Chapter 4
I was enjoying my peace. With nothing better to do, I figured I'd put on a show just for Kyle.
I contacted my childhood friend, Jack Cooper, the guy who ran the local poultry farm. These days, he just went by Dylan.
Dylan was a big guy, tall and broad-shouldered, skin tanned from working outside. When he smiled, those huge white teeth made him look super down-to-earth and trustworthy.
I slipped him 700 dollars and asked him to do me a solid—play the part of the doting father-to-be for a while.
Dylan thumped his chest and grinned, "No problem." He was all in.
So, at the farm stay, our little act began.
Dylan started showing up, carrying two big hens, dropping by to see me.
"Hazel, you look tired. Let me make you some proper soup," he said, flashing his big goofy grin.
I'd cradle my belly, grinning with happiness as I took the hens from him.
"Dylan, you're the best," I said, smiling wide.
Over in the gazebo, Kyle's face was as dark as a thundercloud.
He watched Dylan fumble his way through an attempt at a shoulder massage for me.
"Hazel, you look tired. Let me give you a massage," Dylan said, grinning.
I giggled and squirmed away.
"Cut it out. That tickles," I said.
We were joking around and laughing together, looking like the perfect happy couple.
Across the yard, Kyle's grip tightened around his cup until it shattered with a sharp crack.
Finally, he'd seen enough.
He cornered me beneath the grape trellis in the yard, his gaze cold and predatory.
"Is it him?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.
I blinked, putting on my best innocent face.
"Who are you talking about?" I said, acting clueless.
"That poultry farmer!" He gritted out, his jaw tight with frustration.
I just smiled breezily, totally unfazed.
"Mr. Walsh, don't you think you're overstepping?" I teased, my tone light and cool.
"I'm your chef, not your property. Who I spend my time with is my business," I shot back, my tone cool and unbothered.
His chest was rising and falling with fur. He was fuming, barely keeping it together.
He must be wondering how I always knew which buttons to push.
He stared at me, his gaze intense, like he was trying to see right through me.
"Fine. Very well," he said, his voice icy.
He turned and walked away, his retreating back as cold and final as a slamming door.
I knew this wasn't over.
*****
Sure enough, the next day, Patrick hunted down Dylan.
He slid a check for a million and a half dollars across the table to Dylan.
"Leave her, and this money is yours," Patrick said, his face blank and his tone all business.
Dylan, playing his part perfectly, pushed the check back with a look of righteous indignation.
He declared, "What kind of man do you think I am? What Hazel and I have is real. It's not for sale.
"Not for one and a half million dollars. Not for 15 million dollars. Not for any amount of money!"
Patrick, utterly defeated, returned empty-handed.
Kyle listened to the report, his anger boiling over as he smashed an antique vase.
He couldn't comprehend it. What did that hayseed Dylan have that he didn't?
He was Kyle Walsh. How could he lose to a man who smelled of chicken feed?
Frustration and confusion coiled around him like vines, suffocating him.
Recently, he kept having dreams.
They were always filled with hazy fragments.
There was a lavish wedding. He couldn't see the bride's face, but he could feel the subtle tremble in her slender fingers as the ring slid onto her hand.
There was a cozy restaurant, where someone ladled out a steaming bowl of soup for him. The taste was so familiar, it made his heart skip a beat.
And there was a woman's smiling face, radiant and gentle in the sunlight.
Each time, he woke with a jolt, his head pounding.
Those fragments sent him into a panic.
A dreadful certainty grew—he had forgotten something vital.
He called Patrick.
"I need you to find out everything," Kyle said, his voice tense. "About my divorce from Hazel. How it really happened."