by Cait London
“Hi, Celeste.” Maggie didn’t question how Celeste knew her name; word got around in a small town, especially when she was trying to promote a business.
She needed a lot more clients, if she was going to find a place where she wouldn’t run into Nick. He’d gone into her, separating and dissecting each expression, those dark eyes seeing more than they should…taking in her body as if she were ripe fruit, waiting to be picked and pressed…That look was unsettling, and so was his body, the wide tanned expanse of his chest…
“Come inside and have a cup of tea with me,” Celeste offered softly. “You look like you could use it. You seem—tight.”
“Do I? I’ve got a lot on my mind. I’m trying to get a business started—I’m a personal trainer, but right now, I’m doing fitness classes at Ole’s.” Maggie tried to release the tight ball of energy in her, the feeling that Nick could relax her in really good hot sex—not that she was buying.
And she didn’t need the tenderness he seemed to offer, either. “My dog might be a problem in your shop. She’s not that graceful and her tail can be pretty destructive.”
“True. If you have a leash in that backpack, maybe she wouldn’t mind sitting by the street bench while you relax. Now, how about that cup of tea? Just a little calming before you start work?”
Scout safely tied to the bench, Maggie followed Celeste into the shop. For a big woman, Celeste almost floated toward the curtain at the rear of the store. “I’ll be right back. Look around.”
Celeste was just a friendly woman trying to make a living, Maggie decided as she watched the crystals hanging in the window catch light, dividing the sun into spears of pink and blue. Bottled lotions stood on a shelf, the Journeys logo pasted to them. Jars of loose tea, books, rocks, and various candles cluttered the shop. A glass case held jewelry—bracelets of jade, onyx, and more mixed with pendants and earrings of silver and semiprecious gems.
Celeste returned to the shop and began placing fat pastel candles with bits of fragrant rosemary and lavender caught in them on her counter. “The hot water kettle will be ready in a minute. I really must remember to order more ribbon and raffia to wrap my new candles and soaps. I wonder if I might give you a welcome gift—a bar of lavender soap, my specialty, all sinfully stuffed with nice expensive glycerine? I know. Let me read your tarot cards. I charge tourists a nice fat fee, but it’s free for you.”
Maggie glanced at the clock. She had a good forty-five minutes before class, and the way she was feeling now, she needed to wind down, not that she believed in fortune-tellers. The diversion might take the edge off her taut nerves; she didn’t need to start her first class in a dark mood. “Maybe I could trade you.”
Celeste moved to the door, locking it. “I wouldn’t hear of it. Now, come on, let me read your cards. We’ll have that tea later.”
When Maggie had gone, Celeste didn’t move, but sat trembling and cold in the shadows.
She forced herself to move to the window, watching Maggie’s fast athletic walk down the street, the dog at her side. Maggie stopped to talk with a small boy admiring the animal. There was a sadness in her smile as she watched the child pet the dog. Her hand reached out for the boy’s head and then stopped, almost as if Maggie were remembering another time and another boy.
The dog understood the woman, knew her fears and gave her friendship. They moved together as one. Somehow they were linked in another time…and they brought death…Celeste’s hand went to her throat; she could almost feel the life being squeezed from her. The death Maggie and her dog brought to Blanchefleur was Celeste’s…
As a forensic psychic occasionally helping the police, Celeste didn’t doubt the cold clammy feel of death, the jumble of images in her mind, but this time she was the victim…
Celeste had lied to Maggie, giving her a tall, dark, and handsome truth—because Nick Alessandro was definitely interested. But the cards hadn’t lied. The shadows from Maggie’s past were closing in, and the locket she wore held the reason for everything. Death of loved ones was in her past, and Maggie was poised on a dangerous brink.
The dog, Celeste thought frantically, the dog and the locket held the answer and she had to know more…She hurried back to her tarot table, smoothed the green cloth edged by crystals, and quickly began laying her cards. “Tell me more, tell me more. If I’m going to die, tell me why,” she chanted feverishly.
