Bliss (3 page)

“You absolute creep,” she swore. That last shot of vodka emboldened her enough to get right up in his face, though his cologne—which she'd never liked—played havoc with her roiling stomach. Sera poked a finger into Blake's solar plexus, wishing it were a knee to the groin. “First you cheat on me, then you sabotage my cake?” She stomped her foot, too furious suddenly to care how much of a scene she was creating. “You want to hurt me? Fine. But now you're hurting poor Lexi Anderson, whose only crime was paying you a fortune to make her day special. I mean, Christ, your name's on this event, too. Why? Why would you do this?”

“Did you think I would simply wait to see whether you'd get the gumption to leave on your own?” Blake sneered. “Wait to see if you'd steal my best clients and blacken my name? Hardly! I suspected you had something planned to revenge yourself for that little incident last night—though I had no idea how pathetic your efforts would be—and I had no intention of sitting around waiting for you to strike. In fact, I grew tired of you and your whining, clinging ways some time ago. Quite frankly, Serafina, you're a drag. You're also
fired.
Any half-wit with a culinary degree can make a decent
crème anglaise,
so we shan't miss you.”

“What?” His words rocked her back. This job—her career—was all she had. He couldn't…. “But I… we're partners in this venture, Blake. I have a contract. You can't just fire me without cause. I could sue you!”

Austin shook back the longish black hair she'd once thought so debonair. With a shrug and a lazy smile crossing his hawkish features, he dropped the bomb on her. “Oh, I think I can make a fair case for ‘cause' after today's misconduct. Fooling around in the food prep areas? Forgetting the wedding cake? Those are just the final nails in your culinary coffin, Serafina. I've been documenting quite a pattern of erratic behavior on your part over the past several weeks, much to my regret.” Blake smiled down at her, enjoying his moment of power. “And if you're thinking you'll just take a position with one of my rivals, don't bother applying. The two-bit bloggers, the big reviewers… they've all been tipped off. In fact, right now, all anyone's talking about in the culinary world is my
deep
distress over your fragile mental stability and your
troubling
substance abuse. Everyone with gustatory pretensions and a soapbox will be buzzing about you, if they aren't already. Of course, I've also made it known that I was
so
concerned about your conduct in the kitchen that I'm being forced to boot you out of our catering outfit.” His smirk was working overtime now. “So
my
name won't be associated with this fiasco. No, sweet pea, this one's all in
your
lap.”

Serafina's defiance crumbled. The sheer malice on Blake's face was enough to steal her breath away. The booze-born courage deserted her, her confidence fleeing faster than the fleeting high the 80-proof liquor had provided. Her knees buckled and tears formed in her red-rimmed eyes. “But… I… You can't…”

She was trying to catch a breath, holding on to the edge of a counter for support, when a vision in white silk swept in.

The bride. Lexi Anderson stopped stock-still as her gaze took in the pirate ship cake, then swung to witness the gray-faced, sweaty baker practically sobbing at the feet of the handsome restaurateur who'd earlier been dazzling her party guests with
bon mots
over cocktails on the club terrace. Lexi's beautifully made up face took on a look of almost comical bewilderment.

“Hi, Chef Austin,” she began hesitantly. “I just came in to check how things are going—the natives are getting a bit restless out there and wondering when they're going to get their canapés. Plus,” she continued with a dimpled smile, “I couldn't wait to get a peek at Serafina's cake. I just know it'll be perfect.” Vera Wang dress rustling, she crossed to the Simpson ship, taking in its three dark chocolate masts and miniature corsairs dubiously. “What's this?” she asked. “Is it a groom's cake? You didn't have to do that, though it's awfully sweet—Carl just loved
Pirates of the Caribbean
. Funny, I don't remember mentioning that to you during our consults.”

