Hilary Fields - Bliss

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?”