Page 94 of Salty Pickle

I don’t want to think about that. I want to have faith in what she says.

I tuck my phone in my pocket. “Hold down the fort for the afternoon.”

“Not a problem.”

It’s pouring rain, so I grab a taxi back to the apartment.

Lucy’s sitting on a stool by the stove, periodically turning on the oven light so she can check on a tray of cookies. Containers filled with everything from snickerdoodle to shortbread to chocolate chip cover the counters.

“Cutting it close on this batch?” I ask.

“They’re about to come out.” She shoves a hunk of hair from her forehead. She looks tired.

“Are you all right?”

“I didn’t sleep well. Couldn’t find a position that worked.”

I rush over to her, running a thumb down her cheek. “What can we do? A new mattress? There were special pillows at that store.”

She flashes a wan smile. “I think we’re in the toughing-it-out portion of gestation.”

I run my hand down her arm. “If you don’t have enough cookies, we can buy the rest.”

“I’m taking pride in making them all.”

I make a rough count of what she already has. “It looks good already.”

“We could use more macadamia nut.”

“Then you’ll direct me from a comfortable chair when we get back.”

Another tired smile. “All right. That’ll be something to see.”

I wait until the timer dings and pull out the tray myself. Then I lead her to the bedroom to lie down while I change into more casual clothes for the visit.

“It’s exciting, right?” she asks. “Knowing the gender for certain?”

“Now that the old methods have failed us?”

She giggles. “I can’t get a confirmation from the stars. We’ll have to use modern technology.”

I hang up my suit and switch to jeans and a blue button-down to balance out Lucy’s pink dress.

When I come out of the closet, Lucy is napping. I head to the kitchen to move the cooled cookies to a container, then check on Matilda.

She’s standing by the railing, looking out at the rain. It’s only a moderate sprinkle.

“You like wet skies?”

She turns to me with a short meh eh.

Her water looks good, and she has fresh hay.

“Be a good girl.”

As if she’s ready to prove she’s anything but, she pushes her back end against the rails, lifts her tail, and poops off the end of the balcony.

“Matilda! No!” I rush forward to drag her more centrally onto the platform.

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