Page 9 of Infidelity Rules

Thursday. Thursday , I think as I wake up the next morning, glimpsing the note on my bedside table.

That’s four whole days from now. Four days to wrap my head around my next move.

Thankfully, I have the next few days off and I’m headed to Baltimore today to see my family for our regular-ish Sunday family dinner habit.

It will be good to get out of D.C. and have a long chat with my brother, Alex.

He reminds me of a younger version of Julian in that he’s a terrific listener.

There’s not much I can’t say to Alex, which is why he’s one of only two people who know my affinity for being a mistress.

The morning has gotten away from me and I need to get myself together and off to Baltimore. I’m about to head out when my phone pings. Dezi.

Dezi: What r u up to? Want to order in tonight and watch a movie? In our PJs? With wine?

Me: I wish, but headed to bmore to see the family. Wanna come?

Dezi: No way. You and your mom always try to set me up with Alex. You both think you’re sneaky but you’re not.

Me: Busted. I still think you two would make a great couple.

Dezi: I’m ignoring that. Have fun. Say hi to all. I still want to hear about this unmarried man …

Me: I’ll fill you in. Maybe plan for something later in the week?

Dezi: Yes! Drive safe.

I walk into my parent’s condo and, as usual, it smells fantastic, as if my mother has been cooking all day.

Which, given that she’s Italian, she probably has.

The woman does not make fancy food, but she turns out spectacular Italian comfort fare.

She’s a fan of long-simmered sauces, homemade pasta and ricotta-filled everything.

She used to feed us ricotta sandwiches as kids, which is still one of my favorites.

Nowadays, fancy foodies would call it “ricotta toast” but back then, it was simply homemade ricotta drizzled with olive oil, sprinkled with sea salt and sandwiched between slices of fresh, warm bread.

I often make it at home for lunch or an easy dinner.

“Hey Mom,” I shout, sweeping into the condo with three bottles of wine in my arms. “Smells like your red sauce! Glad I brought a couple of Chiantis.”

“You know you don’t have to do that,” she says, throwing her arms around me and planting a kiss on each cheek.

My parents don’t like wine. They both hail from wine country and have a sommelier for a daughter, but hey, go figure.

They are more gin and vodka connoisseurs.

This used to drive me bonkers, but now I like the fact that they prefer cocktails as then I’m truly off duty whenever we’re together.

I do enough wine pairing and wine chat at Persimmon, so it’s a nice break from work.

“You hungry?” my mother asks, gesturing towards a platter of antipasto the size of a long-jump pit. This could easily feed an entire men’s basketball team. After a particularly grueling game.

“Expecting the Ravens?” I ask, referring to Baltimore’s NFL team.

“Funny,” she replies, snapping my behind with her dish towel.

There are mounds of marinated vegetables, pillowy piles of prosciutto, wedges of Parmesan cheese, olives, dried figs … oh, and what appears to be a bucket-sized bowl of her homemade ricotta cheese with hunks of charred bread.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I say, spearing a marinated artichoke heart with a toothpick.

My mother, Gemma, is certainly prone to over-feeding, but this is a lot. Even for her and her Italian heart and stomach.

“Your brother is bringing a date,” she says.

“What?” I attempt to exclaim over a huge mouthful of ricotta and bread. OH MY GOD, this ricotta is so good. “A date? Since when is Alex dating somebody?”

“Since now,” says my mother, stirring her tomato sauce and adding just a pinch of her special ingredient — ground cloves.

I’m suspicious. First off, I would know if Alex was dating somebody, especially a woman he’s serious enough about to bring home to mama.

And secondly, Alex is just too busy and wildly invested in his career to get serious about anyone.

At least not yet. He’s an investigative newspaper reporter with unbelievable instincts, pit-bull-like aggression when called upon and a firm eye toward moving up the ladder as quickly as possible.

The kid has newspaper ink in his veins, I think.

He’s abandoned dates at restaurants to chase a lead, has missed countless holidays to work a late shift and thinks nothing of spending his time off in tenacious pursuit of a story.

Most women don’t stick around long enough to become girlfriends.

Or, if they do, they soon realize they will always be second to a hot story and make a fast exit.

Either that, or they bug him about it so much that he gives them the heave-ho.

So, my brother bringing home a date serious enough to meet mom without my knowledge? No way. I don’t buy it.