The cards told her that the answers lay inside Maggie, who wasn’t aware of the danger prowling, hunting for her.
Brent Templeton carefully aligned the bills by value, easing them into his wallet. Cheryl Ann’s monthly payment wasn’t much, but then a good negotiator knew when not to press too hard—and when to apply pressure.
The fat slob of a detective he’d hired when Maggie first disappeared a year ago had taken too much money for too little work. He’d provided only the places that Brent already knew about, the places from which his “brotherhood” had Maggie fired in the previous year.
Maggie’s credit cards had been cancelled and her checking account closed. Because Brent no longer had the help of his powerful friends, he couldn’t trace where she had worked in that year since she’d vanished by her social security number.
On the move to expand his search, Brent had gone to Mayfair. The town south of San Francisco was small but elite, filled with fitness buffs. Brent walked to a jogging path that led into the park’s wooded area. He liked to watch the women jog, but none of them was as smooth and graceful and powerful as Maggie.
He’d sit on a bench, pretend that his leg was hurting miserably, and question those who came to help—maybe they knew of Maggie.
And maybe he’d find a woman who reminded him of Maggie, a woman who would eventually tell him that she loved him.
FIVE
Maggie awoke to her own scream, her mind caught by the sight of her father’s hand beneath the water.
The nightmare clung to her as she forced herself into reality. Beside her, Scout whined softly, and Maggie locked her hand on the dog’s thick pelt.
The bedside clock read ten o’clock. Her late afternoon nap had lasted five hours, the days of traveling and sleepless nights catching up to her.
The soft knock at her door was followed by Rosa’s “Maggie? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I just—” What? How could she possibly explain the nightmare, the terror that she kept locked inside, until her dreams freed it? “I’m fine, really.”
The voices behind the door were muffled, and then Anthony said, “You haven’t eaten yet. You come down and eat something. You’ll feel better. It’s a slow night and we closed early. Come down and have a little bite to eat with us.”
She didn’t feel like facing anyone, panic still racing inside her. “I’ve got something here, thank you. I didn’t take Scout for her walk. I’ll be going out later.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” Anthony asked. “Maybe I can keep up.”
She needed to run out her panic, but the kindly offer brought tears swelling to her eyes. How easy it would be to turn to the Alessandros. How awful for them to know the truth of her life.
“You’re not disturbing us, dear,” Rosa said. “But if ever you need us, we’re here. Buonanotte.”
“Good night.” Beneath her apartment, the restaurant was quieting. Maggie lay quietly amid her tumbled sheets, her T-shirt damp with sweat. “This isn’t working. I can’t do this to them.”
A few minutes later, Maggie let Scout out of the back door and began walking down the street. The night was cold and mist tingled on her skin and she wanted to face her fear of water, the demon that pursued her.
Then a big man moved out of the shadows and Scout ran back to him with a happy, excited bark. In the pool of a streetlight, Nick played with Scout. Then he walked to Maggie. The light caught the angles of his face and made them hard; nothing about him seemed like the man who had kissed her on the landing, first with gentleness and then with hunger.
“The folks were
worried. They’re afraid something will happen to you.”
It already had. And she had survived. “I’m just taking Scout for a walk. We don’t need company.”
“Mom—”
“I know. You always do what your mother tells you to do.”
“Don’t you?”
She didn’t answer; she missed her mother, who had died ten years ago—and Glenda—too much.
Nick was silent then, moving beside her as she began to walk away quickly. “You’ve got a big chip on your shoulder, Maggie.”
“They say Blanchefleur is safe. I don’t need a bodyguard.” To evade Nick’s question, Maggie began to walk quickly. Along the way, she searched the streets crookedly leading upward to the hills surrounding Blanchefleur. In the night, the windows of the houses caught the moon in silver squares.
Then, just two blocks down Main Street in the direction of the lake, she found what she needed, a substitute for gym step equipment: a series of steps leading up a hill. She took the steps at a run, pushing herself. Intended for the walkers residing in the cluster of poorly tended houses, the concrete steps were old and worn, almost overgrown by brush.
