21. Trent
Chapter 21
Trent
The winding, eleven-mile loop of Cades Coves brings us to several historic homesteads and churches. And the trails we hike are breathtaking. The trees are tall, their green canopy creating a lush, almost magical feeling. But though the views are gorgeous, something is off with Jenny. She’s much quieter than usual, barely talking. And she seems rigid, as if she’s trying not to brush up against me or set her hand too close to mine.
At lunchtime, it’s not much better. We stop at a quiet picnic area beside a stream, Jenny and I sit across from each other, sharing a sandwich on a small picnic bench. Still she barely looks at me, and she leaves more than several inches between us on the bench. Hours ago, we were nearly intertwined, and today she’s distancing herself from me. What happened between then and now?
Finishing our lunches, we dispose of our trash in the bear-proof trash cans.
Once we return to the cabin, we head around to the woods out back and find the trail Sheryl had mentioned. The air is cool and heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth. The dense forest feels tranquil and untouched, as if we’re the only ones here. The path is narrow, winding between towering oaks and tangled rhododendrons. The trees seem to stretch upward, their branches forming a natural canopy above us.
We hike on for a good thirty minutes, taking in the sounds and sights of nature. I tap Jenny on the arm, offering her a water bottle from my backpack. She takes it, her fingers brushing against mine before she quickly pulls away.
“Thank you,” she says, drinking from the bottle and then flipping her head upside down to put her hair up. She uses a hair band to pull her hair into a messy bun. The simple gesture leaves me momentarily transfixed. There’s something mesmerizing about the way the tendrils of her hair fall away from her neck, the flush on her cheeks from the hike adding to her beauty.
“Sorry,” she says, glancing at me as she smooths her hair. “I know I look a mess, but I was getting hot with my hair down and had to throw it up.”
I nod mutely, unable to form words. How did I get so lucky? This beautiful woman is my wife. What alternate reality did I fall into?
“Trent, you okay?” Jenny asks, tilting her head as we continue walking.
I clear my throat, taking another sip of water. “Yeah, just thinking. I wonder how much further until we reach the waterfall. We don’t want to be out when the sun starts to set.”
“Oh, good point,” she says, glancing at her watch. “We’ve gone almost two miles. How about we go one more, and if we don’t see the waterfall, at least it was a beautiful hike.”
“Sounds good to me.”
As we walk, my mind races. How am I supposed to share a bed with someone I’m insanely attracted to? There’s no other choice, so I’ll have to rein it in and deal with it.
Just before we hit the three-mile mark, the dense canopy overhead suddenly gives way to a clearing. Jenny gasps and halts a few feet ahead of me. Before us, a waterfall cascades down a craggy outcrop, its crystal clear threads tumbling into a pristine lagoon below. The sunlight streams through the gap in the trees, scattering a rainbow of colors across the water’s surface. The lagoon, framed by moss-covered rocks and large ferns, shimmers in shades of blue and green. A cool breeze carries the soft roar of the waterfall and the faint calls of hidden birds. It seems a place meant for just us, serenity seemingly untouched by human hands.
“This is just . . . incredible,” Jenny breathes, her voice filled with awe.
“Yeah,” I agree, feeling a sense of wonder take hold of me. When Sheryl mentioned a “little waterfall,” I wasn’t prepared for this. It’s stunning.
We stand there, taking it all in—the sights, the sounds, the smells—for what feels like longer than it should. I alternate between watching the view and stealing glances at Jenny, her artistic eye seemingly absorbing every detail. I could tell she wants to capture this scene in a painting someday. I’ll have to remember this place and bring her back when she has her canvas and paints.
A shift in temperature alerts me that too much time has passed. “Jenny, we should head back. It’s going to be dark before we make it back to the cabin.”
She looks down at her watch, then back up at me, her expression apologetic. “I’m so sorry, I just got lost in the beauty of this place.”
“No need to apologize. I did too.”
With one last glance at the waterfall, we turn and make our way back to our one-bedroom cabin.
Back at the cabin, Jenny is all business, making quick work of brushing her teeth and changing into pajamas. She doesn’t even meet my gaze as she grabs the extra pillows from the closet and begins lining them down the middle of the bed.
“I think this should suffice,” she says, stepping back to admire her handiwork.
