Hilary Fields - Bliss

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 beautiful—and vaguely frightening.

“What happened here?” Serafina asked Pauline in a shocked whisper.

“Oh dear,” Pauline murmured, pushing her battered straw cowboy hat back on her head and scratching the salt-and-pepper mane underneath. “It’s been awhile since I took a proper interest in the shop. Looks like the Wolf’s been letting his babies have the run of the place in my absence.” She tsked her tongue. “I’ll have to speak to him about it.”

Sera tried to find a part of that pronouncement that made sense, and failed. Then she noticed there was not just one shop affected by the floral invasion, but two. Catty-corner to Pauline’s was another, somewhat smaller shop at the far right. A wooden sign hung above it, carved with silver-gilt letters.

“Lyric Jewelry,” Sera read aloud, moving closer to investigate.

If possible, the jewelry store was even more overgrown with foliage than her aunt’s. Sera couldn’t be sure, but it looked as though the migration had begun from the smaller shop and crept inch by inch until it engulfed its neighbor like some primitive jungle.

Then, out of that jungle, stepped Indiana Jones.

Or at least, his doppelganger.

Tall. Lanky. Sandy blond, beneath a battered leather outback hat. Dressed in slouchy olive cargo pants and a waffle-knit thermal shirt that clung almost indecently to the angles and planes of his lean torso. He sported scuffed motorcycle boots and a heavy, intricately wrought silver chain about his neck. Another chain snaked from his belt around to his back pocket, probably anchoring a wallet as beat-up and worn-in as the rest of his attire.

The man brushed aside a stray vine and exited the jeweler’s shop, pausing momentarily to adjust to the afternoon light. As he encountered the oddly lucent sunlight that seemed unique to Santa Fe, he squinted and tipped down his hat, but Sera had already caught a glimpse of the most astonishing green eyes beneath the battered brim. Her breath caught as the man vaulted easily over the porch rail, eschewing the two wooden steps and landing lightly on the dusty pavement beside the two women.

“Miss Pauline, so nice to see you today,” said the adventurer, nodding politely to Sera’s aunt and tipping his hat to them both. “We have missed you around here.”

Sera’s imagination couldn’t have picked a more intriguing accent for Indy had she been writing his dialogue herself. It wasn’t Southern, or British, or even Australian. No, it was… Israeli? It was very faint, but she’d lived and worked in New York long enough to recognize the distinctive lilt of the soft vowels, and the exaggerated precision of his diction.

“And who is your lovely friend?” Moss green eyes sized Serafina up from beneath the brim of that hat—a hat that should have been ridiculous, and somehow wasn’t.

Lovely, my ass. Sera had the unmistakable impression that his choice of words was no more than a courtesy. There was something chilly and imponderable in that green gaze—like the opaque waters of a hidden forest pond. She knew she was no supermodel; working around so much rich food meant she would never be anything but pleasingly curvy, and her petite stature—just five feet two—had earned her the nickname “short stack” in culinary school. Still, Sera wasn’t used to such casual disregard from the male sex.

She squelched a childish urge to sniff her pits, crossing her arms defensively under her breasts instead. Well, he’s not that good-looking either, Sera consoled herself. Ruggedly appealing, yes. But closer inspection of his features revealed they were a bit too strongly stamped upon his visage to be called traditionally handsome. His nose was a little too prominent, his incisors just a teensy shade crooked. He was on the south side of his thirties, with deep laugh lines around his eyes. And those lean cheeks could use a good going over with a razor—his five o’clock shadow, she guessed, probably started around eight in the morning. Plus— ugh —she’d always hated guys who wore chains around their necks. Still, with eyes like that, who was complaining?

Pauline drew Sera forward, beaming fit to crack her face. “Kiddo, I’d like you to meet Asher Wolf, who owns that marvelous jewelry store next door and is single-handedly responsible for every exquisite work of art inside. He’s also the author of that floral exuberance that’s been…ah…decorating our shops. Not to mention, quite easy on the eyes, if you hadn’t noticed.” She winked outrageously at Asher, who seemed to think nothing of it, merely winking back companionably.

Oh, she’d noticed. This guy was a jewelry maker? With an Incredible Hulk–sized green thumb? And a name like Asher Wolf? She would have pegged him for a biker, maybe, or a kung fu expert—or maybe an artist’s model. Ladies probably tucked panties with their phone numbers embroidered on them into his pockets as he strolled down the streets. The women he dated would be sensual, uninhibited, sophisticated. And probably stellar in bed. It should come as no surprise, Sera acknowledged painfully, that he failed to take notice of her.

“Asher, allow me to introduce you to someone very special,” Pauline continued warmly, interrupting Sera’s thoughts. “This is my niece from New York, Serafina Wilde. My very single niece. Everyone calls her Bliss.”

“ No one calls me Bliss,” Sera mumbled uncomfortably, squirming under the Israeli’s curious regard. “You’re the only one, Aunt Pauline.” As Sera’s godmother, Pauline had had the honor of gifting her niece with that fantastical middle name. Sera had secretly always liked it, even as it made her feel vaguely embarrassed to cop to it.