With Her Last Breath (7 page)

The windows were new, and on impulse, Maggie slid one open, needing the relief from the heavy nuances in the room. Nick’s wife had left him and he brooded over her in this room. A fresh wind swirled inside, lifting the hair on her nape almost like a caress. The breath of air held an earthy spring scent, tinged with new beginnings and hope.

The feeling was so strong, Maggie felt as if she could reach out and grab it in her fist and make it come true.

Instead she traced her finger over the new caulking on the opened window. Were the quiet vibrations, the feeling of expectations to be met Maggie’s own hopes for a new start? Or the dreams of the Frenchman long ago, in love and waiting for his bride-to-be? Or was it Nick’s longing for his wife that seemed to soften the barren room?

Wind, Earth, and Fire milled around Celeste’s long flowing skirts, their tails high, rubbing against her as cats do when seeking selfish attention. But just now, Celeste was intent on the restlessness within her. She’d tried to push it away, but still it came coiling back, wrapping around her.

Turning in the breeze, a pewter earth goddess like the one outside Celeste’s shop made her rounds within the wind chimes’ silver tubes, producing a relaxing melody. With bare breasts and flaring hips and arms upraised, the goddess in different styles was a favorite of Celeste’s and her customers. In the goddess, they recognized the woman within, an earth mother, life giving, and sensual. In the universe, each person played a part, and Celeste liked to think that goddess defined and brought sensuality to women who had forgotten their role.

She smiled slightly. The goddess’s spinning movements mirrored Celeste’s own restlessness.

The dying day had been sunny and warm, enough to liven the lavender growing around her small yellow house. Perched on a hill overlooking Blanchefleur’s Main Street, the cottage had once been a summer home to the wealthy, abandoned for the sleeker, upscale models more popular now.

Celeste raised her face to the chilly April breeze. She could smell tourist dollars in the air, those bored rich wives coming to her shop, their soft hands manicured and gleaming with rings. When the bell over the shop’s door tinkled, she would be fattening her checkbook.

She wrapped her shawl around her, felt the fringes brush sensually against her skin. She enjoyed the sunset before she settled in for a relaxing night of labeling her specialty lotions and ordering supplies for her soaps.

Mary Lou Ingeborg, Iowa farm girl, was in her past, and she had become Celeste Moonstar, Blanchefleur’s resident psychic. Her specialty ran to tarot cards, because they never lied to her.
She
might lie to clients, giving false hope and dreams because they wanted them so, and there was really nothing she could do to change what would come.

She shrugged lightly and smiled. She couldn’t change the future, or their lives. So long as her clients were happy, her bills were paid. She carefully worded her assessments of their futures and problems so that they fell into a quasi-zone of how the clients wished to translate them.

But when the police called on her in murder cases, she saw awful things, the darkness that lived in humans, the need to hurt and kill. The sensations of the victims as they met death made her ill, and it sometimes took weeks for her to recover.

The wind chimes tinkled musically, and that wave of restlessness stirred in her again. On the end of her chain, the goddess turned slowly, her slender nude body silvery in the light, and then in shadows as dark as death.

Celeste bent to run her hand over the fur of her cats, treating each one equally, and each sat, twitching its tail, watching her.

Did they feel it? That strange unsettling of the air?

The cats on the porch strolled in separate directions. One sprawled on the boards, another leaped to the wooden swing, and the third sat by the troll, hunched and clasping his knees, his ugly cement face grinning at her.

“You feel it, too, don’t you?” Celeste asked her cats quietly, and time flew back to when Mary Lou had been an odd little child, bothered by the cold, squeezing feeling inside her that hadn’t stopped until her grandfather died.

There had been others who’d died, too, always after that same sense of waiting. Then, with increasing certainty, Mary Lou’s senses began to whisper to her. She tried to ignore the foreboding that came before a death, but learned she could not.

Out on the street, the new woman’s pickup appeared, gleaming white as a ghost. Celeste smiled. Everyone knew of the new woman renting the apartment above Alessandros Restaurant. When one of the Alessandro bachelors took a woman under his wing, gossip flew like wildfire.

