Chapter 1

On Thanksgiving morning, the perfume my husband had bought for his mistress was delivered to our house.

Ten minutes before the package arrived, Daniel had texted me.

The heating system at one of his hotels had broken down, he said, and he would not make it home that night.

He told me not to wait up.

"Don't leave the turkey in too long. Your stomach has been acting up, so eat something. Once I get through the next few days, we'll have our own Thanksgiving."

I stared at the message for a long time before replying with a single word.

"Okay."

What I had wanted to tell him was that I had just come home from the fertility clinic. I was eight weeks pregnant, and the baby's heartbeat was strong.

Daniel and I had been married for seven years. We had spent four of them waiting for this child.

I had endured hundreds of injections and three embryo transfers. The first two had failed.

The night before, I had slipped the ultrasound into a cream-colored envelope and written a note.

Next Thanksgiving, there will be one more person at our table.

I thought it would be the best holiday gift of our seven-year marriage.

I never imagined another gift would reach me first.

The deliveryman stood on our porch holding a dark green box addressed to Daniel Bennett. It had come from a perfumery in the city that accepted clients by private appointment only.

For one foolish second, I thought Daniel had planned a surprise. I signed for it and opened the box.

Inside was a hand-cut crystal bottle engraved with the words AFTER MIDNIGHT.

Beneath the name were two initials.

L.H.

My name was Nora. Those initials had nothing to do with me.

A card lay beneath the bottle. I would have recognized Daniel's handwriting anywhere.

"Lauren, spray this on your pillow and wait for me. Every time I leave before dawn, I hate that I have to go back to that house. Next Thanksgiving, you won't spend it alone. Daniel."

I read the card three times.

By the third, I finally understood that "that house" was the home I was standing in.

The table was already set. I had made Daniel's favorite sage-roasted turkey, poured his wine, and tucked the ultrasound beneath his napkin.

Four years earlier, after our first transfer failed, he had held me in the clinic parking lot and said, "Nora, I don't care how long it takes. You're the only person I want a home with."

Now I was finally carrying his child, and he was telling another woman that he hated coming back to our home.

I did not call Daniel right away.

Not because I was thinking of forgiving him, but because I needed to know whether this was a new affair or a relationship he had been hiding for a long time.

The custom order form was tucked into the bottom of the box. The perfume had cost twenty-four hundred dollars. The client file had been opened nine months earlier, and our home had remained the default delivery address.

The package had reached me only because Daniel had forgotten to change it to Lauren's address.

Nine months.

This was not one drunken night. It was not an impulse. It was not a single mistake.

Daniel had spent nine months choosing not to end it. Instead, he had commissioned a scent that belonged to their nights together.

I photographed the perfume, the card, the order form, and the shipping label. Then I put everything back exactly as I had found it.

After that, I took the ultrasound from beneath Daniel's napkin and locked it in my desk drawer.

The kitchen still smelled like butter and roasted turkey. I turned off the oven, sat in Daniel's chair, and called the holiday emergency line for a divorce law firm.

When someone answered, she asked how she could help.

"My name is Nora Bennett," I said, looking at the card Daniel had written to Lauren. "I want a divorce."