“Out, out, out, OUUUUUUUT!”
Except it sounded more like “Oot, oot, oot, ooooooot!”
Serafina smothered a giggle. And while the red-faced Scotsman chased the half-dozen or so other prospective buyers out of his joint, flapping his stained apron and shaking his fist, she stayed where she stood, leaning hipshot against one of his chest freezers. Swallowing chuckles, she observed the man she’d just decided was going to come work for her.
With his waist-length, white wavy hair and long handlebar mustache, he could have been Arlo Guthrie’s twin. However, Serafina very much doubted Arlo would’ve chosen to sport Army surplus combat fatigues beneath a kitchen apron that looked like it had seen action in Da Nang. Nor would Arlo have condoned Malcolm’s Rambo-style bandanna, she suspected, though the paunch was probably just okay, maaan.
Malcolm spotted Serafina.
“What’re ye still doing here? Didn’t ye hear me say ‘out’?” He took a menacing step toward Sera. But Serafina Wilde was a veteran of Blake Austin’s kitchens—not to mention his bed—and she wasn’t afraid.
“It’s not going to be much of an auction with only one bidder,” she pointed out. She crossed her legs at the ankle and leaned more comfortably against the freezer.
“One bidder? I’ll have none of ye! I’ll rot in debtor’s prison before I’ll sell my beautiful ovens to a flock of philistines like ye. Now get gone, ye sodding vulture, before I call the cops.” He swooped down with surprising grace for such a stout man and swept up the toppled rolling pin, examining it for damage.
Sera found the notion of debtor’s prison quaint. Compared to the modern hells of bankruptcy court and predatory debt collectors, such a place might be preferable.
“Hard to part with it all, huh?”
McLeod looked up from the rolling pin, suspicion beetling his caterpillar brows. “What would ye know about it?”
“I lost everything that mattered to me not too long ago. I thought I’d never cook again, and it nearly killed me.”
“What’re ye on about, ye loon? Ye hardly look old enough to reach the back burner on the stove, let alone cook on it.” If he’d scoffed any harder, he’d risk hocking up a lung.
Sera stuck out her hand, ignoring the gibe. “I’m Serafina Wilde. I’m opening a new bakery here in town, and I want what you’ve got. Including you, Mr. McLeod.” She paused a beat, enjoying the way his jaw dropped. “I’d like you to come work for me.”
“Are ye daft?” Malcolm couldn’t have looked more offended if she’d compared his pies unfavorably with Mrs. Smith’s. “Work for ye? As what? I’m no dish washer, and I ain’t bussing tables at no sissified, ginned-up Starbucks—ye can forget about that right now!”
Serafina took this for the bluster it was. “It’s nothing like that. What I need is an experienced opener—someone to prep the goods and set the doughs rising before the rest of the staff gets in.”
“Och, aye, I ken ye now. Someone to do the real work, while ye get yer beauty sleep and roll in just in time to put sprinkles on a few wee cupcakes and call yerself a baker.”
He was really working hard to offend her. But Sera saw past it to the scarred, scared man beneath. “Mr. McLeod, let me put it to you straight.” She leaned forward, grabbing the rolling pin out of his hand and prodding one pointy end into his paunch. She couldn’t help feeling like she was poking the Pillsbury Doughboy, though she wasn’t likely to elicit any giggles here. “You’re a man out of options. From what I hear, you’re practically blacklisted in this town. No one will work with you; you’ve alienated just about every eating establishment in Santa Fe—and given how many restaurants this little city’s got, that’s no mean feat.” She poked him again. “Your place is out of business, you probably owe thousands on the rent and the fixtures, and let’s face it… you aren’t getting any younger.” Poke, poke. “You’ve got just one thing going for you.” She plunked the pin down on the freezer’s top.
“Aye, and what’s that?”
“You’re probably the single best pie maker on the planet.”
There was a moment of silence.
McLeod’s face went just a wee bit ruddy, if she wasn’t mistaken, but his eyes glared pure suspicion as he sized Sera up more closely. Then he huffed, chewing his mustaches and rocking on the balls of his feet. “Tell me something I dinna know.”
“Oh, not that there isn’t room for improvement, mind you,” Sera went on, biting back a smile. “We should talk about your crust. I noticed you used lard instead of shortening when I tried the pie at the Sunshine—and lord love you for it—but I think the flour was somewhat inferior. Have you tried King Arthur Fl—”
“They won’t sell ta me,” he grumbled, cutting her off as if her suggestion were so obvious as to be offensive. “I know they’re the best, but after I sent them that letter about their cheap, sleazy shortcut of a pie filler, I wound up on their no-sell list. Sure, I could’ve found a way around it—I could’ve bought what I needed on the sly—but it was the principle of the thing.”
Must have been a hell of a letter. She smiled inwardly, picturing the scandalized expression on the face of the nice customer service lady in Norwich, Vermont, upon opening Malcolm’s vituperative missive. “Principle gets you in trouble a lot, doesn’t it?” Sera observed.
Malcolm’s expression fell somewhere between aggrieved and caught out. He crossed his arms and said nothing, but he looked less likely to shove her out the door than he had.
“What if I told you you’d never have to compromise if you came to work for me? I wouldn’t tell you how to make your pies, and you’d do most of your work alone, before anyone else gets in. No human interaction, unless you seek it out.”
“What’s the catch?” Malcolm wanted to know.
Serafina became all business. “You need to know a few things, Mr. McLeod. First, I’m damn good at what I do—just like you. I don’t fuck around or cut corners when it comes to pastries. I intend to bake and serve the single finest desserts this town has ever seen, and I’m not going to let anyone’s ego get in the way of that. I’m no novice—I’ve been working in kitchens since I was eighteen, and cooked with assholes that make you look like goddamn Mother Teresa. It’s going to be my place, my rules, and my menu. All excepting your pies. Over that, you’ll keep total control—name, fame, and recipes. Got it?”
Malcolm had begun to lose his set-in scowl at her first profanity, and by the end of her spiel, he had cracked open a full-fledged, albeit rusty grin.
“Aye, I got it, lassie.”
“You in?”
His hesitation was briefer than Serafina would have bet. He must be truly desperate.
“Aye, I’m in.”
“Good. ’Cause I don’t have time to spend all day coddling your artistic sensibilities. I’ve got to find a contractor and get the ball rolling. I want my grand opening to happen before I hit thirty. That is, if we can agree on a price for these fixtures.” She waved indicatively. “I’ll take the lot if you can arrange transportation—and you don’t try to gouge me.”
“Might be we could come to an understanding,” Malcolm conceded. He pulled an order pad from the pocket of his apron, along with the stub of a pencil. He scribbled a figure on the paper, tore it off, and passed it to Sera with a flourish.