Page 27 of Infidelity Rules

Elliot’s house smells fantastic. Like rosemary and garlic and red wine. And meat.

I inhale deeply as I watch Elliot and Dezi together.

They swoop around his townhouse, putting the finishing touches on appetizer trays and setting his old farm-house dining table with navy linen napkins, huge steak knives and a slew of candles.

I’m early per their request as they prepare to throw their first dinner party together. They are going old-school with a menu of deviled eggs, shrimp cocktail, prime rib and a baked potato bar, complete with all the fixings.

“Where would you like me to set up the cocktail bar?” I ask, as I watch Dezi fiddle with the creamy strand of pearls around her neck.

“I love the idea of a make-your-own martini bar, by the way,” I say, as I set out coupe glasses, shots of olive brine and lemon peel twists.

“Leaves you free to enjoy your own party.”

“Hmmm, how about in that corner across from all the food,” says Dezi, piling grated cheese and heaping mounds of sour cream into bowls. “That way, people have to move around a bit and mingle.”

They are expecting a party of ten tonight, including Elliot’s sister, Emma and her husband, Greg.

Apparently, they are making a go of their marriage and Elliot is starting to make peace with the whole thing.

He at least is no longer referring to Greg as that cocksucking, jerk-face ass-wipe, so says Dezi. Progress.

“Everything looks beautiful, Dezi,” I say. “And you look gorgeous.” And she does. She’s wearing a cream strapless A-line dress splashed with pale pink and yellow flowers. Her hair is freshly blown out and with minimal makeup, she looks like an enviable advertisement for spring.

“Thanks.” She smiles at me. “I’m so glad you could make it. And thanks for coming early.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss this. You aren’t nervous about Marcus coming, are you?”

Dezi sighs. “I adore Marcus, you know that. And I love having you here. And Elliot is so excited to host you both. But I won’t lie, Quinn, the two of you around Elliot make me nervous. Just promise me you will never, ever, mention he’s married.”

“Of course not,” I say. “We’ll never say anything. You’re in charge of what you want to divulge to your boyfriend. Always.”

“I could use a drink,” she says, smoothing out her dress.

“Lucky for you my friend, I have just the thing.” I hand her an icy gin martini, murky with olive brine.

“Am I allowed to drink before my guests arrive?” she asks, accepting the drink and taking a delicate sip.

“Absolutely. In fact, it’s a rule. A slightly buzzed hostess makes for an excellent party.”

“Well far be it for me to ignore the rules,” she says, biting into an olive.

She’s the only person I know who bites an olive in half, rather than plopping the whole thing in her mouth in one go. Same thing with cherry tomatoes. And almonds of all things.

I’m mixing up a second drink for Elliot — orange bitters and a twist — when I feel that familiar buzz in the air. Marcus, I think as my stomach flips and somersaults. Here comes that roller-coaster-ride whoosh.

Every. Time.

“You know your wine AND your martinis. You are a very, very fancy woman,” says Marcus, taking the glass out of my hand and pulling me in for a long, soft kiss.

“I have missed you,” he says, putting his forehead against mine and fixing me with those jewel-blue eyes.

“I do not get to see you nearly enough.”

“Well, I, for one, couldn’t agree more.” I wrap my arms around him.

“But you’re here now. And I don’t plan to let you out of my sight.

Well, except of course when I’m eating. Or drinking.

Or defending my cheese plate. Or otherwise doing lady things.

” I smile up at him. UP! I get to look up! I still get such a kick out of that.

“What’s this about not getting to see enough of each other?” asks Elliot, coming over to say hi to Marcus. “Hey buddy, so glad you could make it,” he says, clapping Marcus on the back, dude-style. “And I agree. We rarely get to see you.”

“Pilot life,” says Marcus, handing Elliot a bottle of whiskey as a host gift. “And I live in New York City, which probably doesn’t help much. But I see this one every chance I get,” he says, putting his arm around my waist.

“Well, we should get a double date on the calendar soon,” says Elliot. “Maybe I can even get you two on the dance floor. Oh, I know, we can all do a long weekend in New York,” he says excitedly. “I love the city and I’m due for a reconnaissance mission to Murray’s Cheese Shop.”

My eyebrows raise at this. I’m pretty sure a group outing to New York, where my married lover lives, with his wife , is out of the question.

I don’t really even know much about Marcus’s home life.

I know he owns an apartment somewhere in Manhattan and that he and his wife have two cats, Zulu and Bogey.

