Bliss (7 page)

And broke into a delighted smile.

Smaller than Pauline's House of Passion, more intimate, and warmly lit, Lyric Jewelry was fairly bursting with the personality of its owner. As with its plant-laden exterior, the interior was pulsing with life and energy, but here it was expressed in a different way. Inside, the atmosphere was all about flow and grace, while the outside was more about exuberant, untamed growth. As Sera gazed about in fascination, she took in antique wooden display cases with beveled glass fronts, walls lined with gilt picture frames repurposed to hang earrings and pendants, and most intriguingly,
violins
everywhere she turned.

Hung from the ceiling, resting on display stands, pictured in old lithographs of tuxedoed or beautifully gowned musicians, the richly lacquered, mellow aged wooden instruments played dramatic counterpoint to the main focus of the shop—the exquisite silver jewelry. Sera moved forward to examine the nearest display case, forgetting the creator momentarily as she marveled at his creations. Rings, pendants, bracelets, and earrings, some polished to a high shine, others treated with a patina to achieve a smoky, tarnished effect, were placed in the cases just so—neither with military precision nor with careless abandon, but with an instinctual understanding of space and artistry to best show off their unique craftsmanship.

The pieces themselves were nearly all sterling silver, with just a few gold accents and semiprecious gemstones. Some had inlays of smoothly polished, fine-grained wood or iridescent seashell, bringing an organic, living feel to the pieces. Like the chain she'd seen around Asher's neck at their first meeting, they were substantial, imposing works of metal, but they had a flow that was anything but clumsy. Neither masculine nor feminine, overly intricate nor plainly modernistic in style, still the jewelry
sang.
Clearly, Asher had been inspired by the fluid lines and shapes of the musical instruments with which he'd surrounded himself. Sera spotted a superb ring made of patinaed silver that swirled just like the neck scroll of a violin, while a pendant displayed in one of the wall cases was elegantly reminiscent of a cello's curves without flogging the likeness too literally. There were very few items she wouldn't want to own, though the discreet price tags tucked beside the pieces told her there were few she could easily afford.

Sera turned a slow circle, taking in the welcoming golden lighting, the cozy but not claustrophobic feel, and noticed, toward the back, an area with a workbench and tools. She drifted closer. A scarred wooden jeweler's table and cabinet with multiple cubbies above it showed that Asher must do at least some of his crafting right in the shop. She could appreciate how appealing that would be to his clientele—just as her customers had once loved being able to see the face of the person who'd baked their delectable desserts and wedding cakes, those who purchased his wares would no doubt proudly show them off to their friends back home. Sera pictured it. A well-dressed, middle-aged matron would boast to her lady friends at her next dinner party: “Yes, isn't it lovely? I got it when George and I went out to Santa Fe last year. It's from the most amazing little shop. The artist was sitting
right there,
making the jewelry before our eyes! And I don't mind telling you, Helena, he was quite the handsome fellow! Don't tell my husband I said so, or he won't be feeling as generous anytime soon.”

Sera smiled at her own fantasy. Then she looked over at Asher, who had braced himself behind the far counter, which held a small display stand of less expensive pieces—mostly bangle bracelets and simpler rings—for impulse buyers, plus a cash register and credit card machine. The expression on his face was… anxious? Could her uber-confident, utterly laissez-faire landlord actually be nervous about what she thought of his business? The notion warmed Serafina. As a craftswoman herself, she knew how tough it was to constantly offer up one's most beloved creations to the world—in effect, inviting strangers to critique one's life's work—and how necessary it was to receive approbation once in a while. Asher Wolf deserved it. As an artist, he was clearly wildly talented and deeply in his element. But it was good to see he had his insecurities, too. Blake certainly had had none.

“It's lovely, Asher,” she said simply.

That quicksilver grin flashed across his lips again, and she could see his shoulders relax. “Thank you. Would you like to see anything in particular while you're here? Or did you just want to talk business now that you've buttered me up with that phenomenal babka?”