Sera's heart sank, and a fresh wave of remorse washed over her, threatening to swamp more than just the buccaneer cake. Just as much as Blake's spite, it was her own poor judgment that was about to ruin this sweet lady's big day. The last of her buzz fizzled out, and she felt her stomach lurch. Sera opened her mouth, searching for some sort of explanation or apology that could begin to address the magnitude of the disaster. But Blake cut her off before she could begin. He swept an arm familiarly across Lexi's shoulders, managing to ogle her slightly more than politely even as he guided her away from the cake—and its creator.

“My dear, I'm so sorry to have to tell you this. I'm afraid Ms. Wilde is having an unfortunate…” He circled his wrist, hand waving descriptively as he lowered his voice conspiratorially. “…
breakdown.
She seems to have committed herself beyond her capacities and imperiled your nuptial feast. Indeed, I arrived just in time to witness my former protégée displaying both criminal forgetfulness and some disgraceful behavior of a rather… personal nature. Fortunately, I am here. And I assure you, as my name is Blake Austin, I shall not allow any unpleasantness to mar these festivities.”

As he towed Lexi across the kitchen, Sera heard Blake telling her not to worry, he always prepared plenty of extra food when cooking for important, high-profile clients like the Andersons—food that he could personally guarantee had not been contaminated by a certain young lady's shocking misbehavior. And never fear, he happened to have a friend—yes,
that
Trump—who would loan him his pilot and have the correct cake choppered in before the band even had a chance to mangle “Celebration” and the guests began drifting off the dance floor in search of dessert.

One look at Lexi's dismayed, betrayed face made Sera realize she'd never convince the woman that Blake was responsible for the cake mix-up and that it was his high-handedness (well, except for a platter or two of
hors d'oeuvres
and one unfortunate salmon mousse) causing the other comestible snafus. Instead, he would end up looking like a hero for swooping in and saving the day, while she played the role of the fuckup who'd almost condemned the Anderson family to total social ostracism.

Helpless rage and shame inundated Sera, making her head spin and her guts churn. She barely made it to the nearest sink before she was violently ill.

At least,
she thought as tears overcame her,
I didn't puke on the $30,000 wedding dress.
A dry-cleaning bill like that could ruin a person's whole day.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up.” Wedged into the corner of her bathroom floor next to the tub, a half-empty fifth of vodka tucked by her side, Serafina chanted into the phone like a mantra, sending a prayer out along the long-distance line. “Please pick up.
Please
be there.”

“Hel-looo!”

Sera had never heard anything as comforting as her aunt's signature trill. “Aunt Pauline?” she fairly slobbered. “It's Sera.”

“Bliss! Hey, kiddo! I was just thinking of you. I was at my wheel this afternoon, throwing a
fabulously
phallic new vase, and I thought, ‘This would be perfect for my niece.' Maybe in the living room, by that god-awful sofa of yours.”

Serafina choked on a sob that was half laughter. “That's really sweet of you, Aunt Paulie,” she said in a strangled tone. “But you don't have to go to all that trouble.”
Keep it together, Sera,
she told herself woozily. Willing as her aunt had always been to give of her time and her life experience, she didn't want to burden Pauline with her troubles—she'd just needed to hear her voice.

“Nonsense, Baby-Bliss. The only trouble is packing and shipping the damn thing, and I wouldn't have to do that if you'd just come and visit like you've been promising…”

A great, raw-edged sob tore free from Sera's throat, despite her best efforts to contain it. The sleepless night, the booze, and the awful, accusing look in that poor bride's eyes… It was too much.

“I know, Auntie. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. For
everything.
” For several minutes Sera was incoherent, sobbing and sniffling into the phone.

Her aunt allowed the wailing and gnashing to go on for a few more breaths before interjecting a dose of reality. “Now let's not be dramatic, kiddo. You haven't killed anyone, have you?”

Pauline's pragmatism surprised a watery laugh out of Sera. “No.”
But I feel like I'm dying.

“So what's going on, Baby-Bliss? It's not that creepy boyfriend of yours, is it? I know you asked me not to trash-talk him, but I just can't get myself to like that one. I hope it's good between you in the sack at least, because I can't think of another reason to keep such a smarmy snake around.”

