Free Bliss by Hilary Fields

right of women.”
    Sera chose to ignore that comment and the appealingly playful tone in which it was delivered. She was remembering all the causes her aunt had fought for so passionately over the years. When Sera was a teenager, Pauline’s painfully explicit discussions of women’s most intimate concerns had made her squirm and long to flee. Her high school friends, so over the feminist movement, had teased her and made fun of Pauline’s values. As she’d grown up, however, she’d learned to appreciate what her aunt was about, even if her own sexuality was—to quote Pauline—positively Puritanical.
    Pauline Wilde had always believed that women’s strength came from their solidarity. Her work with feminine sexuality had encouraged women to be frank and open about their needs, to explore them with each other as well as with men—and always with a spirit of adventure. She could easily see Pauline making her shop a place of warmth and intimacy for her visitors.
    Too bad she couldn’t see the actual shop as easily.
    â€œDo you mind…” she asked, gesturing toward the draped-over windows.
    â€œGo for it, kiddo. I want you to think of this place as your own now. I’ve had my go at it, and I’m ready to pass on the torch. Frankly, it’s getting too much for me. Feel free to pillage as you like!”
    Sera strode to the nearest window and stripped away what appeared to be a Spanish lace mantilla dyed in a particularly purple hue. Light flooded into a quadrant of the store, and she took a relieved breath. She’d always needed lots of light and space to feel comfortable—a condition that hadn’t made living with Pauline’s congenial clutter and preference for what she called “Blanche DuBois style” lighting easy while she was growing up. Sera had often teased her that her lifestyle was more Blanche Devereaux than DuBois, but Pauline had just smiled and kept the lights low.
    Well, Pauline had given her the go-ahead, so go ahead she would. She gently freed the rest of the windows from their shrouds until the full space was revealed. Her breath hitched.
    Wonderful.
    You simply didn’t get this kind of real estate back in New York. Not unless you were Jacques Torres. Sera’s heart lifted as she surveyed the airy, elegantly proportioned interior. Little popcorn kernels of ideas began exploding left and right in her mind, sending corresponding zings of excitement whizzing through her system. There, where the long, low mahogany counter stood, she could install a bank of glass-fronted refrigerated display cases for her hot-ticket items. There, on the far wall, nestled built-in shelves currently holding what looked to be statues of fertility goddesses from various cultures throughout history. In her mind, the shelves began stocking themselves with brass-appointed whole-bean coffee dispensers and high-end espresso machines. Custom-printed cardboard goody boxes with gaily colored rolls of ribbon to wrap around them would lie in readiness for customers’ take-out orders.
    Best of all, she’d have counter space. The shop had a ridiculous amount of square footage. She could even divide off a third of the place for her ovens and fridges, and still not feel cramped. Her customers could stretch out and stay awhile—provided they purchased something, of course. Serafina envisioned her place becoming a hangout where people came for their morning coffee and a flaky pastry, then returned to buy a cupcake or two during the siesta hour. Tourists would line up with their cranky kids for a swift sugar infusion before trotting off to visit local museums or lay down their hard-earned cash in one of the gorgeous, one-of-a-kind boutiques that Sera herself had window-shopped this morning. Perhaps she’d even accept custom cake commissions again, eventually.
    Next to the horsehair-stuffed armchairs lolling in exhausted postures around the edges of the