She continues before I can answer.
“They said to me, ‘Mrs. Morales, Banner is Mensa.’” She allows a glimmer of humor in her dark eyes. “I thought they were insulting my daughter. Mensa means stupid girl in Spanish.”
The slightest smile tilts one side of my mouth as I appreciate the irony.
“She was so different, so . . .” A helpless shrug lifts her shoulders. “I wasn’t prepared for her.”
“Neither was I,” I agree wryly.
“The books she read, the languages she learned, the dreams she had, I couldn’t teach her those things.” The softened line of her lips cements. “But I did teach her honesty, loyalty, character. I taught her not to cheat.”
The humor we’d briefly shared dissolves, leaving the warm, early evening air tense. I don’t offer excuses or explanations because I don’t owe anyone those. I take responsibility for my actions, and nothing she will say can make me regret that her daughter is mine.
“She’s a good girl,” Mrs. Morales says softly.
“I know that. If you’re working up to telling me I don’t deserve her, don’t waste your time. I already know that, too.”
“Zo is a good man.” Her dark eyes never waver from my face, inspecting, assessing. “Are you a good man?”
I pause, examining her question and my response before answering.
“I’m good to your daughter. I would never hurt her and would kill anyone who tried.”
That bold truth sits between the two of us for a few moments before she nods.
“Well, Banner has always known her own mind,” she says. “And her mind is set on you.”
Another smile twitches the corners of her mouth.
“I think she has set her heart on you, too.”
“It’s mutual,” I assure her.
Her eyes don’t leave my face, narrowing until she nods and seems satisfied by something she sees.
“Yes, well my grandchildren will speak Spanish,” she says brusquely. “And if you don’t want us talking about you in your face, you will learn it and quickly.”
“Sí,” I reply with a smile I don’t try to hold back.
“So you’re saying you do want to marry Banner, then?” she demands, dispelling the brief ease and crossing her arms over her chest exactly the way Banner does when she’s reading me my rights.
“Uh . . .” This is taking a turn.
“What? You want to have the cow and the milk but not pay the farmer, eh? You want my grandchildren born out of wedlock?”
“No, you see I was—”
“You have moved in, yes?” she asks, shifting her hands to the hips. “To my daughter’s house? You live with her? You sleep with her every night?”
“Well, yeah, but we—”
“Then children will follow.”
With her being such a devout Catholic, I’m not sure which might be more offensive. The fact that we have sex outside of marriage or that we use birth control. I wish Banner was here to answer these questions because I could screw this all up even worse. Fortunately, someone, a cousin if I recall correctly, calls for Mrs. Morales. With one searing look from my head to my toes, she leaves as abruptly as she came.
Well, that went well. I think. Maybe?
I could use some air after that. I step out onto the terrace and am thrilled to find it empty. The thrill is short-lived when I hear footsteps approaching. The last person I want to see is the only other person out here.