When All is Said and Done

By Christy Hayes

A heartbreaking novel about the sacrifices we make for love.

After an unstable childhood, marriage isn’t just a promise to Dustin Carver, it’s his lifeline. He and Tegan grew up together, fell in love, and planned their perfect life. When the future they imagined gets derailed by her demanding law career, their marriage slowly slides off the rails.

Tegan can’t believe her husband took her threat of a separation seriously and walked away without a backward glance. Heartbroken and embarrassed, she covers for his absence with lies. Lies she tells herself about her career. Lies she tells her family about her marriage. And lies she’s yet to confess to her husband about a secret she kept while he was away. When Dustin finally returns, she’s running on fumes and her lies are about to be exposed.

Seven weeks in Key West licking his wounds and watching his best friend fall in love is enough to convince Dustin to come home and fight for his marriage. Saving their relationship means returning to therapy and facing a bitter truth neither wants to address. What if their childhood romance doesn’t have a happy-ever-after ending?

This emotional read told with brutal honesty begs the ultimate question for marriages far and wide. At the end of the day—at the end of our lives—what is worth fighting for, and when, if ever, should we walk away?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christy Hayes
• Release date: Dec 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9781625720290

Christy Hayes

Christy Hayes writes romance and women's fiction. She lives outside Atlanta, Georgia, with her husband, two children, and two dogs.

Book preview

If anyone had told Dustin Carver seven weeks ago he’d drive to Midtown Atlanta and voluntarily enter the parking lot of The Psychotherapy Network on four hours of sleep and enough caffeine to fuel an eight-hour drive from Central Florida to home, he’d have called them crazy. Crazier than crazy. Looney Tunes level nutso.

A lot could change in seven weeks.

He’d vowed never to return to the non-descript business park. It had no flashy signage, no decent restaurant, no dry cleaner or barber shop or guitar store that would compel another visit or pique his interest. He’d blotted it from his mind.

Seven weeks ago, Dustin didn’t want the services of Karen Kleinfeld, Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist. High on indignation and regret, he’d stormed out of her office cursing his wife and his life. Dustin knew what he and Tegan needed, and it didn’t involve anyone or anything outside of a closed door and a horizontal surface.

Tegan had other ideas. When she’d first suggested they visit a counselor, Dustin thought she’d turned the wrong way down a one-way street. A marriage counselor? Really? That she’d dragged him to TPN meant she’d kept on going even after he’d insisted they stop trying to figure out what was wrong with their marriage and get back to what was right.

They’d known each other since they were kids. They’d dated since high school. Inches into his thirties, Dustin wasn’t looking to trade Tegan in on someone new. He was looking where he’d always looked, at the shy brunette with big brown eyes who’d stolen his heart so long ago he couldn’t remember a time they hadn’t been in love.

His phone rang, jarring him out of his thoughts, and his boss’s name popped onto the screen. After a calming breath, Dustin shoved the gearshift into park and unclenched his teeth. Hey, John.

Dustin. His name sounded like a swear word, reminding Dustin how many times he’d let John’s calls go to voicemail. You back in town yet?

Just got in this morning. He stared at the double doors of TPN waiting for someone to arrive and turn on the lights. What’s up?

You’ve been gone for weeks, and the Hallman project is imploding. Everything is blowing up—including my blood pressure and my weight.

Dustin rubbed his temple at the headache forming behind his left eye, throbbing like an infected wound. After a month and a half in Key West with nothing better to do than twiddle his thumbs and analyze the dumpster fire that was the current state of his marriage, Dustin had little to add to the conversation. The Hallman project hadn’t even blipped on his radar. I’ve got to tie up some loose ends today. I’ll be back in the office tomorrow.

Seriously? John’s tone smacked with sarcasm. You can’t come in for a couple of hours? The client needs to see your face to know you’re still in charge.

I’m not in charge. Dustin had cashed in the bulk of his accrued vacation days after Tegan delivered a coup de grâce and asked for a trial separation. He’d made a beeline to his oldest friend, a teacher on summer break in Florida, and crash landed on Bryan’s couch. He’d needed time and distance and a soft place to land where he could lick his wounds and figure out how he’d let his marriage slip so far down the drain.

On paper, you are.

On paper, he was still a married man. I said I’ll be back tomorrow.

