LAUREN HURRIED OVER the bridge, head down against the driving wind. Dead leaves scudded along the sidewalk. Underfoot, below street level, she caught a quick glimpse of big trees hung with Christmas lights, and more lights along the eaves of buildings, and bright flashes of water, but it was too cold to stop and drink in the sight.
She checked her phone’s screen. Alex’s blip had been in Alamo Plaza since midafternoon, when he’d joined other reenactors to set up camp for the night. Now it was moving her way.
And there was Alex himself, glancing back and forth between his phone’s screen and the crowd.
He saw her, and his face lit up. “You made it!”
“I made it. What are you wearing? That’s not your usual outfit.”
The jacket had the same shape as the other one, but it was red, and he had on high black boots instead of the ankle boots he usually wore.
“I’ve had this one for a while. I’ve worn it every year I’ve reenacted at Béxar. Come on. It’s not much farther to the plaza.”
They walked fast. It was too cold not to.
“Did you find the parking garage okay?” he asked.
“Easy peasy. I parked Vincent between a couple of tough-looking trucks. I’ve got plenty of juice in my battery, so I should sleep warm tonight.”
Alex had been careful to make the accommodation situation perfectly clear ahead of time.
“Some of us, the hard-core people, like to camp out in our tents in the plaza the night before,” he’d told her. “You’re welcome to try that if you want, but it’s supposed to get down to the thirties that night, and the canvas isn’t much defense against the wind.”
“You make it sound superappealing, but I think I’ll just park Vincent downtown and sleep in my own bed. That’ll be no rougher than I’m used to.”
“That’s what I figured. In that case, there’s a good parking garage that ought to be safe.”
So that was a relief. He hadn’t invited her to sleep in his tent, or assumed that she’d want to. There would be no awkwardness or weird expectations. Clearly this was another just-friends situation.
In the plaza, the tents were circled around a dozen or so reenactors sitting by a campfire. Behind them, the Alamo’s unmistakable stone facade, bright with floodlights, loomed up crisp against the night sky. Someone was playing “What Child Is This?” on guitar.
The reenactors saw Lauren and Alex coming and let out a cheer. Lauren recognized Tamara and Jay, and Ron the gunsmith, and a few others. They looked like such a brave, plucky, game little group, all huddled together under their blankets, that Lauren laughed.
“You guys sure are dedicated,” she said when she reached them. “It’s cold. Wicked cold. I think it’s dropped twenty degrees since I drove away this afternoon. How can it be this cold this far south?”
“It’s ’cause there aren’t any east-to-west mountain ranges,” Alex said. “When a north wind blows, there’s nothing to break it up. My grandfather used to say the only thing standing between Texas and the Arctic Circle is a barbed-wire fence.”
“Just as well,” said Ron. “It’s more historically accurate this way. It was cold at the Siege of Béxar, but that didn’t stop the Texians, and it won’t stop us.”
“Yeah, and we’ve got something the Texians didn’t have,” said Alex.
He stirred a dark liquid that was steaming nicely in a kettle hung over the fire. “My Mexican hot chocolate. Almost ready.”
“Ooh, lovely,” Lauren said. “But is there time for an interview first?”
“If it’s a short one.”
She started the video camera on her phone and framed Alex in it.
“Sir! Can you tell me about what’s going on here tonight at the Alamo Plaza?”
“Yes, I can! We’re a historical society, and we’ve gathered here for a reenactment of the Siege of Béxar, an important event in the Texas Revolution. Back in the fall of 1835, following the Come and Take It battle on October the second, forces continued to gather in Gonzales, and they eventually combined to more or less form the Texian army. Stephen Austin was elected commander, because that’s how commanders were chosen back then. Meanwhile, Santa Anna sent his brother-in-law, General Cos, to Béxar with reinforcements. Then in mid-October, Austin led his men to Béxar and settled in for a siege. There were several minor engagements associated with this siege, but what we’re going to reenact tomorrow is the final battle, when the Texians stormed the town and took the Alamo.”
Alex was terrific in front of a camera—a good talker, and unbelievably photogenic. He looked up at the camera now with his half smile and said, “And just like the real Texian army, we reenactors have our own issues with deserters, because it can get really cold out here overnight in a period-correct canvas tent. Only in our case, the deserters go to a hotel.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised. Just how period-correct are you inside those tents? Do you sleep on bedrolls, or are you hiding air mattresses and catalytic heaters in there?”
