Free With Her Last Breath by Cait London Page A

you’re ready?” she asked.
    “Long enough.”
    Maggie was dying to go up into that old lighthouse and look out, scanning the lake. She didn’t often go in for romantic notions, but the idea that the Frenchman haunted the structure was irresistible. How could a man love a woman so much that he still waited for her through time? “Make it fast.”
    Inside the home that had been built around the lighthouse, Nick indicated the doorway to the Frenchman’s tower andthen disappeared. Smooth with age and use, the winding wooden stairs led upward, the bricks gleaming from the sunlight shafting from the top. The tiny enclosure provided a fantastic view of Lake Michigan, a sprawling beach, and in the other direction—toward land—naked grapevines in neat rows flowing across the land.
    A wooden Adirondack-style chair dominated the small space. An empty jam jar sat on the chair’s arm, a bottle of Alessandro Cabernet Franc on the rough plank floor beside it. The only other things in the room were a table containing an album, and an ornately framed picture of a bride and groom, cracks splintering across the glass. Young and carefree, Nick smiled down at the woman he held in his arms, her black hair in a curling froth around her pixieish face, the white bridal gown draped to the church steps.
    Her face turned to the camera, the young bride smiled wistfully; another woman from another time, she seemed to stare right into Maggie’s eyes.
    Maggie had been a bride just like that once, believing that the world waited for her.
    Ryan was in her past; he had sided with the man who had led Glenda to her death.
    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