Chapter Six

Serafina blinked. In the time she’d been inside Lyric Jewelry, it appeared the courtyard had acquired a new statue. To her sun-dazzled eyes, the figure, vaguely humanoid, looked as though some strange-humored god had yanked it free from its gravitational moorings, dragging it skyward and elongating it past all reason. I knew Santa Fe had a flourishing art scene, she thought, but this is a bit… sudden. I’m sure this wasn’t here before. Perhaps she was still dizzy from her encounter with Asher and his unwelcoming minion. She blinked again, and the strange new sculpture resolved itself into something she recognized.

Ah. Nothing to be alarmed about. It’s just a New Age spiritualist. I better get used to them out here.

Flanking—or possibly mocking—the generous curves of the earth mother fountain, a slender young woman in wide-legged yoga pants and a fairly unnecessary sports bra was poised on one bare foot, the other magically protruding from the clasp of her two hands behind her head, her back leg nearly parallel to her torso. She looked to be double or perhaps triple jointed, with a fluid, taffy-like muscle structure that made her pose seem like the most natural thing in the world, despite Sera’s certainty that a professional ballerina would be hard-pressed to duplicate it.

She watched as the girl unwound slowly and flowed into yet another improbable posture, and then another. Just as she was wondering if she should announce herself or simply sneak past to get back to her rental car (she had planned to hit the chamber of commerce and pick up some forms before heading back to Pauline’s), the impossibly lithe young woman pressed her hands together, murmured “Jai Bhagwan,” added in a “Namaste” for good measure, then bounced on the balls of her feet as if she couldn’t contain herself. She opened sparkling brown eyes and sang out, “Hey, girl! You must be Bliss. I’ve been dying to meet you!”

The yogini bounded over to the porch, oblivious to Sera’s flummoxed expression, and stuck out her hand for Sera to shake. “I’m Aruni. Aruni Sharon Lipschitz, but I just stick with Aruni,” she said, pumping Serafina’s hand enthusiastically. “Please, for the love of the Buddha, don’t call me by my given name, or I’ll never forgive you.” She dimpled, a woman clearly used to charming others right out of their ten-toed socks.

Aruni wasn’t precisely pretty, Sera observed; possessed of a nose that was slightly bulbous at the tip and a chin that didn’t quite overcome her otherwise adorable overbite. Her shoulder-length hair, Sera guessed, would require all sorts of abstruse products to tame its woolly curls. Still, her vitality made the overall picture one of delicious, vibrant attractiveness. As Sera watched, the woman twisted a rubber band through her massive mane and secured it atop her head in a ponytail that would have done a shih tzu proud. “I run the yoga studio across the courtyard,” Aruni said helpfully.

Of course she did. Sera followed the graceful line of her arm as the woman pointed to indicate a storefront at the front of the placita. The wooden double doors of the studio were painted a pale pink that managed—barely—not to clash with the mellow brown adobe walls. On the generously sized plate glass front window, swirly lotus flower and ohm symbols were painted in a purple she supposed was very spiritual. Perhaps Aruni and Pauline had shared a bucket of Benjamin Moore, Sera thought, for P-HOP’s sign, she now realized, was exactly the same shade. Sera had noticed the yoga studio in passing on previous reconnaissance missions to her new venture, but only in a “Hey, I really ought to sign up for a class one of these days… ha, ha, yeah right,” sort of way.

I’ve got neighbors, she thought to herself with equal parts pleasure and foreboding. And I bet out here they expect you to, like, talk to them and stuff. Another new experience. Hmm. Well, I could probably get used to being sociable. After all, I did say I wanted to try new things.

“Oh, ah, yes,” she murmured, fumbling for something appropriately neighborly to say. “Tantrastic, right?”

Aruni nodded happily. “That’s the place!”

“It’s nice to meet you, too, ah…”

“Aruni,” Aruni reminded. “Like the sage.” Her eyes searched Serafina’s face, expecting recognition.

Right. The sage. The only sage Sera was intimately familiar with came in the fresh produce aisle, and made a great addition to turkey stuffing. Aruni? Could she seriously call her that out loud? Then again, with a name like Serafina Bliss Wilde, who was she to take issue with unusual monikers?