I’m mulling this over and chewing my way through a pile of finocchiona (fennel salami) when my mother looks at me sideways from her post in front of the stove.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” she tries to ask casually.

I do not like where this is going. It’s Sunday dinner at home with my family. Since when am I supposed to dress up?

I glance down at my leggings, comfy boots and oversized, plaid flannel shirt.

If I was feeling fancy and my stomach felt flat today, I would consider tying the ends of my pink and gray shirt into a cute little bow.

But, at the moment, things are hanging loose, a key wardrobe choice for dining at my mother’s house.

I have learned to arrive in pants that stretch, baggy shirts and no belts.

Not much different about today. I’m about to respond and voice my suspicion when my father walks into the room.

“Excited about George, are we?” he asks, folding me into a big hug. My mother is shaking her head furiously at him and my eyebrows shoot up.

“George?” I ask. “Who the hell is George?”

“Uh oh,” my father says. “Whoops, I see I let the cat out of the bag.”

“What is going on?” I ask, even though I know. They are trying to set me up.

My father quickly shoves a plum-sized hunk of salami in his mouth and points to his stuffed, chipmunk cheeks, shrugging his shoulders. He clearly does not want to get involved in this.

“George works with your father,” my mom says. “He’s just out of pharmacy school and new to the area. We thought it would be nice to have him here for dinner.”

Uh huh. I roll my eyes.

George-the-pharmacist apparently was recently hired by my dad—a seasoned pharmacist— who will be taking Georgie under his wing.

The hope here is that George will start picking up more hours so my father can cut back.

Oh, and that George and I will fall madly in love, get married and produce three grandbabies in rapid fire succession.

Don’t hold your breath, mom .

I’m about to open a bottle of Chianti and just start chugging when I get a text from my brother.

Alex: Almost there. Met your hot date yet?

Me: I’m going to kill you. I haven’t even met YOUR date yet.

Alex: Simmer down sis. Mom asked me to just bring anyone. Probably to take the pressure off you and your blind date.

Me: WHY didn’t you fill me in?

Alex: She just told me today. Been so busy at work I forgot about bringing a date. Am flying solo. See you soon.

Well, that’s just great. I was hoping to talk to Alex about my man dilemma, but it appears I’ll be entertaining George-the-pharmacist instead.

My father barely knows him and just figured he’s educated, single and has a good job, why not bring him home to meet my daughter?

My gut tells me we will all regret this choice.

George-the-pharmacist has arrived.

George likes to lecture. George is an extremely picky eater — a vegetarian no less!

George believes his body is a temple and, as such, he cannot eat, drink, inhale, smell, lick, stand next to or in any way touch anything he deems a pollutant.

This extends to my mother’s tomato sauce, which, much to my amusement, he’s now refusing to eat as it has been “touched” (read, contaminated) by her meatballs.

Alex and I can barely hold it together. This is not going to go well for George.

I see my mother’s biceps twitch and I fear she’s on the verge of pelting George with a torrent of meatballs. Or beating him over the head with a stick of salami.

I kick Alex under the table and I know we’re thinking the same thing. Please mom. Please, please, please let it start raining meatballs. Hard and fast.

Alas, my father swoops in smoothly, taking his wife by the elbow and leading her away from the vat of meatballs and sauce.

“I’m so sorry George,” says my dad. “I didn’t think to ask if you had any dietary restrictions. This is my fault,” he says, catching my mother’s eye. “I’m sure there’s something else we can offer you?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” my mother says, regaining her composure.

“I’ll be fine with all these vegetables,” says George, waving his hand over the massive antipasto tray.

I watch him carefully and I swear he’s peering at the tray, trying to see if any meat products are touching the vegetables.

“And just plain pasta will be fine,” he says. “I don’t need any sauce.”

“Would you like butter?” my mother asks.

“Is it from organic and grass-fed cows?” George replies.

My father stifles a laugh as my mother plops a package of cold, straight-from-the-fridge butter on the table.

“See for yourself,” she says, shooting eyeball daggers at my dad.

George carefully peers at the butter and frowns.

George-the-pharmacist is frowning at butter.

My mom offers up olive oil. Or cheese. Or egg yolk, which she would then toss in the hot pasta, coating it with a thick, creamy, eggy deliciousness.

I can see George’s mind whirring. He’d have to first vet the cheese and the egg, further driving my mom to drink. Or throw meatballs. Probably olive oil is the safest choice.

Olive oil it is!