hon,” said the armadillo, which for some reason was now sporting a cowboy hat. And chewing a hayseed. “I'm not supposed to be purple. And my tail is a lot longer than this in real life. Plus, mostly I live in Texas, not so much New Mexico. Watch a nature show once in a while, won't you?”

“Sorry,” Sera said again. “So, are you, like…” She couldn't say it.

“Your orgasm totem? Your cum-critter? Your arma-dildo? Nah. I'm just a hallucination. But if you like, I could give you some advice.”

The armadillo trundled up closer to Sera, and she noticed that it was thick-skinned, yet naked, as she was, with a soft underbelly. Its eyes, half-buried in armor, were sharp and bright, its nose long and twitchy. It looked at her as if she were infinitely amusing, but also perhaps a tad pitiable.

“Sure,” said Sera, who at this point wasn't above taking advice from purple fantasy animals. “Lay it on me.”

The armadillo pushed its rhinestone-spangled hat back on its tiny head. “My advice?” the beast mused. “Don't worry about what these dopey broads tell you. When the moment comes, it's just like sneezing. You know what I mean?”

“Um, not really,” said Sera, who appeared to be floating about six inches above the floor of the hut now. “Sneezing?”

“Ever tried to hold back a sneeze?” her not-totem asked.

“I guess,” said Sera, who had never thought about it before.

“How'd that work out for you?”

Sera considered it. Her mind was strangely languid. “Um, I sneezed anyway, but it was kind of bunged up. Not very nice.”

“Uh-huh. And ever tried to
make
yourself sneeze?” The armadillo didn't wait for an answer. “Can't do it, can you? It's not something you can force, and it's not something you can fake—not properly. You can't stop it and you can't control the timing. Just like climax. Also,” it paused and said thoughtfully, “I'm pretty sure you can't do either with your eyes open.” The armadillo gathered itself, settling its hat more firmly over its brow with one tiny claw. It patted its nonexistent pockets. “Anyway, lady, that's about all I got on the subject.” It started to walk away, toward a little hole Sera hadn't noticed before in the mud-brick walls. Then it stopped and turned back for a final word. “Oh, yeah—one more thing. You may never have sneezed before, but I have a feeling you're gonna be developing some severe allergies pretty soon. Anyhow, take it easy!”

“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.

S
era 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 several 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.