Hilary Fields - Bliss

His tongue bathed the hot, angry tears from her eyes. Thank you, pooch, she thought fervently. I really don’t want your master to see me lose it over that sleazeoid. Rage, a sense of injustice, and adrenaline all coursed through her system, making her shake with reaction. And in their wake came a second round of doubts. Sure, she’d run her demon off—for now—but had she really slain him? Sera sank her trembling fingers into Silver’s coat and rubbed her cheek against the top of his head, breathing in his doggy smell. She felt Asher arrive at her side before she heard him.

“Bliss,” he said quietly. “What was all that about? Are you all right?”

She turned, pooch and all, to look up at him. My mascara is probably halfway to my chin, if Silver hasn’t licked it all off. Oh well, what he’d just seen in the kitchen was worse than a little Tammy Faye facial action.

“Yeah, I’m all right.” No, I’m not. “That was just a bit of my baggage, coming back to haunt me. Sorry it ruined our evening.” Silver whined and placed his paws on either shoulder, as if giving her a hug. He continued to lick her chin.

“That looked like more than just ‘baggage’ to me, Bliss,” Asher argued gently. “Who was that?”

She sniffed, staring out into the night. “That,” she said with a sigh, “was the man who convinced me I better quit drinking.”

She put the puppy down, where he happily began to do battle with Asher’s motorcycle boots. “I’m sorry, Ash. I think I’d better go home now. I’m exhausted, and I need to be up in a few hours to start baking again.” She glanced up at him, feeling tentative, shaken in the wake of tonight’s tumultuous events. Suddenly, being with Asher, being happy with Asher, seemed a lot less possible. Sure, I love him, but when he knows everything about my past, will he ever be able to love me? Blake had brought with him a bitter reminder of who she was—who she used to be—and it was a sobering feeling. She didn’t want to be that woman anymore. She hoped she’d changed enough to escape the old Sera. But whether Asher could handle the truth of who she’d been… well, that remained to be seen. “I… I think I need some time alone.”

Asher’s green eyes searched her face with concern. “You’ll be all right? Would you like me to drive you home?”

“I’ll be fine.” Sera laid her palm against his stubbly cheek, feeling a pang. “Thanks for having my back, Ash.”

“I’d like to have your front, too,” he teased, a twinkle in his green eyes.

That surprised a watery laugh out of Sera. She ran a hand down his coat front, tracing the buttons, loving him even more for trying to cheer her up at a time like this. “We’ll see about that one, handsome,” she said.

“Will we? I’d still like to take you out, Bliss.”

“That,” she sighed, “is the nicest news I’ve had all day.”

She left him after a kiss that went a long way toward soothing the upsets of the last hour.

Silver barked softly at the first flakes of snow that sifted down into the courtyard as Sera turned her back on her future, and went home to contemplate her past.

He did it. That snake really went ahead and did it!”

Pauline slammed the newspaper down on the counter as she swept into the store, fuming. Having been filled in by Sera when the snake in question first slithered into town, three nights ago now, she was well aware of Blake’s descent upon the otherwise delightful City Different, and she was about ready to blow a gasket. Or had been, before she saw the paper. Now, “supernova” might better describe her aunt’s combustible attitude, Sera thought.

“Did what?” she asked, gingerly unfolding the paper. It was about a half hour before opening, and she was just getting the shop ready for the influx of Thanksgiving Day customers who’d be wanting to pick up their orders before the store closed early for the holiday. Pauline, who had flatly refused to let Sera do any cooking, had left a turkey in the oven back home and had prepped all the makings for a delectable feast in advance. Hortencia was over at the house making sure pots didn’t boil over and getting the place prettied up for the occasion. Tomorrow, with customers in a food coma, Sera would have her first day off since Bliss had opened.

She also had a date, formally confirmed, to spend the evening with Asher.

For now, though, she still had four hours of retail chaos to get through. She’d thought herself well prepared for any eventuality. Boxes stood at the ready, ribbons all set to wrap them. Cookies, pies, and cakes sat proudly in their cases, waiting to be taken home to a lucky family for the holiday. Her advance orders alone ensured Bliss would be in the black for a spell. She ought to be rejoicing. But when Sera saw what her aunt, trembling with ire, pointed out with one stiff finger, she found herself in no mood for celebration.

It was another article by substitute food writer Marnie Pyle.

She scanned down the page. “Son of a bitch!”

It was ostensibly about Blake’s new venture, a swanky new Southwestern fusion affair with appetizers in the $40 range. Ostensibly… until she got to the part where he just “happened” to mention his former protégée. Sera read aloud, her voice rising with outrage.

“Yes, I’ve heard about that odd new pastry venture down the road. I knew its proprietor, Serafina Wilde, back in New York. She used to work for me, for a short while.”

“A short while! Try four of the longest years of my life,” she seethed.

“Look what else he said, that rat fink,” Pauline commanded. Her hands were knotted into gnarled fists atop the counter and her long, wiry hair fairly crackled with outrage.

Sera placed a comforting hand on her aunt’s shoulder, then continued reading. Despite her efforts to remain calm, her own voice played the scale of outrage with every sentence.

“However, neither her cooking nor her conduct were really up to my exacting standards. I found her disappointing, if I’m honest. And I don’t mind telling you, I was rather surprised to discover Miss Wilde had opened an establishment that went by the name of ‘Bliss,’” Chef Austin informed this reporter. “My experience of Miss Wilde was that she knew very little of bliss, culinary or carnal. Back when I knew her, she had a bit of a reputation as a… well, suffice it to say she wasn’t known for her comfort within the realm of the sensual.” Asked what he meant by this statement, Chef Austin refused to comment, beyond saying, “There was a reason we ended our association. Best of luck to her, of course. But one has to wonder if she’s really being up-front with her customers by peddling them the promise of some confectionary Kama Sutra, considering her personal shortcomings in that milieu.”

