Epilogue
Six months later…
Libby set the top tier in place, stepped back, and took a long, careful look at the three-tier wedding shower cake sitting on a high top table in Asher’s bar.
It was everything she loved about her life now—bold, sensual, colorful, and joyful. Talia and Asher had wanted an M. Waterman-inspired cake to celebrate their impending union, and Libby had delivered.
Flowers—sugar, edible, and painted—cascaded down the tiers in wild abandon.
Libby lifted the lid of the small box she’d hidden under the table, opened it, and removed the cake topper she and Micah had secretly designed together—a delicate metal silhouette of the word bashert that was bent into the shape of a passionate embrace. Talia was going to adore it.
“Absolutely perfect,” she murmured as she set it in place.
Her burnout was gone.
She was honoring her commitments, but only accepting future bookings that lit her up. Shockingly, instead of crushing her business, clients were begging for her attention. Best of all, word was spreading that she only agreed to last-minute changes at her discretion.
Micah had moved into her apartment—with his cat, Moses, a lovely surprise—and they’d turned her guest bedroom into an art studio.
There were canvases propped against every wall.
They’d kept the bed, both for guests, and because his new series featured ultra-closeups of flowers painted on curves they both knew intimately, so a bed came in very handy.
Also—they were leaving for Palm Beach next week. Sol had begged to show Micah’s new series. They were spending the week with his parents this time, planning to be home well before Nora delivered her baby girl.
Not because anyone expected her to be around. Not because her relationship with Micah had clipped her wings, not at all. But because she wanted to be here. Home. With Micah. With all of them.
Speaking of…
She spotted him across the room, chatting with Asher, who wasn’t behind his bar, for once, but sat in front of it, drink in hand.
Like he’d sensed her gaze, Micah looked up and stood, clapping Asher on the back and prowling toward her with a look she knew meant he had plans for her.
She couldn’t wait.
Libby looked edible. Earlier today, he’d watched her put on flowered lingerie—his kryptonite—and cover it with a black dress that skimmed curves that never failed to inspire him.
Gratitude and desire spiraled inside him.
It had taken the temple board a month to schedule a meeting with him, but it had finally happened—an honest, thoughtful conversation rather than the nail-biting trial he’d expected.
They’d asked probing questions about his career plans, his intentions as both rabbi and artist, and what it meant for his commitment to Beth Hatikvah.
He’d shown them the breadth of his work, nudes included.
He’d been prepared for debate. Instead, they’d thanked him for his honesty.
No disciplinary action. No reprimand. Just a request that he write an article for the next newsletter about identity, authenticity, and finding the sacred in unexpected places.
Amazing.
Now that everything was out in the open, he saw so clearly how his art could be part of his calling rather than something separate from it.
How creation and service could come from the same source—not in contradiction but in conversation.
To honor that epiphany, he planned to show his work only in three places: Beth Hatikvah’s tiny gallery, Brightworks, and Sol’s gallery in Palm Beach.
Any more than that might take too much time from his work in the community.
He didn’t want fame, after all. He wanted impact. Connection. Purpose.
And Libby.
It was far too soon to ask her to marry him, but there was no doubt in his mind they were headed for the chuppah.
He couldn’t wait.
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