“Most people call me Serafina or Sera, not Bliss,” Serafina said, hitching up Pauline’s patchwork skirt and wrapping the scarf Asher had so recently touched closer about her neck. “I’m still not used to Pauline introducing me to folks the other way.” And I’m getting to like Asher being the only one, besides her, who calls me Bliss.

“Sera, then. I’m a big believer in calling people by the names they choose. For obvious reasons.” Aruni pulled a rueful face. “I’m so excited you’re here, Sera,” she rattled on. “Pauline stopped by and told me all about you the other day. She said you’d come to take over the store, and, I quote, ‘I was to give you all aid and succor’ in an effort to convince you you’ve made the right choice. Well,” Aruni said brightly, “she didn’t have to ask me twice. I’m, like, totally over the moon that you’re here. Finally, some new blood in Placita de Suerte y Sueños! With you here, we’re going to lower the average age of the merchants in this little shopping center by half, and make it twice as rockin’ cool.”

“We are?” Sera asked faintly.

“Mos’ def, girl!” Aruni slung a muscle-banded arm across Sera’s shoulders. “I’m no energy reader, but I definitely get a vibe that you and I are going to be great pals. C’mon, let’s go grab a burger and seal the deal.”

“Ah… a burger?” Sera hesitated.

“Well, yeah—a veggie burger for me, obviously, but I won’t pass judgment if you haven’t made the shift to a meatless lifestyle yet.” Shrugging on a sky blue hoodie, she linked arms with Sera and urged her forward.

Sera stepped down from the porch in Aruni’s wake, feeling the sun warm the otherwise chilly late-morning air. Her inner voice was telling her, “Go ahead, make a friend,” while her native New Yorker was shaking its head and asking her what ulterior motives her new “pal” might have. A lifetime of scanning for subway pervs and pickpockets warned her she should be checking the other woman over for concealed weapons and/or cult propaganda. But the Santa Fe sunlight and the cool September breeze were clearing away those suspicions, making room for new possibilities.

“Um, sure, I could eat,” she found herself saying.

“Great! I know the perfect place, and my assistant’s minding the studio for the next couple hours—we’ve got a beginner’s class in there practicing their durga breathing right now—so I can sneak away for a bit. Let’s walk—it’s so nice out, and it’s not too far from here.”

And ten minutes later, after a stroll down narrow streets lined with exquisite, screamingly expensive boutiques and galleries Sera promised herself she’d take the time to investigate soon, they were sliding into a booth at the Sunshine Diner.

“Was that who I think it was?” Sera whispered out of the corner of her mouth as they unfolded their napkins and settled in at the historic-coal-warehouse-turned-chrome-finished diner, shedding scarves and handbags on the seats beside them. Her gaze cut over to the left, over Aruni’s shoulder, to the gentleman who had just paid his tab and was now ambling toward the front entrance with a peculiarly bowlegged gait. “The one who was in all the Western movies?”

Aruni did a totally unsubtle gawk over her shoulder while Sera tried not to cringe. “Yup,” she affirmed. “He’s in here a lot. Likes the pies, I’m told. He has a compound in the hills just outside the city limits. I heard he had it built to look just like the ranch in his most famous film. We’ve got a lot of aging stars buying second homes in the area, so don’t be surprised if you see one or two. But you must be used to celebrity sightings, being from New York and all. The way Pauline tells it, you were practically Donald Trump’s personal chef.” Aruni was clearly fishing for info.

Sera considered sharing a few choice stories from her days in Blake Austin’s kitchens. She’d met—and catered to—enough celebs that the mystique had mostly worn off. “I did have the occasional celebrity run-in here and there,” she admitted, and decided not to elaborate. She wasn’t feeling particularly nostalgic for her hometown or her old life, and wasn’t sure she ever would again. “So what’s good here?” she asked, steering the subject away from her origins.

Aruni buried her gamine face in her menu, studying it earnestly. Her wiry corkscrew curls wiggled joyously above the top of the oversized diner menu with a life of their own. “Well, anything with green chile is great,” she advised, “but I mostly come here for the desserts.”

