Bliss by Hilary Fields Page A

shop in the afternoon. Anyhow, that’s my plan. Check out her store, see what we might make of it.”
    â€œAnd then?” Margaret prompted.
    Sera had to smile. “Then hit a meeting. Yes, boss.”
    â€œYou’re a winner, kiddo. Don’t forget that.”
    Sera pressed the “end” button on her cell phone and set the device down on the Talavera tile counter next to her now-empty mug. She let out a shaky breath. She was in a strange house, in a strange city, sharing it with a woman whose major preoccupation in life was with whether or not one was sexually satisfied, and she had not a clue in the world about what tomorrow would bring. She was perched seven thousand feet up the side of a mountain, there were coyotes—real, live coyotes—howling away in the arroyo outside her window, and she was contemplating saying a great, big “fuck it” to everything she’d ever known.
    And for the first time in a very long while, she felt like a winner.

Chapter Four
    P auline’s House of Passion made itself comfortable in a spacious enclosed courtyard containing a cluster of small businesses sharing common walls around a terra-cotta-paved open space carved out of Santa Fe’s upscale Palace Avenue. A decorative iron gate with fanciful Spanish-inspired scrollwork and a long, arched entranceway gave only token resistance to the outside world; the discreet signage advertising the shops within flirted coyly with foot traffic from downtown Santa Fe’s main thoroughfares, as if daring shoppers to explore the hidden treasures at the end of the trail. At the apex of the gate, a rustic wooden sign announced “Placita de Suerte y Sueños,” and Sera’s Spanish, rusty as it was, translated it as something like “Place of Luck and Dreams.”
    Once inside, the visitor encountered a wealth of sunlight streaming through the open center of the miniature plaza, lending the area a warm, cozy feel that could not fail to entice shoppers to stay and browse. Each of the buildings had a wooden porch, so that one had to climb up a couple steps to enter the shops nestled within, as though to protect them from flash flooding, or simply to give them a more rustic feel. A few shade trees planted in terra-cotta pots provided hints of green. At the center of the courtyard, a Spanish-tiled fountain basin had been grafted to a whimsical modernist sculpture of a Native American earth mother type, water splashing merrily from an urn upheld in her ample arms. The one-story adobe dwelling that housed Pauline’s storefront was at the rear of the courtyard beyond the fountain, holding pride of place and drawing the visitor’s eye.
    The visitor’s wide, incredulous eye. Sera inhaled a long breath.
    Her aunt’s shop was a jungle.
    Or more precisely, the high desert equivalent. The storefront was overrun with a curtain of climbing vines, succulents, and cacti gone wild, their juicy, spiny petals plump and thriving across every surface. The wide, turquoise-trimmed front window was half obscured by tangled drapes of white moonflower, the fragrant, night-blooming petals now furled against the early autumn sun. Brushy yellow wildflowers competed with sweet-smelling lavender bushes to flank the front porch, while huge agave rosettes thrust their spears up from terra-cotta pots that stood like bristly sentinels on either side of the turquoise-painted wooden door. Purple passionflower twined round the weathered wood porch rails in a lover’s embrace. Red cactus buds and orange Indian paintbrush added vibrant splashes of color from their homes in planters hung along the window frames. The chocolate gelato–hued adobe walls of her aunt’s shop were barely visible through the profusion of foliage, and the sign painted on the front in faded purple cursive— Pauline’s House of Passion —could scarcely be read.
    The effect was intense. It was overpowering. It was