Not even.
If you knew just how
not
good it was, you'd have a conniption,
Sera thought. Pauline, with her vast experience in all matters intimate, would never understand—and given her life's work, would probably never
forgive
Sera either. But Sera's problems were bigger than Blake Austin. Even in her current state, halfway to oblivion with half a bottle of vodka in her, Sera was beginning to see that.

Whatever else she could lay at his door, Blake wasn't to blame for her drinking.

Sera had known there was something unusual about her relationship to booze the first time that, as a shy teenager, she'd been introduced to a corner bodega beer and she'd felt that
click.
That click that turned her from awkward social outcast to someone who could maybe tell a joke or two. Who could hang out with the cool kids (okay, the drama geeks) and not feel like she was wearing a neon sign that said “Pitiful.”

Someone who could swallow the sudden, wrenching loss of her parents and bury the aching loneliness that attended it.

Only Pauline's loving guardianship had kept Sera on the straight and narrow then. College had had more than a few wince-worthy moments—scary blackouts, hangovers, and humiliations that, if she'd been honest with herself (and she hadn't), far outpaced her friends' experiments with alcohol. But it wasn't until she hit culinary school that her drinking really took off.

Still, the way her fellow students partied—and booze was the
least
of what these dudes crammed into every orifice—it had been easy for Sera to convince herself she wasn't out of control. That people with a
real
problem looked nothing like her.
Those
people landed face-first in the bouillabaisse.
Those
people hung out in service alleys waiting for guys in hoodies who wouldn't tell you their names.
Those
people sniffed a lot and talked really loud and had a wild look in their eye and could tell you stories that would curl your hair.

When Sera drank, she just felt… normal.

Until she'd
needed
to drink to feel normal.

She'd started getting scared about a year ago. The pressure of working under Blake's exacting standards and famously hot temper had had her reaching for the bottle more often than ever. Part of her had known their relationship was a disaster, but she'd been too caught up in the whirl to really take a long look at her life. It was easier to drink away her shame and hurt than to stand up for herself and walk away—from her high-flying career
and
her high-handed boyfriend.

After a few particularly hazy, horrible nights, she'd pulled back on the reins, stopped hanging out after hours with the crew. She'd gone as much as a couple months at a time without a drink, ignoring how the sight of it in her restaurant kitchen made her sweat; how the champagne flutes at the parties they catered seemed to be filled with cool, crisp elixir, begging her for a taste. How her mouth would go dry when she'd pour Kahlua over the thirsty ladyfingers in a dish of tiramisu, and how the mere sight of her boyfriend's signature sneer made visions of vodka dance before her eyes.

She'd been
trying,
damn it. But then came Blake's betrayal. And it was exactly the excuse she'd needed to let go and fuck up royally.

Sera laid her burning cheek against the cold porcelain of the tub, awash with shame.

“So is it Awful Austin?” Pauline prompted.

“Well… it
is
kind of about Blake, but…” Sera didn't know quite how to describe the nuclear meltdown that had just incinerated her life.

Pauline harrumphed. “Spill it, kid.”

Where do I start?
The booze was way out of control. Her career had just died a violent death. And she was so alone. Sera opened her mouth to try to explain, to justify, to deflect. What came out instead was a simple admission, born of grace.

“I think… I think I need help.”

Pauline didn't chide her, question her, or tell her she was being dramatic. Instead, she said the six simple words Serafina most needed to hear.

“Help's coming, baby. Just hang on.”

Santa Fe, New Mexico
Right about now

D
ry and crumbly.”

Serafina delivered the verdict dolefully into the cell phone cradled between her shoulder and cheek as she let the rest of the batch of red velvet cupcakes tumble like little boulders from the pan into the waiting trash bin in her aunt's capacious kitchen. She'd frosted only one; now she had enough cream cheese icing left over to… well, try again, she supposed. Once she figured out exactly what had made one of her most tried-and-true recipes fall flat.

