Page 34 of Infidelity Rules

Daily Special

Pan seared veal chops with fried caper berries and lemon

Brown butter sage gnocchi

Shaved radish and celery salad

Chef gives me the wonky eye as I walk into the kitchen. He’s been giving me that crazy eye ever since I lost Barnyard Funk.

“I know, I know,” I say, sighing. “The cheese cart. Yes, I’m still working on it, I promise.”

If he only knew.

“Yes, Chef, I am delighted to report that the cheese cart is now appropriately stocked from that most excellent of dairy purveyors,” says Chef, as he supervises the saucier and eyes me sideways. “These are the words I wish to hear, Quinn.”

I nod. “We’ll get there,” I say. “I promise.”

“When? When will I get my promised cart of cheese? The excellent cheese. The cheese I love?”

“Soon,” I reply, hoping I’m right. “It’s a bit of a delicate situation.”

Chef turns to face me, his shoulders square and his arms crossed in front of his white coat. He looks at me expectantly. Blinking his eyes.

Well Chef. Here’s the thing. My best friend’s boyfriend’s sister’s husband cheated on her.

And that made him very, very angry. The boyfriend is the owner of Barnyard Funk (the excellent cheese purveyor).

He found out that I had an affair with his sister’s friend’s husband.

And then he found out that I’m currently sleeping with a different married man.

A man I’ve been parading about much as I would a boyfriend, rather than an illicit lover.

And then I brought said married man to a dinner party, at the Cheese Man’s home no less.

So you see, he’s not super thrilled with me at the moment. As I said, a delicate situation.

Yeah right. There’s no way I’m saying all that. It sounds crazy making even to my own ears.

“I will fix it,” I say firmly to Chef. “I just need a little bit more time.”

.....

The restaurant is bustling tonight. I’ve got three birthday celebrations, an anniversary, a girl’s night out and several six- tops, along with the usual Friday night dinner crowd.

Orders for Chef’s special are flying out of the kitchen and I’m trying to stay a step ahead.

Empty wineglasses when food arrives is a huge pet peeve of mine.

I personally want my wine before my food and so I try to do the same for my diners.

I don’t want any of my customers searching for me, empty glass in hand, while their meals cool in front of them. Not on my watch.

So this evening, I am hustling.

Champagne for table one. Two bottles of gamay for table two. Wine pairings for the six-tops at tables three and four. A Spanish tempranillo for table five. And a “red wine that doesn’t taste like dirt” at table six.

I approach a recently seated couple and ask if I can be of service. They are wearing wedding rings, appear to be in their early 50s and look bored out of their minds. It’s like she’s suffering through a Star Wars marathon and he’s enduring the movie Dirty Dancing for the tenth time.

His eyes roam around the room as she fiddles with the menu and examines her cuticles. Everything is more interesting to them than each other.

Why are they even here? I wonder. They are a perfect example of why I don’t want to get married again.

Here they are, at this lovely restaurant on a Friday night, with absolutely nothing to say to each other.

The woman is now biting off a hangnail and he’s staring out the window, picking at a scab on his chin.

They can’t even hide their misery.

“May I interest you in wine this evening?” I ask pleasantly. “Or a cocktail perhaps?”

The man looks surprised to see me. He looks surprised that he’s even here, at a restaurant. I bet you anything she whined for a date night and he finally, grudgingly, agreed.

Marriage killed these two. Or they didn’t choose right to begin with. Which I understand all too well.

I am so happy I’m not married. And that I have Marcus.

But do I? Do I have Marcus? And is that even what I want?

I shake the thoughts from my head and focus on the pair in front of me.

The woman puts her hands in her lap and looks up at me. “Oh yes, wine would be nice, wouldn’t it Phillip?” she says, nodding eagerly, trying to get her husband’s attention.

“What?” he says. “Fine. Whatever you want.” He takes the wine menu from me and glances at it. “Something in this range,” he says to me, gesturing towards the lower end of the price points.

“Of course sir,” I say, continuing to smile at this sad couple. “Red? White? Sparkling, perhaps?” I ask, all the while wanting to kick Phillip in the shin. Buy your wife a god damn nice glass of wine you ass, I scream inside my head. Hold her hand! At least LOOK at her for crying out loud!

“Oooh, Champagne would be lovely,” the woman says, clapping her hands together. “Oh Phillip, we haven’t had Champagne in ages.”

This crushes me. One should always be able to recall the last time one had Champagne. Sort of like sex. If you cannot remember the last time you indulged, it’s been too long.

“We have a wonderful selection of sparkling wines, including Champagne,” I say, willing Phillip to say yes so this poor woman can enjoy a glass of bubbly.

