Luke Ten Nineteen

By J. Segura

A gripping tale of a beautiful flamenco dancer from Spain with an aristocratic pedigree, and the only child to an overbearing famous bullfighter. She journeys to America on a dance tour in New York City, fulfilling a childhood dream to see America the Beautiful! The Carlota Pena Flamenco Dance Troupe makes their way across America on their Flamenco Rojo, Blanco, y Azul Tour, closing out the tour in California where she meets and falls in love with an American. Opposing her father's adamant wishes, she does not return home to Spain. Instead, she marries and soon gives birth to a daughter named Magdalena. She will encounter an unforeseen event that will alter the course of her very life. The story picks up twenty-six years later . . . Magdalena is an FBI agent on the hunt for an elusive serial killer. Her spiritual life is ignited through a chance encounter with an old schoolmate. As God ushers her to a twenty-seven-year-old cold case, where the seal is broken from her concealed past, she will learn to master her trust in God as she comes face-to-face with a pernicious dark evil, discovering her authority over all the power of her true enemy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781641403368

Book preview

Chapter 1

Let’s begin at the moon, that powerful silvery-white presence suspended within the infinite silence of space watching over us while we sleep, the ruler of night. Venture through the celestial galaxy of stars, those sparkling diamonds bringing us the twinkle in the night, where wishes spring forth and dreams are birthed. At the speed of light, zoom in on Earth. Nestled at the foot of the exotic, elegant beauty of the Mediterranean Sea, you will find Costa del Sol, Spain. That is where Rosalina’s life began twenty-one years ago.

Privileged as a child, she was an exquisite beauty with alabaster complexion, big hazel-brown eyes, and thick chestnut-brown hair. All her life, people turned to catch a glimpse of her beauty. Strangers reached out toward her as a toddler, brushing their admiring fingertips across her milky-white cheeks, speaking words that would always bring a sparkle of pride to her mother’s eyes. She is very beautiful.

The only child to one of the most adored matadors in Spain, Ramone de Villa Fuentes, nicknamed Manito. Born into an atristocratic family, streaks of blue blood ran through her veins. Her maternal grandmother was the Contessa Teresa Costa di Vicenzo of Portugal, married to the legendary Francisco Pedro Santiago Rodriguez, best known as Paquito. He was one of the most revered matadors of his time, many of his techniques still studied today.

She attended the finest schools and spoke five languages. She was a skilled pianist and equestrienne. She studied dance since she was old enough to walk; her chosen genre and expertise is the flamenco dance, a dance originating from the Gypsies of Andalusia in southern Spain. The art form of flamenco took several centuries to develop with influences from Gypsy, Moorish, Andalusian, and other roots. Its popularity ripened in the early nineteenth century as café entertainment.

Rosalina’s countenance was regal in stride, her beauty a gentle cascade of perfection, as she entered her father’s study. She found him with his eyes closed, his head back against his favorite overstuffed chair, enjoying the warmth of the fireplace, the last flame of its fire casting a flickering golden shadow across the large room.

Taking a step backward, she stood a few feet from him, staring down at the serenity of his late-afternoon nap. She was disappointed at his state, as she had just spent the entire day rehearsing the words for this moment. The preparations had begun for the upcoming journey to America. She was about to embark on her first tour with her dance troupe, the Carlota Pena Flamenco Dance Company, for their Flamenco Rojo, Blanco, y Azul Tour. Her excitement was uncontainable, and yet her apprehension was as apparent as the silence in the room.

She could never love another man the way she loved this man seated in front of her. Torero! El Matador del Toros! Maestro—the master! Manito the Great! The adoration of crowds were rippled echoes through time, their thunderous roar like the fury of a tumultuous sea. Their blood thirsty chants of olé, their unrestrained applause, the very soundtrack of his life. Adoring fans desirously reached out for just one touch of his traje de luces, his suit of lights, embroidered in gold. He was a superstar, his stage the spheric arena of death.

Her eyes were always drawn to his hands, their smallness earning him his nickname. The bloodshed they had caused always sent a powerful chill of disdain, pure displeasure, through her very existence. It took only one of his bullfights, at the age of ten, for her to take her position on the horrors of putting to death six bulls for the afternoon’s entertainment of a paying crowd. It was a day she will never erase from her memory, from her heart, the day she saw her father as Manito the Great. It was the day a line was drawn in the sand, separating a daughter from her father. Her stance on animal cruelty had never faltered. She gently reached out, tapping him on the shoulder, the painful confusion of that day still soiled her soul.