Sera made a rueful face to hide how much the compliment pleased her. “Much as I'd love to waste half your morning trying on each and every one of these lovely works of art, I did come here to discuss some business matters with you. But if you don't mind, I'd also like to ask a few questions. Your store is fascinating.”

Sera crossed the shop diffidently to stand beside him, looking over his shoulder at some of the photos and knickknacks arranged on the far wall, where a small door led to what she assumed was a back office or storage area. The store appeared empty but for the two of them, and the intimacy of it struck Sera in a way that made the comfortable temperature inside seem to ratchet up several degrees. Still, Asher didn't seem particularly aware of any unusual vibe in the air between them, and he certainly wasn't acting on it, even if he was. Just as before, his manner was friendly, engaged, as if his internal energy was a force he focused on any and all guests as a matter of courtesy and genuine, good-hearted curiosity about people. Yet something was held in reserve, Sera sensed. This was merely the public persona of Asher Wolf, and as magnetic as it was, somehow Sera was dead certain there were wells of his soul still completely unplumbed. What, she wondered, would it be like to have one hundred percent of that charisma devoted solely to her?

Best not to ask questions when you can't handle the answers, Sera-my-girl,
she admonished herself.

But Asher seemed happy to answer the questions she
did
dare to venture. “Certainly, Bliss,” he invited. He busied himself stacking a bunch of the elegant, treble-clef-embossed gray jewelry boxes with his store's name on them into a neat tower on one side of the counter. “Ask away.”

Where to start? There was so much about him that bore comment. “Well, I… I couldn't help noticing the foliage outside. Is gardening a hobby of yours?”

Gah, could I possibly sound more banal?
Sera wanted to smack herself upside the head, Homer Simpson–style. She might as well have asked him if he liked sports or if he was a fan of coffee.

“A necessity,” he replied, unaware of her chagrin. “I've always been deeply connected with growing things—a habit instilled in me by my mother, whose garden was like another child to her. Back in Israel, the climate was much like here in many ways, and our plants required similar coaxing to flourish. I suppose I started tending my storefront garden as a way to remind me of my home and my family. And then I got carried away.

“I hope it wasn't presumptuous,” he continued, “but when Pauline didn't seem to mind, I allowed my garden to encroach onto her shop front. You'll probably wish to get rid of it all,” he said, looking as though he was trying to be brave, “and of course, I will be happy to take care of that for you.”

“No—don't,” Sera found herself saying, though she
had
been wondering if the wild, overgrown look really suited a bake shop. “I mean, yes, I think we'll have to cut back a little—maybe more than a little,” she amended frankly, “but I would absolutely welcome your talented hands on my property.”

A gleam entered Asher's eye, and Sera realized what she'd said. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh! I didn't mean… that is, I just meant I'm terrible with plants, and you're clearly the opposite, and I'd love it if you'd…”

Asher's shoulders were shaking with merriment. But his eyes were kind. “I'd be happy to be your personal gardener, Bliss,” he said gently. “And of course, we'll take the greenery only as far as you wish.”

Now why did she feel like she was on a first date, with a boy promising not to venture past first base without permission?
Don't lose yourself in a fantasy, Sera,
she warned herself.
You've only just put yourself back together.

“Thank you, Asher. But this is all assuming you're okay with the bakery at all, and that's why I'm here.” She faced him squarely. “I came to ask, do I have your permission to run an eating establishment on your property?”

“Are you kidding?” Asher said. “After a taste of that babka, no one could refuse. The thought of having access to baked goods that tasty all day long…” He rolled his eyes rapturously. “Besides, as I said, my customers are always in a better mood to buy when their stomachs are full. If someone is wavering over a purchase, I shall simply send them over to your establishment for a sugar and caffeine infusion while they dither. You
will
have coffee, I presume?” he asked as if her refusal would break his heart.

“Abso
lute
ly,” Sera promised. She wouldn't be much of a recovering alcoholic if she didn't mainline several cups of strong coffee a day.

“Then, so long as you promise not to burn down the store—and pick up the insurance costs—I can see no downside.”

