Hilary Fields - Bliss

Aruni did a totally unsubtle gawk over her shoulder while Sera tried not to cringe. “Yup,” she affirmed. “He’s in here a lot. Likes the pies, I’m told. He has a compound in the hills just outside the city limits. I heard he had it built to look just like the ranch in his most famous film. We’ve got a lot of aging stars buying second homes in the area, so don’t be surprised if you see one or two. But you must be used to celebrity sightings, being from New York and all. The way Pauline tells it, you were practically Donald Trump’s personal chef.” Aruni was clearly fishing for info.

Sera considered sharing a few choice stories from her days in Blake Austin’s kitchens. She’d met—and catered to—enough celebs that the mystique had mostly worn off. “I did have the occasional celebrity run-in here and there,” she admitted, and decided not to elaborate. She wasn’t feeling particularly nostalgic for her hometown or her old life, and wasn’t sure she ever would again. “So what’s good here?” she asked, steering the subject away from her origins.

Aruni buried her gamine face in her menu, studying it earnestly. Her wiry corkscrew curls wiggled joyously above the top of the oversized diner menu with a life of their own. “Well, anything with green chile is great,” she advised, “but I mostly come here for the desserts.”

Sera privately marveled that the woman before her, slender to the point of being two-dimensional, had ever been intimately acquainted with sweets. She glanced down at her menu, her mouth quirking involuntarily into a smile as she read. The offerings were a mix of classic diner comfort foods and New American cuisine, all with what she was beginning to recognize as a signature Santa Fe twist. “The desserts are practically the only items on the menu that don’t have green chile in them,” she observed wryly. “Guess they’re trying to tell me something. Maybe I’ll have to invent a green chile cupcake for my bakery.”

“Oh, for sure you have to,” Aruni said, as if shocked Serafina might ever have entertained a contrary idea. She slapped her menu down and focused intently on Sera, leaning forward across the table with her elbows bent and her pointy chin propped on her fists. “Have you decided on a menu for the bakery yet?”

“Oh yes.” Sera smiled. “About eighteen of them. It’s narrowing it down to what’s doable without forgoing sleep until retirement that’s the tricky part.”

“Hmm.” Aruni's earnest brown eyes crinkled in thought. “Well, what are you best at?”

“Everything.” Serafina made this pronouncement without a trace of shame, and perhaps a soupçon of healthy arrogance. She slung her arms across the back of her side of the booth, gesturing broadly. “From macaroons to pain au chocolat, meringue to petit four, I pretty much rock the confectionary spectrum.” Seeing Aruni's eyebrows shoot up, she smiled. “Seriously, I’m like the puff pastry whisperer. I can make a choux paste that’ll float your éclair on a sea of mocha yumminess. My lady fingers and biscotti scoff at the need for coffee. My chocolate mousse is so rich it makes Rupert Murdoch feel poor. And my wedding cakes—well, husbands may come and go, but my cakes are timeless. I’ve never wanted to do anything else with my life—the truth is, I’ve screwed up everything else I’ve touched—but pastries? We just seem to understand one another. It’s been that way since I was a little kid.”

What Sera didn’t say was that, as a painfully shy child with limited people skills, cooking had been both creative outlet and peace offering. Pleasing others with her pastries had been one way to placate them, make them like her, ensure she always had an invite to the party. Well, until alcohol had taken over the role of social lubricant… and subsequently ruined her life. But Sera wasn't thinking about that today.

“Now,” she continued, “all I have to do is master the altitude adjustments, and I should be wowing the taste buds of you Fe-heads in no time—that is, if they haven’t been burnt off from eating all those chile peppers.”

Aruni looked a bit nonplussed by Sera's vehement speech. But then a wide grin spilled across her face. “You're going to make me fat, aren’t you?”

“I might try,” Sera said with a smile of her own. “But maybe if we swap baked goods for yoga lessons, we’ll manage to keep it in balance.”

“Rock on,” Aruni said, high-fiving her across the table. “I like the way you think. And as for your menu and the need for sleep—girl, you’re going to need not just your z’s but plenty of time to hang out with your new gal-pals now that you’re living in Santa Fe. What about doing like those ladies on TV do—the ones on the Food Channel that have the cupcake chain stores? Like, just only do cupcakes?”

Sera had considered it. “Well, I still want to be around when the cupcake craze dies down—not that I think people will ever get tired of cupcakes, but a store that sells nothing else may get old. Back in New York they’ve already moved on to donuts and even ‘cronuts.’ Don’t ask me how to describe those,” she added with a smile, “but trust me, they’re delicious. Anyhow, I also want to have coffee and some savories like quiches or simple sandwiches available for people who come in throughout the day, so I can have a constant flow of customers from breakfast through teatime, you know?”

“Totally. People are always poking their noses into our placita, asking if there’s a place they can grab a coffee and a Danish or read a newspaper and just hang out for a few minutes, instead of having to have a formal sit-down meal at some spendy tourist joint. I know I’d love to have a place to pop by and get some tea or a veggie wrap once in a while. Coffee doesn’t fit into the yoga lifestyle, but a girl does get thirsty.” She dimpled. “Speaking of which, are you gonna keep Big Mama around?”

“I have a feeling my aunt would go into mourning otherwise,” Sera said drily.

“Not just her,” Aruni said seriously. “ All us girls. We love it, and it does wonders for our… well, you know.” She gestured below the belt. “Don’t worry. I'm sure you'll find a way to please your customers and yourself as well, whatever you decide to serve. And speaking of pleasing…” Grinning conspiratorially, she leaned even farther forward across the laminated wooden table and lowered her voice. “Pauline tells me you’ve agreed to keep the back room going. I can’t tell you what that’ll mean to the girls.”

Hm. Her new friend seemed to be quite adamant about this “girl power” thing. “‘The girls’?” Sera asked cautiously. She had the feeling she’d just been ambushed by the real reason Aruni had invited her out to lunch.

Aruni waited until the waitress had come over with their drink orders, pouring Sera a satisfyingly deep ceramic mug of black coffee and providing a decaf green tea for the yogini. “Y’all enjoy,” said the woman with a wink, bumping elbows with Aruni. Her Texas accent gave her away as another nonnative in a town full of transplants from other, less eclectic places. “Give a holler when y’all are ready to order. Oh, and ’Runi-baby, I’ll see you next Friday at the shindig, right?” She sashayed off, a sway in her ample hips.

“You sure will. Thanks, Janice,” Aruni said to the waitress’s retreating back. She turned to answer Sera's question. “Yeah,” she said with exaggerated relish, practically rubbing her hands together. “The Back Room Babes.”

Sera was getting tired of playing the straight man. “All right, lady,” she said to the woman she was already slotting into her social solar system on a tight orbit, “let me have it. What’s with these ‘Back Room Babes,’ and just how much is it going to embarrass me?”