Papa.

A moment later, his eyes opened. He lifted his head, staring at her for an awakening moment, the shadow of his dream slowly clearing the way as he focused on her.

Yes, hija.

Looking into his black eyes, she hesitated as her heartbeat began to attack her confidence. The connotation of authority in those black eyes weakened her as she searched for the words. Words she had rehearsed over and over, tirelessly, in front of the mirrors of her bedroom, her sitting room, her bathroom, building up her courage. Now those words were slipping from her reach as she struggled to find her tongue.

I . . . I have been chosen for the Flamenco Rojo, Blanco, y Azul Tour in May! Energy and fortitude filled her, her words bouncing off the study walls filled with family history and a lifetime of accolades. I’m going to America on a six-month tour. It is an opportunity I will not pass up!

Suddenly, her unforeseen words stabbed him like the piercing gore of an angry bull, awakening his senses. His shoulders lifted him up from the chair, his black eyes filled with protest, his heart moved by the protective instincts of a father. America! Six months! I will not permit it! It is much too dangerous for a young woman like you!

I’m no longer a child, Papa. I’m twenty-one years old. An adult. I did not come here for your permission. Although your blessing will fill my heart with much joy. But, no, Papa, you cannot do that, can you? Why would you trust me? Me, a woman! She turned and her sharp footsteps quickly led her away from his disapproval.

Rosalina!

The authority of his voice halted her. She glanced back, not moving from her position.

Why must you be so defiant! I am your father. You must have respect for me. Please come back and sit. He pointed to the overstuffed red velvet couch. Please, hija, please do not leave this room in anger. We will discuss your plans.

His coaxing smile drew her back to him as she turned and slowly walked over and sat down. How he loved her so. She was the apple of his eye, and yet she was so far from his reach. Had been since her childhood. He knew her better than she knew herself. She was like him in so many ways. His legacy of strength and determination.

The distance standing between them was truly the price he must pay for many, many days, and many, many years consumed by the spotlight of bullfighting. A world she wanted no part of. How he longed for the days when his lap was her refuge, her security. The days when her unconditional love filled his heart with more joy than any arena. There was simply no comparison. He had literally built a fortress around her life, guarding her from the prowling thieves of this world.

Deep down, he knew this day would find him. But could he let her go like the natural obedience of the birds in the sky ushering their young from the guarded safety of the nest, releasing them into the freedom of the wind. How he loved her so. He sat back in his chair, facing the resolve of her big beautiful combative eyes. He drew in a controlled breath, arresting his emotions, tackling them down to the ground, grasping for the strength to set her free.

The heat of her passion for life filled the atmosphere of his study. Her excited enthusiasm, sparkles of light in her eyes, as she shared some of the details of the tour program, naming major American cities they were performing in. He sat before her, his thin yet strong hands folded on his lap, a simulated smile on the outside, complete disorder holding him captive on the inside. How he wanted to lock her in her bedroom, protect her from the perils of life. The thought was just a father’s pipe dream.

A half hour later, they embraced. One gentle kiss on her forehead sent her on her way, a youthful bounce to her steps, her dance of independence. It was like the world stood still as he watched her. Those dark clouds threatening rain outside seemed to pause, as flashes of memories tugged at his heart. Frozen pictures, moments in time, memories of the busyness of her childhood.

Suddenly, his favorite memory caught up with him. The one memory that stood the test of time. He reached out embracing it, like welcoming a long-lost friend. It was so real he could feel the cleansing of her innocence, the heat of the warm summer day. Then the giggles of a four-year-old Rosalina as clear as the sounds of the storm beginning to stir outside. Her words, as he tossed her high into the air, filled his study with life. Papa, throw me higher so I can touch the stars!

He clutched the memory, holding it tight, his fists clenching, the stubborn tears of Manito the Great released. His heart grew weak just considering America. He called it the Wild Wild West. Suddenly, his thoughts were as busy as a press room: the menacing reports of crime; the socioeconomic roller coaster, tempered by the Democratic-Republican tug of wars ruling their land; and the pretentious aspirations of fame, seizing the hearts of a generation, seizing the heart of his beautiful Rosalina. His head was spinning. Within the twisting of his thoughts, the gentleness of his wife’s voice captured his attention.

Ramone.

