She was pregnant.
The notion both horrified and enchanted her. She looked down at her flat stomach and imagined it, round and full with a baby. She ran a tentative hand across it and found she could smile. It was a perfect image, but only with the right father to complete the picture. It was only logical to assume that Patrick was the father. After all, he was her husband, albeit a not very enthusiastic one.
A baby might mend the brokenness between them. But she didn’t want a baby for marriage therapy, she wanted Patrick’s baby because she...well, she just wanted Patrick’s baby.
But what if the baby was someone else’s? The man she’d run away with? Or any of the scores of lovers she’d supposedly enjoyed?
She still wanted that baby. And nothing and no one would take it away from her.
She also wasn’t going to exist in a state of limbo any longer, now that she’d faced the shocking probability. She wanted answers, she wanted proof. She wanted to buy baby clothes.
She climbed out of bed, slowly and carefully, but all traces of illness seemed to have passed except for a slight weakness in her knees. She moved to the window and flung it open, letting in the fresh cool air to cleanse the room.
The sun was shining for once, proving that Pennsylvania wasn’t always covered with rain or dark, brooding clouds. There was the softest hint of spring in the air, a mere suggestion of warmth and growing things, but it was enough to give Molly one of her first feelings of optimism. She showered and dressed in record time, cleaned up the mess beside the bed, and prepared to deal with the hand fate had dealt her.
“Who’s my doctor?” she asked as she walked into the kitchen. Mrs. Morse already had a cup of coffee ready for her, but she paused in the act of handing it to her, clearly startled.
“What’s wrong? Are you having aftereffects from your accident? We can get in touch with the hospital in New Jersey.
“No, I just need a regular doctor. Whoever I usually see.” She took a tentative sip of the coffee, wondering how it would sit on her troubled stomach.
“You want to tell me why?”
Molly looked at her. Mrs. Morse was her only ally in this house full of angry strangers, and yet, for some reason she was loath to say anything. Perhaps she was afraid saying it aloud would make it go away. Maybe she was equally frightened that saying it aloud would make it more real.
“I just thought I needed a checkup,” she said casually. “It’s nothing to worry about, Mrs. Morse. I thought I ought to do something about birth control.” True enough, in a way, she thought to herself.
“I’ll give Dr. Turner a call for you,” she offered.
“I’ll take care of it myself. If you could just find me her number I’ll call her when I get back from my walk. I need to get away from here for a little while, out in the fresh air.”
Mrs. Morse paused, a startled expression on her face. “That’s something,” she said.
“What?”
“You knew Dr. Turner was a woman.”
It never failed to unnerve her, these lightning flashes of knowledge that came without warning. “Maybe my memory’s coming back,” she said lightly.
“Maybe,” Mrs. Morse said in a worried voice. “Let me just make you some bacon and eggs before you go out...”
“No, thanks!” Molly replied hastily, not feeling quite as recovered as she’d thought. The very idea of food was enough for her stomach to cramp up, and she set her coffee mug down, barely touched. “I’ll have something later.”
She rushed out into the early April sunshine, taking deep gulps of the clean wet air, and suddenly had the mad, determined desire to run. She took off at a comfortable lope, her body falling into the rhythm of it with effortless grace. She moved past the farm buildings, past the startled ducks, past Ben, her long hair streaming behind her, her heart pumping with a mindless joy.
She wanted to run forever, but she knew instinctively that she hadn’t paced herself. After a bit she slowed, reluctantly, her heart pounding against her ribs, her breath rasping in her lungs. Her body wasn’t as responsive as it had once been—she knew that without being sure how. She’d grown soft, her stamina had shattered. Perhaps it was the new life that might be growing inside her. She could only hope so.
The trees overhead were in bud, the winter brown-gray had a blush of green upon it, and all around her was the smell of wet spring earth. She inhaled it like a strong drug, wondering whether anyone could feel hopeless on a perfect day like this one, with the rich puffs of fleecy white clouds rolling around in the bluest of blue skies, and the soft spring breeze blowing in her face. As she continued down the narrow dirt track at a more moderate pace she was filled with a new hope, a new resolution that nothing could quite shake.
She hadn’t gone less than a quarter of a mile when a sudden noise from the underbrush that lined the dirt road startled her into stopping. There was an eerie prickling at the back of her neck. Someone was watching her. Someone, or something, that wanted to hurt her.
She almost laughed out loud when she recognized Beastie’s lumbering form charging down the road, knocking her flat on her back as he greeted her. She hugged him exuberantly, receiving a thorough face cleaning in return, then challenged him to a race down to the pile of rubble some ways in the distance.
He beat her, of course, and was waiting with ill-concealed canine smugness when she finally reached him, panting and gasping. And then she recognized where she was.
It was the charred remains of the barn she had supposedly burned down. Even after five long weeks the smell of wet, charred wood hung in the air. A part of one wall was standing, and she could imagine the flames crackling around the old structure, could even hear the screams of the poor tortured horses, could smell the sickening smell of burning flesh. She sank to the ground, dizzy, faint, and put her head between her knees.
“Are you all right?” She heard a soft voice nearby, and she looked up, blinking in the bright sunlight, to see Toby staring at her. through the wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes dark and intense, his voice full of a soft concern that should have warmed her. She told herself it did, and yet she thought of Patrick.