At the top, she fought for breath, and scanned the backyards of small houses, the rubble of junk and trash cluttering them. She turned to see Scout sitting beside Nick, looking up at her from Main Street.
The sound of bushes being disturbed caused Maggie to turn back to the row of small houses. The shadows stirred and a girl moved from the back of a house. In the dim light, she was young beneath the paint and the tousled, long, bleached hair. Her black bra showed beneath her tight white sweater, a tattooed rose revealed by the low cut, and her ankle-length jeans were skin-tight. She blew smoke from her nose and took another puff of the cigarette. She smelled of alcohol, but there was something about her eyes—
Glenda had had that same too bright, edgy look when she was high.
“You’re the new woman in town, huh?” the girl said as she blew smoke again.
“Beth!” A man’s harsh voice cut the night and the girl’s tough look changed to fear.
“You’ve got to go,” the girl whispered desperately. “Ed doesn’t like me talking to anyone when he’s in a bad mood. He took the night off so we could be together. I live with him sometimes—when we’re not arguing and I can stand him. Sometimes he goes with his old girlfriend, Shirley, and she’s not happy about me. He runs the bar where I work and I don’t want to get fired. The tips are good in the summer and I owe him. So don’t get me in trouble. I’m talking too much. I do that when I’m scared. Go away.” She shrugged and tossed her cigarette to the ground, grinding it into the cement.
In her mind, Maggie saw Glenda again, used and bruised. She grabbed the girl’s arm. “Don’t let him hurt you. I’ll help you. Come with me.”
She thought she saw hope in the girl’s face, soon covered by that hard look. “You’ve got Nick Alessandro with you. He’s waiting down there on Main Street. I saw Nick and you from the window and that’s why I came out, to warn you away from here…and Ed. He’s in a mean mood. The last time Nick tried to help me, I let him down, but I owe him…I’ve got to stop talking. Mind your own business.”
And then she was gone and Maggie started after her. Beth stopped and turned. “I hate do-gooders. If I wanted help, I would have asked for it.”
How many times had Glenda said the same thing?
Maggie breathed deeply, trying to quell the rage in her. One man had ruined Glenda’s life, and Maggie had been helpless to stop her sister’s decline…
Bracing herself against her anger, Maggie ran down the steps, then back up, hoping that Beth had changed her mind. But the landing was empty, with just Beth’s crushed cigarette as a reminder that she had passed.
Taking her time, Maggie came down the steps. “I don’t want to talk,” she said to Nick, who was standing there, his head tilted, hands on his hips.
Her fight to save Glenda had been futile; she’d take Beth’s advice and mind her own business.
Once Maggie had needed someone on her side, believing in her, and no one had been there. She started to run, picking up speed, and when she turned, Scout was at Nick’s side as he walked slowly behind her. She flattened against a brick wall, breathing hard, and waited until he came to stand near her.
“I’m supposed to see that you get something to eat.”
“No, thanks,” she stated flatly and realized that her heart was racing not only from running, but from the memory of his kiss.
He nodded slowly, watching her. “You still have to eat. If you’re finally done running off steam, or that nightmare, I’ll fix you something in the kitchen…Tell me about your nightmares, Maggie. Maybe I can help.”
She shook her head; she didn’t want any more complications or people in her life. “No, thanks. You sure don’t give up easy, do you?”
“Some people think that. I still want to fix you something to eat…Come on. I haven’t eaten, either.” Nick walked beside her back to the restaurant, and it was an odd feeling, a silent companionship she hadn’t expected.
He moved expertly in the large family-style kitchen, apart from the restaurant’s, opening the refrigerator, scanning the contents, and removing a large covered casserole. “Ah! Perfect. Good old vegetable lasagna. Most customers take the meat sauce, so vegetable is usually the leftover. Sit down. This will be ready in a minute.”
He lifted out a square of vegetable and pasta mixture, placed it on a plate and set the microwave to working while he prepared the next plate. Then he began to make a salad. With an artistic movement, he poured vinegar and olive oil from the matching cruets onto a small saucer and sprinkled the mixture with chopped herbs.
