Sera examined his curiously neat schoolboy writing. As the figure registered, she paled, gulped, and snatched the pencil from him. She crossed out the number in two decisive strokes. In her own considerably messier handwriting, she scrawled a counteroffer.
His face grew apoplectic.
Hers grew pugnacious.
The pencil and paper flew back and forth several more times. In the end, Sera was left wanting a cigarette and perhaps a nice Thai massage, but they’d arrived at a figure that wouldn’t bankrupt her.
She felt a wave of relief she worked hard not to show. She was running on a tight budget as it was. Her own savings were modest, and opening an eatery was probably one of the riskiest, most expensive gambles a small businesswoman could undertake. Pauline had been unbelievably generous, offering not just to pay the rent until she got on her feet, but to underwrite her initial expenses and construction costs, in return for being one of the principles of the business and a guarantee that she’d always have a job at the bakery (and get to make her own hours). Sera had known Pauline had money, but never really grasped exactly how lucrative her “Ourgasm” movement and the attendant book sales had been for her aunt. Since the seventies, Pauline had invested wisely, and she swore she could afford to take a flyer on a new venture without risking her retirement. Still, even knowing Pauline could afford the “investment,” as she called it, she didn’t like to gamble with her aunt’s money. Any way she could minimize costs, she’d take, and gladly.
“Okay, Mr. McLeod, seems you’ve got a deal, provided this figure includes delivery.”
He nodded. “Aye, though now ye’re breakin’ my back as well as my balls,” he grumbled.
“The ball-breaking’s a freebie,” Sera said, giving Malcolm a cheeky grin as she turned to go. “I’ve got to be going. I have to start interviewing builders or your equipment’s not going to do me much good anytime soon.”
Malcolm’s face took on a cunning expression. “Need a contractor, do ye?”
“Why, you know someone?”
“Know someone?” His chest puffed proudly. “Lass, I am someone. Licensed and bonded, and all.”
“Bullshit.”
“’Tis true, though ye may not credit it. I did all the work on this place m’self. Had a lot of trades in my day. Helps, when ye’ve had a few differences with folk here and there.”
Sera took a closer look at the man she was putting so much trust in. She’d place him in his early sixties, with hands that bore scars and calluses that could have come from construction work rather than baking. Beneath the extra weight his pies had put on him, he looked solid, built like a bull. She could see him exchanging his apron for a tool belt. But there was no way to tell just by looking if he was as honest as he was strong. Sure, Asher had put in a good word for him, but how well did she know Asher? “Got references?”
“We-ell, that depends on what ye mean when ye say references,” he hedged. “Ye want to see examples of my work, I’ve those a’plenty—and customers that’ll swear by it. Ye want to hear some aspersions cast on my character… well, ye’ll likely hear those, too, and from some of those same clients.”
Sera considered it. “I’ll take their names. Meet me at my place Tuesday afternoon, and we’ll talk about installing your fixtures and supplies, and whether you’ll be doing the work. I’ll have made my decision by then.” Sera passed Malcolm the address, and he passed her the names and numbers of several clients he’d hastily scribbled down. She’d spend the intervening time making calls and comparing contractors. She might have a good feeling about the irascible Mr. McLeod, but she wasn’t stupid.
“Ye’re new in town, am I right?”
She nodded. She must still have some New York clinging to her.
“How’d ye come to hear about me then?”
“Oh, my new landlord, Asher Wolf, told me I should come.”
Without a word, Malcolm snatched the slip of paper with the number scrawled on it out of Sera’s surprised hand. He crossed the figure out and wrote something in its place. “Any friend of Asher Wolf is a friend of mine,” he said gruffly. “Give ye a good deal on the construction work, too.”
Sera looked at the number and her heart did a happy little boogie. “One more thing, Mr. McLeod, before we seal the deal,” she cautioned.
“What’s that, lass?”
“When you come on Tuesday, bring pie. No pie, no deal.”
Malcolm’s guffaw followed her out the door.
“Another time, Highlander,” Sera murmured, a broad smile lighting her face as she headed for her car.
Chapter Nine
There was something wrong with Sera’s feet.
Or maybe they just knew something she didn’t. No matter how she chivvied, cajoled, and commanded, they simply would not take her farther into the courtyard.
Seriously, feet? You’re that afraid of a few sexually liberated ladies? C’mon, it’s not like they’re going to stage a production of The Rocky Horror Picture Show and force you to play Janet.
Or were they?
Since coming to Santa Fe, seeing the little plaza laid out before her had never failed to suffuse Sera with a feeling of excitement and satisfaction, but this evening her pleasure was tempered with anxiety. In fact, she’d approached Placita de Suerte y Sueños with something like dread. She’d spent the afternoon picturing the Back Room Babes’ gathering as anything from a Roman orgy to a quilting bee—and unsure which would be worse. Pauline, damn her cowardly hide, had absented herself all afternoon—probably not wanting to face her niece’s ire over her massive deception—so Sera had had no one to ask what to expect.
Thus, the stuck feet.
The placita seemed quiet, no ambushes or hazing rituals lying in wait for the unwary newcomer. Dusk was just falling, laving the adobe buildings in rose-colored light that painted them a deep mauve. A breeze murmured through the scattered shade trees and stroked Asher’s extravagant botanical arrangements into a soft chorus of sighs. Even the earth mother fountain’s cheerful splashing seemed hushed. The shops were shut down for the evening, but a blaze of warm light spilled out from P-HOP’s front window, beckoning—or daring—Sera forward. A burst of feminine laughter erupted, Pauline’s propped-open door funneling it out into the twilight.
Laughter is good, right? Just so long as they’re not laughing at me. Sera took a deep breath, smoothed her outfit free of nonexistent wrinkles, and prepared to meet her new… well, she wasn’t quite certain what they’d be. Friends? Clientele? Nemeses? Feet, listen here, she ordered. We didn’t get all dolled up to spend the evening rooted to the pavement. Besides, with those kicks on, you gotta want to show off a little, right?
Not being sure whether the dancing shoes Aruni had recommended were meant for ballroom or mosh pit, she’d settled on a pair of calf-high black leather slouch boots that made her legs look good and had a low enough heel that she’d make it through whatever the night might bring. Since she was so short, she’d decided against a skirt, instead pairing them with leggings and a silky tunic in an azure hue that complemented her skin and lent the slate gray of her eyes a shimmering blue overtone. She’d belted the tunic with an obi-style leather wrap belt, feeling as though she were gearing up for battle. Okay, I’m about as gussied up as I get. Hopefully these ladies don’t eat me alive.
Maybe I should have brought more treats, she worried. It never hurt to meet new people with a heaping handful of sugary delights, particularly since she no longer had the option of offering liquid social lubricants to smooth the way. Sera hefted the box full of Meyer lemon squares she’d whipped up this afternoon after her meeting with Malcolm. They might be humble, and hardly innovative, but nobody didn’t like lemon bars. Three dozen ought to be plenty, unless the Back Room Babes were a veritable army. Granted, they sounded like quite a gathering, if the noise spilling from within P-HOP was anything to judge by, but the place couldn’t fit more than a couple dozen full-grown adults, so…