“Yes, called,” Lego-head said. She sighed irritably. “I’m Marnie Pyle. From the Chile Paper?”
In her excitement, Pauline elbowed Sera in the ribs hard enough that Sera yipped. “From the Chile Paper, you say?”
“Yessss,” the woman hissed impatiently. “Someone called the food section about this bakery, wanting a write-up. I’m who they sent.”
“Oh!” said Sera, her focus sharpening. “But we called Burt Evans, the regular reviewer. We never heard back, so we figured he wasn’t interested.”
“Burt’s got gout.” The woman’s disgusted expression clearly said, Serves him right, the fat bastard. “I’m planning to go into investigative journalism,” she said importantly, “but my editor seems to think I’ve still got some dues to pay. So I got assigned to cover this”—she looked around the bakery dismissively—“story.”
You don’t always get to choose your angels, Sera reminded herself. But once they arrive, it can’t hurt to roll out the red carpet. She exchanged significant looks with her aunt, who was squirming with barely suppressed excitement. Sera winced internally. An excited Pauline was a garrulous Pauline—and lord only knew what she might say. “I got this, Aunt Pauline. Think you can man the register alone for a bit?”
Pauline, standing in the nearly empty shop, gave her niece a disbelieving look. “Did I suddenly go senile in the last twenty minutes?” she muttered. Sera ignored her. Much as she didn’t want to offend her aunt, she really didn’t want Pauline’s unfiltered outrageousness to affect Ms. Pyle’s write-up. Sera came around the counter, ushering the woman gingerly over to a table. “Please, let me offer you a cup of coffee—Friedrich, would you make our guest whatever she’d like? Anything you want, Friedrich can make it—we rescued him from Starbucks and he’s still in the honeymoon phase,” she joked.
Lego-head didn’t smile. “Coffee, black,” she said.
Friedrich nodded and wordlessly poured a cup of joe—from the freshly brewed pot, Sera was glad to see. Sera brought it over to her “best” table, a lovely little inlaid marble square parked between a pair of squishy antique leather armchairs she and Malcolm had carefully Scotchgarded. She glanced back at her aunt, who was fulminating not very quietly by the register. Friedrich kept his head down, wiping up stray coffee grounds with a rag. “Maybe you could bring us an assortment of pastries, Aunt Pauline. You know all the best ones—not that there are any bad ones,” she added hastily, glancing at the reporter.
“Let me see if I can get my feeble old brain to work well enough to pick a few,” said Pauline, sniffing.
Sera wiped the wince off her face. “So!” she said brightly, watching as her guest settled stiffly into an armchair, “you’re here to write a review of Bliss?”
Marnie Pyle coughed. “Less a review than a brief puff piece on the opening. When Burt’s feeling better, he may drop by for a more thorough story.” Her tone told Sera not to count on it.
“Right, well…” Sera trailed off. “Uh, so what comes next?”
The reporter dug into her messenger bag and placed a digital recorder and her notepad on the table between them. “I’ll ask you a few questions, then you answer them,” she said, her expression indicating Sera had been on the waiting list for a brain transplant too long. “I’ll try to make this quick.” Sera could almost hear the unspoken, For both our sakes. Marnie coughed; a single, Gollum-like bark. “So, we’ll start with your background as a baker, and then talk a bit about what brought you to Santa Fe from wherever it is you’re from.” She leaned back in her chair—a pose not so much receptive as infinitely weary.
Sera hit all the high notes, weaving a highly sanitized version of her story for the bored reporter. Neither her education at New York City’s preeminent culinary school nor her experience in some of Manhattan’s finest kitchens seemed to impress the woman. She probably wouldn’t know Jacques Pépin from Jacques Cousteau. As she watched Lego-head’s eyes glaze over like honey dip on a donut, a thrill of panic swept over her. A bad review could spell the end for them before they’d barely begun. Sera well knew the effects of negative publicity—back in New York, Blake Austin’s smear campaign had effectively ruined her. But nothing she said elicited more than a sigh or a brief scribble on the reporter’s pad.
Sera tried harder. She hadn’t slept for two days, and she was running mainly on sugar and caffeine. But she’d be damned if she didn’t give this interview her utmost. Forcing animation to replace her exhaustion, she rhapsodized about Santa Fe’s spectacular climate and bemoaned the kinks the high altitude had thrown into her well-rehearsed recipes. She shared how her aunt had invited her to set up shop, and how it had always been her dream to become a pâtissière. She talked extensively about their menu, being sure to mention McLeod’s famous pies. Still, nothing seemed to capture her guest’s attention.
Until her aunt stepped in.
“Here we go!” Pauline sang out, swishing over to their table with a swing in her hips and a plate piled high with samples of Sera’s treats in her hand. With a flourish, she set the plate down and plunked her bum on the arm of Sera’s chair. “My Bliss here is hands down the best baker in New Mexico—New York, too, I bet. I taught her everything she knows,” she confided.
Sera tried not to wince. Please, please don’t embarrass me, she silently pleaded, remembering other times over the years when she’d futilely sent up this same prayer. It would be just like Pauline to start babbling about Sera’s orgasm quest… or the back room. Under the table, Sera crossed her fingers.
Lego-head looked dubiously down at her plate. Pauline had arranged perfect bite-sized samples of some of Sera’s greatest hits—from a classic Napoleon to a hazelnut-infused mille crepe, plus a petite triple-chocolate mousse (the same that had first garnered Blake Austin’s attention) and the green chile quiche Sera had added to the menu as a concession to the locals (she had experimented with green chile cupcakes but had given it up as a bad job). Everything looked exactly as Sera would have hoped—mouthwatering, elegant, and fresh.
Lego-head took a tiny bite of the mousse. Her mouth screwed up and she took a quick sip of coffee.
“Is something wrong?” Sera couldn’t stop herself from asking.
Lego-head coughed. “I’m sure it’s fine. I just don’t like chocolate.” Her scrawny fingers fumbled for her pen, and she wrote herself a note. She tried the quiche. Made another face. “Or eggs.” Another scribbled note. She sampled the mille crepe, its dozen delicate layers parting with a ghost of a sigh beneath her fork, oozing hazelnut crème and hours of effort. “Very rich,” said Lego-head, but not in a particularly approving tone.
Sera shot her aunt a look. We’re dyin’ here.
“Did my niece tell you about the back room?” Pauline asked brightly.
Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no…
“Back room?” asked Lego-head, eyes sharpening.
Now it was Sera’s turn to elbow Pauline, which she did sharply enough that the older woman nearly lost her seat on the arm of Sera’s chair.
But the reporter’s investigative instincts had kicked in. And Pauline’s pride in her life’s work would not be stifled—no matter how hard Sera prayed. “Oh, yes, it’s the real secret of this shop. We don’t call it ‘Bliss’ just because the baked goods are out of this world. Our mission is to offer sensual pleasures of all sorts—fulfillment for the senses, the earthier the better.”