I also know he’s a regular at a gym within walking distance where he plays racquetball and throws weights around.

But that’s about it. I don’t even know his wife’s name or what she does, and I think we both like it that way.

I nod at Elliot, non-committal, and quickly change the subject. “So, tell me what we’re having tonight so I know which wines to open now and get decanted,” I say, pointing to the four bottles of wine I brought. “I heard something about prime rib …?”

.....

I slice into my slab of steak and it cuts just like butter. It’s that perfect, ruddy medium rare with a fabulous peppercorn crust. Mmmmm. The bite melts on my tongue, all crunchy salt and beefy, bloody goodness.

I’m about to tell Elliot and Dezi how delicious it is when I feel Marcus’s hand gently stroking my inner thigh. Time-out. My brain is addled.

Meat. Wine. Marcus. This is a delicious combination. Bite of meat. Stroke. Sip of wine. Caress. Another sip of wine. Stroke, stroke, stroke.

I am woozy with desire. This cannot continue, not if we want to remain dignified and at this dinner party.

I turn to Marcus with a forkful of baked potato and offer it up as a distraction. Mine is a beautiful vessel for melted butter, whereas Marcus’s version is simply adorned with salt and pepper.

“Come on,” I say, holding up the fluffy, buttery pile. “You know you want some.”

“I very much want some,” says Marcus, his eyes twinkling. His hands, stroking, stroking, stroking.

Uh oh. Bad choice of words on my part.

He pulls my chair closer to him and plants a kiss on my neck. I’m grateful Dezi is seated on the other side of me so she cannot see my rapidly flushing face.

“Hey, you two love birdies. You need to cool it,” says Elliot’s sister, Emma, slightly slurring her speech and sloshing around what is most certainly not her first martini.

She pounds her palms on the table, spilling her drink.

“I said cool it,” she says again, her words starting to bleed together.

“Or I’m gonna comeoverthere and sit between you all. ”

Emma is most definitely in her cups, so to speak.

We had the chance to chat briefly during the cocktail hour, before she was several drinks in, and she seemed nice enough, but definitely cranky.

Her eyes tracked her husband all over the room, almost as if she were hunting him.

And every time Elliot and Dezi got close together, she would insert herself in between, laughing gaily and saying syrupy things like, “Aren’t they the sweetest couple?

Isn’t Elliot so lucky to have found Dezi. I am just soooo happy for them.”

I know her history with Greg so perhaps I’m projecting, but the woman did not seem happy about anything.

She complained about the shrimp — cocktail sauce was too spicy.

She complained about the fresh baguettes — not as crusty and authentic as what she buys.

She even complained about her brother’s cheese selection — why can’t you ever have just plain, normal cheese?

Why does it always have to stink up the place?

“Is she always like this?” I had asked Dezi when we had a moment alone before sitting down to dinner.

She rolled her eyes. “Elliot says no. That she’s normally sweet and joyful and lights up a room. His words, not mine,” she told me. “I’ve never seen that side of her exactly, but she’s always been thoughtful and kind in the past. Nothing like tonight.”

“So what gives?” I asked. “She seems so angry.”

Dezi sighed. “From what Elliot says, she’s having a hard time with Greg’s affair. And she doesn’t even believe it’s over. It’s been a bumpy road and honestly, he doesn’t seem all that remorseful. It doesn’t help that she overhead Greg telling Elliot tonight that all the women here are hot.”

Marcus smiles at Emma but does not remove his hand from my thigh. “Sorry about that,” he says. “I haven’t seen this one in a while and I can’t seem to keep my hands off her.”

“Yeah, well, you aren’t the only one with that problem,” she says, turning sloppily to her husband and patting him on the arm. “This one here, he likes the laaaadiiees.”

At that, Elliot swoops in, whisking away Emma’s drink and replacing it with a glass of sparkling water. He also hustles her into the kitchen under the guise of helping him carve more beef.

Dezi, ever the therapist, expertly steers the conversation elsewhere as Elliot tends to Emma in the kitchen.

Before we know it, we are all clinking glasses and going back for seconds as if nothing ever happened.

They are a good team, I think, happy they have found each other.

And very glad Elliot manages to bring a more subdued Emma back to the table.

“Maybe it was too soon to have those two at a dinner party together,” whispers Dezi in my ear. I watch her take a tiny bite of her potato, loaded with bacon, sour cream and cheddar cheese.

“Ya think?” I ask. “But you and Elliot did a great job of handling it. And besides, what’s a dinner party without somebody getting a little sloppy drunk?”