When the pickup came closer, Celeste saw three heads in the cab. The woman drove, the companion-dog she was
never without sat in the middle, and Nick Alessandro filled the rest of the space.

Celeste lifted her hand to wave. At fifty, she wasn’t too old to appreciate a good-looking man with soulful eyes and a body—well, a very nice body that stopped women’s thoughts as he ran by.

But today Nick wasn’t jogging into town or driving his own old beloved pickup. He was riding in the new woman’s passenger seat, and it was just possible that he was interested in her, a male staking his intentions.

Nick Alessandro.
Beneath that easygoing surface was a dark guilt he couldn’t escape.

Celeste smiled at her musing, half trusting her senses, and the Iowa farm girl half disdaining to believe. She lifted her face to the wind rattling the leaves of the tall trees, coursing down the streets, bending the daffodils into yellow waves—

Just then, when the pickup drove by Celeste, the woman and the dog turned at exactly the same time to look at her. The woman’s face was shaded by the cab and her ball cap, and everything within Celeste froze. It was the same feeling she’d had when she’d locked her shop’s door last night.

This woman had taken a terrible journey, and that struggle would end in Blanchefleur.
Whoever the woman was, she brought death.

Shaken, Celeste hurried into her house to lay her tarot cards, her hands trembling. She laid them again, changing the pattern, and again, fearing to believe.

The death card could mean a change or an end of an old life. But when Celeste got that feeling, it meant someone was going to die.

Just like her sister, Maggie would tell him she loved him before she died.

Brent Templeton placed the collection of worn notes on the hotel room’s table. They were in Maggie’s handwriting, thumbtacked to bulletin boards in an assortment of gyms, spas, and health food stores. For a year after her divorce,
she’d tried to find work and then she’d disappeared. At first, he’d methodically called all the numbers on the old notes, but new voices had answered, not Maggie’s slightly husky, low tones.

He needed to hear that voice as she told him she loved him.

With care, he replaced the notes in a small envelope and called Maggie’s ex-husband. Once Ryan had bowed and scraped to get favors from Brent, but now his voice was curt. “I told you not to call here anymore. I’m remarried and I don’t know where Maggie is.”

“I helped make you what you are. I helped get you those connections to make your gym a success. You’ll do as I say and have Maggie tracked down. Call Judge Jones and—”

“No one wants anything to do with you now, Brent. You’ve pushed your weight around for the last time. Call Jones yourself. I’m certain he’d like to know where you are, since you still owe him money. That’s the deal, Brent. Leave us alone, or someone comes after you and it won’t be pleasant. I hear you’ve already had a taste of it. Take it or leave it. If you’re obsessed with Maggie, that’s your own problem. None of us ever wants to hear from her again—or you. You’re both just plain trouble.”

“Your damn wife started all the trouble, not me.”

“Everyone has moved on,” Ryan stated fiercely, and the line clicked off.

Brent shook with anger, but meticulously replaced the receiver on its base. He would find Maggie, punish her, and then return to punish them all.

He’d hold that bright penny-colored hair in his fist as he watched fear leap in those hazel eyes. He’d take her out in the water she feared and—

In the way of a predator whose hunger needed satisfaction, Brent thought of the girl at the health food store, the one with soft hazel eyes. She’d been compassionate and helpful, and perfect to tell him that she loved him.

She’d have to die later, of course. Just like Maggie.

M
aggie looked at the man sitting next to her. Nick had beautiful, expressive eyes, and they told her that he was curious.

Her senses told her that he wanted to touch her. He was too big, taking up too much space—and her air. Every time she breathed, she caught the enticing scent of a man who had just showered and shaved.

His hair was damp and curling at the ends, long past the snip of a barber’s scissors, and Maggie pushed down the impulse to smooth it.

Nick quite simply made her feminine senses jump—and that wasn’t good. Maggie had to focus, to keep her priorities. He’d pushed her too hard, asking questions she didn’t want to answer.

“I’m not into small talk,” she said abruptly, down-shifting to prepare for a stop sign. “Just leave me alone and we’ll do fine.”