The tenderness of her presence pierced through the intensity of his thoughts. Immediately, he approached her, reaching and holding onto her, his words filled with grief.

How can we stop her. What can we do?

She pulled from his embrace, staring into his troubled eyes, her tenderness always able to subdue Manito the Great.

We won’t stop her. The seriousness in her voice faded. She smiled softly, looking into his brokenness. My love, this is her dream. We will not take this dream away from her. We knew this day was coming. She brushed both hands across his cheeks, reassurance in her tender voice. I already spoke to Antonio, he will watch her every move. You know that. She will be safe in his hands. Come, let’s share in her joy. Paula has prepared a special meal. Come.

But America is so dangerous!

She chuckled softly. How silly you sound. There is danger everywhere, even in Spain. Even here in Costa del Sol. We will drive ourselves crazy if all we focus on is the danger in this world. There is also goodness, and beauty, and experiences awaiting her that will bring her much joy. Our daughter is a woman now, a grown woman. She is strong just like her father. Why, just the other day she broke in Pacho with ease. A thousand pounds of Appaloosa stubborness. Within an hour, he was at her command.

He smiled with pride as they walked out of the study. I know, I watched from the balcony. She is amazing.

Chapter 2

Antonio Castillo Ortega hailed from the rich cattle soil of Cordoba, in the southern region of Spain. Home to the royal stables where, centuries past, Phillip II indulged his passion for horses, producing for himself, and the world, the Spanish purebred horse. Antonio’s mother was the only sister to Manito, his father, the headmaster at de Villa Stables. His family tree from both sides boasted the pride of many equestrian disciplines, with their origins in the tradition of sheep and cattle herding, to bullfighting.

Although he was two years Rosalina’s senior, from day one, they had been the best of friends, his nickname for her Sombra, his shadow. Ironically, he had been her shadow, her protector, blocking her from any sign of danger, from the moment she took her very first step. The stables had been their playground where echoes of their childhood and adolescence reflected off the shadows of daylight, rippled through the stillness of midnight. From a very young age, he delighted in her tenacious ability to challenge and quite often defeat the male competitive dominance reigning over the stables. Her special affinity for horses and riding, coupled with her inherent strength and determination, had advanced her in the equestrian arena.

Her life had been a crowded calendar of dance lessons, riding lessons, piano lessons, language tutors, and an occasional stolen moment sneaking out to the cold dark corners of the barn late at night. The scent of the almond trees caught up in their breaths, as they dreamed out loud about the life they would live as adults. She was the one who had first encouraged him to learn the guitar, already charting out their future together touring the globe. She would be the flamenco dancer, he the toque, the guitar-playing part of the art of flamenco.

"Sombra!" he called out.

The awakening of day had just emerged. His voice disrupted the empty silence in the studio. She was always the first to arrive, already a half hour into her rigorous stretches. She was at the mirrored wall, pretty in her pink leotards, her right leg stretched out against the ballet barre; her smile was shining.

I did it! I told him last night.

He acted as though her news was fresh to his ears. Finally! She would never understand nor approve of the covertness of his loyalty to her parents—especially when it concerned the security of her very life. But then she had to have a small incline. She had to. He had always been, through the years, the mediator, the proxy for Manito, when the flames of opposition separated them. They were like two rams locking horns, two fervent forces immovable. Her strong desire for independence was as steady as the ballet barre she was pressing against.

How did he take it?

You know Manito, stubborn as a bull at first. But he finally gave in.

She was switching to her left leg now, positioning it on the barre, beginning her stretch, as she turned to him with her overconfident smile. I’m an adult now. It’s my life, my future. He has no other choice but to give his blessing. She puckered up her heart-shaped lips, batting her eyelashes playfully. How can any man resist me! she said, giggling facetiously.

He grinned. You’re so bad! Then his voice softened. He loves you very much.

I know he does. Her voice was tender. I love him too. But he has to let go. He has to.

Off we go to the Wild Wild West! he bellowed, quickly shifting the course of their conversation. He had no desire to incite any further dialogue on the subject of Manito’s love for her. That was a given. If anybody knew how much Manito loved her, she did. Her words were the bitter truth. He had to let her go.

They shared a moment of laughter at Manito’s reference to America. Manito loathed America and all its trifleness, its gluttonous appetite for life. His regard for the star-spangled banner was always filled with unfavorable opinions, and Rosalina always contending with favorable backfire.