“Aw, hon.” Margaret's sympathy came through two thousand miles a little tinny, but just as warm and honest as ever. “I'm sure they're not all that bad. I mean, c'mon: When was the last time you made a dessert that wasn't mind-bogglingly delicious?”

In Sera's opinion, there was delicious, and there was
delicious.
She'd been born with olfactory bulbs that could sniff out the faintest subtleties of anything edible. (In her wine-drinking days, she'd amused people at parties by allowing herself to be blindfolded, then identifying—by smell alone—the origin of any vintage placed before her. That was, until she'd passed out after guzzling too many of her test subjects.) And if anything, her taste buds were even more discerning. When it came to chocolate, for instance, she could instantly parse the difference between a single-source Peruvian and an Ecuadorian free-trade blend, then tell you the precise percentage of cocoa in each. Texture and flavor captivated her the way a dicey derivatives market enthralls an investment banker, and she'd known from early childhood that she was destined to work with food.

Determined not to rely solely on her innate gifts, Sera had trailed some of the best pastry chefs in New York while still in cooking school, even taking a semester in France to apprentice herself under one of the most legendary chefs in Paris. She'd worked hard to hone her baking skills, studying the alchemy that turned simple yeast, flour, salt, and water into heavenly bread. She could have written a dissertation on the effects of gluten on those lovely bubbles that characterized the crumb of her tender, crusty loaves. But it was in her confectionery creations that Sera's perfectionism truly came to the fore. She'd spent hour upon hour training herself to pipe precise lines with a pastry bag, until she could have written a perfect “Happy Birthday” on any cake with her arms behind her back. In fact, Sera was so adept at shaping lifelike sugar sculptures that the couples who'd ordered her wedding cakes had often refused to believe they could actually eat the flowers that adorned them.

Of course, all that was before booze and Blake Austin had done a double whammy on her. But she'd promised herself she wouldn't dwell on the bad old days. Instead, she focused on her sponsor's encouragement.

“Thanks, Maggie, but they really
are
pretty inedible. Don't worry, I'm not getting down on myself.” Sera wouldn't dare, after all Maggie's hard work helping build up her self-esteem this past year. “It's not that I've lost my touch, it's just the altitude.” She sighed, tucking a lock of chin-length black hair behind her ear. “That and the dry air. They screw up the rise and mess with the proportions of wet and dry ingredients. Not to mention, play absolute hell with my head.” Sera rubbed her temples. The headache had started soon after she'd touched down at the Albuquerque airport, and had only worsened as she and Pauline made their way north to her aunt's home in the mountains of northern New Mexico. Seven thousand feet above sea level was no joke.

“I've heard altitude headaches usually go away within a week, especially if you keep hydrated,” Margaret offered kindly. “And hey, they're nothing compared with your average hangover, so you're still ahead of the game, right?” She paused, then said delicately, “I know you always bake when you're flustered, or when you're trying to feel more at home. I assume that's what tonight's test cupcakes were about. So tell me: How
are
things out there, really?”

Serafina had to smile, both because Maggie had pegged her nervous baking habit so accurately, and because her introduction to “The City Different” had been a source of unexpected delight.

Heading north from the Albuquerque Sunport that afternoon, she and Pauline had driven Pauline's old Subaru shitheap along the sixty-mile stretch of Highway I-25 that led from the state's biggest city to its most enchanting.

Santa Fe.

Before they were halfway there, she'd been so dumbstruck she'd almost asked her aunt to pull over just so she could gape. The landscape was like nothing she'd ever experienced. As the miles slipped by, her eyes had grown wider and her heart had lifted with the sort of elation she'd once only associated with a night out drinking. She'd even checked the Subaru's dashboard, feeling as if she were being swept along on the strains of one of her favorite songs, but the car stereo was silent. Even her normally voluble aunt had grown quiet, though Sera suspected her silence had more to do with her recent loss than appreciating scenery she must have been intimately familiar with after years in the area. But for Sera… it was all so magically new.