She flung the paper across the shop. “Shortcomings! He’s one to talk. The man couldn’t boil an egg without an assistant! And that’s only his professional shortcomings. Don’t get me started on the size of his—”

Friedrich, who’d been wiping the spigots on the already clean espresso machine, coughed sharply. Both women turned to look at the young man they’d practically forgotten was with them in the shop. Blushing, the slight, dark-haired youth mumbled something in the general direction of the brass-fitted machine’s innards. It was so unusual to hear him speak that both women stopped, mid-rant.

“What was that? Speak up, kid,” Pauline demanded.

Friedrich swallowed and found his rarely used voice. “I said, it sounds like libel to me. Maybe you should sue.”

“I’ll do one better,” Sera vowed. “Get that Pyle woman on the phone, would you, Pauline? I’ve got a few choice words for that chick.”

* * *

In the end, Sera had to settle for arranging an interview for the Monday after Thanksgiving—even the skeletal Miss Pyle, it seemed, took time off for turkey day. The reporter had grudgingly agreed to reinterview Sera, though she’d refused to apologize for printing Blake’s words without referring back to their object for comment. Journalists today, Sera reflected as she served her last customer and prepared to go home to her own well-deserved dinner. They’ll print any old gossip, never mind the damage they’re doing. She couldn’t help wondering if she’d soon see a drop-off in business as a result of what the paper had printed. Certainly, Pauline hadn’t done much trade in the back room this morning, but Sera told herself she was being paranoid—Thanksgiving weekend just wasn’t the right time, probably, for people to focus on their sexual gratification—they were too busy gratifying their gullets.

That was what Sera told herself—and reassured Pauline—with as much conviction as she could muster. But Blake’s opening salvo had her more nervous than she let on. A few innuendos might not be enough to keep people from shopping at Bliss, but who knew what he had planned next? Blake’s takedown back in New York had started similarly. And the worst of it was, the article had mentioned he was still in town—intended to stay through the holidays, apparently, to see his new venture through its maiden voyage. He could do a lot of damage in that time.

She’d never been able to figure out exactly why he was so relentless, so ruthless in his pursuit of her downfall, until a former associate had explained it to her after apologetically turning her down for a job.

“Look, Sera. I’d love to hire you,” the burly executive chef at a certain Midtown staple had said to her one afternoon. His ruddy face turned ruddier as he spoke, and he couldn’t quite look her in the eye. Instead he fiddled with the salt and pepper shakers that graced the linen-draped two-top he’d invited her to share with him between the lunch and dinner shifts. At least he’d given her the courtesy of an interview—few others in his position had been willing to do as much, as Sera had learned to her chagrin over the months since her showdown with Blake in the Hamptons. “Meltdown at the Maidstone,” they were calling it, or so she’d heard from those few friends whose loyalty she’d managed to retain. Ever since, she’d been pounding the pavement like nobody’s business, and getting nothing but doors slammed shut in her face.

“But you’re not going to hire me, are you?” She’d gulped the tepid water from her glass, wishing it were wine—or hell, a whole flock of Grey Geese—but knowing she was through with all that. Pauline hadn’t gotten her into that twelve-step program for nothing, and Sera was clinging to her new sobriety with all ten claws. But at times like these… well, a double vodka would go down pretty smooth. She fiddled with the stem of the glass, daring a glance up at the chef she’d always admired for being a straight shooter as well as a damn good cook.

“No, I’m not,” he said. “You’re talented as hell and any kitchen in this city would be lucky to have you—but I’m sorry. I just can’t risk it. Chef Austin’s put the word out that you’re untouchable, and he’s got too much clout for me to go against him. He could have health inspectors on my ass. He could get me negatively reviewed. He could pressure my suppliers to stop selling to me. Hell, I once saw him get a fishmonger barred from the Hunts Point Market just for selling his mahimahi to another customer instead of saving it all for one of Blake’s restaurants—when Blake didn’t even have an order in that day. And that ain’t the worst of what Austin’s done when he’s out for blood. Sorry, Serafina. You’re a great pastry chef, but no dessert, no matter how delicious, is worth that kind of grief.”

“I… I don’t understand,” Sera had whispered, hating the break in her voice that betrayed her. “Why is he doing this?”

“Way I see it, it’s pretty simple,” the chef said with a sympathetic grimace. “I know Chef Austin, and that is one bastard who does not like to be crossed. I heard all about that day—hell, half the kitchens in Manhattan are still buzzing over it—and bad as that whole business was for you, it’s been a slap in the face to Austin, too.” At Sera’s uncomprehending expression, he explained. “Honey, you’re the only woman—hell, the only person—who’s ever managed to make a fool of Austin. He’s a man who expects complete loyalty, blind obedience, and most of all worship. Hooking up with another guy, right there in his own domain in front of all his minions, was the ultimate humiliation, even if he would never cop to it in a million years. And when you dared to yell at him afterward, you challenged his rule. You showed spine, if only for a second. He can’t have that—his whole reputation is built on being an iron-fisted tyrant. If girlfriends start sassing him, if fellow chefs mutiny, his whole empire could crumble. Or at least, that’s how he sees it.”