“What is this?” I ask, gesturing to the pillows.
“This way we can make sure to stay on our own sides of the bed.”
“Um . . . okay?” I say. Something is definitely going on with Jenny. Last night, she was fine with us sleeping close together, embracing actually, and now she’s back to not wanting to share a bed. “So you’re making a pillow fortress?”
“Exactly,” she says, adjusting the pillow again.
“Didn’t realize we were preparing for a siege,” I quip.
“Better safe than sorry.”
I wouldn’t mind being a bit sorry. The thought passes through my mind so quickly, the memories of waking up with her in my arms and the kiss we shared blooming warmth within me.
But I won’t make her uncomfortable.
“Jenny,” I say gently, gesturing to the wall of pillows. “What’s really with the fortress?”
She sighs and moves to sit on the edge of the bed, her shoulders slumping slightly. “Last night was . . . great,” she says hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” I reply, keeping my tone soft and steady. “If a fortress of pillows is what you need, then that’s exactly what we’ll do.”
Her eyes flicker toward mine, relief mingling with something unspoken. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “I don’t know how to explain it, I just—”
I hold up a hand to stop her, offering her an easy smile. “No need to explain.”
I swallow the lump of pride rising in my throat and focus on reassuring her. My smile must do the trick because a small one tugs at her lips in return.
We settle into our respective sides of the bed, the pillow wall an imposing divider between us, forcing us closer to the edges of the mattress than is comfortable.
Jenny seems to fall asleep easily—her breathing evens out, and her occasional sighs break the cabin’s quiet stillness. I lay on my back, staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling and listening to the muffled rustle of leaves outside and the faint croak of frogs in the distance. The smell of pine lingers in the air, mingling with the faint lavender scent of her shampoo.
I turn on my side, careful not to disturb the wall of pillows, and study her outline in the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains. Her hair is spilled over her pillow, and her face is relaxed, peaceful in a way I rarely see when she is awake.
The memory of our kisses from yesterday replays in my mind, vivid and electric. Her lips had been soft, tentative at first, but when she leaned into me, her touch grew confident, igniting something I hadn’t expected.
Kissing Jenny wasn’t just a moment; it felt like a turning point. It reminded me that beneath all the pretense of our arrangement, there was something real there, something worth exploring.
But then there was this wall, both literal and figurative. The pillow fortress is a clear reminder that she isn’t ready to blur the lines of our deal. My feelings for her are growing stronger, but the weight of what we are—what we aren’t—keeps me awake long after Jenny’s drifted off.
Clearly, the closeness from the last few days was too much. Even though I swear she was the one who instigated the kissing both times. What happened? I can only hope that she is starting to feel the way I am. Even if she isn’t quite ready to acknowledge those feelings.
In the morning, we pack up quickly, a silence filling the room. Jenny seems lost in thought, and I don’t want to push her. As we leave the cabin, I look back at the wall of pillows that had stayed intact all night. Then I close the door, and we leave in my truck.
When we get back to Chessie Valley, the rhythm of daily life picks back up as if we never left. We unload the car, and then Jenny gives me a distracted smile before heading toward the marina shop. “Don’t wait for me after work,” she says, “I’ll be in in my studio. I need some time to paint.”
I nod, then add, “Take all the time you need.”
A few weeks pass with Jenny and I keeping each other at arm’s length. We’re both busy at the marina, and in the evenings, she heads to her art cabin. Not wanting to go home to an empty house that reminds me of my empty marriage, I stay late at the marina, finding more to do. Tonight is no exception. I prep cabins for a wave of renters coming tomorrow, fix rudders on two rental boats, and replace slats of wood on the docks. In the evening, I trim back bushes and prep for sunset yoga.
We started the yoga back in the fall. Guests loved the serene setting with the gazebo perched by the lake and framed by wildflowers. I would have to agree, even more so now that I proposed to Jenny there. It makes for a beautiful stage for yoga. And while I don’t normally stick around for sunset yoga, tonight I decide that it would do me some good.
The soft hum of music drifts through the air as the yoga instructor adjusts the speaker system. The gazebo lights blink on, casting a warm glow over the water. The scent of freshly cut grass mingles with the floral perfume of the nearby wildflower blooms.
