“So, you’re all set?” Vanessa gave Sera a serene smile, adding a more reserved one for Malcolm, who was eyeing her like she was a weevil he’d found in his favorite flour container.
“Yeah, I think so,” Sera said, preoccupied. Chitchatting with the fellatrix wasn’t on her top ten list at the moment. But Vanessa seemed to want to linger for some inexplicable reason. Sera found herself a bit impatient. She laid down the chef’s kit she’d been unpacking. “I’m pretty sure I got it all, Vanessa—no outside ingredients, don’t look directly into the camera lens, don’t dunk my mike in anything. Was there something else?”
“Just one thing. A personal favor, if I might make a small request.” She spoke low enough that Malcolm, rummaging in the cabinets at their knees, couldn’t hear.
“Um, sure, I guess.” Sera was startled enough to meet Vanessa’s eyes. Gone was the treacle-sweet persona. Underneath, Sera saw a woman of steely determination—a smart, tough professional who’d worked hard to get where she was. And perhaps, a woman with some of the same regrets Sera herself had. “What can I do for you?”
“You can kick Blake Austin’s ass, Chef Wilde.”
“What? But I thought… I mean, I assumed you two were, ah, friends…”
Vanessa colored becomingly. “You’re not the only one who’s ever made a bad choice. And believe me, he’s never let me forget it. That man needs to be taken down a peg or five. You’ll be doing every woman in this industry a favor if you beat him today. So give him hell!”
And Vanessa swished off, calling for a lipstick touch-up.
I’m damn well gonna try, lady, Sera silently promised. Heads down, she and Malcolm got to work, unloading their supplies, locating staple ingredients, checking ovens, and making sure her trusty equipment was close to hand.
She didn’t look up again until a dinner gong bonnnnnnnnnnged.
“Holy shite,” muttered Malcolm.
Sera started, gazing around the restaurant for the first time in nearly an hour. Holy shite was right. The Blue Coyote was packed to the rafters.
Her heart squeezed with stage fright. It was one thing to bake anonymously, barricaded behind cooling racks and in one’s own element. It was another to perform like a trained monkey in front of a hundred strangers and with TV cameras angling to capture every move.
Do not fuck this up, Serafina Wilde, she told herself sternly.
To Sera’s right, Blake and Chef Everett stood behind their portion of the counter, arms crossed casually over their chests, looking out over the crowd with every appearance of confidence. Into the semicircle of space taped off between the chefs and their audience, Vanessa strode with equal panache. Her charisma instantly captured everyone’s attention—or perhaps it was the clingy red dress. The crowd quieted. Cameras zoomed in to catch every nuance of her stride, her smile, her flowing golden mane. The host hit her mark like a fashion model, paused, and tossed her hair over her shoulder.
“Good afternoon, Santa Fe!” Vanessa crooned. The mike discreetly clipped to her bodice made her easy to hear, even for those taking in the contest from the sidewalk outside the open French doors. A round of enthusiastic applause greeted her. “Welcome to the Winter Fiesta’s most delicious event! We’re so glad we were able to bring the Food Channel here to capture every moment of what is sure to be a baking battle royale. Is everyone excited?”
“Yeah!!!! Woooo!!!” cried the crowd. The cameras panned around to take in the reaction. Sera saw fluffy-haired Texan tourists rubbing shoulders with aging hippies, parents with their little ones on their shoulders, and a German tour group discreetly snapping pics with their mobile devices, despite the admonishments of the Food Channel producers. A cadre of curious shopkeepers had abandoned their stores to take in the contest as well. Sera recognized several of them from the neighborhood.
And right up front, grinning proudly, stood a wall of women Sera knew quite well.
Aunt Pauline, her arm about Hortencia. Aruni, bouncing on her toes with excitement. Janice, hands on hips and a grin on her lips. Syna, Bobbie, River Wind, and the rest of the Back Room Babes. All of them had come.
As one, seeing Sera had noticed them, they threw open their jackets to reveal matching T-shirts.
“Team Bliss!” their chests announced in giant pink sequined letters.
The BRBs pumped their fists and hooted. “Bliss! Bliss! Bliss! Bliss!”
That was when Sera noticed Asher, standing directly behind her aunt and Hortencia. She did a double-take when she saw he, too, was sporting a sparkly pink-lettered “Bliss” T-shirt beneath his navy peacoat. Somehow, he managed to pull it off without losing an iota of masculinity. Asher grinned broadly as he caught Sera’s eye, puffing out his chest and chanting her name with the rest.
Beside him, Guadalupe was examining her perfect manicure and trying not to look bored as she balanced on five-inch stilettos. Mr. Yazzie from next door had donned his best cardigan for the occasion. He gave Sera a shy wave. Even Friedrich, sidling close to Aruni and looking nervous in such a large crowd, had come, though in lieu of pink sequins, he’d worn his usual uniform of ratty Nietzsche T-shirt and black skinny jeans.
Sera felt a wash of love for her Santa Fe family. I’m not letting you down. Not any of you.
Across the counter from Sera, Blake rolled his eyes and sighed as if physically pained, before seeming to realize the Food Channel’s cameras would catch every expression. He pasted an indulgent expression on his craggy features.
Vanessa took the shenanigans in stride, giving them all a gracious smile. “All right then,” she said when the noise died down. “So, does everyone want to hear how today’s contest is going to work?” she asked.
Of course they do, thought Sera. When it’s you talking, they want to know the precise rate at which plaster dries.
The crowd gave her the love she was looking for, and Vanessa accepted it graciously. “There’ll be three rounds; the first featuring our chefs’ best interpretation of local flavors, the next representing a taste of New York City, since that’s where Chef Austin and Chef Wilde both earned their whites; and the last, a freestyle, no-holds-barred chance to completely knock your socks off.” She gave the audience a smile that reminded Sera of Glenda the Good Witch.
If her eyes twinkled any more, I’d swear she had glitter in her contacts.
Vanessa continued. “There’s only one judge today—and that’s you! Everyone here is going to get a taste of each dessert, and the winner of the challenge will be decided by acclaim.” Again, that cheerful twinkle. “That means whoever gets the loudest applause wins!”
If that were the case, Sera thought, Vanessa herself would be declared the champion without having to lift a spatula. Can we just get on with this? she fretted. At her side, Malcolm was shifting from foot to foot like a caged beast, and she wasn’t sure how much more patience he’d have for the Food Channel’s theatrics. Me either, dude, she thought, shooting him a tight smile and a prayer for patience.
“Now, we don’t want anyone perishing of hunger or getting restless, so we’ve made it a rule that the chefs have a mere forty-five minutes to come up with each creation, start to finish, oven to garnish. And meanwhile…” She smiled like Oprah about to give away a fleet of cars. “While they work, we’ll be serving everyone small plates from the Blue Coyote’s kitchen and passing around hot toddies and mulled wine to keep you nice and toasty!”