GABRIEL'S GIFT: A Lost Hearts Christmas Story (2 page)

He hadn't planned to do much for his lunch — dig out a frozen meal or a can of spam — but he found himself in the big family kitchen, frying stew meat, flinging in onions and garlic, jalapeños in adobo sauce and a tablespoon of fragrant cumin, opening a can of Rotel and pouring it into the pot. He turned the heat down low and simmered and stirred, scenting the whole house with his award-winning chili that made grown men weep and women worship at his stove. As the pot bubbled, he puttered around, shredding a nice sharp cheddar, opening a bag of corn chips … setting his trap.

The round, oversized, wooden table occupied the one empty corner of the kitchen. It had seen many a family meal, and he hoped it would see many more. But for today, he arranged two placemats on opposite sides of the table. He put a wide bowl and a soup spoon on each place, and a glass of water — some people got excited about the spiciness of his chili — and an icy bottle of Coca-Cola.

While the chili simmered, he seated himself with his back to the hallway. He popped open his computer, worked online, and waited for the soft sound of a footstep.

It took about a half hour, but there it was. The girl was out of the playroom, down the stairs and intent on escape. Too bad he'd blocked the front door with heavy luggage and boxes and she had to come this direction…

He waited until she was halfway between the stairway and the back door, then said out loud, "You might as well come in and eat before you go."

The footsteps stopped.

He turned in his seat. "It's freezing out there, you're miles from town, and the chili will give you some fuel to get where you're going."

She stared at him, wide-eyed.

He stared back.

She had surprised him. The picture in the closet was an old picture. This little kid wasn't quite a little kid anymore. He guessed she was about twelve, and tall, five-six or seven, and slump shouldered in that awkward way tall girls stood to hide their height. She had brown hair and brown eyes, and like most pre-adolescent girls, she looked gawky and goofy. And scared. She looked scared.

"I'm Gabriel Prescott," he said. "I own this house."

"I know who you are. I saw the pictures."

He glanced toward the long kitchen wall Hannah had painted white and loaded with family photos. Everybody signed the wall under their pictures, even the babies, with tiny inked-on foot prints that made the women coo. And truth be told, the guys, too.

The Prescott's and their mates were a sentimental lot. They knew what was important in life: family and friends, and time together.

"Right. You know who we are. The rest of the family are arriving later. You want to stay and meet them?"

She shook her head, quick and panicked, and hunched her shoulder farther inside her coat. It was too short in the sleeves, and one pocket had torn off and been repaired with superglue.

Keeping it deliberately low-key, he said, "Okay, your call. But eat before you go. Chili is my specialty. I should have won last year's cook-off but the other gal bribed the judges."

"Really?"

"No, I'm kidding. She won fair and square. But my wife says my chili is better. And who ya going to believe? Some impartial judges? Or my wife?" He got up. "Are you hungry?"

She jumped back, lifted her hands, went into a crouch. "I know karate!"

"Then I won't attack you. Because I don't know karate." He did, but in this case, one little white lie wouldn't hurt. He collected the bowls and headed for the pot, took the top off and stirred. Steam and chili-good fragrance rolled through the kitchen. "My wife would kill me if I didn't offer you some southern hospitality before you left." He ladled a bowl full and put it in front of the place across the table, then ladled another bowl full and put it in front of his place.

Her stomach growled loudly.

He pretended not to hear it. "Put your backpack by the door so you don't forget it on your way out." He got the bread out of the warm oven and put it on two plates with butter, set one on her place mat and one on his own, and took his seat again.

She hesitated another moment before sliding her backpack off her shoulders and leaning it against the wall. Then like a crab, she walked sideways into the room, taking the long way around to avoid his reach.

She was scared of him, but hunger was a powerful motivator.

She pulled out her chair, the scrape across the tile loud and slow. She seated herself, never taking her eyes off him.

He picked up his spoon and started eating. "What's your name?"

"I'm not telling you." Now she sounded sulky. Yeah, she was about twelve. Every one of his nieces sounded like that at that age.

"I have to call you something," he said.

"Call me … Arabella. I've always wanted to be an Arabella."

By which he figured her name was Anna or Chris or Liz or Susan. "Okay, Arabella, here's the deal. You can mix anything in the chili you want. There's raw onions, cheese, chips, avocado, sour cream. You can even put in beans, if you insist on breaking my heart. But we eat in reverent silence in appreciation of my cooking. Okay?"

"Okay!" She picked up her spoon, then hesitated. "How do I know you didn't, um, put drugs…?"

"Did you see me dish out the bowls?"

"Yes."

"Out of the same pot? And carry them to the table?"

"Sorry," she mumbled.

He looked at her.

She looked at him. She looked at the wall of pictures. She struggled out of her coat, shoveled beans and cheese and chips into her bowl of steaming chili and dug in.

He wondered where she came from. She had no Texas accent. Which meant nothing; Houston, San Antonio, Dallas … they were all international cities, and a good part of their populations spoke pure Hollywood.

She could have been a Yankee, of course, but he didn't think so. Coming from the north would have taken her some time. She would have had some rough experiences. And Arabella acted like a kid, and not one that had seen action on the streets. Any street kid would have known he could have drugged her chili between the stove and the table.

He let her get a few bites in, figuring food would put her in a better mood, before he asked, "I saw the photo of you and your mother. Did she die?'

Arabella kept shoveling in huge spoonfuls of chili. "No, she's alive."

"She went to jail and you're a foster child?"

"No! My mom isn't in jail! She…" Arabella caught herself. "It doesn't matter."