Sera privately marveled that the woman before her, slender to the point of being two-dimensional, had ever been intimately acquainted with sweets. She glanced down at her menu, her mouth quirking involuntarily into a smile as she read. The offerings were a mix of classic diner comfort foods and New American cuisine, all with what she was beginning to recognize as a signature Santa Fe twist. “The desserts are practically the only items on the menu that don’t have green chile in them,” she observed wryly. “Guess they’re trying to tell me something. Maybe I’ll have to invent a green chile cupcake for my bakery.”

“Oh, for sure you have to,” Aruni said, as if shocked Serafina might ever have entertained a contrary idea. She slapped her menu down and focused intently on Sera, leaning forward across the table with her elbows bent and her pointy chin propped on her fists. “Have you decided on a menu for the bakery yet?”

“Oh yes.” Sera smiled. “About eighteen of them. It’s narrowing it down to what’s doable without forgoing sleep until retirement that’s the tricky part.”

“Hmm.” Aruni's earnest brown eyes crinkled in thought. “Well, what are you best at?”

“Everything.” Serafina made this pronouncement without a trace of shame, and perhaps a soupçon of healthy arrogance. She slung her arms across the back of her side of the booth, gesturing broadly. “From macaroons to pain au chocolat, meringue to petit four, I pretty much rock the confectionary spectrum.” Seeing Aruni's eyebrows shoot up, she smiled. “Seriously, I’m like the puff pastry whisperer. I can make a choux paste that’ll float your éclair on a sea of mocha yumminess. My lady fingers and biscotti scoff at the need for coffee. My chocolate mousse is so rich it makes Rupert Murdoch feel poor. And my wedding cakes—well, husbands may come and go, but my cakes are timeless. I’ve never wanted to do anything else with my life—the truth is, I’ve screwed up everything else I’ve touched—but pastries? We just seem to understand one another. It’s been that way since I was a little kid.”

What Sera didn’t say was that, as a painfully shy child with limited people skills, cooking had been both creative outlet and peace offering. Pleasing others with her pastries had been one way to placate them, make them like her, ensure she always had an invite to the party. Well, until alcohol had taken over the role of social lubricant… and subsequently ruined her life. But Sera wasn't thinking about that today.

“Now,” she continued, “all I have to do is master the altitude adjustments, and I should be wowing the taste buds of you Fe-heads in no time—that is, if they haven’t been burnt off from eating all those chile peppers.”

Aruni looked a bit nonplussed by Sera's vehement speech. But then a wide grin spilled across her face. “You're going to make me fat, aren’t you?”

“I might try,” Sera said with a smile of her own. “But maybe if we swap baked goods for yoga lessons, we’ll manage to keep it in balance.”

“Rock on,” Aruni said, high-fiving her across the table. “I like the way you think. And as for your menu and the need for sleep—girl, you’re going to need not just your z’s but plenty of time to hang out with your new gal-pals now that you’re living in Santa Fe. What about doing like those ladies on TV do—the ones on the Food Channel that have the cupcake chain stores? Like, just only do cupcakes?”

Sera had considered it. “Well, I still want to be around when the cupcake craze dies down—not that I think people will ever get tired of cupcakes, but a store that sells nothing else may get old. Back in New York they’ve already moved on to donuts and even ‘cronuts.’ Don’t ask me how to describe those,” she added with a smile, “but trust me, they’re delicious. Anyhow, I also want to have coffee and some savories like quiches or simple sandwiches available for people who come in throughout the day, so I can have a constant flow of customers from breakfast through teatime, you know?”

“Totally. People are always poking their noses into our placita, asking if there’s a place they can grab a coffee and a Danish or read a newspaper and just hang out for a few minutes, instead of having to have a formal sit-down meal at some spendy tourist joint. I know I’d love to have a place to pop by and get some tea or a veggie wrap once in a while. Coffee doesn’t fit into the yoga lifestyle, but a girl does get thirsty.” She dimpled. “Speaking of which, are you gonna keep Big Mama around?”

“I have a feeling my aunt would go into mourning otherwise,” Sera said drily.

