Unscrewed by Lois Greiman Page B

friend’s bachelor party. His name was Karl. Hers was Tinsel. I might have been able to forgive him if she’d been a Martha or a Louise. But Tinsel? A girl’s got to have some pride.
    “Rivera…Gerald,” I corrected myself, “said she called him just before he drove to your house. She was nervous.”
    The senator drew a deep breath, seemed to be looking inward. “Salina was a complicated woman. Complicated, passionate.” He glanced out the window and cleared his throat. If he was acting, he should be in the movies. But he’d have to do it for love of the arts, because, from what Laney had said, he didn’t need the money. “Opinionated. We argued,” he admitted.
    “When? On Saturday?”
    “Every day,” he said, and turning back, he gave me a tremulous smile. His eyes were dark and soulful. “The truth is this, Ms. McMullen: Salina often threatened to leave me. As often as not I said she should go. Perhaps I harbored some…uncertainty…guilt even, regarding our age difference. Perhaps I tired of the confrontations. But she and Gerald…” He shook his head. “I had no fear on that account. No matter the feelings he still…” He scowled. “That is to say, they were not meant to be together.”
    I kept a lid on my emotions and my face expressionless. “But he saw it differently.”
    He shrugged and bravely hid away the worry. “For a time after his marriage failed, perhaps. But he and Salina were not compatible. He knew that as well as I.” He put a fist to his chest. “In his heart.”
    How about in his dick?
I wanted to ask, but I didn’t. That’s where the Ph.D. comes in. “And what about Salina?” I asked.
    “Your pardon?” he said.
    I breathed carefully. “How did Salina feel about…Gerald?”
    “That fire was long since extinguished.”
    “Who was the fireman?”
    He stared at me a moment, then laughed. For reasons I can’t quite explain, I considered hitting him. Like father, like son. But then he stroked my hand.
    “So…your feelings run deep. This knowledge warms my heart. My son will need a strong woman in his corner.”
    “Why would she call him?”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “If Salina was no longer interested in him, why the phone call? Surely there was someone else she could have—”
    “Ahh, here we are,” he said as the car pulled to the curb. The driver exited, opened our door. Miguel got out, reached for my hand, drew me into the sunlight.
    Now, the truth is, I’ve been known to exit a vehicle without assistance, but I didn’t exactly despise the attention. Senator Rivera was tall and sophisticated, and smelled like…well, kind of a meld between smooth charm and old money.
    Once inside the restaurant, the maître d’ greeted us like we were demigods, nodding solemnly and motioning us toward the hushed interior.
    The lighting was dim, the upholstery plush, the menus as heavy as lead.
    We discussed luncheon options for a moment. The lasagna was good, the rigatoni mediocre, he said.
    The prices made free-range chicken look like a bargain. I’d have to sell my shoe collection to pay for a bread basket. But even designer footwear is overrated in the face of really first-rate focaccia.
    As it turned out, Rosata’s was good enough to convince me to go barefoot for the rest of my natural life. The wine was mouthwatering, the salad tossed tableside. I don’t even like salad. But one taste assured me I would have gladly given an ovary for it.
    I glanced up. Miguel Rivera was watching me. I stopped the wild masticating. He smiled.
    “It is refreshing to see a woman enjoying her food so.”
    Oh, shit. That meant I was eating like a starved porker. I stopped myself just short of apologizing.
    Instead, I cleared my throat, leaned back, dabbed at the corner of my mouth with a starched napkin, and refused to remark on the fact that it was real linen and I had missed breakfast.
    “I did not mean to make you self-conscious,” he said.
    And I didn’t mean to eat the