Hilary Fields - Bliss

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!”

Sera caught one of the camera guys grinning, zooming in on Blake’s livid face as he insulted his audience.

He’s showing his true colors. And the crowd didn’t appreciate it. Mutters and meaningful looks passed among them.

“Gah!” he spat, flinging a plate of the ganache cake at the far wall. “I cannot wait to get back to civilization and away from the company of yokels who think cowboy hats and concho belts constitute high fashion!” He made air quotes with his fingers. “You ‘free-spirited’ fucks have been baking in the sun so long, you wouldn’t have the wits to appreciate haute cuisine if it walked up and slapped you on your slack-jawed faces! And for the record, no, you pokey-palated Paleoliths, green chile is not a major food group!” Spittle flecked his lips as he glared out over the crowd.

For a moment, the crowd simply stared back.

Then they started to laugh.

In two decades of being feted, flattered, and socially fellated, this was something wholly new. Blake’s fame, his restaurant empire, his celebrity snob friends—none of them meant a thing to the people here today.

Sera saw a flash of uncertainty—almost panic—enter Blake’s eyes as he realized it.

They don’t care what he thinks.

And for the first time, neither did Serafina Wilde.

She laughed right along with them.

Enraged, Blake ripped open his custom-embroidered chef’s jacket and flung it to the floor, beyond caring about the cameras catching every instant of his tantrum. His face was apoplectic as he turned to his former protégée. “You’ll rue this day, Serafina,” he hissed.

Vanessa, standing near enough to hear, rolled her eyes at Sera. “Who says that?” She popped an O-Bomb between her perfectly painted lips and shivered with ecstasy.

Sera just smiled. Her ruing days were over.

With a roar of rage, Blake Austin turned on one heel, shot Sera a final venomous glance, and stormed out the rear door.

Out into the alley like the rat he was.

The Back Room Babes broke through the crowd and gathered round, showering Sera in a storm of hugs and kisses.

“You did it!”

“Way to kick ass, woman!”

“You guys didn’t have anything to do with…,” Sera began, narrowing her eyes at her aunt and the rest of the ladies.

They shook their heads innocently. “That was all you, girl!” Aruni enthused. “I mean, yeah, Pauline did have a plan for us to strike back if things started to look dicey. She had us spell out A-U-S-T-I-N S-U-C-K-S-! on our fannies in Sharpie marker and be ready to drop trou if Chef Austin got uppity. Lucky thing there are twelve of us. I got the exclamation point. Wanna see?” She grabbed the waistband of her yoga pants and made as if to pull them down.

Janice slapped her friend’s hand away. “Stop that, ’Runi! Sheesh, you’ll take any ol’ opportunity to show off that toned little tush. Me, I’m just glad we didn’t need to whip out no dirty tricks.” Janice grinned. “I told ’em there were too many Texans here today who might get the wrong idea and think we were dissin’ their capital city!”

“I was an S,” volunteered Syna, patting her rear. “God knows how long it’ll take to wash off. I told my hubby I was test-driving a tattoo so as not to spoil the surprise. What’s worse is I think he likes the idea.” Syna grabbed one of Sera’s bonbons off the counter and shoveled it into her mouth. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she groaned. “Dang, woman! Who knew you were gonna dish up something called an O-Bomb?” She giggled. “We couldn’t have planned it better if we tried! My son’s prob’ly gonna need years of therapy, but it was so worth it. When that German lady let’r rip… you should have seen Chef Austin’s face.” She doubled over, wheezing with laughter.

“So I…” Sera looked around at the sea of smiling faces filling the restaurant. Smiling because of her. “I really won, fair and square?”

“Kiddo, that was one totally, one-hundred-percent organic mass orgasm. And I oughta know!” Pauline pronounced. “Glad to see some of my teachings finally took hold, Baby-Bliss. You may be a late bloomer, but when you bloom…” Pauline choked up a bit, her brown eyes shining wet with emotion as her tone grew serious. “Sweetheart, I’ve never been so proud in my whole life,” she declared, planting a big wet one on Sera’s cheek. Hortencia followed suit with a smooch of her own, and the rest of the BRBs fairly choked her with hugs and well wishes. But there was one honorary member still waiting to congratulate her.

Sera’s eyes met Asher’s over the heads of her friends. Her heart swelled at what she saw there.

Pure bliss.

The Back Room Babes parted, making way for the tall Israeli. He reached Sera in a few swift steps, swept her up, and spun her around until she squealed with delight. Setting her down as though she were the most precious thing on earth, Asher cupped Sera’s cheeks in his callused hands. He looked down at her with a world of pride and admiration in his gaze. “You’ve done it, Bliss,” he said softly.

She gave him a kiss that contained all of the gratitude and joy she felt in this moment. “Wait ’til I get you home tonight, lover,” she whispered in his ear. “I think we can top this performance, easy.”

In her mind’s eye, the armadillo winked.

As a transplant to the City Different, I still have so much to learn. How could I adequately characterize a town with so many centuries of history, culture, and unique Southwestern flair? I must apologize in advance for any inaccuracies or omissions, and call out a few deliberate fudges here.

Those who know Santa Fe will probably recognize the Sunshine Diner as an obvious stand-in for the wonderful Zia Diner—a staple of the Railyard District for many years. As my tummy can testify, the pie is every bit as good as ever at the Zia! I don’t know who their pie maven is, but long may he or she reign.

The Horseman’s Haven is indeed famous for their nuclear-hot green chile. Taste Level 2 at your own risk, and don’t say you weren’t warned.

For the past several years, Zozobra has been held the night before Fiesta. I’m still hoping they’ll change it back to Friday night.

Ghost Ranch, up in Abiquiu, is a stunning and inspiring place. I hope they won’t mind that I took the liberty of turning their hogans into sweat lodges for Sera’s “quest.”

Placita de Suerte y Sueños is based on a couple of the delightful courtyard oases along Palace Avenue, but it is, itself, a figment of my imagination. Still, if you go looking for it, you’re sure to encounter some serendipitous finds.

Ten Thousand Waves is my favorite place on the planet. I hope I got it right.

Ms. Holly Root, how do I thank you? Your kindness and steadfastness in sticking with me are humbling, to say the least. Your intelligence, assurance, and unerring instincts are frankly intimidating. I’m so grateful you’re my agent.

Enormous gratitude goes to Susan Barnes and to all the talented team at Redhook for seeing what I saw in this novel, and more. I’m delighted to be included in your stable of authors and hope to do you proud.

A big shout out to Mr. Featherbottom—otherwise known as Eric Buscher—who asked me (fortunately when I was still just thirty pages in), “Why are you killing off your best character?” Pauline thanks you, too.

To the members of the Mediabistro 12-Week Novel Writing Workshop, thank you for guiding me through the first half of this novel with wise and gracious critiques. And thanks in equal measure to our little Santa Fe writer’s group for invaluable advice through the second.

To the Thursday Night Eldorado Women’s Meeting… if there really were Back Room Babes, you’d be charter members.

Caz, thank you for long walks, road trips, and read-throughs. You’re one of a kind.

Syna, thanks for the loan of your name and your invaluable knowledge of the restaurant business.

And Commander Quinn… for endless brainstorming sessions over Harry’s Roadhouse nachos, close reads and incisive suggestions, help with the chores and late-night LOTR recitals, and most especially for agreeing to come out West on this perhaps ridiculous whim. I love you “all the much.”