Infidelity Rules by Joelle Babula: Excerpt

Infidelity Rules: A Menu For Disaster, The Perils of Loving Food, Wine, and Married Men

“Infidelity Rules is a delicious escape. The complexities of love and wine pair for an emotional journey alongside characters navigating broken hearts and moral dilemmas.” -Audrey Ingram, author of The River Runs South

QUINN DAVIS shatters the norm.

She’s successful in the traditionally male-dominated wine world. She’ll do anything for a hunk of swoon-worthy cheese. And she only dates married men, a practice designed to evade love and protect her battered heart. But even as a mistress, Quinn has rules. No meddling in happy marriages. No men with young kids. No falling in love. And absolutely, unequivocally, no gigantic panties on a date. She prefers her men the way she likes her food and wine – enticing, intoxicating and utterly delicious.

Enter MARCUS: Hollywood hot, absurdly charming, and determined to rock Quinn’s world. He encompasses everything Quinn wants in a fling – simplicity, passion and the mind-blowing infatuation that comes with a new crush. She lusts after him more than she does the most moan-worthy food and wine pairing. When she unexpectedly falls hard for this man with a complicated past, her carefully curated world unravels. Now she must confront her romantic demons, her mistress status, and learn what it means to sacrifice for another. Faced with the punishing choice of relinquishing a love she never dreamed possible or destroying a family, Quinn must decide what’s worth keeping and what she must let go. Wine and cheese? Never. A man she loves? Perhaps.

Chapter 9

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 man oh man can she turn out traditional 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 really 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 actually like the fact that they usually prefer a cocktail to a glass of wine as then I am truly off duty whenever we get 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 about 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 absolutely 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. Needless to say, most women don’t stick around long enough to become girlfriends. 

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 all 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. 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 was apparently 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 somebody. 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 my own 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 is 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 is 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 am watching 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.

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Joelle Babula is an award-winning former journalist and columnist and currently a nurse practitioner. A graduate of Johns Hopkins University School of Nursing, she now lives in the Baltimore area with her husband and two ridiculous lap cats. Infidelity Rules is her debut novel. When not writing or taking care of patients, she can be found exploring Baltimore’s fabulous restaurant scene, playing outside or cooking for friends and family. Often, she’s traversing the Eastern Seaboard in search of her next great food moan. She and her husband enjoy traveling, outdoor adventures and all manner of ballroom, swing and disco dancing. She is currently drinking wine and working on her next novel. Or eating cheese.

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Category: On Writing