“And if I don’t?” There was steel beneath the easygoing, lady-killer smile, just enough challenge to raise the hair on the back of her neck.

In the past few years, she’d learned how to send out verbal spikes. “I’d think you’d have enough to do with Lorna. Or with that sweet young thing you married. I saw the wedding picture up in the old lighthouse and the album open on the table with the empty bottle of wine. Instead of drinking and pining, you might go after
her
and apologize for whatever you did.”

“Is that what you think? It’s too late for apologies. My wife is dead,” Nick stated grimly. “She died almost twelve years ago. And yes, I should have done something and didn’t. Instead, I lost Alyssa and the baby she had just told me about. Strange, the things a man will let pass when he’s just been told he’s going to be a father—like letting his wife ride behind him on a motorcycle without a helmet…just to let the wind play in her long hair.”

She stiffened, hit by surprise; Nick’s wife hadn’t left him—she’d died. Maggie hadn’t expected the bitter Keep Off sign, the sudden chill in her pickup cab, or the silence.

He was still grieving…. He’d lost his wife over a decade ago, and he still missed her.

Maggie knew about grief. She’d had a lifetime of it, and now she’d just stepped into Nick’s. He’d been grieving the day she’d come to town; while he jogged, he’d been fighting the past, and still bristled against what he couldn’t change when he came down to the beach.

She struggled for something to say, smoothing her mistake. “I’m sorry” wasn’t enough, not when one loved deeply. “Look, just don’t push me and everything will be fine. From what I hear, in another month or so, the summer people will be coming back. I’m hoping to pick up some business from them. By the end of the summer, I should have what I want and then I may move on. Or I may stay. But in either case, my life is my own.”

She sensed that Nick was a patient man, one who wasn’t going to stop at her fences. His next statement proved her right: “What do you want, Maggie Chantel the woman, other than a paycheck?” he asked.

More than anything, Maggie wanted her sister to be alive and happy, she wanted to see her mother cuddling her grandchildren…. She wanted to paste everything in her life back together the way it had been, but that was impossible.

“I want to be left alone,” she replied firmly, pulling into the parking spot behind the restaurant. When she stepped out of the cab, expecting her dog to follow as usual, Scout hopped down on Nick’s side of the pickup.

Rosa waved from the back porch and moved down the steps, holding a big soup bone in her hand. Scout took the present without hesitation, flopping down for a good chew session.

Nick’s mother hugged Maggie. Unused to open shows of affection, Maggie stiffened. Nick was quick to notice, his eyes shielded with those black lashes. “I’ll just go up to my room now,” Maggie said.

“Oh, you must be so tired. I heard you were looking for work—everyone is excited about the women’s classes at Ole’s. If you’re going to be up and going so early, we need to feed you breakfast. Go on up, and I’ll have one of my boys bring you dinner, a nice salad and walnut bread.”

“Really, Mrs. Alessandro, I don’t need any more to eat—”

“Call me Mom or Rosa. Of course you do. Is something wrong with your pickup, Nick?”

Nick hesitated, looked at Maggie, and holding her stare slowly answered, “No.”

“Ah.”

That “ah” had a lot of understanding that Maggie didn’t want to know. But she did. Nick had wanted to ride with her, to spend time with her, and he couldn’t lie to his mother.

Another tall, dark, and obviously Alessandro male came down the steps to loop his arm around Rosa and Nick. “Hi, Maggie. We haven’t met. I’m Dante, Nick’s good-looking older brother.”

When another tall male appeared wearing a chef’s apron splattered with tomato sauce, Dante added, “That’s Tony. He’s married. I’m not.”

Tony draped his arm around Dante’s shoulders, and the Alessandros stood smiling at her, a close, loving family.

Maggie pushed away the offer, the haunting loneliness. Warm, friendly invitations usually meant questions, and she couldn’t afford their curiousity.

Dante’s survey of her body said he was definitely interested. Tony’s grin was open and friendly, an older brother type, well satisfied with life and his wife, and aware of his brothers’ interest in her.