He looks at his wife dully over the top of his menu and again mumbles, “Fine. Whatever you want.”

The man is about as exciting as an umbrella.

I hurry off to get their Champagne, grateful to get away from the suffocating whirlpool of their life.

What happened to them? He looks at her the way I used to look at my ex-husband, Chris, with a mixture of sadness and marvel.

And marvel not in the good — wow, how did I get so lucky — way.

I mean marvel in the — how did I miscalculate my feelings and throw the trajectory of my life so far off that I cannot even figure out a way back — kind of way.

It’s a weird feeling. A trap of your own making. Sort of like digging your own grave, I would imagine.

Anyhow, I recognize Phillip’s look. And his attitude. And I’m glad I let Chris go. It wasn’t a purely selfless act, obviously, but I’m glad I got out when I did rather than put him through a slow, painful relationship death. He deserves a woman who really loves him. And that just wasn’t me.

I’m aware not all marriages are doomed. My parents, for instance, are still happy and very much in love after nearly 50 years. And I do believe Dezi and Elliot can go the distance if they so choose, but I think a lot of marriages crash and burn out, eventually.

All of my married men are a testament to that.

I present the bottle of Champagne to Phillip and he just grunts and nods. He scrutinizes the gorgeous, pale liquid, sparkling in the glass like tiny diamonds. And then he asks for a beer.

“Right away, sir,” I say, as his wife sighs into her glass. Well, more Champagne for her . At least there’s that.

.....

The next few hours go by quickly and before I know it, I’m done.

Thankfully, I had no more run-ins with Chef and, after the Champagne and beer were distributed, limited contact with the pained married couple.

Now it’s time for my usual end-of-night chat with Julian, one of my favorite aspects of working at Persimmon.

I wander into the bar and find him doing his usual post-shift wipe down and set up. I hope things aren’t weird between us as I haven’t seen him since he found out Marcus is married.

“Q,” he says, looking up at me with a smile and handing me a plate of pickled tomatillos.

Whew. Things appear normal.

“Am I going to find out anything else about your life tonight that’s going to make my head explode?” he asks.

Okay. Maybe not.

I look at Julian and cannot think of anything to say.

“I disappointed you,” I say, looking down at my hands.

Julian sighs and leans on the bar with his elbows, so his head is level with mine.

“Q. Look at me.”

My eyeballs feel suctioned to the floor. I don’t want to see the look in his eyes.

“Q,” he says again. “Please look at me.”

I drag my eyes upward and can almost hear the suction release in my head — pop, pop.

I look at Julian. I don’t think our faces have ever been this close before. All I see is kindness.

“I’m no saint and I don’t expect you or anyone else to be either,” he says. “You just surprised me. Marcus, not so much. But you ...”

“I know,” I say, nodding. “I wanted to tell you but at the same time, didn’t want you to know.”

“I get it. But for the life of me, I don’t get why such a beautiful, funny, smart woman would settle for a married man.”

“It’s complicated, Julian.”

“More complicated than the current mess you’re in?”

“Wow. What happened to my silent Julian who says nothing and lets me yap at him?” I ask, attempting to lighten the mood.

Julian cracks a smile at that.

“I just don’t want to see you get hurt Q,” he says. “You showed me that note from Marcus, remember? Seems pretty serious.”

Ah yes. The love note , I think, the memory making me smile in spite of everything.

We are quiet for a few minutes. I have no idea what he’s thinking. But I’m thinking of Marcus. And then, suddenly, Juliette.

“His wife’s name is Juliette,” I blurt out. “Juliette. I wish I didn’t know.”

Julian sits next to me and just nods.

“Do you love him, Q?”

“Yes,” I say simply.

“Is that enough?” Julian asks.

“I don’t know. Enough for what?”

“Enough to break up their marriage. Enough to let him go and know you had this great love once. Enough to forever be the other woman. There are a lot of ways to answer that question.”

“What would you do?”

“Ah Q. You know I can’t answer that for you. Nobody can.”

“What would you do about Violet? If you had to do it all over again?” I ask, referring to the woman who stole his heart. “Has it been enough for you to know you had this one, great love?”

“Yes and no,” he says.

“Geez, and you think I’m complicated,” I say, poking him in the ribs.

He smiles. “Yes, because it’s enough now for me to know I once had that kind of love.”

“And no …” I prompt.

“No, because I’ll forever wonder what could have been. What kind of love it could have become. What kind of man I’d be today.”

“No regrets,” I whisper.

Julian nods. “I should have asked her to marry me.”