Look, I’m sympathetic to your situation. His snarky tone said otherwise. But enough is enough.

Dustin never took well to ultimatums—those rendered by cranky bosses with cranky clients or those rendered by middle-aged, overpriced therapists with judgmental eyes and a penchant for answering questions with questions. Both came with a price too high to stomach. You firing me, John? The question sent a tingle up Dustin’s spine, heat lightning on a hot summer night.

Just be here in the morning. We’re drowning without you.

Being needed shouldn’t feel like a millstone strapped to his back. Truth was, he’d just as happily walk in front of a firing squad than go back to a job that meant nothing more than a paycheck if he couldn’t salvage his marriage. But he wasn’t reckless enough to throw away his only source of income. At least not yet. I’ll be there.

Dustin tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and stared at the landscape plants edging the building, wilting in the sweltering August heat. He should care about the job he’d had since college. His well-paying job had helped him and Tegan buy the little bungalow in a trendy neighborhood where she now lived alone. But unlike Tegan, Dustin had never lived for his job.

Dustin lived for Tegan. His job had always been a way for him to support her through law school and pay down the mountain of student debt they’d accrued. After she’d graduated and landed a plum position with one of Atlanta’s top firms, his job helped pay the mortgage and kept him occupied while she worked eighty hours a week and they slowly drifted apart.

The sound of a car door slamming had him looking around and spotting the person he sat waiting for like a stalker. Outside of the muted gray walls and ugly beige carpeting, Karen Kleinfeld looked like any upscale working woman arriving for work on a Thursday morning. In oversized trousers and a sleeveless top, she could have just as easily been heading into a hair salon to trim her blunt-cut bob. Why she spent her days refereeing feuding spouses remained a mystery—a mystery he didn’t care to solve.

Dustin ripped the sunglasses from his eyes and opened his car door to the clammy punch of humid air, stretched his travel-weary back. He squinted at his reflection in the dirty car windows, scowling at his unshaven face, messy hair, and faded t-shirt. When he started toward the good doctor, his dingy rubber sport slides—footwear of choice in Key West—flapped on the blacktop like a slap to his face. Approaching a woman he’d yelled at, whose office he’d bolted from weeks ago, looking like a crazed homeless man was not a great start to his plan to win Tegan back.

Dr. Kleinfeld, Dustin called, startling her and jostling her coffee.

His former foe stopped mid-stride and jerked her head in his direction. Her characteristic stone-face morphed into a skeptical frown, her critical up-down look at his appearance more than merited. "Ms. Kleinfeld. May I help you?"

That voice, that old money drawl mixed with disdain, sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Each excruciating minute he’d spent in her office had felt like swimming upstream in nipple-hardening, shrinkage-inducing, cold-as-his-wife’s-heart water. That he’d been sitting on a powder keg of bottled-up baggage didn’t help matters.

Dustin checked his annoyance and tried on a smile. I hope so. I’m Dustin Carver. My wife Tegan and I came to see you back in June.

Do you have an appointment? She’d perfected the technique of asking a question that sounded like an insult.

No.

We’re not a walk-in clinic, Mr. Carver.

I know. When she pivoted away, he held his arm out, stopping short of touching her. He felt her death stare like a switch from his dad. I want to apologize.

Her long pause had his stomach quivering. For what?

I was rude at our last appointment, storming out the way I did. Using profanity. I wasted your time and my money.

She would have lifted her brows if a steady diet of Botox hadn’t hindered their progress. Did you pay your bill?

Yes.

Then there’s no need to apologize.

Anticipating her dismissal, he sidestepped to block her path.

Mr. Carver—

Dustin, please. Look … The bottomed-out feeling in his gut told him it was time to beg. I know you’re not a walk-in clinic, and I don’t have an appointment, and I look like a derelict drifter, but the truth is, I want my wife back. You’re the key to making that happen.

She sighed as if she’d heard his brand of desperate appeal before. Mr. Carver, I have a full day of seeing clients with appointments. If you want my help in saving your marriage, you need to schedule a time like everybody else.

So much for greasing her wheel. But her response wasn’t a surprise, considering his first foray into marriage counseling ended in disaster and he’d directed all his bitterness at her. As annoying as she was—and she was darn annoying—after a summer spent banking his anger and marinating in remorse, he realized he had no one to blame but himself. The only way to move forward was to go right back to where it had all gone south and beg their therapist for a second chance. If I make an appointment, you’ll see us?

