Bliss (12 page)

“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.

T
here 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.

“Something like that.” Asher's voice had unstuck her feet, and she ventured closer, fetching up at the base of his porch. Damn, he looked good. She hadn't seen her new landlord in a week—except in some rather embarrassing dreams—and he seemed to have grown exponentially more attractive in her absence.
Burnished blond hair: check. Lush lips: check. Glorious green eyes: double check.

Asher pushed his hat back, like a real old-fashioned cowboy. But instead of spurs, it was the chain that held his keys that jingled as he stuffed them into his rear pocket. “Well, I can't speak from experience, as I have never penetrated the inner sanctum, but they seem like a harmless enough bunch.”

Sera immediately began picturing Asher penetrating inner sanctums, and her cheeks reddened.
My God, this man makes me twelve years old again every time I see him.
And given that she was about as
talented
as a twelve-year-old when it came to romance, that was a road she'd best not tread.
I've got to get a grip.
Find something innocuous to talk about, quick!
“I met your friend Malcolm today,” she said, laying her box of goodies by her feet on the edge of the wooden porch, and noticing the pooches were nowhere to be seen tonight—Asher's doghouse was dark and silent.
Too bad,
she thought.
I'd love a little canine-inspired confidence right now.

Asher noticed the direction of her glance. “Sascha and the pups are with a sitter. With Zozobra and all the festivities, there'll be too much going on in the streets tonight, and I don't want them that worked up.”

The way he said “Zozobra” mesmerized Sera. It was as if his lips were weaving a spell, and its effect was to render her incapable of pondering anything but how those lips might taste and feel whispering similar mysteries against her mouth. Nuzzling the syllables against her neck…

“And speaking of excitable, how did you find our pie-making friend?” Asher cocked his head and studied her, as if wondering where her thoughts had roamed.

Sera snapped out of it as best she could. “I asked him to come work for me,” she confessed.

Asher's laugh was a bark of delighted surprise. “You
are
an unusual woman, Serafina Wilde. But I think you may have done yourself a favor with that decision, though he may give you cause to question it now and then.”

“Maybe we can talk more about it next week?” she asked. “I'm meeting with him on Tuesday afternoon, and before I do, I'd like to go over some details about the space and the construction.”

“Not a problem. I'll drop by the store around noon.”

“Thanks. Well, I should be going—I've been told I've got quite an evening ahead of me.” She wanted to ask him if he was going to this mysterious Zozobra thing, too, but she didn't quite have the guts. His private life was really none of her business, and she didn't want him to get the idea that she was unduly interested in his comings and goings.

“Um, before I go, could I ask one more favor, Ash?”

“Name it.”

Oh, lord. Those little crinkles around the corners of his eyes were going to be the death of her.

“Could you, ah, give me a push? I don't think I can move under my own steam.”

Asher hopped over the porch rail in what she was beginning to think of as his signature move. Instead of a push, he did her one better—he took her shoulders in his large hands, squeezed gently, and captured her startled gray eyes with his depthless green gaze. “You're going to be the best of them, Bliss,” he said.

And then he gave her a hug.

Sera was still wobbling on her feet long after he'd gone, enveloped in the afterglow of that embrace. She took a deep breath, perfumed with the blossoms of Asher's night-blooming flowers and the echo of his forged-metal scent. She felt strong, exhilarated—and yes, maybe just a little bit sexy.

All right, ladies, let's see what you got.

“Serafina!”

Now I know how Norm must have felt, coming into Cheers.

A rough dozen women were arrayed across the armchairs and atop the countertops of Pauline's House of Passion, but upon Sera's entrance, they straightened, raising glasses and whooping her name in a rousing chorus. Their boisterous clapping and waving filled the space as though they could boast twice their number. Out of the crowd stepped Pauline, resplendent in a flamingo pink belly-dancing outfit dangling scarves, coins, bells, and totems from every conceivable surface. Atop her head, in lieu of a veil, she'd plopped a Spaghetti Western–worthy sombrero. Yet despite the flamboyant getup, to Sera's eyes, Pauline looked a trifle off her stride. “Let me introduce you to the ladies!” she cried, threading her arm through Sera's and pulling her fully into the shop. Out of the side of her mouth, she muttered, “Hortencia isn't with you, is she?”

Sera shook her head, still taking in the scene.

