Among the others—the ones she didn’t know, or knew only in passing—expressions ranged from merely curious, to empathetic, to impressed. There was no condemnation, except in those who were now looking at Blake with suspicion.
Blake’s face was swarthier than usual with the fuming he was trying to hold in check. “Oh, that’s right. It must have slipped my mind,” he blustered. “Though how I could forget the very reason I fired you, Serafina—”
“All right!” Vanessa cut in hastily. “Folks, you’ll be getting your chance to try Chef Austin’s rocket-powered ganache cake momentarily. Just be sure you’re over twenty-one!” She tittered, and the crowd chortled agreeably, happy to forget any tension when there was cake in the offing. “But before we do… Chef Wilde, why don’t you tell us what you’ve made for the final round!”
Sera held up a plate. The simple globe of dark chocolate caught the light with the sheen of cocoa butter and careful craftsmanship.
“I call it the ‘O-Bomb,’” she said. As relief spread throughout her system, a tinge of mischief had crept into her voice.
“‘O-Bomb’?” Vanessa asked, deliciously scandalized.
“That’s right.” Sera didn’t elaborate, but a little smile began at the corner of her lips.
Vanessa gave her a look that said, Kid, you ever been on TV before? Don’t leave your host hanging. But she moved on like the pro she was. “Well, I guess we’re all about to find out why. Anything else you’d like to say about it before we pass around the plates?”
Sera considered. “Just that, like life, it’s best if you go for it all in one big bite. Then, once it’s yours, savor every second of it.”
The audience broke into delighted laughter.
The desserts went around.
Blake’s molten lava cake received its share of cheers. It was, after all, a really luscious dessert.
For Sera, there was silence.
For one moment, total silence.
Oh, shit. They don’t like it… they hated it… but how could anyone hate the O-Bomb? I mean, it’s the pinnacle of nearly three decades of study, experimentation, and sheer goddamn determination! Did Blake pay them to keep quiet? Her mind raced, even as her heart sank. At her side, Malcolm placed a commiserating hand on her shoulder.
Then everything changed.
It began with a single moan. From somewhere in the depths of the crowd, a voice let out a loud “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh,” so frankly sensual that people around the moaner began to chuckle. Shocked, Sera scanned the crowd until she found the source. A stout, middle-aged frau from the German tourist contingent stood stock-still, hands clapped over her lips, eyes round as if she couldn’t believe the sound had come from her.
Then, as the O-Bomb penetrated deeper into the throng, plates passed from hand to hand, a second voice chimed in. “Oh, yesssss!” Sera couldn’t see who it was this time, but the voice didn’t sound familiar.
And again, coming from outside the French doors. “Oo-oooohhh!” The cry emerged with surprising gusto from the throat of a tiny Japanese lady, bent nearly double with age and clinging to her embarrassed-looking grandson’s arm for balance.
In a moment, “aaahhs” and “mmmmmmms” were rising from all over the room.
A fiery blush bloomed on Sera’s cheeks. When I named it “O-Bomb,” I didn’t mean it quite so literally!
Then the Back Room Babes jumped on the O-train, and it really ran off the rails.
“Oh, baby!” cried another woman. Goodness, Sera marveled, was that sweet, serene River Wind?
“Yeah, yeah, yeahhhhhhh!” squealed another, mouth full of Sera’s dessert. She spotted the squealer—Crystal, eyes shut in rapture, tattoo-sleeved arms raised in exultation, expression on her multiply pierced face best reserved for the privacy of the boudoir.
At the front of the crowd, Pauline began to gyrate her hips, running her hands through her salt-and-pepper hair in a manner Sera could have done without seeing. Savoring her O-Bomb, she let out a guttural, primal cry, then another, and another. At her side, Hortencia, who Sera would have thought would be wildly embarrassed, was anything but. In an exaggerated motion, she raised her bonbon to her lips, chomped down, and literally screamed with ecstasy.
Then Bobbie—demure, professional Bobbie—let out a roar. “Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeessssss!”
Then Aruni, throwing her head back and howling like a pack of coyotes.
Then Syna—and Syna’s husband, who had his hands clapped over their ten-year-old son’s ears.
And Janice, hollering and swinging an arm above her head like she was set to lasso a steer.
The whole restaurant was fairly vibrating. Blake looked positively poleaxed. So did Vanessa, whose trademark smile wobbled, turning to a look of consternation and confusion. The camera crew looked to her, unsure whether to keep filming. Seeing the throng of ecstatic Santa Feans, Vanessa made a motion to the crew—keep rolling!
Sera’s mouth was agape as she watched the crowd convulse. Even Guadalupe, normally aloof to the point of rudeness, had a reluctant smile on her face. She picked up Sera’s confection and daintily took a nibble. Then she moaned. A tiny, decorous moan, but a moan all the same. And she kept moaning, even as others in the crowd took up what was becoming a chant. “Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!” they shouted, grinning and making their best O-faces.
Then Asher stepped forward. He grabbed his battered Indiana Jones hat and sent it sailing to the far corner of the restaurant, dropping dramatically to his knees and arching his back. “Oh, God, oh, Bliss, oh, BLISS!” he cried, doing what Sera knew to be a pretty fair impression of his most intimate experience. Several women sighed, and all around him, the chant rose. Men groaned. Women moaned. Blake’s waitstaff linked arms and let out a wail. The busboys looked at one another like the whole restaurant had gone loco, then shrugged and added their voices to the clamor. Even Blake’s second stepped away from his side, tossed an O-Bomb in the air, and caught it in his teeth, setting up a howl of his own as the confection coated his tongue.
Pauline winked at her niece, and Sera, tears of gratitude running down her face, finally let go.
Fuck it. If these folks aren’t ashamed, why should I be?
She came out from behind the counter, standing before the crowd with eyes half-blinded by tears. She placed an O-Bomb on her tongue; gave it a second to do its thing.
Then, in front of half the town and a national cable network, she let loose so loud she could be heard halfway down Canyon Road.
Vanessa’s amplified voice broke through the mass orgasm. “And the winner is… Bliss!” She was smiling a smile that spoke of more than just the promise of astronomical ratings.
Blake, more furious than Sera had ever seen him, dashed his shiny, state-of-the-art mixer to the floor. It boomed like ordnance against the restaurant’s Saltillo tiles, shocking everyone and making Sera jump. “You oxygen-deprived morons!” he raged into the silence that fell in the wake of the crash. “You backwoods rednecks! You wouldn’t know a proper dessert if the ghost of Gaston Lenôtre came down and shoved it in your ignorant pie holes himself!”