Can you still pay your bill?

Yes, Ma’am.

She gave him a look right out of his kindergarten teacher’s playbook when he’d rallied a group of kids to boycott quiet time. Therapy isn’t a quick fix and there are no guarantees. Are you willing to put the work in?

I am.

Then you need to make an appointment. She turned and walked inside the building.

Resigned, Dustin sighed and watched her go as sweat trickled from his temples and mingled with the scruff on his face. Having patience with anyone other than Tegan had never been his strong suit.

Truthfully, he didn’t want the services of Karen Kleinfeld, LMFT, any more now than he had a month and a half ago. But wanting and needing were two sides of the same coin—a coin he wasn’t willing to toss when his marriage of six years hung in the balance. He needed to swallow his pride and fix what he’d broken before that coin stopped spinning and landed on the side that left him heartbroken and divorced.

A lot had changed in seven weeks, but not his love and devotion to his wife. The thought of not being with Tegan had always tasted like acid on his tongue. In the past couple of months, it had darn near gouged a hole in his gut. Dustin wanted his wife back, and he’d move heaven and earth to make that happen. If that meant facing judgmental eyes and answering annoying questions, so be it. Tegan was worth it. She’d always been worth everything he had to give.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his t-shirt and walked back to his car, juking the air conditioning, and gripping the steering wheel with jittery fingers. Now that he’d completed step one, his caffeine high faded into a sour stomach full of fear. There was nothing left to do but go back to the home he used to share with Tegan and face the music.

He’d take a much-needed shower. He’d make an appointment with Ms. Kleinfleld. He’d wait for his wife to get home.

Dustin was about to find out just how much had changed in the last seven weeks.

Tegan Carver, Esq., loved words. When she was younger, she used to escape into books—stories of adventure, mystery, and romance—everything and anything she could get her hands on to blot out the hullabaloo created by her older and younger sisters. She’d hole up in their faded white treehouse with stacks of books and stashes of candy, content to disappear into a make-believe world.

As an adult, her job as a contract attorney revolved around words—big words and small words and every size word in between. Understanding complicated text and convoluted phrases in legal contracts, explaining them to clients in plain English, and helping them navigate business decisions provided a simple joy to Tegan’s life—a life that had, in the last couple of months, spiraled wildly out of control.

As much as Tegan loved words, the five uttered by her new assistant, Finn, leaning against the door frame of her fifteenth-floor office, had her blood running cold. Your sister is on the phone.

Tegan froze, blinking her tired eyes away from the computer screen. Which one? His answer would trigger either a jolt of fear or a twinge of annoyance for entirely opposite reasons.

Tinley, he said. Line one.

Mild annoyance for the win! Tegan took a deep breath before pressing her finger to line one. She already had an inkling why her older sister was calling and exited her document to pull up her calendar. Tegan Carver.

Why do you answer the phone that way? Tinley’s voice held the same judgmental tone she’d perfected in the almost three decades she’d spent bossing her younger sisters around.

I’m at work.

I know you’re at work. I called you at work. Your assistant answered the phone and put me on hold, which means he told you I was on the phone.

Tegan bit the inside of her cheek and reached inside her desk drawer, fisting a cardboard stem with a tightly wrapped paper covering. Settling the receiver between her shoulder and ear, she unwrapped her lollipop of choice and plopped it into her mouth. Wha yu wan?

Tinley sighed and mumbled under her breath, And you call yourself a professional. Take the lollipop out of your mouth and talk to me.

Tegan sucked the sweet coating with her tongue before pulling it from between her teeth. About what? She licked her lips, chasing the sugar high she craved. You called me.

I’m supposed to take Jared to chemo today, but Maddie’s got a fever. I can’t risk spreading her germs.

As expected, Tinley needed a stand-in. The first week her older sister was supposed to accompany their younger sister’s husband to chemo, Sarah Grace, Tinley and Seb’s middle child, came down with the sniffles. Knowing Tinley’s turn had come up again, Tegan had been waiting for the phone to ring all morning. She scanned her calendar for the rest of the day. What time is his appointment?

One-thirty.

