was a perfect combination of a sculpted jaw, high cheekbones, and a model’s forehead. Her smile was radiant.
Although Decker’s lungs didn’t want to work, he managed to introduce himself. “Steve Decker. I’m an associate broker with the firm.”
The woman shook hands with him. “Beth Dwyer.”
Her fingers felt so wonderfully smooth that Decker didn’t want to release her hand. “My office is just around the corner.”
As he led the way, he had a chance to try to adjust to the pleasant tightness in his chest. There are certainly worse ways to earn a living, he thought.
The offices in the agency were spacious cubicles, their six-foot-high partitions constructed to look like adobe walls. Beth cast a curious gaze toward the tops of the partitions, which were decorated with gleaming black pottery and intricately patterned baskets from the local Indian pueblos.
“Those window seats that look like plaster benches—what are they called? Bancos?” Her voice was deep and resonant.
“That’s right. Bancos,” Decker said. “Most of the architectural terms here are Spanish. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Mineral water?”
“No, thanks.”
Beth peered around with interest at a Native American rug and other southwestern decorations. She paid particular attention to some New Mexican landscape prints, walking over, leaning close to them. “Beautiful.”
“The one that shows the white-water rapids in the Rio Grande gorge is my favorite,” Decker said. “But just about any outdoor scene around here is beautiful.”
“I like the one you like.” Behind her attempt at good humor lurked a puzzling hint of melancholy. “Even in a print, the delicacy of the brush strokes is obvious.”
“Oh? Then you know about painting?”
“I’ve spent most of my life trying to learn, but I’m not sure I ever will.”
“Well, if you’re an artist, Santa Fe is a good place to be.”
“I could tell there was something about the light the moment I got here.” Beth shook her head in self-deprecation. “But I don’t think of myself as an artist. ‘Working painter’ would be a more accurate description.”
“When did you get here?”
“Yesterday.”
“Since you want to buy property, I assume you’ve been here before, though.”
“Never.”
Decker felt as if a spark had struck him. He tried not to show a reaction, but, reminded of his own experience in coming here, he found himself sitting straighter. “And after a day, you’ve decided you like the area enough that you’re interested in buying property here?”
“More than interested. Crazy, huh?”
“I wouldn’t call it that.” Decker glanced down at his hands. “I’ve known a few other people who decided to live here on the spur of the moment.” He looked at her again and smiled. “Santa Fe makes people do unusual things.”
“That’s why I want to live here.”
“Believe me, I understand. Even so, I wouldn’t feel I was doing my job if I didn’t caution you to take things slowly. Look at some properties, but give yourself a breathing space before you sign any documents.”
Beth crinkled her eyes, curious. “I never expected to hear a real estate broker tell me not to buy something.”
“I’d be glad to sell you a house,” Decker said, “but since this is your first time here, it might be better if you rented something first, to make certain Santa Fe is really the place for you. Some people move here from Los Angeles, and they can’t stand the leisurely pace. They want to change the town so it matches their nervous energy.”
“Well, I’m not from Los Angeles,” Beth said, “and the way my life has been going lately, a leisurely pace sounds mighty tempting.”
Decker assessed what she had just revealed about herself. He decided to wait before trying to learn anything else.
“A soft-sell Realtor,” Beth said. “I like that.”
“I call myself a facilitator. I’m not trying to sell property as much as I’m trying to
Although Decker’s lungs didn’t want to work, he managed to introduce himself. “Steve Decker. I’m an associate broker with the firm.”
The woman shook hands with him. “Beth Dwyer.”
Her fingers felt so wonderfully smooth that Decker didn’t want to release her hand. “My office is just around the corner.”
As he led the way, he had a chance to try to adjust to the pleasant tightness in his chest. There are certainly worse ways to earn a living, he thought.
The offices in the agency were spacious cubicles, their six-foot-high partitions constructed to look like adobe walls. Beth cast a curious gaze toward the tops of the partitions, which were decorated with gleaming black pottery and intricately patterned baskets from the local Indian pueblos.
“Those window seats that look like plaster benches—what are they called? Bancos?” Her voice was deep and resonant.
“That’s right. Bancos,” Decker said. “Most of the architectural terms here are Spanish. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Mineral water?”
“No, thanks.”
Beth peered around with interest at a Native American rug and other southwestern decorations. She paid particular attention to some New Mexican landscape prints, walking over, leaning close to them. “Beautiful.”
“The one that shows the white-water rapids in the Rio Grande gorge is my favorite,” Decker said. “But just about any outdoor scene around here is beautiful.”
“I like the one you like.” Behind her attempt at good humor lurked a puzzling hint of melancholy. “Even in a print, the delicacy of the brush strokes is obvious.”
“Oh? Then you know about painting?”
“I’ve spent most of my life trying to learn, but I’m not sure I ever will.”
“Well, if you’re an artist, Santa Fe is a good place to be.”
“I could tell there was something about the light the moment I got here.” Beth shook her head in self-deprecation. “But I don’t think of myself as an artist. ‘Working painter’ would be a more accurate description.”
“When did you get here?”
“Yesterday.”
“Since you want to buy property, I assume you’ve been here before, though.”
“Never.”
Decker felt as if a spark had struck him. He tried not to show a reaction, but, reminded of his own experience in coming here, he found himself sitting straighter. “And after a day, you’ve decided you like the area enough that you’re interested in buying property here?”
“More than interested. Crazy, huh?”
“I wouldn’t call it that.” Decker glanced down at his hands. “I’ve known a few other people who decided to live here on the spur of the moment.” He looked at her again and smiled. “Santa Fe makes people do unusual things.”
“That’s why I want to live here.”
“Believe me, I understand. Even so, I wouldn’t feel I was doing my job if I didn’t caution you to take things slowly. Look at some properties, but give yourself a breathing space before you sign any documents.”
Beth crinkled her eyes, curious. “I never expected to hear a real estate broker tell me not to buy something.”
“I’d be glad to sell you a house,” Decker said, “but since this is your first time here, it might be better if you rented something first, to make certain Santa Fe is really the place for you. Some people move here from Los Angeles, and they can’t stand the leisurely pace. They want to change the town so it matches their nervous energy.”
“Well, I’m not from Los Angeles,” Beth said, “and the way my life has been going lately, a leisurely pace sounds mighty tempting.”
Decker assessed what she had just revealed about herself. He decided to wait before trying to learn anything else.
“A soft-sell Realtor,” Beth said. “I like that.”
“I call myself a facilitator. I’m not trying to sell property as much as I’m trying to
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