Alex looked smug. “Well, I can’t speak for everyone, but you won’t find anything like that in my tent. I pride myself on being a strict historical interpreter. The most I might do is heat up some stones in the fire and put them under my blanket.”
The guitar player spoke up. “Dude! There are better ways of staying warm in a tent. Skin-on-skin contact is the way to go.”
It was Zander, the guy who’d left a valuable antique gun out in the rain to make it look more “authentic.”
Alex scowled. “Wow, Zander. Real mature.”
“You’re the one who’s cuddling with rocks, teniente.”
“Punk, shut up! She’s filming this.”
“All right, all right. You don’t have to be so sensitive.”
“It’s okay,” Lauren told Alex. “I can edit that part out. So what time is the event tomorrow?”
“We’ll be doing two battle reenactments, at ten and two. In between, there’ll be reenactors set up at La Villita, ready to give presentations to visitors. A tour guide will lead groups through the various stops. The wind’s supposed to die down by morning, so show up early and spend the day on the beautiful San Antonio River Walk for one-stop Christmas shopping and Texas history.”
Lauren stopped recording. “Nice! I’ll edit it back in my van and post it tonight. Now give me some hot chocolate.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Alex poured the hot chocolate into an assortment of mismatched mugs and handed them around. Even Zander got one. He was playing “O Holy Night” now. He was good, but Lauren was feeling pretty soured on guitar players.
She wrapped her hands around her mug and felt the warmth seeping into her fingers. She wished she’d dressed warmer. Maybe she should walk back to Vincent and add some layers.
Everyone was sitting around the fire on cushions and blankets and low camp chairs. Alex had a cozy-looking nest with a big cushion and a striped blanket draped over his shoulders.
He looked at Lauren and lifted an arm, opening his blanket like a wing, in wordless invitation.
Lauren didn’t hesitate and crawled in beside him. It would be silly to sit there and freeze when a human furnace was ready and willing to provide heat.
She settled her back against his chest. He closed the blanket over her, and his arms went around her in a deliciously warm cocoon of security and comfort and—and something more, something she didn’t want to put a word to just yet. It felt so good, so safe and right, that she just relaxed into the embrace and didn’t think about the consequences anymore. Alex’s solid warmth behind and around her, the smell of wood smoke and chocolate, the beauty of the town and plaza, Christmas music and firelight, all came together in the loveliest sense of contentment.
The rest of the evening passed like a dream. She could hear Alex’s voice behind her and feel it resonate in his chest as they sang one carol after another. None of this seemed real. It was too perfect and too improbable. She let it carry her along in a tide of happiness.
When at last the fire burned down and Zander put away his guitar, she felt like she was coming back after a long time away.
She started to get up. Alex slipped out of the blanket and wrapped it around her like she was a small child. She stood there, clutching the blanket, as he gathered the hot chocolate mugs and put them inside the kettle.
She could see inside Alex’s tent a little. She knew it was his because she recognized the rip in the canvas, mended with big stitches. A thin slice of bedroll, neatly laid out, showed through the opening at the flap.
Then she saw him, looking at her looking inside his tent. He smiled awkwardly, and she felt her face grow warm in spite of the cold.
Zander stood up and slung his gig bag over his shoulder. “I’m deserting to the Hyatt,” he announced to no one in particular. “Who’s joining me?”
“Traitor,” someone said.
“Tenderfoot,” said someone else.
He smiled a superior smile and looked at Lauren. “What about you? Are you going back to civilization, or will you stay here and keep warm with rocks?”
“I’m sleeping in my van,” she said.
The words came out a lot more forcibly than she’d intended. She wanted there to be no doubt about it, in spite of what might have appeared to be longing looks inside Alex’s tent, but she wasn’t sure who she thought needed convincing.
“Ooh,” said Zander. “How edgy of you.”
“Come on, Lauren,” said Alex. “I’ll walk you.”
The streets were almost empty now, and the wind had lessened, but it was still cold. They walked in silence. Sooner than seemed possible, they reached the parking garage.
“I’ll be making breakfast for everyone around eight,” Alex said. “Coffee, eggs, chorizo. You’re welcome to join us. Then you’ll be all set to start the tour around nine.”
“Okay.”
She unlocked Vincent and slid the big side door open.
“Sure is dark in there,” Alex said.
“Yeah, I put up my magnetized window shades after I parked.”
