“It wasn’t ‘just because’ you refused my proposal—a proposal I worked on very hard, by the way,” Pauline flared, tossing her yogurt into her cart with such force that Sera winced, fearing it would splatter. “That hot air balloon cost money, damn it. And do you know how fast a diamond ring travels falling—or should I say being tossed—from that altitude? You could have caved in somebody’s head if we hadn’t been hovering over the goddamn Rio Grande Gorge at the time. As it is, you probably choked a fish. But I’m not angry that you refused, you nitwit. It was why you refused. And if you can’t ’fess up to it…”
“God damn it, Pauline,” Hortencia shouted back, her own apple cheeks ripening to red, “will you stop with that nonsense about me wanting to sleep with men?!” She no longer seemed the least bit tickled. “I told you I’m done with all that, and I meant it!”
Sera was abruptly aware they were causing quite a scene in the refrigerated section. The tittering onlookers she’d earlier feared had materialized with a vengeance upon hearing the commotion, peeping out from behind cereal boxes and gawking across butcher counters. Suddenly she had the desire to be very, very far away. Above all things in this life, she wanted to stay the ever-loving hell out of her aunt’s sex life.
“I’m gonna let you two duke it out,” she said, backing away slowly into an aisle that advertised teas for every complaint from “feminine distress” to “involuntary astral projection.” Good thing I followed Aunt Paulie out here in the rental car, or I’d be marooned at the organic O.K. Corral. “I’ll be late for the auction if I don’t get a move-on, so I’ll just be going, and catch up with you back home later, okay?”
Pauline spared a nod, but didn’t look away from her standoff with her beloved.
“Hortencia, it was, er, nice to meet you. I’m, ah, very glad to hear you’re alive, and, um…” Sera stuttered to a halt, stymied for a socially correct exit.
“Thank you, dear,” said Hortencia. Her gaze remained locked with Pauline’s. “I’ll see you again soon. Tonight, in fact, since I’ll be attending the Back Room Babes’ get-together as usual.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” cried Pauline. She looked ready to swipe the contents of the dairy case clean to the floor. “The BRBs are my club, and I say who the members are. And you… you lying, man-loving hussy, are officially disinvited!”
“You just try and stop me from showing up, you hypocritical old harpy,” Hortencia flashed back at her.
She had more to say—a lot more. But Sera had already fled to the safety of a row of esoteric canned goods, and was making a beeline for the door as the argument raged behind her.
Was I the only one Pauline lied to about this? I must have been—she’d never have gotten away with such a whopper in a town this small. Now Aruni’s nonchalance at the diner made so much more sense. So did Pauline’s hinky behavior this past week.
Well, hell.
Sera had a great deal to think about. The very reason she’d come out here—to comfort her grieving aunt—had just been called into question. But there was no going back now. Santa Fe, it seemed, still had a few surprises to lob her way. She’d known it was a magical place, but a full-on resurrection?
Nice one, she complimented her new home as she stepped out into the sunlight and headed for her car. I truly did not see that coming.
Chapter Eight
Apparently I’m destined to live in the land of grumpy people today, Sera thought as she tiptoed around the edges of the pie whisperer’s going-out-of-business-sale. So much for “enchantment,” I guess.
Still stunned at seeing Hortencia rise from the dead, she’d found her way to the little hole-in-the-wall bake shop run by Malcolm McLeod with some difficulty. (Santa Fe, she’d discovered, justly deserved its reputation as a town laid out by a drunken monk riding backward on a mule.) Tucked away at the edge of what had once been a dusty office park on Cerrillos Road, but now hosted an ersatz Chinese restaurant and a dog-grooming parlor as well as the bakery, his place was unimposing from the outside, barely deigning to advertise beyond a small sign that read “Best Pies.” The windows were unwashed, as though to shield the interior from customers’ too-curious gazes, and the token awning was faded and fraying. Inside, there was little charm, just a display case that doubled as a take-out counter and a cash register up front, no seats for waiting customers or even pictures on the walls. In the back, where the sale was about to start, the environment was all stainless steel business. The atmosphere, however, was borderline toxic.
The man of the hour was following what few customers had come to his auction about with a gimlet glare, clenching his fists with barely suppressed ire every time someone so much as peeked their snoot in a pantry or hefted a pie pan to check for dings or scratches. The guy looked positively murderous.
But it was worth enduring a little sourness. McLeod had some seriously state-of-the-art ovens. Ah, Blodgett, Sera thought. You may not look flashy, but you’ve sure got it where it counts. And Mr. McLeod had a lot of what counted—at least to Sera. His chest freezers and reach-ins were immaculate—and exactly what she needed. His convection ovens and industrial range showed the patina of use, but also the cleanliness of the well-maintained machines they were—not to mention, they were truly top of the line. His mixers were displayed next to every conceivable desirable attachment, and some Sera had rarely seen outside of a KitchenAid catalog. No dough roller, she noted. Too proud, probably, and she didn’t blame him for distrusting the damn things—horror stories abounded about crush injuries and maimed cooks. Plus, they took the precision, the intuition out of baking. (Still, she’d make an exception for a nice fondant sheeter, if she ever did wedding cakes again. Back when she’d had her custom cake orders piling up by the dozen, having one of those babies had really saved her bacon.)
He had bun racks, worktables, baker’s scales, dough proofers, and more—all in tip-top condition and clean to the point of making one’s teeth ache. And his bakery cases—both dry display and refrigerated models—looked like they’d just rolled off the factory floor. New, they’d have run her upwards of $6,000 a pop. Used, Malcolm would be damn lucky to take in half that. Problem was, he didn’t look any too eager to part with a single piece, despite the starting bid stickers on most of the bakery’s fixtures, and the eviction notice glued to his front door. Indeed, the small, Santa-bellied Scotsman seemed set to slap the questing fingers of the first person who dared open an oven door for closer inspection.
Boom!
Some fool with a death wish had just sent an unwary elbow across a counter, knocking a rolling pin to the floor. Apparently, this was the ice cream on Malcolm’s pie à la mode.