Page 20 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
Concern was etched into the creases by his eyes. He’dflipped his cap backward on his head. There was dust on the bridge of his nose—dirt and dust from working in the barn. A waft of pungent manure met Molly’s nose. It was Trent’s cologne. Cow poop. The romance was likely to kill her because of its fumes if not its lack of effect otherwise.
“You’re avoiding me.” Trent stated the obvious with the talent of a man.
Molly waggled her brows at him, squeezed under his arm, and moved past him. Trent followed, and she heard him sigh.
“Can we talk?”
“Sure.” Her voice was abnormally peppy. Fake. She knew it. Trent knew it.
“Molly, I’m worried about you. Sid called me. She’s worried too. Why aren’t you eating? You know it’s important. Especially with your—depression.”
Molly didn’t miss the hesitation in his voice. This wasn’t new. This was a recurring conversation. Molly stopped in the living room. Their couch was against the wall. A recliner. A trunk filled with blankets. The TV was in the corner. The bookshelves were empty. She made a beeline for the boxes stacked on the floor next to the shelves and tugged open the top one.
“What do you need me to do?” There was desperation in Trent’s voice.
“Nothing. I just need to remember to eat better.” Yes, go with Sid’s explanation that Molly had almost passed out. Trent didn’t need to know about the vision any more than Sid did. Molly hid her face in the box of books, squeezing back a sudden surge of tears.
She wanted to be able to tell her husband. Tell him without the threat of being treated like she was having psychological issues—which was unrealistic to wish for, considering thathadto be what it was, wasn’t it? She was already depressive. Already anxiety-ridden. Already an insomniac depending on a prescription to help her sleep. Doctors would be concernedabout psychosis. She’d have to test for bipolar, or borderline personality disorder, or—
Trent was talking. “I’d hoped a new house—a new place to begin—would inspire you.”
“Inspire me to eat better?” She would go with the food thing. It was safer. “Trent, I’ll make it a point to pay more attention. And the farm here, it’s—it’s nice.” Molly straightened, a stack of books in her hands. She addressed Trent, forcing a casual nonchalance into her words. She even managed what she hoped was an encouraging smile that showed him she didn’t hate the house and she didn’t hate him.
“Nice,” Trent repeated. He leaned against the couch, his arms crossed over his chest. “Molly, we’ve been here a week and you haven’t even started to unpack.”
“That’s not true.” Molly slid the books onto an empty shelf. “See?”
“Molly.”
“What?” Another handful of books landed on the bookshelf.
She heard Trent heave a tired sigh. She heard his footsteps behind her. She felt his hand reach out to close over her arm, only he didn’t touch her. He dropped it instead to his side, leaving her skin bereft of the tenderness she craved and resisted simultaneously.
“I’m sorry.” The resignation in Trent’s words dropped like a lead weight onto Molly’s conscience. She spun around, mouth open, ready to refute his apology.
No! It wasn’t him, it washer.It wasGod! It was the abhorrent aspects of life and then death. Uncontrollable, undeniable, but also unforgivable. She couldn’t move on—that was it. That was the problem. If she could somehow transfer into Trent’s soul the nauseating pointlessness of existence now, then he would understand why this new house, this change in life, this—well,everything—meant absolutely nothing. He was lucky she wasn’t rocking aimlessly in a chair with ablanket over her lap. That was about all the motivation she had these days.
“Trent, I—” Molly’s words stuck in her throat as she looked for Trent. His retreating form met her as he exited the living room, leaving her alone. She tossed the book she was holding onto the couch, a sudden urgency to find some sort of resolution with Trent taking priority. She chased after him, her bare feet padding on the wood floor.
“Trent, please.”
He was in the kitchen, standing in front of the open fridge door, staring into the fridge as if a French silk pie would magically appear.
Molly tried again. “Trent, I’m sorry I’m not the woman you married.”
He dared a look at her.
Okay. Yes. That sounded manipulative. Victim mentality. Their grief therapist had walked her through that after the second miscarriage. She squeezed her eyes shut and searched for better words. “I’m trying to redefine who I am now, and I—”
“It’s okay.” Trent’s palm raised toward her told her he didn’t want more psychobabble tonight. This was the part of Trent that irritated her. He loved so hard but was so ... aloof. Impenetrable. A realist.
He shut the fridge door and faced her, the dirt still smudging his nose, his hat still on backward, his frame still tempting in spite of the farm smell that clung to him. “I need to be able to go to work and not worry about you collapsing because you forgot to eat.”
Molly grimaced internally. If it were only that. That she could resolve. She let Trent believe the lie and tried to reassure him. “You can. I promise. I’ll eat.” Steak and potatoes if she had to.
Trent’s mouth worked back and forth as he assessed her. She could tell he wanted to say more.
“What is it?” she pressed.