“They really are perfectly fitted to the windows, aren’t they? They don’t let in so much as a sliver of the outside. You’ve got a whole little world of your own in here, and nobody passing by has a clue.”
“That’s one of the things I love about it. Feeling all snug and secret and safe, like a chipmunk in a burrow.”
Alex chuckled. “A chipmunk with a hot plate and an electric kettle.”
His smile faded, and his gaze sharpened. For one heart-flipping moment Lauren thought he was going to kiss her.
Then he was walking away, saying good-night over his shoulder.
“Good night,” she called after him. “Thanks for the hot chocolate.”
She shut the door and let out her breath. Her hands were shaking, and not with cold.
ALEX HAD BEEN doing his Alejandro Ramirez spiel for so many years now that he didn’t even have to think about it. He never got self-conscious or experienced anything like stage fright. He knew what he was saying and felt perfectly at ease saying it.
But when he saw Lauren in the crowd around the porch of the adobe building where he’d stationed himself, something changed.
It wasn’t like he was surprised to see her. He’d known she would be here; he’d seen her not two hours earlier at the campsite, eating chorizo and scrambled eggs that he’d made with his own hands. But the sight of her, right here and now, in her mango-colored coat, with her camera slung over her shoulder and her cheeks flushed in the cold morning air, stunned and amazed him. And when he said the familiar words for the umpteenth time that day, he didn’t just tell Alejandro’s story. He stepped into his skin, took on his hopes, his fears, his resolve.
“My name is Alejandro Ramirez. I am a ranchero with land near Béxar. Six weeks ago I left my rancho and my young bride to join the siege of Béxar under my captain, Juan Seguín. For Tejanos like myself, it was difficult to decide which side to take in the conflict. Texas is our home, but we are Mexicans by birth and language and culture, and the flood of Anglo settlers troubles us. We hardly recognize our home anymore. We fear that in time these new Anglo colonists will crowd us out. But I love my country, and when Santa Anna suspended the Mexican Constitution, my own course was plain. I am a republican, not a monarchist. I believe that man was made for liberty, not to cower under tyrants. I may be cast off, I may be dispossessed, I may be exiled from my home, but I will not flinch from my duty. I will keep faith. I will fight to the death for Texas independence.”
And Lauren listened, her eyes dark and shining and fixed on him, like he mattered more than anything else in the world—like there wasn’t anything else in the world, just the two of them.
Then he finished, and the group moved on, and the spell was broken. He was being idiotic, reading so much into a facial expression.
She’s just paying attention, that’s all. In the moment. It’s no different than how she looks at a piece of moss she’s taking a picture of, or a fireplace brick she’s smearing with mortar slurry. It doesn’t mean anything.
Unless it did.
The groups kept cycling through the different reenactors’ stations until about a quarter to ten. Lauren came back to Alex then.
“Having a good time?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. I’ve met Ben Milam and Juan Seguín, and some New Orleans Greys, and even General Cos—a very sassy General Cos, who threatened to have us taken away for interrogation when he found out we had been talking to people on the Texian side. But we gave him the slip.”
“Good for you.”
He shouldered his Escopeta. “This siege has gone on long enough. Time to storm the fortress and take back the town.”
BLACK SMOKE CLOUDED the plaza, and the air rang with the cracking shots of muskets and rifles and the louder booms of cannons. Lauren watched from a spot that gave her a good view of Alex—information that Tamara had kindly volunteered.
La Villita was a historical district, one block square, with architecture ranging from adobe to Texas vernacular limestone to early Victorian. She’d learned that much from the internet. A fountain stood in the center, and big live oak trees shaded the plaza.
Her visits to the various reenactors had been interspersed with skirmishes all along, with Mexican soldiers and Texians taking shots at each other from porches, around buildings and behind iron fencing and stone walls. But now they were fighting in earnest in the open plaza—Mexican soldiers on one side, Texians on the other.
The Mexican soldiers wore white trousers and dark blue uniform coats with red cuffs and sashes and gold trim. There weren’t many uniforms on the Texian side other than the New Orleans Greys; the freedom fighters were a ragtag bunch, with their fringed frontier shirts in linen and leather, and wool coats in various colors.
And then there was Alex, in his red jacket and knee breeches, high black boots, black sash and black hat with the brim rolled up in the back. Leather straps crossed his back and chest, holding his cartridge box, canteen and powder horn.