“Not just her,” Aruni said seriously. “All us girls. We love it, and it does wonders for our… well, you know.” She gestured below the belt. “Don’t worry. I'm sure you'll find a way to please your customers and yourself as well, whatever you decide to serve. And speaking of pleasing…” Grinning conspiratorially, she leaned even farther forward across the laminated wooden table and lowered her voice. “Pauline tells me you’ve agreed to keep the back room going. I can’t tell you what that’ll mean to the girls.”

Hm. Her new friend seemed to be quite adamant about this “girl power” thing. “‘The girls’?” Sera asked cautiously. She had the feeling she’d just been ambushed by the real reason Aruni had invited her out to lunch.

Aruni waited until the waitress had come over with their drink orders, pouring Sera a satisfyingly deep ceramic mug of black coffee and providing a decaf green tea for the yogini. “Y’all enjoy,” said the woman with a wink, bumping elbows with Aruni. Her Texas accent gave her away as another nonnative in a town full of transplants from other, less eclectic places. “Give a holler when y’all are ready to order. Oh, and ’Runi-baby, I’ll see you next Friday at the shindig, right?” She sashayed off, a sway in her ample hips.

“You sure will. Thanks, Janice,” Aruni said to the waitress’s retreating back. She turned to answer Sera's question. “Yeah,” she said with exaggerated relish, practically rubbing her hands together. “The Back Room Babes.”

Sera was getting tired of playing the straight man. “All right, lady,” she said to the woman she was already slotting into her social solar system on a tight orbit, “let me have it. What’s with these ‘Back Room Babes,’ and just how much is it going to embarrass me?”

As Aruni explained it over delicious burgers—sans meat but rife with green chiles—the Back Room Babes were a society of local women who had come together over the past few years under Pauline Wilde’s auspices, mainly in the evenings after work and kids were squared away, to gab, commiserate, empower, and educate themselves. Drawn by the titillating sexual aids—er, “pleasure enhancements”—offered at P-HOP, but unwilling to be seen shopping during regular hours, women had begun trickling in around closing time, begging Pauline for just “one quick peek” while no one else was around to see them browse. Pauline, fired up with outrage over the shame her fellow femmes felt exploring their natural needs, had arranged special “viewing hours” and began offering talks, videos, and even workshops for the women. Though Pauline hadn’t been crazy about the group calling themselves “babes”—a feminist to the core, she wasn’t keen on infantilizing women—she’d bowed gracefully to the alliteration and rah-rah spirit of the thing. Also out of deference to their sensibilities, she’d kept the lights nice and dim, served nachos, margaritas, and lots of Big Mama kombucha, and before she knew it, she had a regular group meeting twice monthly to catch up, shoot the shit, and do their damnedest to spice up their love lives.

“I got lured over to the back room for the first time when I heard howls and coyote yips coming across the courtyard one night while I was locking up the studio,” Aruni said. “I was a bit leery, because quite honestly it sounded like someone was throwing a Twilight convention in there with all the werewolf noises, but I had just moved out here from Chicago and I didn’t know many people. Plus,” she said with an edge to her voice, “the farkackte schmuck I had come out here following had just dumped me on my ass. And this after he begged me to drop a thriving practice in Bucktown and come out to the desert so we could meld our chakras and have babies and ohm our way happily ever after into the sunset. That shmendrik.” She shook her head in remembered disgust, quivering curls adding dimension to her indignation. “So anyway,” Aruni concluded, touching a little charm on a string around her wrist and visibly shaking off her bitterness, “I went over to investigate what all those loony women were up to, and before I knew it, I was one of them.”

Had Sera not been born and raised in New York City, she might have had trouble following, but since she had, she mentally translated the Yiddish in her new friend’s description of her ex-boyfriend easily enough. Roughly: “Bastard of Blake-like Proportions.” Aruni’s general aura of good-natured Zen had fallen away for a moment there, and Sera had seen a bit of the tough yet wounded Chicago girl she was clearly trying to leave behind. It had the effect of endearing the yogini to her more than if Aruni had taken the breakup with enlightened good grace. She felt a twinge of outrage at any man who would ask a woman to uproot her whole life like that, only to leave her high and dry. At least it sounded like Aruni’s ex had mercifully exited the picture. For Serafina, Blake Austin was like the cat from Pet Sematary—he just kept coming back, stinkier and more psycho every time. Even a year later, he was still doing his damnedest to ruin her name. It was one of the reasons getting out of New York City had seemed so appealing.