“Well,” Sera felt compelled to warn, “I did have a lot of renovations in mind… there'd be electrical work, probably some significant demolition and remodeling…”

“We'll work out the details, Bliss,” Asher said firmly. “And I am very happy you are to be my neighbor—and tenant.”

“So am I,” Sera said, feeling another warm glow engulf her. If she wasn't careful, she'd be falling under his spell… and that wasn't what she'd come to Santa Fe for.

She shook her head to clear it. “So what's with the violins?” she asked, changing the topic.

Asher's long, sensitive fingers stopped tidying cardboard boxes and began to stack receipts. Sera had the sense she'd made him uncomfortable, though she couldn't quite say how she knew. Perhaps it was that he'd stopped meeting her gaze; his own moss green eyes turning inward with an emotion she couldn't quite place. Sadness? Regret? “Oh, that. I'm asked that question frequently.”

Sera cursed herself for being just like the tourists who must plague him with stupid questions all day long. But seriously, given the décor, it was a valid question, wasn't it?

“And…” she prompted, leaving the question hanging in the air.

Asher stopped stacking. “I used to be a luthier, back in Israel,” he said.

Was it her imagination, or had his answer been just a shade curt? Reticence, or something stronger? Sera couldn't tell. She only knew she'd blundered into tricky territory.

“A luthier?”

“A violin maker,” he clarified.

“Oh! Wowza. I don't think I've ever met anyone who actually makes musical instruments before.” Sera was fascinated by the picture of the artisan as renaissance man—a master craftsman who could work wonders in wood as well as metal, and whose knowing touch tamed and cultivated growing things with seeming effortlessness. She'd never met anyone who could coax so much beauty from the elements of nature around him. She couldn't help pursuing the topic, though she took her cue from his behavior and trod as lightly as she could, asking the most innocuous follow-up she could think of. “Do you play as well?”

“No,” he said.

And didn't elaborate.

His body posture had changed, however, his loose-limbed stance going rigid and his warmth retreating.

What did I say?
Sera wondered.

Before she could attempt to find out, however, she received a shock that knocked the very question from her mind.

They weren't—and had never been—alone in the shop. Without warning, the door to the back room behind Asher snicked open, and a sylphlike woman glided forth.

Long, lustrous black hair. Impossibly smooth olive skin that looked like it had been buffed and polished with pure gold. Sloe eyes of golden brown beneath winged brows a nineteen-forties movie star would have paid a premium for. And she topped it all off with a body that said, quite frankly, “Mine's better than yours.” The woman slinked up next to Asher clad in an emerald silk blouse and tight-fitting black pencil skirt more suited to a corporate boardroom than a quaint tourist-town boutique, leaning familiarly close to him and eyeing Serafina with something less than warmth.

The bottom dropped out of Sera's stomach.

Wife? Girlfriend? God, how stupid was I to assume a guy like Asher would be unattached!
But hadn't Pauline said he was single?
The proprietary way this chick stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Asher screamed otherwise.

The two made a striking couple, she had to give them that. Good looks galore, from their bronzed skin to their dramatically chiseled features, his old-gold hair contrasting beautifully with her inky tresses, their tall, statuesque bodies straight out of a catalog.

Unlike Sera's dinky frame, which could charitably be called hourglass, but was definitely more “give-it-a-squeeze” than “ravish-it-senseless.” She crossed her arms under her breasts uncomfortably.

“Oh! Gosh! I had no idea anyone was back there,” she blurted out—too loudly. “Asher, is this your wife?”

Great, Sera. Reeeeal suave. While you're at it, why don't you just ask him how many kids they've got, and whether the sex is any good?
She looked down at her feet, hoping vainly for a trapdoor that might conveniently swallow her up. She must have looked a total fool, bringing this guy treats and complimenting his shop like some giddy high school girl. She could tell herself all she liked that she was just being friendly, but Sera knew there'd been more than casual goodwill in her heart when she'd come here today toting goodies. And Asher was no dummy—he had to have sensed it.
No wonder he's been so nice, but so utterly un-flirty,
she thought.
He's been humoring me.
Humiliation washed over her. With a woman like this one in his life, he wasn't straying anytime soon.