Faced with her husband’s infidelity, Ellen Gold has no place to hide. She must confront the reality of her dead marriage. But at 50, she can’t figure out where she’s been, where she is and where she’s going.

Tapping a wellspring she doesn’t know she has, Ellen finds the strength to wrestle with her frailties. Just as she starts to win, a high school boyfriend charms her into bed...then disappears. Ellen must again fight rejection. All her doubts and fears rise up to engulf her.

With humor and intellect, and help from friends who know her better than she knows herself, Ellen takes charge of her own life. Her experience is one that most women, and some men, will see as a metaphor, and roadmap, for their own lives.

Beth Rubin is the author of Frommer’s Washington, D.C. With Kids, The Complete Idiot’s Travel Guide to Washington, D.C., and Washington, D.C. For Dummies. A seasoned journalist, her features appear in Washington, D.C. area newspapers and magazines. She lives in Annapolis, Maryland. Split Ends is her first novel.

I’m not ready to die.

Ellen swiped at the seaweed on her cheek. Her hand found Penny’s tongue instead. The yellow lab stood next to the bed, tail thumping the mattress. The pounding of the surf and the tail merged into the rhythm of Ron’s snoring. With each exhalation, he sounded like a train screeching to an emergency stop.

In her semiconscious state, Ellen struggled. Should she retreat into the maw of the nightmare or fight back by waking up?

In the limbo between dream and reality, she chose to open her eyes. The sun burst through her haze and she blinked. A boat roared up the river, jarring her alert. She covered her eyes with her hands and felt her forehead. Clammy.

God, what a pisser that was.

Nightmare number four that week. A few days earlier she had awakened drenched after careening down a mountain road in a driverless car. Too shaken to go back to sleep, she had padded to the kitchen and baked muffins before dawn.

Until recently her dreams had been more like cartoons, non-threatening and entertaining. Sometimes the plots had been so bizarre that she had jotted them down. Maybe a writing career lay ahead.

This morning, she would have killed for another hour of sleep. She had not gone to bed until 1 A.M. She had hung up her apron, left the stemware and platters unwashed and absolved herself for the sloth.

She hated the sight of dirty dishes the morning after a party, but exhaustion had overwhelmed her perfectionism. Ron had gone to bed at midnight after not helping. As usual. He had said, "Good dinner. See you in the morning."

Poor guy, he’s had a rough week, she had told herself. As usual.

"Not so fast, lover," she had replied, and slipped her hand between his legs. He jumped.

"Jesus, Ellen. Don’t do that."

"Did I hurt you?"

"No. I’m tired."

"Ah, c’mon."

But he’d backed away as she tried to rub against him.

"I thought you might like another piece of my pie. Me."

"G’night, Ellen."

She had lifted her skirt to her waist and slid her panties to the floor. "Pretty please?" He had turned away when she tried to kiss him. "C’mon, Ron. I’ll make you feel good."

He had shot her a withering look. "Gimme a break."