He made his way forward now, advancing on the fortifications, with a quick glance over his shoulder and a follow-me gesture to his men. Fire and load, fire and load, over and over. Grim and determined, businesslike and cool.
Then he jerked back like something had hit him, and dropped like a stone to the brick pavement.
He’s been shot. Some moron actually loaded a ball into a Mexican musket and shot him.
Lauren stood frozen in shock, waiting for one of the reenactors to yell for a cease-fire and do something for him. But the battle went on as if nothing unexpected had happened.
And then Lauren remembered. This was the battle where Alejandro Ramirez was killed.
Alex lay perfectly still with arms outstretched, eyes shut, and the Escopeta at his side. But no blood spread across his waistcoat or pooled on the paving tiles beneath him, and she could see his chest rising and falling slowly.
Lauren’s own breath was coming fast and shallow, and her knees suddenly felt weak with relief. She gripped a nearby stone pillar for support.
This is who he is. That’s why he’s so good at it—because he knows that if he were in Alejandro Ramirez’s place, he’d do the same thing. He’d risk everything for what he loves and believes in, and die fighting.
COLD WATER RAN down Alex’s parched throat. The cedar canteen gave it a sharp flavor, like some kind of nineteenth-century sports drink. Sitting on a stone ledge that circled a live oak tree, he downed the whole canteen in one go. All that firing and loading, the noise and smoke, hour after hour, coming on the tail of a none-too-restful night in a tent, really wore on a guy.
“Tired?”
Lauren smiled down at him, looking as fresh and flawless as a just-opened blossom.
“A little. But I’ve still got to break camp, so I can’t get too comfortable.”
“I’ll help. After a full day of freedom fighting, you deserve a break.”
He was used to packing and loading his gear alone, and Lauren was an experienced camp packer herself. Within minutes they had everything stowed under Rosie’s camper shell.
“Have you ever been to the River Walk before?” Alex asked.
“No.”
“It’s beautiful, especially at Christmastime. As a Texan I feel obliged to make sure you experience it.”
“All right. But first, let’s get you cleaned up. You’ve still got some black powder on your face.”
She got a paper towel from Tamara and dampened it with water from a wooden bucket. She started to reach up to his face, then said, “You’re too tall. Sit down on this crate.”
Alex obediently sat, and let her wipe his face clean like a child. Her eyebrows were drawn down a bit in concentration, which was cute, but what mostly held his attention was the fact that her chest was at a much-closer-than-usual level to his eyes. Her coat was unbuttoned now, revealing an emerald-colored sweater that ran smoothly over the contours of her form. Before long he was practically in a trance.
She lifted his chin, took a last searching look and smiled. “There. All done. You ready?”
Alex was in fact suddenly ready for a lot of things, and a stroll on the River Walk was pretty far down on the list.
THE RIVER WALK.
Big trees—oaks, palms, cypress. Flower beds crowded with lush tropical plants, impossibly green and bursting with bloom. A complex system of masonry—arches, alcoves, bridges, benches, ledges, stairways. Patio eating spaces sheltered with colorful umbrellas. Swags of Christmas lights.
Alex still had his reenactor clothes on. People stared and smiled as he walked past. One guy in a Spurs sweatshirt laid a hand on his arm to stop him.
“Hey, you were one of the reenactors at the thing today. You were the one that got shot, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Man, you’re a good actor, you know that? I thought for a minute you’d been shot for real. You didn’t ham it up or fall all awkward or anything. You nailed it.”
“Thank you, I appreciate that. I was playing my great-great-great-great-grandfather, who died at Béxar, and it’s important to me to represent him well.”
“That’s so cool. Thank you for doing all that with the reenactment, for giving to the community that way. I know it must be a lot of work.”
“It is. But people like you make it all worthwhile.”
The guy turned to Lauren. “What about you? Do you ever dress up with him?”
Lauren’s mind went blank. “Um...”
Alex rescued her. “She’s still pretty new to the whole scene.”
“Ah, I gotcha. Well, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before she gets sucked in.”
Then he nodded goodbye to them both. “Merry Christmas to you.”
“Merry Christmas,” they said.
“Does that happen a lot?” Lauren asked as they walked on. “Accolades from your adoring public?”
“Oh, yeah, all the time. I’m a major celebrity in the greater San Antonio area.”
“It’s true, though, what he said. You are serving the community, keeping Texas history alive in people’s hearts and minds.”
