“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?”
Sera raised her glass in acknowledgment, hoping Pauline wouldn’t notice she’d yet to taste the foul brew within. “Hit me,” she invited. Aruni and Janice high-fived over her head, then mussed her hair playfully.
“What’s Rule Number One, women?” Pauline prompted.
“We don’t talk about Fight Club?” piped up Syna. She ducked as Crystal lobbed an empty plastic cup at her.
“Anyone else?” A bit of the retired professor entered Pauline’s voice.
“Rule Number One is, ‘We support our sisters,’” a voice called from the doorway.
A hush fell over the women. Sera peered across the room and looked at the newcomer, who had spoken sharply enough to draw blood. It was Hortencia.
Pauline furled her gauze-draped wings like an exotic bird, costume jangling as she folded in on herself. Her face took on a pinched expression, and she sniffed disdainfully, but she refused to acknowledge her lover’s arrival.
Hortencia was having none of it. “Isn’t that right, Pauline?” she prompted.
Serafina wondered if she was going to be hearing about Rule Number Two at any point tonight.
The Back Room Babes had all gone quiet, and Sera had no doubt they were well aware of the rift between their founder and her beloved. Sera read sympathy, impatience, frustration in their eyes—like children watching their parents fight, all the while knowing nothing could be as important as the love that formed the foundations of their relationship. It touched her to realize these women felt as deeply connected to her aunt as she herself did. Pauline Wilde was an extraordinary woman, who had a powerful effect on others. Unfortunately, she was also extraordinarily stubborn. Stomping one Birkenstock-clad foot in pique, she climbed down from the counter, clashing and chiming as she strode up to her ex. “You should talk. You’ve got a funny way of showing support, yourself,” she huffed.
“Me? It’s you who’s trying to bar me from the club—”
“All right, all right, ladies,” Aruni interrupted, rising gracefully from the arm of Sera’s chair and clapping her hands for attention. Her years of yoga teaching came in handy, providing the authority to wrangle a roomful of wayward women and realign their focus. “We’re all here to have a good time and show Serafina how much fun the Back Room Babes are. Fun—remember? So why don’t we take a nice, deep breath,” she demonstrated, inflating her belly to almost comical proportions, then whooshing it out with exaggerated release, “and chant a friendly ohm to shake off any negativity and get us in the mood. Ready, gals?”
There were nods and a couple of isolated woo-hoos from the BRBs.
Aruni raised her arms as if she were conducting an orchestra. Her minions, well-trained and enthusiastic, rewarded her with a mighty OHHHHHHMMMMMMM! that fairly blew Sera’s hair back.
Fetched up in the wake of the chant, Hortencia and Pauline both wore somewhat abashed expressions, but they still refused to look at each other.
“Fine,” Pauline muttered, fiddling with the cord on her sombrero to tighten it around her neck. “She can stay. But I’ll be damned if I demonstrate the sensual foot rub on her horny old toes. I don’t care what tonight’s agenda says.”
“I wouldn’t let you near my perfectly bunion-free feet if it was Maundy Thursday and you were channeling Jesus himself, you sour old shrew—”
Aruni raised her hands again, and the BRBs responded with another deafening ohm that effectively drowned out the women’s squabbling. Their mouths snapped shut with identical clicks. They knew when they were outnumbered.
“Now then,” Aruni said, dusting off her hands briskly. “Who’s for more kombucha before we head out?”
Several hands shot up.
“Wait! Wait, ’Runi, you’re forgettin’ the best part.” Janice was laughing as she gestured for attention. “Gals, put down the dang kombucha for a second, will ya? We ain’t shared Rule Number Two with Serafina yet. And we cain’t neglect that. Every newbie needs to know about Rule Number Two if they’re gonna hang out with us Back Room Babes.” She tunneled her arm behind Sera and urged her up from her seat, turning Sera to face the assembled femmes. “The thing ya gotta know, Sera, is that every time we meet, Rule Number Two states someone gets challenged to a dare. And you can’t back down or say no if you’re the one that gets herself picked.”
“Um, like what kind of dare are we talking here?” Sera asked, her sense of the evening’s fun suddenly wavering. Please don’t say demonstrating my oral skills by giving a banana a blow job. Or describing my favorite sexual position. Or, or… The possibilities were terrorizing.
“Well, it has to be for the person’s own good, ya know?” Janice explained. “Like, if you have a hang-up or something you’re ashamed of, we give you a task that helps you get over it. For instance, last winter, Syna here shared that she wasn’t too comfortable with her body. And just look at her!” Janice pointed at the other woman—a cute, zaftig mommy type in her mid-thirties. “She’s gorgeous. So we dared her to go make naked snow angels on the plaza after midnight, and damned if she didn’t have to do it.”
“Nearly froze my bits off, but I made some kick-booty body sculptures,” Syna September said genially. “Tourists were taking pictures of them for days. First time I was ever proud of my bod.” She gave a little shoulder shimmy, flipping her auburn hair sassily.