The Sommelier's Wife

Marianne Lefleur had not expected to become a widow at the age of thirty-five. Though her husband had not been world-famous in his work as a sommelier, he had been expected to rise through the ranks after gaining a few clients in the burgeoning wine business in the United States. He had even become a consultant to a few celebrities and their organizations' events, thanks to connections he had made with other sommeliers after he and Marianne had traded France for California. Despite being in his late forties, Frederick Lefleur had had the world at his feet at the time of his death, only to have it all snatched away too soon by—of all things—a drunk driver.

And that was just the short-form information she had provided for the obituary notice.

By design, Marianne allowed for a small yet tasteful funeral. It wasn't the extravagance she might have provided, but Frederick had been tight with his purse strings and had allotted only so much funds for funeral services should he die before she did.

The day came and went like any other. Frederick's friends in the wine industry offered their respects and the empty assurances that they would be only a phone call away if she needed anything.

When she returned to the modest condo they had shared, she crumpled for the first time and sobbed. The Lefleurs had been all about appearances ever since they had married five years ago, and Marianne wasn't ready to stop now. It just wouldn't do to show any hint of tears in front of the people Frederick had spoken about so scathingly behind closed doors. He had liked attention, there was no doubt, but everything else that had come with it? Definitely not.

Marianne might have continued in this way, stagnating away from the rest of the world, until she was going through Frederick's suits—intending to donate them for someone else's use rather than just keeping them as the mementos of a dead man—and found a picture tucked in one suitcoat pocket. Frowning, she pulled out the photo and stared at it for a long time.

It was a woman, her blonde hair long and luxurious, as she reclined back on a bed and smiled for the camera even as she lay in only a camisole and underwear. Her first thought was, "Oh. Of course. Of course this is what I would find." But the idea of an affair wasn't what bothered Marianne. The intimacy of the shot was far more telling of deeper feelings than simple trysts or romps away from home. But Marianne did not process it all at once. She hid the photo in the desk drawer and would decide what to do later.

But Marianne made the mistake of telling her sister who was doing charity work in Canada.

"He did what? That old slag!"

"Please don't tell our parents," Marianne said, finally feeling like the fact of the affair was becoming more and more real just by speaking the words aloud to another person. "I don't think Mother could take it. She was so fond of Fred."

"Don't worry about her. What about you?"

Marianne paused for a moment. "I don't know," she said at last. "I suppose it comes as a bit of a shock."

"A shock? Why would you say that?"

"My husband knew wine better than he knew women,” she said. "To think he was having an affair behind my back...I feel like I really didn't know him at all."

"Do you think she was one of those culinary students he met while working the restaurant circuit?"

"I don't know, and I don't really care," Marianne murmured. "It's over. He's gone. And I don't want to find out any more than I already have."

Annabel made a hum of understanding over the line. "Well, take care of yourself, Mare. Maybe you're better off that the old man left you like he did."

Only Annabel would be so frank as that.

To the rest of the world during that time, the mourning wife was a mantle Marianne wore like a crown. But it was a bitter thing that so many people sang praises about Frederick and all she could think was, "Yes, the cheater. The infidel. Such a fine man."

But she was still keeping up appearances as best she could. The only glee she felt was getting rid of everything Frederick had cherished as if doing so would get rid of the heartbreak—mourning and otherwise—that he had left her. She tried to erase every trace of the sommelier’s life they had lived for years. Gone was the wine cooler, and she had dumped all the pretty bottles of different aged wines he had kept in his collection. It had been catharsis, in a way, her kind of grieving that didn’t involve a show curated for everyone else to see.

But she still wouldn't touch the picture that sat in the desk drawer. No, she was not ready for processing that part of what had been her husband's life.

A year into a life alone, she allowed herself to dip her foot into the waters of dating again. The apps were overwhelming in that she never knew how to present herself online with the ease other women did. And every selfie she took seemed fake, manufactured for a white-bread man living a white-bread life. But she had tried living in an elite world for a while with Frederick, and look how all that had turned out. Now she had the spoils of it left over, but it all felt hollow, especially after learning that Frederick had not been as devoted as she had always believed.