“Yeah, and that’s important. But it’s not just the history, you know? I want to remind people that things like courage and honor are real.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean people used to believe in good things more than they do today. Nowadays you just mention words like patriotism and faithfulness, and everyone’s guard goes up. If something looks really solid and good, people think there must be something wrong with it that they can’t see yet. And they don’t want to get fooled, so they act all snide. They make fun. And if you’re the one who’s talking about the very good thing, you have to throw some irony in there to show that you’re not taking it too seriously. And I think that’s sad. I mean, I get that people don’t want to be taken in, but this is more than that. It’s like people don’t even believe in the possibility of virtue anymore, the whole idea of it. I’m not gullible, but I would rather believe in things and be wrong once in a while than be cynical about every single thing just so I can say I saw it coming when something does fail. I don’t want to be that guy.”
“Well, you’re succeeding. You’re probably the most unironic person I know. Oh! Oh, my gosh. Look at that. Is that the most amazing thing you’ve ever seen?”
They’d reached a restaurant, and a server was walking past with a cast-iron platter filled with sizzling fajitas. The aroma made Lauren’s mouth water.
“I am so hungry. Are you hungry? You have to be—you haven’t had anything since breakfast, and neither have I. I want that exact fajita platter right now.”
“I can’t let you take those people’s food, but I can do the next best thing.”
He stepped over to a little outdoor hostess station.
“Two, please.”
They were seated at a round table close to the river’s edge. When the chips and salsa came, Lauren dug in, but the salsa burned her mouth and made her nose run. She watched in disbelief as Alex went on calmly eating chips mounded high with the stuff.
“How can you do that?” she asked him. “How is your mouth not on fire?”
“I don’t know. It’s in my blood, I guess.”
“It’s not in mine. The Delaware Valley was not settled by spice-loving cultures.”
Their fajitas arrived, just as sizzling and fragrant as the ones that had lured Lauren in—long strips of juicy meat mingled with browned slices of onion and red and green bell pepper.
“What a gorgeous sight,” Lauren said. “And look, they’re even Christmas-colored.”
That was the end of the talking for a while. They ate and ate of the tender, flavorful meat and vegetables. It was restful, Lauren thought, eating with someone you didn’t have to keep up a conversation with all the time.
Alex leaned back in his chair with a contented sigh and laid a hand on his perfectly flat abdomen. “Got to let my belt out a notch or two,” he said.
Lauren laughed. “As if.”
She leaned back, too. A riverboat passed by, filled with people. More people drank glasses of dark beer at a bar across the river. Someone, somewhere, was playing “O Christmas Tree” on a trumpet.
“What a lovely place. Do you come here every year at Christmastime?”
“I do now, because of the reenactment. It wasn’t a tradition when I was growing up, though.”
“My dad was heavy on tradition. I think he wanted to make sure I didn’t miss out. We always spent holidays away from home so there would be lots of cousins for me to play with. My grandmother would make orange cheese at Christmas—it’s this custard thing, an old Quaker recipe, very good—and lots of pies. We had pretty, sparkly, storybook Christmases—lots of lights, decorations, music. It was fun.”
“That sounds amazing. Our Christmases weren’t all that great. Dinner at my grandparents’ was always good, and my mom did her best, but it was such a stressful time overall that it was hard to relax and enjoy the good parts.”
“Why was it so stressful?”
“Well, we always had money troubles, and holidays just made it worse. And my dad would not let up on the gambling for one minute. He used to give me and Tony those scratch-off cards in our Christmas stockings—which I guess could be fine for some families, in moderation, but my dad was never moderate, and he made way too big a deal out of the whole thing. He’d get us everything from the little ones where you win a few dollars to the pricier ones that can bring in four figures. Mostly we wouldn’t win anything—because that’s, you know, how lotteries work—but sometimes we’d win a little. Usually not enough to break even on the cost of the cards themselves, though, and eventually I figured this out. I said to my dad, why not just take the money you would have spent on the scratch-offs, and put that in our stockings?”
“What did he say to that?”
“He said I was an uptight killjoy who needed to lighten up. I was eleven at the time.”
“Wow. That’s harsh.”
“Yeah. And then the very next year, I actually won a thousand dollars on one of my Christmas stocking scratch-offs.”
“No way!”
“Yep. And my dad was all like, ‘See? What’d I tell you? I knew your ship was going to come in.’ He was as happy and excited as I was—like how he’d get with Tony over football, like I’d done something that made him proud.”
“What did you spend the money on?”