Her dream had always been to see America the Beautiful, since elementary school. She had a Christopher Columbus spirit of adventure, since she first read about the glorious great lakes, the majestic rocky mountains, the inviting seashores, where her ancestors landed their tall galleon voyager ships, with massive masts, on their conquests to the new world.

This very dream of her youth had carried her into the horizon of her present reality as the countdown began. Forty-five days of final dress rehearsals of lamenting solos, sizzling duets, and festive company dances filled with an array of emotions—from love to sorrow, and happiness to anger. They would mesmerize the audiences, delivering their passion in motion, the language of the soul, presented in the three forms: cante, the song; baile, the dance; and guitarra, the guitar playing, often referred to as the toque.

*  *  *  *  *

The humming of eager anticipation permeated the entire Carlota Pena Flamenco Dance troupe. The final dress rehearsal was upon them—a flurry of activity flowing. The blood, sweat, and tears of endless hours of practice polishing, refining every detail, were behind them. Today, their audience was Carlota’s esteemed colleagues from several local dance troupes and a VIP list of dignitaries. The one with the highest esteem was incognito in the sound booth.

Manito had always respected his daughter’s desire for anonymity from his fame. He had no problem hiding in the shadows. At the height of his fame, he had always drawn a crowd wherever he went. Blinding camera lights, and intrusive microphones, brazenly reaching out from the shadows were the backdrop to his life and his family. This was her moment. He had no intention of stealing one kilowatt of her spotlight as Antonio ushered him through a side door. When the sound technicians saw their top secret guest enter, they were speechless, gasping for breaths, as they immediately stood up, bowing their heads in reverence.

Manito was gracious, reaching out for handshakes. They could hardly contain their excitement while Antonio made the introductions. Rosalina had never spoken one word about her famous father. She never wanted to be addressed with the bothersome inquiries that would surely flood her days. It was the very reason Carlota went to great lengths to keep her number one flamenco dancer content. Every employee, whether they recognized her or not, was informed of the strict rules pertaining to the daughter of Manito the Great.

Rosalina was dedicated to her dancing. In order to keep her anonymity secure, she had to maintain a reticent posture at the studio, which was often received as haughty. But she never allowed watercooler gossip to distract her. She knew people were aware of who her father was. There had even been the occasional slip of the tongue. She had always gracefully accepted the panicky apologies.

Once Antonio left the sound booth, as always, Manito was the master at quenching the fire of fascination his fame always excited. He immediately engaged interest in the state-of-the-art equipment, filling up the space of the sound booth. The sound technicians were thrilled to answer all his questions, introducing him to their world. It was the very reason he had arrived thirty minutes early.

This was a big night. He wanted this evening to be perfect in every way possible. He did not want his presence in that compact sound booth causing any room for error. He was adamant when he instructed Carlota. He wanted no special treatment, no fuss, not even a hint of the usual VIP treatment his presence always provoked. This was his daughter’s evening. He would slip in and slip out incognito.

In the far corner, with a bird’s-eye view of the five-hundred-seat auditorium, was an espresso-colored leather club chair from Carlota’s office. On the floor was a sterling silver ice bucket with two bottles of sparkling mineral water on ice. Down below, in the first row, was his wife seated beside his sister and brother-in-law.

*  *  *  *  *

The moment the lights dimmed and the humming of conversation settled down to a silent anticipation, Manito was seated comfortably. The sound technicians were stirred with the prospect of recounting this evening, their eyes still filled with wonderment as they went to work, monitoring the integrity and quality of the sound, their eyes glancing over at Manito the Great seated in their sound booth.

The program opened strong and dynamic with an ensemble of twelve dancers, including Rosalina, performing to the accompaniment of Antonio as the toque, playing the upbeat tempo of an alegrias. Their red-white-and-blue ruffled costumes flowed with their rapid barrel turns, their long full skirts, the bata de cola, trailing behind them, like the brilliant-colored plumage of a peacock’s tail. The sharp angles of their body gliding to the rhythmic beat of the alegrias. Their arms and splayed fingers moved in unison with the pulsating wave movement of the falsetto—like dancing doves ready to take flight. It was a flawless, powerful performance, the clicking of percussive foot movements echoing throughout the auditorium. Carlota’s esteemed guests stood to their feet in applause.

