07 Uncorked - Chrissy McMullen Mystery by Lois Greiman

his chest–“that he does.”
    I shook my head, unsure what that had to do with the price of tortillas. But he went on to explain.
    “Think on it, Christina. My son is a good man in his own way. But he is, sometimes, impulsive. Rash, even. Does it not seem that he might well be capable of doing something…” He shrugged again. “…illegal, if he felt it would accomplish his goals?”
    “Goals?”
    A flicker of sympathy zipped across his fatherly expression. “He has, for a long while, been extremely concerned with your safety, my dear.”
    “What?”
    “Surely you have considered the possibility that he has done this to make certain that this Jackson Andrews does not harm you.”
    I blinked. I honestly had not considered that. And I really didn’t care to consider it now. I shook my head. “That’s ridiculous.”
    “Perhaps you do not realize how very much he cares for you.”
    “I…” I shook my head again. It still didn’t do much good.
    “We Latinos,” he said, “It is a problem of ours, but …sometimes we love too much.” One of my eyebrows rose of its own volition. “What’s that?”
    “The fact that he was with another…” He shrugged. “It does not mean that he cares any the less for you.”
    I blinked. “So you’re saying your son doesn’t care enough about me to keep his pants zipped, but he cares enough to spend the rest of his life in prison?” The senator lifted his hands, palms up, as if to say he had finally found a woman who understood his kind. I stared at him.
    “This actually makes sense to you?” I asked.
    “Well, my dear, I care a great deal for Rosita.”
    “Your ex-wife.”
    “Si. She is the light of my life.” He placed both weirdly expressive hands over the place where his heart might have been if he hadn't thrown his hat into the political ring.
    “The flame that ever burns in my-”
    “Do you always cheat on the light of your life?”
    “I did not cheat…so much as…” He lifted his shoulders, letting his hands drop to the table. “Stray.”
    “You—” I stopped myself before my head began spinning like Linda Blair’s and icky things came spewing out of my mouth. Although I’m a firm believer that cursing is our God-given right and an excellent stress reliever, I have yet to see documentation that it improves inter-personal relationships. I cleared my throat, smoothed a wrinkle from the pristine white napkin in front of me, and gave him a prim smile. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what this has to do with your son.”
    “He…strayed from you.”
    “Okay.”
    “The culture of our people…the passion of our people makes us…” He wobbled his head back and forth as if searching for the perfect word. The term assholes popped into my mind but I held it captive pending later release. “There are times when it makes us wander.”
    I waited.
    “But the American culture…” He shrugged. “It suggests we should confine our passions to but one woman forever.”
    I remained spectacularly silent.
    “This…what is the word? This dichotomy…it tears at us,” he said, and made a ripping motion with his hands. “There is the passion we feel in our hearts that must be quenched. But once our ardor is sated, then there is the guilt.” I settled back in my seat, took a deep breath and wondered if it would be wrong to stab him in the nuts with my sterling silver fork.
    “Let me get this straight.” I narrowed my eyes at him. He watched me steadily. More cowardly men, I have to admit, have dived under the table at less provocation. “You believe your son cheated on me, then felt so guilty about it that he attempted to murder a man in an attempt to save me from him.”
    He shrugged. “As I have said, Christina, we are a passionate people.” I opened my mouth to spew forth the aforementioned venom, then closed it judiciously and smiled a little. “All right. Well…” I spread my hands and did not consider how it would feel to tighten them