“Well, I wanted to get a horse of my own and keep it at the ranch. I could have gotten a pretty decent older horse for a thousand dollars. But a few days later, the card disappeared.”
“Oh, no!”
“Yeah. I freaked when I couldn’t find it, ransacked my room. Turned out my dad had redeemed the winnings himself and then ‘invested’ them at the blackjack table. And now the money was gone, all of it, and then some. He didn’t apologize. Didn’t even admit he’d done anything wrong. He talked about it like it was some kind of account he’d set up for me, and sooner or later it was gonna make money, and when it did the money would be all mine, and way more than the original thousand. ’Course, none of that ever happened. But if I were to ask him about it today, I guarantee he’d just say the account was currently in the red but that he expected it to turn around any day now.”
“Gosh, Alex. What do you even do after something like that?”
He gave a dry chuckle. “I’ll tell you what I did. The next Christmas, when I pulled the scratch-offs out of my stocking—yes, he did it again—I threw them straight into the fireplace. Man, the look on his face! He busted my butt, but it was worth it. I never got another scratch-off in my Christmas stocking again. Tony did, but I didn’t.”
“Did you get the equivalent amount of money instead?”
“Are you kidding? Of course not.”
Lauren thought of cozy Christmases with her extended family. She was the youngest grandchild; her cousins were always extra nice to her and her aunts all seemed to be trying to load her up with enough mothering to last the rest of the year. She felt wrung with pity for eleven-year-old Alex, with his modest, never-to-be-realized dream of owning a horse. But there was something valiant about twelve-year-old Alex, defying his father by refusing to take part in a system he despised.
“Sorry,” said Alex. “Didn’t mean to be such a Debbie Downer.”
Something about the way he said this struck Lauren as hilarious. She let out a strangled squeal of laughter, started coughing and had to take a drink of water to clear her throat. When she had her voice under control, she said, “Well, you’re grown up now, so your holidays are what you make them. Have you come up with any Christmas traditions of your own?”
“Oh, yeah, you bet. Working all the hours I possibly can, and stocking up on marked-down grocery items afterward. Last year I got a dope party platter for pennies on the dollar, and enough butter to last me ’til spring.”
“That can’t be all you do. What about your mom? Do you see her?”
“She lives in Longview now with her husband. I like the guy, he’s good to her, but it’s too far to visit very often, especially with my work schedule, and taking care of the ranch.”
“That’s not right. You need some holiday traditions—fun holiday traditions.”
He thought a moment. “Well, how ’bout this right now? This is pretty nice, don’t you think?”
Did he mean the Siege of Béxar reenactment and the River Walk afterward, or the reenactment and the River Walk with her? He couldn’t possibly be hinting at a future for the two of them together...could he?
Of course not. It was just the sort of thing people said. “Let’s get together and do this every year,” they’d say, but no one ever did.
Well, most people never did. But Alex? Was anything ever just talk with him?
Careful, she told herself. Be sensible.
Then sensible got swallowed up in a great swelling wave of joy, made up of stonework and trees, stately old architecture, festive music, happy people, good food...and Alex. He was a sensory experience in himself, with his amber eyes and his glossy black hair and his clothing from two centuries ago. He still gave off a faint whiff of sulfur from the black-powder shooting once in a while, and he had a tiny black smudge in the corner of his eye. He was so easy to be with, so strangely familiar, and yet he kept surprising her with unexpected depths.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, it is.”
They sat there a moment, smiling awkwardly at each other and not saying anything, until a duck came sauntering up and gave Alex an expectant look.
“Give me a fajita,” Lauren said in a cranky and entitled duck voice.
Alex didn’t miss a beat. “Sorry, bro,” he said to the duck. “No fajitas for you. It’s bad for you to eat people food.”
“Don’t care,” said Lauren-as-duck. “Want a fajita. Give it to me.”
“Listen, you hungry? You go catch a bug out of the river. That’s your natural food.”
“No. Beef skirt steak is my natural food. With bell peppers and onions.”
“You mean to tell me you take down domestic cattle in the wild? Let’s see you do it.”
Alex deadpanned his part perfectly, and the duck cocked its head like it had been caught in a lie.
“Give me a tortilla chip, then,” Lauren said. By now she could barely keep her duck voice steady.
“No can do. Feeding the ducks at the River Walk is prohibited.”
In perfect comedic timing, the duck suddenly lifted its wings at Alex in a mildly aggressive gesture.