Another powerful festive company dance followed with only eleven dancers, as Rosalina prepared backstage for her solo debut. This performance also brought the room to their feet. Then the moment Manito had been anticipating, as the entire dance troupe watched anxiously from behind the corners of the tall red velvet curtains. Excited whispers of curiosity filled the air, eager to set their eyes on Rosalina’s famous father. Was he somewhere in the audience?

Suddenly, the bright stage lights captured Rosalina in red Spanish lace. Her chestnut-brown hair was pulled back into the traditional side bun, adorned with a red rose. She had clipped the rose from a huge flower arrangement crowding her corner of the dressing room, a note signed by her parents expressing their deep love and fulfillment of pride.

Manito stood to his feet, his focus on that stage, precise as a laser beam. Her solo was strong, defiant, explosive, and yet soft, fluid, and feminine. It represented all the complexities of her very existence. His eyes saw further then that stage reaching back in time to his little girl who entered his study anxious to perform for an audience of one. He smiled recalling that very first day, at the age of eight, when she had struggled, as she put on her first flamenco dress, fussing and grumbling over the discomfort she felt. She had been more comfortable keeping up with Antonio wearing dirt-soiled jeans, as their imaginations fueled their days.

He had never felt more proud of her as the whirlwind of emotions were swirling, the memories flashing, a culmination of moments in time, colliding with his reality. Her performance communicated beyond the story of words, an electrifying outward expression of emotion. The contagious excitement of life exuded from the beauty of her soul. Her furious footwork was parallel to his dance of seduction as he dominated the ferocity of an angry bull.

It was apparent to every pair of eyes studying her, she was a gifted and magical performer, her talent shining on that stage. Her small audience was hypnotized by her beauty and by the perfection of her performance as the last beat of the toque was executed. They stood to their feet once again— the rumbling of their roars of approval, music to Rosalina’s ears as she took a deep bow. Still bent down, she gazed up and above Carlota’s guests, toward the sound booth where her father stood tall with pride. She blew him a kiss. She would love no other man the way she loved her father.

Chapter 3

Rosalina collapsed into the comfort of her first-class leather seat—her exhaustion, from a tidal wave of emotions hurling at her life for the past twenty-four hours, began to settle down to a throbbing numbness. She glanced over at Antonio already deep in conversation with a blue-eyed blonde French model. Beautiful women were always drawn to his good looks. He was medium height with raven curly hair, coal-colored eyes, and a smile that could melt ice.

She so needed to be alone at this moment, a moment she had dreamed about all her life. Manito insisted they travel first-class, and she did not put up a fight, neither had Antonio. She gazed out the small window as shadows of daybreak began to take form, a majestic golden sunrise peeking out from the eastern horizon, the stillness of the early morning a quiet whisper of serenity. Malaga Airport was the fourth busiest in Spain. She had spent a lifetime flying out of this airport. This early Monday morning was the first time her plane was headed west to America the Beautiful.

As the flight attendants scurried down the narrow aisles, making sure their passengers were securely buckled in, the heaviness of her exhaustion weighed her down. She closed her eyes deep in thought, breathing in the scent of her mother’s Chanel No. 5, lingering on her silk blouse, flashes of her tear-stained face tugging at her heart. The inward fusion of emotions rushed through her thoughts, the flashes of moments flickering.

As the plane taxied down the runway, she began to replay the past twenty-four hours. The yellow burst of the sunrise, drenching across the eastern horizon, became a movie screen. She rewound her memory beginning with the special Sunday mass Bishop Tomas Dorado Atienza officiated, in honor of her dance troupe.

Manito’s presence, as always, excited the crowd gathered in the Malaga Cathedral, known as Santa Iglesia Catedral Basilica de la Encarnacion, built in the late 1400s to early 1500s. Its Renaissance-style architecture proudly displayed and designed by the famous Spanish architect and sculptor Diego de Siloe.

The mass was held at the Chapel of Encarnacion located at the back of the main altar. It had an exquisite marble altarpiece guarded by four large Corinthian columns, projecting upward to the superior dominance of an elaborately carved cathedral ceiling, accented with masterpiece stained-glass windows depicting the blessed Annunciation.

The entire dance troupe was present. Their families and friends watched as they all received communion. They were kneeling at the altar before a Juan de Salazar Palomino sculptor of the Annunciation, the angel Gabriel announcing to the Virgin Mary her found favor with God, and the immaculate conception of the Savior of the world. There was a San Ciriaco statue on one side, a Santa Paula statue on the other side, both patron saints of Malaga.

It was as if the moment she closed her eyes in memory she hit