A little on the plump side, Rosa seemed small beside the brothers. In the dappled, shaded parking lot, they were tall, lean, and gorgeous. Dante’s elbow was digging into Nick’s ribs, and they shared a slow look. Rosa watched her two single sons intently, and Maggie sensed she was the object of a silent mother-to-sons conversation.

She didn’t want to be the object of any family discussion. “Nice meeting you. I’d better go. I have a lot to do. Come on, Scout.”

Scout continued to gnaw loudly on the bone, ignoring Maggie’s command.

Anthony appeared at the back door, wiping his hands on his apron. “Hey, you lazy kids, get back in here.”

Then with a big grin, he came outside and walked to Maggie, enclosing her in a big hug. “So you’re settling in, huh? Getting used to us and the town?”

She wasn’t used to being waggled playfully. The arm that remained around her shoulders, holding her close, as Anthony grinned at his wife, made her uncomfortable. “You take the boys. I’ll take the girl.”

Rosa came to stand on tiptoe and kiss him. “Pay no attention to him. He’s an old man, dreaming of when he was young.”

When Rosa went up the stairs, Mr. Alessandro’s fond smile followed her. “What a woman. Look at what she gave me, three fine sons.”

He winked at Maggie. “I should go inside now and try to steal a kiss before it gets too busy.”

When he left, Maggie automatically tried to isolate herself from the family scene that had just enfolded her. As a loner, protecting herself, she was wary of easy friendships. All she needed was her dog—

Too late. Dante and Tony were already rough-playing with Scout, just as she loved. She barked and jumped on them; they held her front paws as they danced. Dante tossed a ball obviously left by a child, and Scout was running after it happily.

“I’m going to be a dad again—our fourth. Sissy is two months along,” Tony announced proudly. “We can always use another baby-sitter.”

“That’s nice. Congratulations.” Maggie had lost all control of the situation—of keeping her distance from this family. Suddenly she saw too clearly how much Anthony loved Rosa, and Tony’s happiness over his family and wife. She saw how much the Alessandros loved one another and what could have been in her own family. And she was too tired to fight the pain, concealing it, and Nick was watching her with those dark shielded eyes, taking her apart, searching for answers. People usually left her alone, taking her hints for privacy, but apparently the Alessandros did not.

“I’ll show you around town, if you’d like. I own that little boatyard across the harbor. Maybe you’d like to go for a sail?” Dante asked, tossing the ball to her.

Her fingers dug into the red plastic.
A sailboat
. Her parents laughing and in love, sunlight golden on the waves, beads of water glistening on the varnished cherry wood. Her younger sister excited. A sudden wind becoming a storm, and then she and Glenda were alone, her mother struggling toward them.

And her father’s hand slowly fading beneath the water.

When Nick frowned, looking at her hand, Maggie realized the locket was in her fist, the edges biting into her palm. She forced herself to release it. “I’m sorry. I can’t go sailing with you. I’m busy getting set up.”

“Maybe when things slow down a bit,” Dante offered easily.

“My wife wants to meet you,” Tony said. “We live in the folks’ old house, the big white one on Schooner Street. We all grew up there. You can recognize it by all the toys in the yard and on the front porch. Drop in any time.”

Maggie didn’t answer and gave a passable, but unconfirming, light smile. The Alessandros were too friendly, and if she was right, Dante was definitely interested in her. She toyed with the idea, because it had been a long time since she’d felt like a woman—and Dante had the look of a man who knew how to please.

Who was she kidding? She had loved one man all her life, and he had betrayed her for his own gain.

Her smile died when her eyes locked with Nick’s solemn, dark, assessing ones. He had asked too many of the right questions, and he’d seen her fear when Dante offered a sailboat excursion.

While Dante might offer a pleasant, light diversion, Nick was far more intense. He was patient, and he wanted answers from her, and she didn’t want him inside her life.

“Come down for a glass of wine later?” he asked slowly. “I could use a ride home.”

She didn’t spare words. He’d maneuvered a ride with her and she wasn’t giving him another. “No.”

