“Well, yeah—a veggie burger for me, obviously, but I won’t pass judgment if you haven’t made the shift to a meatless lifestyle yet.” Shrugging on a sky blue hoodie, she linked arms with Sera and urged her forward.
Sera stepped down from the porch in Aruni’s wake, feeling the sun warm the otherwise chilly late-morning air. Her inner voice was telling her, “Go ahead, make a friend,” while her native New Yorker was shaking its head and asking her what ulterior motives her new “pal” might have. A lifetime of scanning for subway pervs and pickpockets warned her she should be checking the other woman over for concealed weapons and/or cult propaganda. But the Santa Fe sunlight and the cool September breeze were clearing away those suspicions, making room for new possibilities.
“Um, sure, I could eat,” she found herself saying.
“Great! I know the perfect place, and my assistant’s minding the studio for the next couple hours—we’ve got a beginner’s class in there practicing their durga breathing right now—so I can sneak away for a bit. Let’s walk—it’s so nice out, and it’s not too far from here.”
And ten minutes later, after a stroll down narrow streets lined with exquisite, screamingly expensive boutiques and galleries Sera promised herself she’d take the time to investigate soon, they were sliding into a booth at the Sunshine Diner.
“Was that who I think it was?” Sera whispered out of the corner of her mouth as they unfolded their napkins and settled in at the historic-coal-warehouse-turned-chrome-finished diner, shedding scarves and handbags on the seats beside them. Her gaze cut over to the left, over Aruni’s shoulder, to the gentleman who had just paid his tab and was now ambling toward the front entrance with a peculiarly bowlegged gait. “The one who was in all the Western movies?”
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.