Tegan heard Ethan, Tinley’s youngest, whimpering moments before she heard the grinding glide of the van door. She pictured his sweet toddler body strapped into his car seat.

The school just called. I’m on my way to pick up Maddie now.

Tegan could reschedule her calls before and after her two-thirty meeting, but the meeting might be trickier to maneuver. Did you call Talia? The sisters—the whole family—were taking turns accompanying Jared to his chemo appointments. If Tinley couldn’t go, why hadn’t she called their younger sister—Jared’s wife?

No. Tinley could teach a master class on breathing criticism into only one word. She’s bent over the toilet half the day with morning sickness and she’s trying to bank her time off for when Jared is too sick to be alone.

Tegan had no defense. She wasn’t pregnant. She didn’t have kids. And she didn’t have a husband with testicular cancer. But the offhand dig still felt like a knife to her heart. Both of her sisters could get pregnant without a hitch. One the old-fashioned way three times over before she and her high school boyfriend—now husband—were ready. The other once through the wonders of modern medicine after Jared’s scary diagnosis. But not so for Tegan, who needed both a hitch and a willing husband, both of which were nowhere to be found.

She plopped the lollipop into her mouth and pinched the bridge of her nose, silently cursing her status as the agreeable sister. Tegan was everyone’s first call no matter what she had going on at work or the catastrophic state of her marriage—not that anyone in her family knew about her marriage problems. She uncorked her mouth. I can try to move a few things around.

Great. You’re the best, T. I gotta go. If they see me talking on the phone in the school zone, I’ll get a scarlet letter plastered on my car. Let me know how it goes. Tinley disconnected before Tegan could say goodbye.

Tegan gave herself major points for setting the receiver down gently instead of slamming it down the way she desired. With the lollipop back in her mouth, she gave the hard coating a quick but savage bite, exposing the chewy chocolate center. Finn, she called around her mouth full of candy clumps and gooey chocolate.

After a brief pause, Finn appeared at her door faster than expected. Tegan swallowed shards of lollipop and tongued the taffy-like substance from her teeth as Finn waited like a puppy for her to throw him a bone. His over-eagerness, while helpful and a complete one-eighty from her previous two assistants, was getting on her nerves. I’ve got a family emergency I need to cover this afternoon. I’m going to call McHugh and reschedule our two-thirty meeting. After I add the meeting back on the calendar, can you reschedule the Bratson and Pinson Farm calls for tomorrow?

Of course, he said with a quirk to his wrinkleless brow. His resume said he was twenty-five, but he didn’t look a day over sixteen. Would you like me to call McHugh?

Tegan should feel grateful instead of annoyed. Unlike her former assistants, Finn was sharp enough and eager enough to help ease her workload. But after years of doing everything herself, she didn’t have a clue how to delegate. How else could she be sure her work got done correctly? I’ll call him myself. He’ll take it better coming from me.

Anything else? His lips pursed into a frown. You look stressed.

Awesome feedback, Finn. Thanks so much. She didn’t need Finn’s comment to know she felt stressed and looked the part. The morning mirror refused to lie. That’ll do it. She cocked her head and pasted on her best sorority-girl smile. Thanks, Finn.

You betcha. He turned and disappeared from her line of sight.

Tegan stopped herself from opening her drawer and reaching for another lollipop. She didn’t need more candy. She needed an actual meal with protein and vegetables and carbohydrates that didn’t come from sugar. Every day she vowed to start fresh, throw out the candy, and make better food choices. And every day she got busy or distracted and her promise to eat healthier got lost in the shuffle.

When Dustin was home, her days started with coffee and a yogurt or a bowl of oatmeal—whatever he’d make for himself, he’d make for her too. With him gone and her family in crisis mode, she’d gotten into a bad habit of skipping meals and grabbing unhealthy choices on the go. As a result, she spent most days fighting dizziness and fatigue with caffeine and candy.

Was it any wonder her favorite suit felt loose this morning when she’d hastily gotten dressed? She didn’t have time for a healthy meal on her best days. But with her husband missing in action, her job consuming her life as usual, and her family needing her presence and steady support more than ever, it was downright impossible.

She also didn’t have time to wallow in self-pity when she had to call McHuge-pain-in-her-butt and beg forgiveness for rescheduling their meeting. If he wasn’t her largest project to date, she’d pawn the assignment off on Finn and really let him experience the unglamorous life of an overworked contract attorney while he tried to figure out if he wanted to go to law school. But, as usual, she couldn’t take the chance he’d screw it up.

