“I sure hope he didn’t do it.” Tommy frowned. “I know he’s different, way different than he used to be. In a good way.”
Gabriela dared not voice her thoughts. Liars could be convincing, and look you in the eye and tell you they had stock in Enron for sale. But if Miguel was telling the truth, and she knew he was—
“What if there is another Miguel Rivera? I mean, it’s not a common name, but it wouldn’t surprise me if another Miguel Rivera did this.” Gabriela paced the room. “Can you find that man? Another Miguel Rivera with a record? And prints. Don’t they check for prints in that store?”
Bryan smiled. “Yes, that’s a distinct possibility. Prints take a while to confirm. A store has many surfaces touched by customers, and with the DA likely seeing this as an open-and-shut case, I doubt they’ll agree to investigating too deeply.”
“How much is bond?” Gabriela didn’t care about her restaurant at this moment.
“M’ija, I already offered,” Pop said. “Tomorrow morning he goes before the judge to be arraigned.”
“It’s wrong. It’s wrong.”
“Gabriela, sit down,” Mama said. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
“And what will this do to his business reputation?” Gabriela sank onto the empty spot on the love seat. “This will be in the news.”
“He can explain once he’s exonerated,” Bryan replied.
“Pop, I want to go with you in the morning.”
“No, I need you to open La Cocina.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but it was true. Someone needed to open tomorrow. Pop would keep his temper tomorrow, and she wasn’t so sure about herself.
“You’re right.”
The family gathering wound down, and at last Gabriela retreated to her room.
Chapter 9
Miguel stared at the concrete wall. He’d forgotten how bad places like this smelled. Not that it was filthy, but the air in the cell felt heavy, like a thick blanket. He was lumped in with a bunch of other guys. Two of them kept cussing a blue streak until the warden threatened to throw them both in a solitary confinement room. Yeah, he’d been there once.
And he’d been guilty. He deserved what he’d gotten. Maybe he deserved this. Whatever the reason, he felt the old shame creeping back in like the scent of rotten egg.
This time, it was different. He had plenty of people outside who believed him. If only he’d called Gaby. To hear her voice, even if the news he brought wasn’t good. He wished they’d let him keep his cell phone, so he could listen to her voice mail over and over again.
Calling her father, though, had made him face his fear. He didn’t want the man to think he was hiding what had happened. Better to tell him straight out than let him hear about it in the news, or hear it from an upset Gaby.
Somehow the night that seemed to last a lifetime ended, and with the morning came a bottle of water and a breakfast sandwich. If only he had coffee, but that would be a luxury in here.
He hoped to see the judge early. But maybe he should hope to go later, depending on what Bryan, Gaby’s brother-in-law, could help him with. This had to be a horrible, horrible mistake.
Trouble was, once you’d been on the wrong side of the law and branded as “bad,” the system wouldn’t listen to any protests.
Another eternity went by, and one by one the other occupants left the cell for their respective arraignments. Then it came down to him and one of the late-night cussers. The man sat on his bunk, glaring at the world, which at that moment included Miguel.
“Rivera,” barked the warden. “Your lawyer’s here.” The guy said the word as if he were referring to a dirty sock found in the corner.
He was handcuffed and escorted to an interrogation room, where Bryan Gillespie sat waiting for him.
Bryan gave him a confident smile. “Thanks to Gabriela, I think I’ve figured out your problem. If all goes well, you’ll be out of here by lunchtime.”
“You’re optimistic.” He wanted out, too, but he was a realist. But wait … Gabriela waited for him. She believed in him.
Bryan continued, “I read about a case like this once. It’s truly a case of mistaken identity. You’re Miguel Rivera, and Miguel Rivera did write a bunch of hot checks. But it’s not you. I’m thinking they need to do another check on the Miguel Rivera they hauled in.”
“So you’re saying since I’m the guy with the bigger rap sheet, they picked me first.”
Bryan nodded. “Not only that. I think you’re taller than the guy in that video. Plus, he looks older than you.”
