PROLOGUE

Men lie, and Lloyd is no different. I know he’s my husband, but I don’t trust him. A brotha that fine and that talented has plenty of opportunity for cheating.

The southern skyline of Virginia is gorgeous and clear around late fall. I usually love watching the foliage on the trees along the highway turn yellow, then brown. I love the way the leaves surrender to the inevitable, letting go of the branches, spiraling through the air, and finding their place on the ground. It’s always given me a feeling of things being right in the world. But this year, it’s not making my heart sing. The trees look bare and the leaves old and sad. This year, all I see is decay.

It’s 6:30 p.m. on a Friday, and the rush hour traffic is moving at a snail’s pace along Route 64. I should be heading east from downtown Norfolk. I should be looking forward to getting home and celebrating with a man who is devoted to me. Instead I’m sitting here like a bump on a log, alone with my poisonous thoughts. Me, Laney Dennison. Successful owner of seven boutiques across Virginia. Today I played many roles. I was the nerves-of-steel negotiator when sealing the deal to open our eighth store, and the savvy trend-spotter when approving the exquisite and outrageously expensive lines my buyers brought back from New York, Milan, and Paris. No knock-offs, the real thing. Roberto Cavalli. Jean Paul Gaultier. I should be feeling good. I deserve to feel good. Hear that, Lloyd?

THUD! As if I didn’t have enough problems already, I just bumped the back of the car in front of me with my treasured Aston Martin. I was so engulfed in my thoughts about Lloyd that I didn’t notice the traffic had stopped again. I raise my hand in apology, hoping the driver will know I’m sincere. He looks at me through his rear-view mirror and shakes a fist. But he doesn’t get out, for which I’m grateful.

The sun is setting under the multicolored skyline. I flip on the radio. Lloyd’s number-one single on the R&B charts,“If You Don’t Love Me,” rises up through the speakers. My throat closes and I fight back tears. I switch off the radio. As much as I love the sound of it, the last thing I need right now is to hear Lloyd’s voice.

The traffic has stopped again. Okay, pull yourself together, girl. Stop trippin’ and examine the facts. I reach up and adjust the rear-view mirror. I take out my lipstick from my purse and apply it to my lips, and I remember what he always says:The lips I love to kiss.

There’s no escape. I can turn off the radio, but I can’t turn off Lloyd. I shake my head and vow not to let my failing marriage spoil my weekend. I catch my eye in the mirror. Could that really be me? At forty-one, I feel haggard. Worn out and used up. But I don’t look it. My skin is still smooth.My brown pecan angel. There he is again, in my head. I laugh to keep myself from crying. I have to stay focused on my anger, or I’ll fall apart. I force myself to remember our last argument.

I sit at the table and watch Lloyd standing at the sink across our open plan kitchen. He’s dressed in a pair of suede warm-up pants and a tank top that shows off his well-defined physique. He’s one shade lighter than blue-black, which makes his perfectly shaped bald head glisten under the haloge