But she didn’t want to spend a single second of her new life dwelling on old regrets. She’d much rather focus on the possibilities of the present.

“Wow. Sounds like the group’s really meant a lot to you.”

“Oh, totally.” Aruni nodded emphatically. “I couldn’t imagine my life now without the girls and our little get-togethers. And pretty soon, you’ll feel the same. Not that you’ve got much choice in the matter.” She laughed. “As the owner of the former P-HOP/soon-to-be-Bliss, you’re pretty much already inducted into the club.” Aruni chucked her on the arm in a congratulatory way. “Pauline’s going to want to pass the torch on to you sooner or later. She’s not getting any younger, and I know she sees you as the carrier of her legacy. You’ll be running the whole show in no time. But don’t worry,” she continued bracingly, perhaps sensing a bit of Sera’s hesitance. “You’re gonna love the Back Room Babes, and the women are all going to love you, too. I can’t say enough about what it’s done for me to be a part of our little federation. Socially, spiritually, and especially sexually. It’s a real source of transformational opportunities, you know? And isn’t that what life’s all about?”

A few weeks ago, Sera might have looked askance at that. But it occurred to her that, cloaked in New Age-ry as it sounded, “transformational opportunities” were exactly what she was after—what she was, in fact, betting her future on. “Well, ah, yes, I guess it is…”

“Anyhow, our next get-together is right around the corner,” Aruni continued blithely. “You’ll be there, right?”

“Isn’t it a bit soon for the Back Room Babes to be meeting again?” Sera asked, surprised.

“Soon?” Aruni said, a mystified expression crossing her mobile features.

“For Pauline—after losing Hortencia, I mean.”

Aruni clicked her tongue, expression clearing with understanding. “Such a senseless thing,” she murmured. “They didn’t have to part that way. Two stubborn personalities like that, though… it was bound to end in heartache.”

Sera raised a brow inwardly. Odd way to put it…, she thought, but she couldn’t argue Pauline’s stubbornness, and from what she’d heard, Hortencia had been more than a match for her feisty aunt. What it had to do with Hortencia’s passing, however, she couldn’t fathom. “Er…”

“Seriously, it’ll do Pauline good to get back in the swing of things,” Aruni pronounced, barreling through Sera’s bemusement. “And I know it would cheer her up to introduce you to our little club. So… you in?”

“I doubt I can make it,” Sera hedged. “I’m going back to New York tomorrow. I have a lot of things to wrap up back East. I’ll be packing and shipping not only my personal stuff but my catering and baking equipment as well. At least, what I don’t leave behind for my assistant Carrie,” she amended. “Then I have to deal with my apartment, and there are a lot of people I need to say good-bye to. I’ll be gone all week, up until Friday,” she said apologetically. “Maybe next time.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Aruni said brightly. “Friday means you’ll be back just in time. And it’s a lucky thing, too, because believe me, you don’t wanna miss what’s going on next week! It’s Zozobra, and there’s no better way to experience Santa Fe than to rock out at the big Z-fest.”

“Zozo-wha?” Sera asked.

Aruni just shook her head mysteriously. “It’s something you have to see to believe. I don’t want to spoil the surprise. Just meet us at P-HOP—well, I guess it’s Bliss now—next Friday evening and you’ll find out. Oh, and bring your dancing shoes.” She gave a little shoulder shimmy, as if she just couldn’t wait. “Ooh, here comes Janice with dessert. Awesome.” Aruni bounced in her seat, utterly enamored with the world.

Sera had the urge to lean over the booth and give her new friend a squeeze for being so cute, but she contented herself with a smile and mental promise to herself to bake the yogini something special, first chance she got. Perhaps a matcha green tea mousse, with a white chocolate base and a marzipan yoga teacher performing warrior pose on the top… Her mind drifted happily with sweet visions of custom confections until the reality of their dessert landed with a clink of china and the rattle of a fork before her widening eyes.