“You could tell?”
“I went to the electronics store to view the video. You’re at least five-eleven. This guy was no more than five-eight at the most. If they’d taken a little more time, they would realize you’re not the right Miguel Rivera.”
Miguel grinned then suddenly realized one glaring fact. “I’m not expecting to make bail.”
“I’m going to ask the judge to release you. You’re not a flight risk, and once they realize their mistake, the charges will be dropped.”
Before long Miguel was whisked before Judge Guzman. The clock above the judge’s head read a few minutes past eleven thirty.
Miguel couldn’t help but see the judge’s black robe and feel as if judgment loomed ahead. But he wouldn’t allow himself to think that way. He kept his head up. Bryan’s presence beside him reminded him he had people on his side.
“Miguel Rivera,” called the judge.
Miguel and Bryan rose.
“Your Honor,” Bryan said, “I move that all charges against Mr. Rivera be dropped. With a little more attention to detail, I can show you that the wrong Miguel Rivera is in this courtroom.”
“Is that so?” asked Judge Guzman. Dark spectacles perched on the edge of his nose as he read the charges and evidence. “Explain. Because this isn’t Mr. Rivera’s first incidence of running against the law.”
“You’re correct.” Bryan then explained, a hundred times better than Miguel could’ve, about the mistaken identity. “I also ask that he be released on his own recognizance pending the verification of everything I’ve said.”
“Really?” Judge Guzman sighed.
Then an officer burst into the room. “Excuse me, Judge. I have some new information regarding the Rivera case.”
Gabriela stole a few seconds at the edge of La Cocina’s patio and observed the sight she loved. The Riverwalk brimmed with tourists tonight, and a light wind moved the tree branches, making the strands of Christmas lights swing. A river taxi containing a small brass band drifted by, and strains of “Joy to the World” mingled with the laughter and chatter of those enjoying a night out on the river. After a long day on her feet, Gabriela wasn’t sure if the merriment could drag her spirits up very much.
Then someone caught Gabriela’s attention. A young woman with blond hair in a short choppy cut dashed past the restaurant. A tear glittered on her cheek.
Gabriela knew that feeling. Her heart ached for Miguel. Why hadn’t she heard anything from him? Pop didn’t say much when he came to work, other than it would be best for Miguel to explain himself.
A guy about her age soon passed, his stride determined, his jaw set. He had the look of someone frantically searching, the look of a man in love.
“Ecko, I love you!” he called out.
Gabriela hoped he found the one he was searching for. The mariachi band was going full throttle tonight and didn’t match her mood at all. Feliz Navidad. Right.
I’m whining again, Lord, and I’m sorry. I need to trust You, and Miguel.
“Chef,” a diner waved at her. “Might we speak to you for a moment?”
Gabriela turned away from the patio and approached the table. Tonight she hadn’t been able to lose herself in the food as she usually did. Hopefully this tableside request didn’t mean bad news. “Yes, of course.”
“This is one of the finest meals we’ve had in San Antonio.” An older, slightly balding gentleman and his wife sat ac
ross from each other, their plates empty. “We come to San Antonio several times a year, for business and pleasure, and haven’t eaten here until tonight.”
“Thank you very much.”
The couple held hands across the table, and a lump lodged itself in Gabriela’s throat. Love was everywhere tonight.
“I’ll be recommending this establishment to a friend of mine who’s a New York food critic. They’re supposed to be doing a Texas restaurant tour, and I’ll suggest this to them.”
“Thank you again.” Gabriela smiled. Pop would be proud. But a New York critic? The idea distracted her from Miguel for about five seconds. “I’ll have your waitress bring by a dessert sampling plate, if you’d like. With our compliments.”
“That would be lovely,” said the wife. “Especially if you have anything chocolate.”
“I think we can definitely do chocolate.” She liked this lady. “I’ll let your waitress know.”
Where’d Marcy go off to? She thought Marcy had zoomed behind her a few seconds ago, so she headed toward the kitchen.