He wasn’t backing down, those dark eyes narrowing, the easy smile gone. “Too bad. I was counting on it.”

Dante’s offer came with a quick teasing grin. “Nick, I’ll be glad to give you a lift.”

This time it was Nick’s shoulder bumping Dante and none too gently. Dante bumped back, and Rosa opened the back door to warn firmly, “Boys. Stop. You know, Maggie, when this bunch was growing up in the old house, they would start wrestling and shoving and I’d end up with something broken.”

“I’d better be going. It was nice to meet you, Dante…
Tony,” Maggie managed before she patted her thigh. “Come on, Scout. Let’s go.” She wanted to be away from the Alessandros, from the family that threatened to engulf her with their warmth.

Scout picked up her soup bone and plopped down by Nick’s side.

“Let’s go, Scout,” she repeated, more firmly, and Scout didn’t move.

“Come on.” Nick patted his thigh and began moving up the steps into the restaurant. Scout trotted after him. Nick held the door for the dog and then for Maggie, forcing her to pass close to him. She hesitated just that bit, then forced herself to move, her head lowered, avoiding those intent dark brown eyes. Too aware of his height and scent, Maggie edged back.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Maggie. And I’m sorry that someone did. Trust is difficult to give again, once it’s broken, isn’t it?”

She hadn’t asked for his understanding and he wasn’t giving up. “Just leave me alone.”

“If that’s what you want.” He was still at the bottom of the stairs, watching her, when she opened her door.

Nick wasn’t going to be dismissed easily. She closed the apartment door, shutting him away.

That night, Nick settled in the Frenchman’s lighthouse with a bottle of his best velvety, rich Pinot Noir and the sensual beat of Peggy Lee’s music curling up from his living room speakers. Sprawled in a chair that overlooked the moonlit lake, he poured the wine into a glass jelly jar. Out of habit, he lifted it with his grandfather’s favorite toast to good health, old friends, and the enjoyment of fine food and wine. “
Cin cin
.”

The label on the bottle reflected their shared dream, the old man, bent by work and age, and the young boy at his side, loving him. With a peasant background, Roberto Alessandro had preferred to drink wine from glass jars rather than wineglasses. He loved to sit in the shade of the vineyard’s shed
and view the vines that were just leafless sticks shipped from a friend in Italy. Roberto would sip the wine he’d made for his family and dream of healthy, lush vines filled with fat, rich grapes, mirroring those of his homeland.

Nick had taken that dream and made it his own with the help of mortgages and backbreaking work and love of the land. With many failures and a few strong successes, the Alessandro Winery was beginning to draw faithful customers who trusted Nick’s notations on his wines. Even the cellar clearance wines, slightly defective in the blend of fruity aromas and bouquets of fermentation and wood, sold well; buyers appreciated the reduced prices. At the last barrel tasting in March, a few new buyers had arrived, previewing the upcoming wines for their shops. Two buyers were unexpected, representing wealthy clients with private wine cellars.

He inhaled the unique scent and took that first sip, appreciating the slow roll in his mouth before swallowing. That year’s almost navy-colored grapes created full-bodied wine, low in tannin, moderate in acidity, with the typical Pinot Noir flavors of cherries, raspberries, and smoke, complemented by the American oak barrel’s vanilla tones.

Perhaps his Italian blood leaned toward the red wines, but the stainless steel barrels of crisp, ripe apple character Chardonnay whites would be bottled and selling well in another two years.

Nick’s thoughts veered from the chance of frost and summer’s temperatures and rainfall and sugar content of the grapes to the woman he’d just met.

A woman who capably handled a stick shift like Maggie Chantel wasn’t easily forgotten. Nick’s body had clenched every time she changed gears, those slender fingers tightening on the stick shift, her legs pushing the clutch and brake, working them with ease. Even with the wet dog between them, Nick had been aroused, his body tightening each time she shifted.

Downstairs, the telephone rang. His message machine picked up, and the line clicked off. Earlier, the message from
Lorna hadn’t been sweet, but sizzling with jealousy. It had been a mistake to think that another woman could ever make him forget Alyssa’s sweetness.