Hilary Fields - Bliss

“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.

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 from 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.”

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.