The kitchen aroma struck her again. Pop was in his zone, plating and barking orders, where she needed to be.
“Marcy?” she called out.
“Yes, Chef?” Marcy emerged from the linens room with a small stack of towels. “Sorry, I needed to get a few towels. A minor crisis at the Riverwalk.”
The woman fairly glowed.
“What did I miss?”
“Oh, it’s so romantic.” Marcy beamed and dashed a tear away. “I need to run. I’ll tell you soon. Love is in the air, Chef.”
“If you say so.” Gabriela cleared her throat. “Bring a dessert sampler to Seventeen. It’s on the house, too.”
“Will do.” Marcy bundled the towels on one hip and pulled out her order pad. Then she looked over Gabriela’s shoulder and froze.
Gabriela turned. There stood Miguel, his hair damp and unruly. Crazy man, he’d catch a cold.
“Miguel!” She threw her arms around him. “Why didn’t you call? What happened? I was so worried.” He smelled wonderful, and she didn’t want to let him go.
His arms went around her. “I can explain.”
Pop growled. “The kitchen’s crowded. Go, get out of here.” But his eyes sparkled, and he dashed the back of his arm against his eyes.
“We should listen to him.” Miguel released her from his arms but still held her hand. “Let’s go for a walk. Like Marcy said, love is in the air.”
They passed through the dining room, and at the table closest to La Cocina’s Riverwalk entrance, Gabriela saw the blond woman, no longer sad, seated next to the man who’d been calling for Ecko. He was soaked wet to the skin, but the grin on his face told Gabriela he didn’t feel the cold one bit. The blond gently touched his face. Then her eyes locked with Gabriela’s. She smiled a knowing smile then turned her gaze back to her man.
Once outside, Gabriela shivered, and Miguel slipped his arm around her and held her against his side. “Better?”
“Much. The cold felt good at first after being in that kitchen all day.” She could get used to being by his side. In fact, it felt like a place she belonged.
“I told your dad I’d explain.” Miguel paused at a stone bench tucked underneath a palm tree. They both sat down, and Gabriela leaned on him. “I meant to come earlier, but once I got home and showered, I thought I’d lie down for a few minutes. Next thing I knew, it was nighttime.”
“I knew they had the wrong guy.” She watched the lights dance in the trees. Lord, if this is a dream, never let me wake up.
“That’s what Bryan found out. The other Miguel Rivera struck again, writing more bad checks. And that was the night of Las Posadas.”
“So the police ran a check again, and hauled the other guy in.”
“That’s right.”
Gabriela turned to face him. “Well, you’re here now.”
“Yes, I am.” He kissed the top of her head. “Last night was the longest night of my life. But knowing you and your family were on my side, that I had the Lord, too—I hung on.”
“I have to admit that when I went to your apartment and saw the police tape, and talked to your neighbor, I was a little frantic.”
“Did you wonder if …”
Gabriela nodded, and looked down at her hands. “For a few seconds. Especially after seeing Santos. But then I made myself stop and think. You’ve come so far that you wouldn’t do something like that. You’re not that man anymore.”
At that, Miguel stood and pulled Gabriela to her feet. “So what kind of man am I?”
His hands felt warm, holding hers. She realized for the first time her face was probably greasy and her hands stained from working with food. But the dizzying feeling she’d had that day when they were locked in the pantry came back.
“You’re not street smart, but street wise. You know you’re not perfect, and you know how to receive grace. You’re a carpenter after the Carpenter’s heart. And I never want to let you go, ever again.” She bit her lip and looked into his eyes. “And …”
“And?” Miguel leaned closer.
“Call me shallow, but you have the most gorgeous hair.” She touched the curls that barely ruffled in the breeze.
He pulled her close so their foreheads touched. “My love, I never want to let you go. I didn’t plan this. I don’t have a ring or anything. All I know is I love you, and I want to spend this Christmas with you, and every Christmas after this.”