"I was just asking, because I was a foster child and it pretty much sucked."

Her spoon stopped halfway to her mouth. "You were?"

"Did you see the picture of me and my sisters?" He pointed at the photo, taken last year in Idaho on the Fourth of July: Hope, Pepper, Kate and him in rocking chairs on the wide front porch of Pepper's house. "Do I look like them?"

Arabella looked, too. The women were slim, attractive and Caucasian. He was part Latino, darkly tanned with black hair and green eyes. "No."

"I came to live with the Prescotts when I was twelve years old, and I lived with them until Mr. and Mrs. Prescott — our parents — were murdered and we were separated. It's a miracle we managed to find each other again."

Arabella's mouth hung open as she listened. "Your parents — your foster parents — were murdered?"

"It's true. If you don't believe me, you can look it up on your phone. Solving the crime a few years ago made quite a splash in the news."

Arabella put bread slathered with butter into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. In a nasty, sing-song voice, she said, "I left my phone on the floor and stepped on it. So I don't have a phone. We can't afford to get me a new phone. I should have taken better care of that one." She paused, then in her normal voice, she burst out, "It was an
accident!"

Okay. He was starting to put together a picture. Arabella's mother was alive and held custody of her child, and her child was angry because they didn't have enough money to get her a replacement for something she had mistreated and now badly wanted. She and her mom were poor. They had had a fight. Arabella ran away…

His phone buzzed on the table beside him. "Excuse me," he said to Arabella. "It's my brother-in-law."

Arabella looked at the wall. "Which one?"

"Teague."

"Kate's husband," Arabella said.

She must have
really
studied the family photos.

"That's right." Gabriel read the text.

You want me to use a picture of a picture to find out who this missing kid is? One day before Christmas?

Teague was a private investigator, a good one, and yes, he was probably justifiably annoyed at being put on the job now, while he was getting ready to drive Kate and the kids to Hobart.

Gabriel texted,
Help me, Obi-wan-Kenobi. You're my only hope.
He hated to tell Teague the bad stuff, but he had to fill him in.
She's older than in the photo, about 12, Caucasian, brown hair, brown eyes.

Height?

5'-5"+.

Send me a current picture.

Can't. She's ready to bolt.

Figure out a way. She's local?

Don't know.

That helps.

Gabriel sensed sarcasm.

Teague:
Okay, missing 12-yr-old girl. I'll search local first, then widen the net. See you tonight. AND TAKE A PICTURE OF HER!

Gabriel looked up at Arabella.

Her wide-eyed terror was back.

"We're coordinating all the food for Christmas, which is no small task. Seven families, five with two or more children, and a couple of those with kids of their own, and some friends who are visiting…" He was babbling, so he changed the subject. "I don't understand why you didn't eat stuff out of the freezer. We always keep great soups and stews and stuff in there."

"My mother taught me never to take anything I can't pay for. I figured the canned soup was, you know, less important. Less expensive. "

So Arabella had a mama with strict morals. More and more interesting.

She looked into her bowl like it was tea leaves and she was seeing his future. "I used the shower, but I cleaned up after myself." She took a long breath. "And I broke the latch on a window to get in. I'll pay you back for that, I swear I will. Some day."

"Okay, I'll hold you to that."

She shot him a mutinous glance.

He pretended not to see it. "Do you mind if I take your picture?"

"Why?" Smart kid. Instantly suspicious.

"Hannah likes a picture of all our guests." He pointed at the wall. "I'll take your picture, print it, we'll hang it up and you can sign the wall. You've been here what? A couple of days? You owe us. I think you could do that for Hannah."

"I suppose I could."

"Stand over there by the stove. Pick up the lid off the pot of chili and pretend like you're stirring it. And smile. It's my chili, so it's important that you smile."

The kid got up, went over to her backpack, and dug out a brush. She brushed her hair, then braided it into a smooth braid and pulled it over her shoulder. Then, by God, she went over, lifted the heavy orange lid off the broad cooking pot, leaned over the chili and took a deep breath.

But when she tried to smile, her mouth crumpled. "If you don't mind, Mr. Prescott, I don't feel like smiling."

He hesitated, then nodded. "I don't suppose you do." In fact, in her eyes he saw defiance and fear … and sadness. She had good reason; she had run away, it was the day before Christmas, and she was alone.

"I could rub my stomach so everyone would know that it's yummy," she suggested.

"No, then everyone will think you feel sick. Let's just assume the people who see this wall will
know
that you love my chili." He snapped photos, then showed them to her. Together they decided which one was the best, and he stood with her and sent it to the Wi-Fi printer upstairs. "Let me go get it," he said. "We'll put it in a frame — Hannah has extra frames in the pantry — and you can sign the wall. While I'm gone, would you load the dishwasher?"

She looked at him.

"I made dinner," he reminded her. "That's fair."

"My mom says the same thing." She picked up her bowl and rinsed it.

"I'll be right back." He headed upstairs to the office.

The photo was printed and waiting for him.

He attached a digital copy of the photo and texted it to Teague.
Here's the current. Hope that helps.

He got back a text applauding him, but Teague warned,
I can't find her in Austin or San Antonio. Widening my search, but — find out where she's from!

Easy for you to say
, Gabriel texted back, and headed downstairs.

He was relieved to find Arabella still in the kitchen, cleaning the stove. "You made a mess," she said accusingly.

"No one will let me cook unless I'm the only one here and have to clean up after myself. You should stick around, though. Nessa and Mac are driving in from New Orleans, and they'll bring pralines. Have you ever had genuine New Orleans pralines?"