Dipping a piece of crusty bread in the oil and vinegar and herbs, Nick talked about his vineyard, the dream his grandfather had started. Forty acres of vineyards kept him and a few family members busy—with Pinot Noir, Cabernet Franc and Chancellor selling steadily and hopes for his white Chardonnays and Rieslings, and a few special blends.
Nick paused and frowned slightly. “I made a bad decision after I lost my wife and sold off part of the land—it was sixty acres of vineyards. I had medical bills to pay, and at the time, nothing was making sense. I was thinking of selling entirely, and leaving—running away. And Lorna’s father was a good salesman. Lorna owns those twenty acres now, and she’s not selling. I work the land because my grandfather loved it. Every day, I think about how much he loved that land and how he had saved for his dream, how hard he had worked. But I wasn’t listening to anyone back then. I was wrapped up in lost dreams, I guess.”
Maggie remembered Lorna’s threat. “I imagine you could get that land very easily.”
“It isn’t worth the price. Lorna will eventually realize she can’t buy everything. She’s just messed up because of her childhood.” His tone was stormy as he placed the plate in front of her. Clearly more than money was involved in the return of the vineyards to Alessandro ownership. The lasagna square looked and smelled delicious. Nick added the garlic bread he had just heated. “What to drink?”
“Water, please. But I can get it myself.”
He snorted at that, his hands on his hips. “Sweetheart, wine goes with Italian food. What do you prefer? Maybe a nice blend, my Smooth Blue? It’s dry and fruity, good with pasta and sauces.”
He walked to a well-stocked wine rack, considering the bottles. Nick turned to Dante, who had just come down the stairway. “Go away.”
Dante yawned and stretched and playfully hit Nick’s shoulder with his fist. “Fell asleep while I was watching movies with Mom and Pop. Hi, Maggie. Make sure you come by the boatyard, okay?”
The flirtatious warmth in Dante’s voice didn’t match Nick’s frown. “You’ve already eaten.”
Dante grinned and said, “I know, and I’m ready to eat again. Fix me something, will you, bro?”
Nick coolly eyed him. “Sure. You can go now. I’ll bring it to your place over at the boatyard later.”
/> Dante sniffed lightly and reached down to waggle Maggie’s head in a brotherly gesture. She swatted at him, and he grabbed her hand, kissing the back of it. Dante stooped to shake Scout’s paw. “Smells good, huh, Scout?”
When footsteps sounded on the stairway, Dante’s grin widened. “Mom and Pop are coming down.”
Looking rumpled and sleepy, Anthony shuffled into the kitchen. He grunted and looked at his wife, who was wearing a faded cotton housedress. “Your sons are eating my lasagna. You made it special for me. Tell them to stop.”
“They’re still growing, Anthony.”
“They eat all the profit,” he grumbled and bent to hug and kiss Maggie. He sat beside her. “Eat. My wife’s lasagna is the best. She learned from my mother—”
“My mother’s recipe, Anthony.” Rosa bent to hug Maggie and then set about warming the food. “This is nice. So you had your walk, Maggie? It’s a nice night, isn’t it? Anthony, get that bone Marco left for Scout. Nick, pour some good Alessandro wine. Dante, set the table. Maggie, fix the salad, will you, dear?”
When the meal sat on the worn red and white checkered table cloth, Dante raised his wineglass to Maggie. “To this girl, Maggie. May she feel a part of our family.”
While they settled down to eat and talk adamantly about the current political fracas, Maggie traced the rim of her water glass. The Alessandros’ late night snack was a full-blown meal, and she didn’t care. After a routine of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, the lasagna was a treat.
It was only when Maggie lay full and relaxed in bed that she realized her glass had been refilled. She hadn’t been in a warm family atmosphere for years, and was surprised at how she enjoyed the simplicity.
Nick had looked mildly surprised when she held the wineglass by the stem to prevent the heat of her hand from influencing the taste, that she rolled the wine on her tongue before swallowing, that she inhaled and appreciated the bouquet.
