“Now look, woman,” he greeted her, “I don’t want any fuss or shenanigans when ye see what I done inside. Promise me ye won’t have a fit of the vapors or nothin’, or I won’t let ye in.”
Momentarily, Sera wished for a weapon. Perhaps the tire iron from Cupcake’s rusty bed. But not having thought to bring one, she realized it would be faster to agree than to argue. She could always renege and strangle her contractor with his own ponytail later if necessary. Right now she had to see what he’d done to her store. She nodded tightly, swallowing a tight breath.
Malcolm ushered her in (“shoved” would have been more accurate) and flipped on the lights.
“Oh,” she said, a mere breath of sound.
Malcolm had made her dreams come true.
The shop was exactly as she had envisioned it, from countertops veined in creamy white marble to cabinets of white-painted wood that were both cozy and contemporary. Stoves, ovens, and refrigerated storage had been installed and partitioned off with the two-way mirror that would allow the bakers in the back to see their customers while retaining the privacy to swear, sweat, and slave away unobserved. Up front, there were stations for cake decoration (a concession to those who loved to watch while the finishing touches were put on their delicacies) and shelves with cardboard boxes in various sizes for packing them up when they were complete. Display cases gleamed under fluorescent lights, aching to be filled with brioche, cookies, and cakes. Coffee and espresso machines gleamed with the promise of steaming caffeinated joy, just where Sera had pictured them, with enough room for a barista to maneuver and yet not get in the way of the counter help at the register.
The little touches they’d gone over—incorporating Pauline’s Victorian lamps, burnishing the pine plank floors to waxed golden perfection—were all in place. For customers wishing to linger awhile over their goodies, comfortable yet durable wingback chairs cozied up next to an eclectic assortment of shaker-style stools and ladder-back dining chairs, clustering around small, marble-topped tables the perfect height for resting a drink or a pastry on while one read the paper. (Sera had very much enjoyed the estate sales and antique store hunting that had gone into their purchase.) Hooks for coats and a stand for umbrellas stood ready by the front door. The stout log vigas had been sanded and were glowing with new life after her brilliant contractor’s attentions. Even the windows had been washed, the sills painted a cheerful turquoise against the diamond-finished white stucco interior of the shop. Outside, Asher’s plants, newly trimmed, framed the windows nicely without overwhelming the space. Inside, the overhead chandelier in brass and crystal Sera had special ordered from a supplier in New York sent light sparkling across the counters and seating arrangements.
As for the back room… well, it was discreetly curtained off, barred with a little silver chain like they used at movie houses, and labeled with a small, handwritten sign saying “Over Eighteen Only,” the way Sera had directed. Pauline had wanted to paint a lurid sign over the lintel calling attention to her lair of sultry delights, but Sera had nixed the idea, reminding her aunt that children would no doubt soon be running around the bakery, poking their noses into everything. She had no desire to spend the next sixty years of her life fending off lawsuits from outraged parents.
Everything was as she’d envisioned it—or better. Sera spun in a circle, taking it all in.
They were ready for business.
“McLeod, you’re a goddamn genius!” she crowed, throwing her arms about him and giving him a hearty kiss on each of his bristly cheeks.
“Och, ye promised me, no womanly theatrics,” Malcolm swore, but Sera could tell he was pleased with her reaction.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “Thank you so much.”
Malcolm stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coveralls, rocked on the balls of his feet, and cleared his throat. “Nothin’ to it,” he muttered, but Sera saw the pride in his eyes when he looked about at what he’d wrought.
The perfect place to make sweet dreams come true.
Too bad Asher’s not back yet, Sera thought. I’d have loved for him to see this before anyone else.
But Asher was still in Israel, at least as far as Sera knew. She’d had no word from him since he’d left her high and dry in Pauline’s kitchen, and she was beginning to wonder if she’d imagined the whole incident. Certainly, his professed passion hadn’t sent him winging his way back to her with any great haste. Perhaps he was having too much fun with his wife.
Never mind your landlord, Sera, she told herself. It’s go-time. Best get your head in the game.
Malcolm apparently agreed. “We can open anytime now,” he said. “Once we get to baking, that is.” Under bristly white brows, the look in McLeod’s eye was challenging, as if he still didn’t quite believe Sera could cook.
She smiled. This was one challenge she had no fear of facing.
“Just let me get my apron,” she said, and ran back to her truck.
They were alone in the bakery, and it was an hour before dusk. Sera was wrapped in her favorite warn-to-thread linen apron, a hair net, and all the determination at her command. Malcolm had just arrived to do his part, his “proprietary” pie-making tools in a sack over his back, making Sera think of a chef-coated Santa. She herself had been cooking ’round the clock since yesterday, prepping doughs, double-checking menus, timing out recipes to maximize oven space and temperature like the seasoned campaigner she was. Icings, fillings, and delicate decorations were complete, resting in refrigerators and on out-of-the-way shelves for the moment when they’d be called upon. Sponges and bigas bubbled away in rising buckets, while prepared dough, tightly wrapped in plastic wrap, awaited the magical moment when it would be set free to become fragrant, crusty bread. Quiche ingredients were laid out ready to hand in Sera’s mise en place, and flaky croissant dough beckoned, waiting to be folded into beautiful crescent shapes or wrapped around chocolate sticks for pain au chocolat.
Tomorrow was opening day, and she still had an avalanche of baked goods to prepare. Back home, Pauline was busy putting together her famous almond tarts and several types of cookies, saving Sera time and space to work on the main events—the cakes, macaroons, mousses, and tortes that would soon fill Bliss’s display cases to mouthwatering effect. Hortencia was baking up a batch of her abuelita’s famous biscochitos, the recipe for which she’d promised to share with Serafina. Now Malcolm would add an array of his famous pies to the offerings.
Since they’d agreed on opening the bakery right away—Sera had placed a standing order with a supplier for her baking supplies weeks earlier, and arranging delivery was the work of a phone call—there was nothing to hold them back. An ad in the local weekly, the Chile Paper, and one in the Santa Fe New Mexican had pretty much maxed out her promotional budget. Since the decision, Sera had been running on adrenaline, excitement, and nerves. Neither she nor Malcolm would likely see their beds before tomorrow night—if then—but Sera was prepared for that. Hell, she’d been preparing her whole life for a moment like this. Sleep could wait. She took a deep breath and turned to the man at her side—pie maven, contractor, and—she hoped—friend.
“What do you think?”
He was looking around, obviously impressed with how much she’d accomplished since last they’d met. “Ye done a lot,” he conceded. “Looks like ye might just pull this off, lass.”
Sera grinned. “Damn straight we’re going to pull this off. You ready for the final push?”