Hazel is on her way home from work at the flower shop when she passes her husband zipping down the road in the opposite direction. She glances at her dashboard clock. Where could he possibly be going at almost six thirty? They rarely spend time together anymore, and he promised to be home for dinner tonight at seven.
On a whim, she hangs a U-turn on the country highway and follows his Land Rover at a safe distance back through town on Magnolia Avenue. When traffic thins, she slows her speed to put distance between them.
They’ve traveled about five miles when Charles makes a sudden right-hand turn. Hazel is grateful for her Tesla’s quiet engine as she follows him a hundred yards up a bumpy dirt road. When Charles parks in front of a tiny log cabin, Hazel pulls in alongside a stand of pine trees for cover. Heart throbbing in throat, Hazel grabs her cell phone and gets out of the car, crouching down as she moves closer to the cabin for a better view.
As Charles approaches the cabin, the front door swings open and his lifelong friend, Stuart Malone, steps onto the porch. Hazel watches in horror as Charles walks into Stuart’s arms, not in the familiar bro hug she’s seen them exchange many times but in a passionate embrace with mouths pressed together and hands on asses.
Swallowing back a wave of nausea, Hazel accesses her new phone’s fancy camera and snaps a dozen images of the lovers before retreating to her car. With head pressed against steering wheel, she contemplates her choices. She can back out of the driveway, hoping to escape undetected, or she can make a dramatic exit, letting her presence be known. Starting the engine, she slams her foot on the gas pedal, and the car hurtles forward toward the cabin. She spins the steering wheel, doing several donuts in the dirt yard before zooming back toward the highway.
Hazel pounds the steering wheel and screams at the empty car. How dare Charles do this to her? Another woman is one thing, but another man is a hard pill to swallow.
She cruises through town, barely slowing at stop signs, and when she reaches the stretch of highway heading home, she increases her speed to nearly ninety miles an hour.
When they purchased Clover Hill Farm ten years ago, Hazel had imagined raising their brood of children in the rambling old farmhouse, watching them play chase through the small apple orchard and swing on a tire from a branch of the meandering oak tree in the sprawling front yard. But now, the empty rooms serve as a constant reminder of her inability to bear children.
She flies up the stairs to the master bedroom, where she stuffs random articles of clothing into a duffel bag before going to the adjoining bath for her toiletries. The sight of Charles’s toothbrush in the stand next to hers makes her stomach heave. He’s brushed his teeth with that toothbrush after having sex with another man.
Hazel drops to her knees and vomits into the toilet. She’s been so desperate for a family, so desperate to save her marriage, that she failed to notice the signs in front of her—Charles’s frequent absences, sullen moods, and diminished interest in her sexually. Will she ever be able to rid her memory of the image of Charles and Stuart in a lover’s embrace?
Rinsing her mouth out, she zips her cosmetics bag into her duffel and hurries down to the kitchen. She’s filling a large tote with food when a breathless Charles explodes through the back door.
“Hazel! It’s not what you think,” he says, gulping in air.
Dropping several cartons of yogurt in her bag, she slams the refrigerator door shut and faces him. “Be real, Charles. I saw you kissing Stuart with my own eyes. How long has this been going on?”
