Page 58 of Infidelity Rules

“Sometimes, you just need a good lawyer,” I lean over and whisper to my student about her philandering, perpetually out-of-work husband.

The woman, Jessica, is relatively new to my women’s wine class, but has vented repeatedly about her husband’s multiple affairs and penchant for lounging in their basement, smoking grass and playing video games.

“Sometimes, all the sweetness and flirting and glimpses of cleavage you dish up won’t get you anywhere,” I say.

Jessica twirls the stem of her wineglass and looks at me, somewhat bewildered. She’s one of a dozen women today attending the Grape Ladies class I host regularly at a local wine shop. I glance around the tasting room and see all the women are in various stages of swirling, sipping and chatting.

“What she’s trying to say,” says Cindy, plunging her nose deep in her wineglass, “is that once a giant ass, always a giant ass.”

I roll my eyes and shake my head at Cindy. And then tell her to pull her nose out of the glass. She’s not supposed to blow bubbles in the wine.

Jessica turns toward Cindy, eyebrows raised. “Did you just call my husband a giant ass?”

“You tell me,” says Cindy. “ Is your husband a giant ass?”

The woman stares into her wineglass, then looks at Cindy and then back to me. Her gaze cannot seem to settle in one place. Cindy distracts me by holding up her hands about three feet apart and mouthing, “Giant ass,” while this poor woman absentmindedly sloshes her wine.

“Quinn, tell her,” says Cindy, looking to me for help.

“Cindy, pay attention to your wine and take a sip. Tell me what you taste.” I then lower my voice and whisper, “And please, for the love of god, stop saying the word ass.”

I turn to Jessica and pour her a bit more wine. “Do you want to hear this? We can just shut up and talk grapes instead.”

She’s quiet for a moment, then looks up at me and nods.

“Often, marriages can be salvaged. But sometimes, the guy is simply a jerk and there’s no hope. It’s just time to get out. But only you can make that decision.”

She fiddles with the stem of her glass and starts breaking her cheese into bits. I turn to the rest of my students and ask about what they see, smell and taste in their glasses. I hear descriptions such as black pepper, mushrooms, violets and pipe smoke.

I smile and nod encouragingly, all the while watching Jessica out of the corner of my eye as she destroys her cheese and shreds her napkin. I’m also trying to keep Cindy distracted so that she gives the poor woman some space.

“I’m getting cherry coke out of this,” exclaims Cindy, finally focusing on her wine. “It tastes and smells like a soda.”

“Yes, definitely,” I say. “That can be typical of this grape. Good nose, Cindy. Anyone else?”

“I’m not crazy about it,” pipes up Jessica. “It’s flat and sort of flabby. And boring. And look at that hoity toity label,” she says, starting to get excited. “It’s just like my stupid, life-sucking husband.”

Wow. Okay. She’s getting a hell of a lot out of this pinot noir.

“It’s certainly good to know what you don’t like,” I say, watching her carefully as a smile slowly spreads across her face.

“You’re right,” she says enthusiastically. “It is. And I honestly don’t like my husband. He IS a giant ass. And he always has been. God, what a jerk. What have I been thinking all these years? I’ve wasted so much time.”

She examines the cabernet franc I just poured and takes a delicate whiff of the wine.

“Green bell pepper. I’m literally smelling bell peppers in this,” she exclaims, taking a sip. “Now this is good,” she says, smiling at me. “I like this one.”

I love it when they finally get it.

And I really love teaching my Grape Ladies classes.

I started this casual wine series for women a couple of years ago and it’s been a surprising success.

I found I prefer the combination of working at Persimmon and teaching classes on the side rather than owning my own boutique wine shop. At least for now, anyway.

So I’m still at Persimmon, working side-by-side with Chef and slowly convincing him to divulge more of his cooking secrets.

But my Grape Ladies classes have been a rather fun and rewarding little side gig.

We meet monthly and I plan classes based on a chosen theme.

Sometimes I focus on a particular country, wine region or simply a type of grape.

I tend to set up seasonal wine classes around holidays and often put together food and wine pairings for the women, which is always a hit.

Regardless of the monthly theme, the classes roughly follow the same format — I chat for a bit, pour several different wines and the women get the chance to taste, compare wines and essentially discuss the contents of their glasses, and often, their lives. It’s quite a social group.

Cindy frequently shows up and pretends to be interested in oenology, but really, she usually brings somebody she thinks needs a little marital help.

She tried desperately to get me to hold group “Love Lessons” for jilted women, but I flat-out refused.

I maxed out teaching those absurd lessons for her.

But I did find that I genuinely enjoy teaching, which eventually led me to start this wine series.

I am weirdly grateful for that, so I don’t mind Cindy bringing along a friend from time to time.

I think the women she brings just need a bit of girl-time and camaraderie to help them navigate their troubled relationships.

It’s not about lessons, it’s about perspective and friendship and not feeling quite so alone.

But, of course, sometimes it’s clear there is a giant ass in the room, so to speak. And if I don’t say it, Cindy certainly will.

I’m embarrassed to admit that, very occasionally, I will agree to help out a friend or acquaintance of Cindy’s.

I don’t give lessons, per se, but I will offer up my perspective as a mistress if it seems appropriate.

And let’s face it, Cindy can be insanely persistent.

She also credits me for saving her marriage to Zack.

It’s sweet, but definitely not true, which I have told her repeatedly.

But she remains wildly enthusiastic about my ability to help other women in similar situations, despite my pleas to the contrary. So, I acquiesce from time to time.

I suppose it’s my way of using my days of dating married men for good, rather than destruction.

I know Dezi sees it that way. I also know I’m not a counselor and I don’t pretend to be, but it seems the women who wind up under my tutelage are looking for something a little less conventional.

And, as some have pointed out, my experience dating married men puts me in a unique position to offer front row insight.

For now, it just plain feels good to help other women for once rather than steal their husbands.

.....

My wine class is almost over for today. I reveal the theme for next month and review my recommended homework wines. Some of the women like to come fully prepared, while others just enjoy showing up and chugging wine. It doesn’t matter to me, everyone is welcome.

I answer a few final wine questions and then we all walk out the door together, spilling onto the sidewalk and into the late afternoon sunshine.

“Hey Quinn, did you just get engaged?” asks one of my students, grabbing my left hand. I nod and smile.

I am engaged. Engaged! And I’m over the moon.

My days of dating married men are so over.

As are my days of hardening my heart to love.

We haven’t planned anything yet as he just recently proposed, much to my surprise and delight.

I wouldn’t mind a simple wedding with just a handful of friends, but somewhere spectacular, like Italy or France.

Somewhere with food and wine pairings to make us all swoon.

But no big plans yet. It’s so new my engagement ring still feels foreign.

“I did. Just last week,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat up with pleasure as I display my hand.

“Wow, that is a beautiful ring,” she says, admiring my diamond solitaire, which is flanked by two stunning, shimmering green emeralds. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Just like my bride-to-be,” says my fiancé, coming up behind us and wrapping his arms around my waist, nuzzling my neck. “It’s one of a kind. And green. Just like her eyes.”

THE END