Tegan scrunched her eyes closed and sighed, reaching for the receiver. Senior Associate Donald McHugh’s assistant answered with a smile in her voice.

Hi, Mona. It’s Tegan Carver. Is Don in?

Oh, shoot, hon. He just scooted out.

Just scooted out as in I can catch him on his cell? Or just scooted out as in he’s already where he’s going?

I think you can catch him on his cell. He only left a few minutes ago.

Great. Thanks, Mona.

Good luck, honey.

She’d need good luck, and Mona knew it more than anyone. Tegan dialed his number and listened to it ring once, twice, three times before he answered with his usual greeting. McHugh here.

Hi Don. It’s Tegan Carver.

We’re meeting at two.

We’re slated for two, yes, but I’ve had an emergency come up and I need to reschedule.

During the pause, she could hear a conversation that sounded like a key exchange with a valet. You know we’re on a tight deadline.

I do, and I hope you know I wouldn’t ask to reschedule if it wasn’t important.

When?

Jared’s chemo would take four hours at least, and then she’d have to fight traffic to get him home and get back to her place. We could do a call later tonight. I should be available after seven.

I have a dinner meeting tonight.

Must be nice. Even before Dustin left, she’d work through dinner until her heavy eyes refused to stay open. How about first thing tomorrow morning?

I’ve got a call at nine-thirty.

Work with me, McHuge. She brightened her voice. Seven or seven-thirty?

Seven-thirty, he barked. Book the conference room. I’ll need coffee and a gluten-free bagel.

Of course. I appreciate your flexibility.

Don’t make it a habit. He hung up without saying goodbye.

Tegan jiggled the mouse to bring her computer back to life. With only a few minutes before she had to leave to pick up Jared, she didn’t have enough time to go downstairs and eat a healthy lunch when she had to stop what she was doing and assemble the mountain of work she’d have to take home for the late night ahead and be prepared for her early morning meeting. In fact, she didn’t have time for lunch at all.

With a sigh, she stood and reached for her bag, calling Finn as she did.

He appeared at her door like the agile kid he was. Yes, boss?

I rescheduled McHugh for seven thirty tomorrow morning. I need you to book the conference room, and he’s requested coffee and gluten-free bagels.

No problem. Any particular flavor?

Whatever is fine—but nothing with garlic.

No garlic. Gotcha. Anything else?

A healthy meal. A good night’s sleep. A decadent massage? Unless you’ve got an extra sandwich hiding in your desk, that’s it.

He pointed over his shoulder in the general direction of his desk. I’ve got a couple of hard-boiled eggs.

She’d rather eat her pen. That’s okay, thanks.

You want me to run downstairs and get you something before you go?

If Dustin knew she’d hired a male assistant, he’d have called him a brownnoser and laughed at her stories of his puppy-like enthusiasm. He’d have given him a nickname by now, something like Buster or Champ or Skipper, and felt sorry for him for not knowing she didn’t like to be coddled at work. Dustin was the only one allowed to needle her into eating or sleeping when she lost herself in work. She felt his absence like a phantom limb, a cramping pinch followed by a lingering burn. Nothing, not candy or work or exhaustion, eased the pain. She shook thoughts of him away.

No time for that. Thanks anyway. She powered off her computer and straightened her desk chair, glancing around the office for anything she’d need under the watchful eyes of her assistant. Text me if something comes up. Only call if it’s urgent.

Gotcha. He watched her shimmy her feet back into her heels and trade the sweater she wore in the office for the blazer that matched her skirt, stepping forward to lift the wayward arm of her jacket. Anything else?

I think that’s it.

He cleared his throat. The cafeteria has grab-and-go sandwiches.

He’d worked there for like a minute, and he already knew more about the building than she did. Okay. I’ll grab one on my way out.

The chicken salad is good, but if it’s made any earlier than this morning, the bread will be soggy. They post the made-on date in tiny gold lettering on the bottom of the container so it’s kinda hard to find. If you’re in a hurry, the safest bet is a cold cut sandwich.

Helpful and annoying wasn’t such a bad combination, after all. Cold cuts it is.

Armed with this new information,