There, big as life, and big
with
life, loomed the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, their rounded, wrinkled peaks stained shades of rich, variegated brown by layer upon layer of dense mineral deposits, dotted all over with neat puffs of fragrant green sagebrush. Almost like sprinkles, Serafina had thought, smiling to herself. There arched the achingly blue sky and the endless horizon. Discrete, meringue-like swirls of cloud only served to accent the vast cerulean dome—a ludicrous wealth of sky for a woman from a city whose idea of a decent view was a gap between brick walls. In her mind, Sera was already whipping up batches of sky blue buttercream, picturing herself crafting a confection that captured all the airiness, the lightness and intensity of what she was witnessing. Perhaps a lemon curd or passion fruit layer at the center, with just a hint of crisp wafer for balance… or maybe something with cinnamon, an earthier note…

She hadn't felt this inspired in ages.

Serafina had laughed aloud in tickled disbelief as swaths of flat, undeveloped high desert whizzed past the windshield, the wind restlessly sifting what grass and scrub managed to cling to the rocky terrain. Then came a momentary disappointment—a long, commercial strip of big-box stores and auto dealerships, motels and cheap eateries as they approached the outskirts of town. But as the little car eased through the congested artery that was Cerrillos Road and into historic Santa Fe proper, she'd been enchanted all over again by the low-slung, sun-baked adobe shops and residences with their rough-hewn, weathered wooden beams and the gnarled yet noble piñon trees they nestled among. Other trees Pauline identified for her as larch, willow, and cottonwood lined the riverbanks of the narrow Santa Fe River, while juniper and ponderosa pine proliferated in the drier side streets Sera glimpsed along the way. And as they neared the end of the journey, wildflowers and hardy grasses were overshadowed at last by the aspens blazing bold yellow with autumn color on the mountains above winding Artist Road, where her aunt's home stood.

“Santa Fe is every bit as beautiful as Aunt Pauline always said,” Serafina told Margaret, a wistful smile in her voice. “I just wish I'd taken her up on her offer to come out here and visit sooner, while I still had a chance to meet Hortencia. Now, instead of the three of us eating green chile cheeseburgers and shopping for souvenirs like we always talked about, we'll probably be busy planning Hortencia's memorial service and tying up her affairs. I hate seeing my aunt this way—it's like she can't even focus on next steps, she's so devastated. One minute she's her old self, brash and ballsy as ever, the next she's gone all subdued. She's having a hard time even speaking of her life partner in the past tense, let alone wrapping up her estate. Whenever I bring up anything related to the issue, she just goes silent or changes the subject. Poor dear.”

A lump formed in her throat, and she couldn't attribute it to the subpar cupcake. Sera took a gulp of tea from the mug that had been steaming on her aunt's colorfully tiled kitchen counter, pausing to appreciate the delicate herbal blend as well as the hand-thrown pottery mug in which it had steeped. The taste of her aunt's signature blend brought a wave of fond nostalgia. How many times had Pauline brewed her a cup of strong, fragrant tea when she'd had some teenaged angst to get off her chest? Tea and sympathy, Pauline-style, had been a ritual that always eased Sera's pain. Could she offer her aunt the same solace during this time of loss? Sera blew out a breath and continued. “I've done my best to be a comfort, but I didn't really know Hortencia—we'd only ever spoken on the phone, and she never tagged along when Pauline came back to New York to see me. Afraid of flying, I think.”

“I still think it's kind of funny that your aunt ended up with a woman,” Margaret said. “Didn't you tell me once that she used to be kind of a femme fatale when it came to men?” Sera could hear the gentle amusement in Margaret's voice. “They must have been quite the couple, if Hortencia convinced your aunt to start batting for the other team.”