P-HOP's cozy Victorian vibe had been replaced with a looser, though no less feminine feel tonight. The women inside ranged in age from their seventies all the way down to their early twenties, clad in festive fabrics and fascinating jewelry, sporting cowboy boots, Birkenstock sandals, and an array of hairstyles from the sober single braid to the teased bouffant. In every hand were glasses, though Sera was relieved to see they weren't all margarita goblets—at least half of the women were sipping kombucha or soft drinks—so she wouldn't stick out if she didn't imbibe. All had jazzed up their cups with Polynesian paper umbrellas, and several of the women sported feather boas, Mardi Gras beads, or Hawaiian leis about their necks. The room was steamy with body heat and fragrant with the scent of jalapeño-heavy nachos and cocktail weenies.

Pauline put her arm around her niece and began the introductions. “Sera, this is Bobbie, Crystal, and River Wind.” Bobbie was a well-dressed woman of about fifty with a very businesslike hairdo who reminded Sera of a real estate broker, while Crystal was heavily tattooed, pierced, and had definitely served some time as a Brooklyn barista, if only in a past life. River Wind, an ageless raven-haired beauty, exuded the kind of serenity Sera strived for during meetings, and rarely found. She waved shyly at the three women. “I think you already met Janice, right?” Pauline continued. Sera nodded at the waitress, smiled, and smiled some more as more women crowded forward to greet her with robust shouts of welcome. Up next were a weathered, whip-thin woman who exemplified the ideal of the Western horsewoman in denim and riding boots, a cherubic redhead, and Sera's new favorite gal pal. “And that's Lou-Ellen, Syna September, and of course, Aruni.”

“Hey, girl!”

Sera saluted, glad to see the yogini beaming at her. The rest of the names flowed over her in a wash of welcoming faces.

“Everyone, this is my niece, Serafina. As I mentioned, she's going to be opening a bakery here. It's called Bliss.”

“To Bliss!” Much clinking of cups and applause ensued.

Sera blushed, squirmy at being the center of attention. “I brought lemon bars,” she said lamely, holding up the box for the ladies to see.

“To lemon bars!”

The treats were lifted from her grip and passed around, to a wave of delighted moans and
yums
from lips soon rimmed in powdered sugar. Someone shoved a cup of kombucha in her hand, and just like that, Sera entered the whirl. She was hugged, mussed, and fussed over; toasted and roasted before she'd as much as had a moment to sit down.

And she realized something. She absolutely. Fucking. Loved it.

Serafina, who'd always needed a drink or several to get her to unbend enough to socialize at any gathering that wouldn't fit inside your average-sized closet, found herself sliding into being “one of the girls” so easily she was tempted to check herself for some of Pauline's back room lube. As she circulated about the room, she met women whose careers ranged from full-time mommy to part-time potter, plus a real, honest-to-goodness weaver, an event planner, and a tax attorney. Some of the ladies were local shop or gallery owners, who promised to stop by as soon as her bakery opened, and offered to steer business her way. Before she knew it, she was ensconced in a saggy armchair near the rear of the store, Aruni perched on one arm, Janice on the other, draped in Mardi Gras beads and lemon bar crumbs, while Pauline, with a little help from some of the others, climbed atop the mahogany counter at the front.

“Sisters!” cried Pauline, waving her leathery, scarf-swathed arms over her head for attention. Her bells and coins clashed, drawing what little attention the sight of her astonishing costume left unclaimed. “In honor of our newest initiate, I think it's time we go over our bylaws and mandate, don't you?”

“Bylaws!”

“Mandate!”

“What she said! Woooooo!”

“Okay, hush, you ninnies. Let me talk. Now Baby-Bliss, don't freak out. I made up all that crap about mandates and whatnot, just to sound fancy. Really, we've got just two golden rules. You ready?”

Sera raised her glass in acknowledgment, hoping Pauline wouldn't notice she'd yet to taste the foul brew within. “Hit me,” she invited. Aruni and Janice high-fived over her head, then mussed her hair playfully.

“What's Rule Number One, women?” Pauline prompted.

“We don't talk about
Fight Club
?” piped up Syna. She ducked as Crystal lobbed an empty plastic cup at her.

“Anyone
else?
” A bit of the retired professor entered Pauline's voice.

“Rule Number One is, ‘We support our sisters,'” a voice called from the doorway.

A hush fell over the women. Sera peered across the room and looked at the newcomer, who had spoken sharply enough to draw blood. It was Hortencia.

Pauline furled her gauze-draped wings like an exotic bird, costume jangling as she folded in on herself. Her face took on a pinched expression, and she sniffed disdainfully, but she refused to acknowledge her lover's arrival.