She knew Doug had noticed these differences too, although neither of them had spoken of it to the other. She could see it in his eyes, read it in his attitude. It was expressed more by what he did not say than by what he did. They still talked of current events, household affairs, even, tentatively, of the mailman, but there was a superficiality to their conversations, a superficiality that extended even to subjects and thoughts that were not superficial, a failure to meet and communicate on the deep and important level so necessary to lasting relationships. More than once she’d felt as though they were talking at each other rather than to each other.

And it was the mailman’s fault.

But she would not let him win. She refused to let him tear apart her family. It would be easy to succumb, to allow the breach between her and Doug to widen. But she vowed that she would not let things deteriorate any further. She was going to reach out to her husband and son, to put an end to this emotional lethargy, and she was going to force them to do likewise.

Part of her wanted to stop by the post office, to let the mailman know that she was no longer going to put up with his attempts to break her, that she was going to take a stand against him, but she remembered the last time she had tried to confront him, and the emotional clarity of the encounter remained horrifyingly undimmed. A field of goose bumps arose on her bare arms, the peach-fuzz hair at the back of her neck pricked. She was angry now, she was determined, but she was not stupid.

You’re nice.

Never again would she go to the post office alone.

Tritia was nearly to the turnoff that led toward home when she realized she had forgotten to pick up food for dinner. She had come to town this afternoon not merely to see Irene, but also to pick up groceries. They hadn’t been shopping in days and were in desperate need of milk and butter and other essentials as well as something for tonight’s meal.

She made a U-turn, turning back toward the store. Usually, she planned out the family’s meals a day in advance, but for the past week or so she’d been too tired and distraught to do anything but throw something together at the last minute, an attitude so entirely out of character for her that she wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before. This craziness had affected not only the emotional life of her family but its culinary life as well.

She decided to stop by the delicatessen to see if they had any fresh fish. She was in the mood for trout, and if there’d been a good catch, she’d pick some up for dinner. Barbecued fish sounded wonderful right now.