“I think they were, even though they only got together two or three years ago. From everything Aunt Paulie told me, it sounds like, after a lifetime of flitting from guy to guy, my aunt finally found happiness with the right lady. I just feel bad that I never...” Sera made a frustrated sound.

“What, that you never made it out West before this? C'mon, Sera, I think you're being a little hard on yourself.” Margaret made a reproving noise that managed to be simultaneously gentle and slightly impatient. “You've had a tough road of it. Getting sober is no picnic. Most of us addicts never manage it. And
you
did it while enduring one of the most vicious smear campaigns a woman's career ever suffered through because of that dipshit ex-boyfriend of yours. Just keeping your business afloat and staying away from the sauce are enough to keep anyone busy. I think your aunt and Hortencia both knew you had too much on your plate back in New York to be taking time out for a visit. From everything you've told me, a
guilt
trip is the last thing they'd want this trip West to be.”

“Now you sound like Pauline,” Sera said, smiling into the phone. It was true, though. From the moment she'd left culinary school, her life had been a whirlwind of ninety-plus-hour weeks, racing to meet Blake's expectations and her own high standards, medicating herself with alcohol when it got to be too much. By the time she'd bottomed out, Sera had been in no condition to scrape herself off the bathroom floor and hie herself off to parts unknown. Instead, Pauline had dropped everything to come to Sera, gotten her into a program, and stayed long enough to make sure it stuck. In the year since then, all of Sera's nonrecovery energies had been spent on trying to salvage some semblance of a career—no easy feat with Blake Austin still actively out to ruin her. But now there was a glimmer of hope for something better…

Serafina cleared her throat, her voice strengthening a bit. “Margaret,” she began cautiously, “Pauline floated a bit of a radical idea my way tonight, and I wanted to run it by you.”

It had seemed more than a
bit
radical when Pauline had broached the subject over the homemade
chile rellenos
she'd prepared for their dinner. Yet Sera had liked the taste of the idea even better than the flavor of the traditional New Mexican dish. “What would you say if I told you I've been thinking of not coming back to New York for a while? Of… of… actually
staying
out here and trying something different with my life?” She spoke hesitantly, ninety percent sure her sponsor would trot out the “no major changes” mantra she'd drilled into her head so often during her first year of recovery.

There was a bit of a silence.

“I actually think it could be a great idea, hon,” Margaret said at length.

“Because, quite honestly, lately, when I think of the future, I'm just really unenthused. You know how slow things have been for me. I make a decent enough living letting restaurants and cafés sell my stuff under their own labels, but my career's never really recovered from what happened, and I don't see how that's ever going to change so long as He Who We Don't Deign to Name is around to keep the rumors fresh.” Sera tried to keep the bitterness from her voice as she plowed on. “Anyhow, Carrie practically runs the catering business on her own these days—or she could; she's been angling for more responsibility for a while now. And what else do I have tying me to New York? I mean, shit, my social life consists of stitch 'n' bitch parties with the crocheting circle from our AA fellowship and walking my neighbor's nine-thousand-year-old pug while
she
whoops it up salsa dancing with our superintendent. I don't have kids, houseplants, or pets of my own to worry about, and it's not as if I couldn't find someone to sublet my loft…”

Belatedly, Serafina's ears caught up with her tongue. “I'm sorry,
what
did you say?”

Margaret's laughter tickled her ear. “You're how old now, honey? Twenty-eight?”

“Twenty-nine, but I'm stopping there,” Serafina joked cautiously. Had Maggie really said…

“Twenty-nine. Old enough, now that you've got your feet firmly under you, to make these kinds of big life decisions for yourself. If you want to investigate a new possibility—follow your ‘Bliss,' as it were—well, that's what the whole process of getting healthy has been about.”

The knot of anxiety Sera hadn't even known she'd been holding on to began to loosen in her chest. Maggie was the person she most trusted to tell her if her secret hope—a hope of a future that looked nothing like her past—was a mere pipe dream, or something worth pursuing.