Gabriela’s heart soared among the Christmas lights as she said, “Every Christmas, always. Feliz Navidad.”
Just before he kissed her, Miguel replied, “Feliz Navidad.”
LYNETTE SOWELL works as a medical transcriptionist for a large HMO. But that’s her day job. In her “spare” time, she loves to spin adventures for the characters who emerge from story ideas in her head. She hopes to spread the truth of God’s love and person while taking readers on an entertaining journey. Lynette is a Massachusetts transplant, who makes her home in central Texas. She loves to read, travel, spend time with her family, and likes to eat Mexican food whenever she can. You can find out more about Lynette on Facebook or www.lynettesowell.com
REMEMBER THE ALAMO
by Kathleen Y’Barbo
Dedication
To Beth, Lynettte, and Martha.
Viva San Antonio!
Chapter 1
“Nothing is impossible with God.”
LUKE 1:37
“Happiness often sneaks in through a door you didn’t know you left open.”
John Barrymore
Los Angeles, California
What do you mean we have no Davy Crockett?” Sienna Montalvo held her breath and prayed the executive producer of the most talked-about film of the year would not call on her to answer the question. While the prize role of the defender of the Alamo had gone to John Wayne some fifty years ago, the role in the updated version was not yet as strongly cast.
Or rather, it wasn’t anymore.
This time Art Kelton’s attention was squarely focused on Sienna. “Who told Brent Campbell the schedule gave him no time off for Christmas?”
All eyes turned toward Sienna as heat flamed her face. It was common knowledge that to work with Art Kelton meant to keep to a strict code of silence about everything related to his movies. When she signed the confidentiality agreement with the production company, she’d never expected those who must be kept in the dark would include the actors themselves.
“Anyone?”
This time, Mr. Kelton looked right at her.
“I—I—I might have mentioned it.” She turned her attention to the pages on the conference table in front of her. Nowhere in the perfectionist producer’s minute-by-minute agenda did she see this topic on the schedule.
Not that she could have read it if it were there. The words blurred as tears threatened.
After splitting the silence with a few choice words, Art Kelton drew in a deep breath and released it with gusto. “Why in the
world would you tell an Academy Award–winning actor he would be required to work during the Christmas holidays?”
“He asked,” was a poor defense, but Sienna lifted her gaze to meet his icy stare as she offered it.
“And you told him?” Mr. Kelton’s busy gray brows rose. “Someone please explain to Miss …”
“Montalvo,” she offered. “Sienna Montalvo. I’m your new—”
“Does it matter?” He peered over glasses that dangled precariously at the end of his rather prominent nose.
“No,” came out barely above a whisper.
“No,” Mr. Kelton echoed. He made a great fuss of taking his seat at the head of the table then adjusting the stack of papers before him until they were exactly square with the edge of the table. Finally he leaned back against the chair and let his hands fall into his lap.
“Our new Production Assistant has obviously not been instructed on protocol on the set. Would someone educate her?” He shook his head. “No, let’s say it together on three.”
While the producer counted, Sienna braved a look across the table to Regina Barlow, the casting director who should be catching the heat on this debacle. Was that a sympathetic look she spied before the director looked away?
“Always ask Art,” the group said in unison.
Sienna nodded. “Absolutely,” she said.
“So when the talent comes to you, Miss …”
“Montalvo,” Sienna said.
“Right. When the talent comes to you for information of any kind, except perhaps the whereabouts of the john, what will you tell them?”
“Ask Art?”
“Miss …”
This time Sienna didn’t bother to help. Instead, she kept her mouth shut and her gaze intently focused on the Los Angeles skyline outside the window.
“Montalvo,” the casting director offered.
“Miss Montalvo,” the legendary producer said. “We are in the business of filming a remake of The Alamo that would make John Wayne proud. We are not filming an episode of Jeopardy. Thus, there is no need to phrase your responses in the form of a question.”
A Riverwalk Christmas: Four-in-One Collection Page 19