Pie.

Glorious pie.

Her nose told the tale before her taste buds even got involved. Tangy, sweet, and buttery engaged in a naughty ménage à trois upon her senses, first wafting to her nostrils in sinful delight, then seducing her eyes as Sera took in the airy lightness of the crisscross crust, the perfect crystallization of sugar and caramelized filling oozing through the latticework cracks. And when she tasted the pie… The things the flavors did to her tongue were positively unspeakable—and utterly unforgettable.

Mama, I’m home, Sera thought, and dug in with a will.

After the ludicrously nummy slices of heaven they proceeded to consume—strawberry rhubarb for Sera and cherry with crumble crust for Aruni—Sera thought perhaps she’d need not just dancing shoes but a full day at the gym to work off the unexpected midday calories. More important, she had decided that pie had to be on her bakery’s menu. She rubbed her tummy and sighed.

“I forget how awesome a good old-fashioned slice of pie can be,” Sera commented. “Pastry chefs in New York are always trying to one-up one another with new techniques. I’ve seen cooks concocting desserts with everything from liquid nitrogen to cigarette-smoked salt crystals. Half the time you can’t figure out whether you’re taking a bite or dismantling a fusion reactor, at some of the places I’ve worked. But this… This really hit the spot. The crust isn’t quite as flaky as mine,” she said ruminatively as she stared at the last delectable bite on her fork, “but man, that filling is just ridiculously tasty. It’s not easy to get rhubarb to cooperate this nicely, the way it just practically melts under your fork. And the strawberries. Damn, they’re good. So fresh, so tender. I wonder if I could have a word with their pastry chef…”

Aruni choked on a sip of her decaf tea. “Um, I don’t think you’d want to do that.”

“Really?” Sera asked, popping the last morsel in her mouth and closing her eyes to savor the taste. “Why not?”

“Well, I happen to know they get their pies from an outside vendor and he… well, he’s not…”

“Not what?” Sera asked when Aruni seemed reluctant to continue.

“Not… er… nice,” Aruni finished lamely. Sera could tell she was uncomfortable bad-mouthing anyone, farkackte ex-boyfriends notwithstanding.

“Is that right?” Sera mused, thinking of the pastry chefs she knew. Contrary to popular opinion, bakers weren’t all sugar and spice. Some of them were fire and brimstone. A bit of an attitude in a fellow pastry chef wasn’t going to put her off. “Well, I’d still like to meet the guy, talk shop for a couple minutes. Maybe I can get his name and number from the waitress…” She started to look around for Janice.

Aruni looked alarmed, but she didn’t try to stop Sera. “I guess it can’t do any harm, but don’t say you haven’t been warned. The guy’s on a really bad karmic streak. But I suppose it may be your only chance to get a taste of these pies again, if what I heard from Janice is true.”

Sera arched an eyebrow in question.

“Janice told me the pie whisperer is getting fired—that’s one of the reasons I suggested we come here particularly, so we wouldn’t miss our last chance to get ’em. Apparently, he’s insulted one too many customers, and the management is sick of soothing ruffled feathers all the time. He has a bakery nearby and he caters out of it, but he keeps scaring all the customers away, and now most of the local restaurant managers are tired of his attitude, too. I heard his whole operation’s shutting down. Everything’s going up for auction next week.”

“Huh,” Sera mused. “This pie whisperer wouldn’t be named Malcolm, by any chance?” she inquired.

“Yeah, how’d you know, girl?” Aruni was round-eyed. “You psychic or something?”

Sera shook her head. Santa Fe really is just a small town at heart, I guess. “Asher told me about a restaurant auction he thought I should check out. Said I should look for a guy named Malcolm, but not to take anything he says too personally.”

“Yup, that’s the one, I’m pretty sure. Malcolm the Meanie’s putting it all up for sale.” Aruni shrugged. Then her eyes twinkled as her train of thought switched rails. “So I guess you’ve met our sexy landlord, eh?”