Her first date was with Erik Lieberman, an art professor over at the local university. Their courtship began shyly over messages on an app, but Marianne had slipped into the dance like it was one she remembered from a memory long past. But maybe it was her way of getting back at Frederick again that the date would be at an art gallery—a callback to how Marianne and Frederick had met back in France when she had been studying abroad.

The gallery was interesting, if a bit underwhelming, but afterward Erik suggested they go to an Italian restaurant rather than a French one (for which she was glad). She tried not to think of what it meant by the way his arm kept brushing hers as they walked. Sadly, it did not excite her as much as she thought it would. In her head, she was still a married woman, and there was a wrongness to the date even though she thought Erik was good at small talk and conversation (much more than Marianne could have said of Frederick when he was alive).

As they sat in a booth tucked away in a corner, Marianne eyed Erik over her menu. He was classically handsome with clean-cut edges and laugh lines around his eyes. If she imagined the future, she could picture a life with him. It would not be the precarious performance life she had lived with Frederick, and maybe she might learn a thing or two about herself as she went along. She wasn't even forty yet. Her whole life yawned ahead of her, stretching to an unknown end. Why not make the best of it?

But all good things could not last forever.

“May we see the wine list?” Erik asked the waiter. Marianne almost flinched. When the waiter returned with the list, Erik held it out to her expectantly.

She shook her head and smiled. "I don't know if I'll have any tonight," she said. Erik frowned but said nothing as his offer of the wine list retreated. Maybe she was overthinking it, but he almost seemed disappointed that she wouldn’t drink.

If we got into the details of my late husband, you might understand, she thought.

But then she reconsidered when the waiter reappeared to take their drink order. A fake smile came to her face as she addressed him. “May I have a glass of Merlot please?”

Frederick’s least favorite had been the Merlot, and maybe it was another way to get back at him cosmically for the secret he had left behind. That image of the blonde woman, the unknown mistress, had haunted her for almost a full year, and Marianne had often thought of how she would have approached the other woman that had obviously mattered a great deal to Frederick that he had kept a photo as a memento...

As Marianne glanced beyond the waiter, she caught sight of blonde hair in a long ponytail, a pair of familiar blue eyes that glanced her way meaninglessly, and a stained chef's jacket. If Marianne had had the glass of wine already in her hand, she surely would have dropped it right then.

"Marianne?" Erik asked, but she felt like she was living in an alternate universe of some kind as she returned her gaze back to the art professor. Her date. Her promising potential of a new life.

And yet...

Marianne crumpled her fabric napkin on the table and slid out from the booth. "Sorry," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "I need to go to the restroom. You can order without me."

Then she bolted from the table as if there were ghosts chasing her through the restaurant. She made a beeline away from the restrooms and to the swinging kitchen door through which the blonde woman had just went.

She was mad to be doing this. Absolutely, positively mad.

But before she could walk in her eyes caught sight of the bar area where bottles of wine sat like prizes to be won. It was an extensive selection, more than she had seen in the months since she had rid herself of Frederick's collection. Then her eyes slid back to the kitchen door and...

What was the point, really? Did she really want to make an idiot of herself by barging into a kitchen and facing off with a woman who didn't know her at all? And what if Marianne were wrong? What if she had mistaken the young chef for her dead husband's mistress?

But what if the image of that woman would haunt her the rest of her days? What then?

Marianne took a deep, steadying breath.

Then she walked back to the table where she would have dinner with Erik.

"Sorry about that," she said, smiling, as she sat back down and put her napkin back on her lap. "Where were we?"

Erik smiled at her, and Marianne felt herself relaxing just from that expression alone.

"The Merlot's very good here," Erik said, holding up his own glass of the red wine. "How did you know that was a good choice to go with?"

Marianne let a faint smile dash across her lips. "What can I say? I know my wine."

It wasn't too far off from the truth.