I’m just starting to stretch when a familiar voice catches my attention. “Hey there, hubby,” Jenny says.
I turn to see Jenny approaching, yoga mat in hand, her cheeks flushed from the cool evening air. She looks radiant, her yoga attire hugging her in all the right places. Who am I kidding, she’d look radiant in a potato sack.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” I say.
“I wasn’t sure if I would make it tonight, but sometimes when I get lost in a painting and my mind starts to think too much, I’ll do a bit of yoga to settle it. Helps me get back in the right headspace.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say.
She smiles back at me.
“Were you wanting some space?” I ask. “I can head out if you were planning on doing yoga alone.”
“No,” she says, “please, stay.”
I unroll my mat and lay it on the grass. “Isn’t this the perfect backdrop for an outdoor yoga session?” I say, gesturing to the gazebo and the view behind it.
“I’d have to agree with you there,” Jenny says, a smile fluttering across her face. “I have a soft spot for this gazebo.”
Damn if my heart doesn’t stop short at those words and the sight of her. She’s a vision. I thought she looked good in her hiking outfit on our honeymoon, but this yoga look is even better. I turn my face from hers and grab my water, gulping it down right before the instructor starts.
Today's session of yoga is especially difficult. It’s not just physically demanding—it is mentally challenging too. My mind keeps drifting, especially with Jenny next to me. It’s been so long since we’ve spent an evening together. Jenny effortlessly flows through each pose. She makes it look easy, her movements graceful and controlled, her breathing steady.
I’m sweaty and exhausted by the time the session is over. I run my hand through my damp hair. I must look like a mess. I catch Jenny watching me out of the corner of her eye. “Like what you see, wifey?” I tease.
She rolls her eyes, a hint of pink dusting her cheeks. She stays that way for a minute before responding. “I’ve just never seen you work up such a sweat before, and you’ve worked on boats and mended cabins. Didn’t think yoga would be the thing to take you down.”
“Don’t let it fool you. This was next-level yoga.” I grin, about to give her a retort that she’s sweaty too, but looking her over closely, I see that she’s serene, barely even glistening. “And how is it that you’re not even sweating?”
“Probably because I do yoga just about every day. Plus, none of these poses were especially difficult so it was more like a movement meditation for me.”
She does yoga daily? I guess it’s not easy to miss that when we’re not spending much time together. But you think I would’ve noticed it at the cabin in Gatlinburg.
“You didn’t do yoga on our honeymoon,” I say flatly.
She chuckles softly and whispers, “If you recall, that place barely had enough space for two people to walk around. But I did do some sun salutations when you were in the bathroom in the mornings.”
“Damn, and I missed it.”
“What?” she eyes me curiously.
Oh shit, did I say that out loud? “Oh um, nothing. I’m just going to miss that cabin.”
“Right.” She full on laughs now, eyes crinkling as she wipes away tears.
Man have I missed that laugh. I lean in close to her. “What? When else will I have the chance to share a bed with my wife?”
Her laughter comes to a screeching halt, and she freezes. For a split second, I think I’ve gone too far. Maybe she’s not ready to joke about our not-honeymoon. But then she shakes her head and swats me on the arm. “You’re so bad,” she says.
After the session ends, I tuck my rolled mat under my arm and grab Jenny’s mat with the other. Then I grab my water bottle and wait for her to gather her things. “Well, wifey, what do you say we head home?”
“I’d say I’m exhausted and that sounds wonderful.”
As we walk back to the house, the moon hangs low in the sky, it’s soft light illuminating the path ahead. The cool night air carries the faint hum of crickets and the rustle of leaves. Jenny walks beside me, her water bottle in one hand, her other hand occasionally brushing against mine.
“Thanks for coming tonight,” I say quietly.
She glances over at me, her smile small but genuine. “Thanks for letting me crash your yoga session, hubby.”
Her teasing tone makes me laugh. We arrive at the wraparound porch quickly. “Welcome home,” I say, holding the door open for her. As she steps inside, the warmth of our home wraps around us.
“Thank you.” Jenny gives me a quick smile, her eyes flickering with something I can’t quite place before she heads up the stairs.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like maybe, just maybe, the wall built up between us isn’t as impenetrable as it once seemed.