“He’s your landlord, too?” Sera didn’t have to ask if they were talking about the same person.

“Asher owns our whole placita, pretty much. At least, the buildings are his, and he leases all the shops.”

“Wow,” Sera said. “He must be well off.” Sexy, wildly talented, and wealthy. Women must hunt him down with a spear.

Aruni nodded. “I heard he was a world-class whatchamacall it, that instrument-making word… loo, lute-something, back in Israel.”

“Luthier,” Sera said. “I had to ask him what it meant, too.”

“Well, it must be pretty lu-crative, because Pauline told me one time that his violins used to go for, like, fifty K a pop.”

Sera smiled to herself, noting Aruni sounded a bit more hard-nosed Chicagoan than woo-woo Santa Fe head. “Wonder why he gave it up,” she mused.

“I heard it had to do with his wife,” Aruni said, looking suitably somber. “We think he’s probably divorced, or maybe even a widower. None of us really knows the story, but we all suspect there’s some terrible tragedy there.”

Sera felt a pang, thinking of what Asher must have lost. Given the way he’d reacted in his shop earlier when she’d asked if Lupe was his wife, she had to agree—something awful had happened in Asher’s past. “Who is ‘we’?” Sera wanted to know.

“Oh, us Back Roomies. Asher comes up in conversation at our shindigs quite a lot, as you can imagine. I mean, seriously…” Aruni drew the word out like a veritable Valley Girl. “Who wouldn’t have sexual fantasies about that guy? I don’t care if you’re happily married, gay, or stark stone dead, one smile from Asher Wolf and your libido will sit up and howl.” Aruni flapped her hand as if to cool it off.

You ain’t just whistling Dixie, Sera thought. But she declined to offer an opinion on the subject. She had decided she liked Aruni rather a lot, but she wasn’t quite ready to start sharing girlish confidences with the other woman yet. She wasn’t the type who dished about her love life with anyone.

That’s because there’s nothing to dish up, other than a heaping plate of failure with a side of humiliation, Sera’s inner critic reminded her. In her mind’s eye, she could hear Blake’s scornful laughter, and her mouth went dry with vestigial longing for a drink. Down, girl, she ordered the little fiend that lurked in the dark corners of her mind, always ready to prey on moments of self-doubt. Time to get my butt to a meeting; remind myself I’m two thousand miles and a world of recovery away from all that negativity.

“Not that Asher pays the slightest attention to our mooning over him,” Aruni went on, unaware of Sera’s morose musings. “He’s, like, the nicest, sweetest guy, and no way is he into guys or anything, but I’ve never seen him notice a woman in that way. Not even Lupe,” Aruni said, making the name sound as if she’d scraped it off her shoe. “And if that hussy can’t get a rise out of him, with all her cleavage plumping and ass wiggling, I doubt the rest of us have much of a shot. Whatever it was that happened to him back in Israel, it really did a number on him.” Aruni shook her curly head feelingly. “But hey, that’s what a lot of us come to Santa Fe for. To ditch the past and find our second chance. Well, those of us who didn’t follow our putz of a boyfriend out here.” She laughed unself-consciously. “Oh, I never asked. What’s your man sitch, Sera? You married? Dating? Getting over someone?”

Sera grimaced. “No, there isn’t anyone special in my life, and there hasn’t been for a long time. Kind of got my buns burned, if you know what I mean.”

Aruni nodded sympathetically.

“Right now, I’m really more focused on getting my bakery up and running than on getting laid,” Sera continued. “But please,” she hastened, “don’t tell that to Pauline. She’d have a spazz if she knew I wasn’t keen on finding someone to hop in the sack with.” Serafina flushed, lowering her voice to an agonized whisper. “You can’t know what it was like, growing up with Aunt Pauline always pushing me to be more ‘out there,’ as if getting some would solve all my problems…”

“I hear ya, sister. I love Pauline like she was my own aunt, but seriously, I can’t keep up with that dame. Tell you what. You keep me in sweet stuff, and I’ll keep your sex life—or lack thereof—our little secret.”

The two women high-fived across the Formica table. “Deal.”