Alex held his hands up peaceably. “Whoa! Whoa! I don’t want trouble here, man. You got a problem, take it up with the San Antonio River Authority.”
The duck stared at him a second more, then abruptly turned and ambled back toward the water.
“’Kay then,” Lauren said in the duck voice. “’Bye.”
“All right then,” Alex said. “Peace out.”
“Yeah. Keep it real.”
The server brought their check. Alex took it before it had a chance to touch the table, and paid in a low-key but masterful way.
The sun had gone down, and the Christmas lights glowed in the twilight. Lauren and Alex walked slowly, without any destination in mind. Sometimes Lauren stopped to take a picture. One small curved nook of a stone railing offered a terrific view of some old architecture across the river. She got several shots from there, then set her camera on the railing to review them.
Suddenly she felt a presence just behind her, a big, warm presence that smelled of black powder and woodsmoke.
“You get some good pics?”
His voice was so near. He wasn’t touching her, but she felt his breath on the top of her head.
“Mmm-hmm. Want to see?”
“Yeah.”
She scrolled through some of the shots. He made comments, and she supposed she replied, but she hardly heard what either of them said. She couldn’t think about anything, feel anything, other than the solid six-plus feet and hundred-and-eighty-some-odd pounds of man standing bare inches away.
Something brushed along the nape of her neck. Her hair was down, and he’d just drawn it all sideways, off the collar of her coat. She shivered, though her body temperature had definitely just gone up. Her heart hammered in her chest; she could actually hear the frantic swoosh-swoosh of her own pulse in her head.
He waited, like he was giving her a chance to draw away. She turned her head and saw him looking down at her with a question in his face.
Then he leaned in and kissed her.
HE KISSED HER.
He’d waited so long to do this. Agonized over it. Doubted himself. Was the timing right? Did she even want it?
But he’d seen the answer seconds ago in her eyes, and now he felt her mouth against his, kissing him back. She turned and faced him, and as he circled her with his arms he had just enough rational ability left to think Careful, don’t knock over the camera. Then her smooth, cool little hand was on his face, his neck. He pulled her close.
A loud cheer broke out, which didn’t exactly make sense, but seemed kind of fitting, really. Lauren broke away enough to see where it was coming from. A crowd of college-age kids across the river was applauding them.
“Time-travel romance!”
“I love that trope.”
“Hope the dude isn’t fated to die at the Alamo.”
Lauren chuckled and looked back up at Alex. She was more beautiful than ever.
They waved at the appreciative crowd, who cheered them even louder.
“I’ve been wanting to do that a long time,” he said. His voice sounded strange to him, sort of young. “I almost did it last night, but I stopped myself just in time because I didn’t want our first kiss to be in a parking garage.”
Man, that sounded dumb. Talking about “our first kiss,” like he was fifteen or something.
“I wondered why you ran away all of a sudden,” Lauren said. Her voice sounded funny, too.
“Yeah, it was touch-and-go for a minute there. I had to, like, spin myself around and propel myself away.”
She slid her hand down his chest. “You chose your moment well.”
They made up for lost time now. They kissed under a mountain laurel tree, under a bridge, on top of the same bridge, in front of a Starbucks. They walked, held hands, joined a group of carolers for a few songs. Alex felt like he’d just woken up after being asleep for months, full of energy and life. Everything he saw was brilliant and spectacular—every sparkling wave on the river, every star in the sky, every leaf and stone. It was as if he’d never really lived until now—as if everything up until now had been a prelude to this night.
He wanted it to go on forever, but well before midnight he walked her to her van. Some precipitation was supposedly on its way, and he wanted her safely home before the roads got wet.
“I’ll be over Monday with the plaster samples for the bunkhouse,” he said. “Text me when you get home so I’ll know you made it, okay?”
She smiled up at him. “Okay.”
She clicked the key fob, and he opened the driver’s door for her.
“Good night,” she said. “Thank you for a lovely day.”
“Good night.”
He kissed her again.
THEIR PREVIOUS KISSES had all been in more-or-less public view. This one was private, and lingering and long. Lauren ran her thumb along that concave leanness between Alex’s cheekbone and chin. His hands were pressed tight against her back.
There wasn’t much space here between her van and the car in the next spot. But there was plenty of room inside the van. She felt a sudden urge to pull Alex inside with her and kiss him senseless.
And then...
She felt something else.
A tiny fluttering in her abdomen.
The baby’s first movement.