Page 101 of Salty Pickle

Even as I try to reassure her, Lucy runs her necklace charm up and down the chain in a nervous gesture. When we’re inside, she hurries to the balcony to check on the goat.

I head to the green bedroom to ensure that the baby items were delivered as expected.

The door is open, and when I flip on the light, I’m greeted with a mountain of boxes, packages, and clothing. Maggie has already started washing them, and a clean folded basket of onesies, blankets, and cloth diapers rests on the end of the bed.

Lucy comes up behind me.

“Everything okay on the balcony?” I ask.

“Yes. Matilda is sleeping.”

“Our order came in.”

“Oh! Look at it all!” She reaches in the basket to lift one of the tiny garments to her nose. “They smell so good!”

“They probably won’t for long.”

Lucy grins and picks up a blanket to rub against her cheek. Her eyes grow wet. “He’s really coming. He has a place to sleep. And things to wear.”

“And a name.”

She clutches a blanket to her chest. “And a name.”

I want to say something about the snafu at lunch. The words are on my lips.

But Lucy beats me to it. “Can you believe everyone thought you would propose? We’ve only known each other for two weeks!”

“I should have given you the necklace in private.”

Her hand flies to it. “It’s lovely. I saw the words ‘Natural Outfitters’ on the box. Did you pick it up when we went shopping that day?”

“Actually, I got it when I bought the shoes.”

Her eyes widen. “Back then? But you hated me that day!”

“I didn’t hate you. I was just… blindsided.”

She sets down the blanket and walks into my arms. “I was blindsided when I found out, too.”

We stand there together, surrounded by the baby’s things. It doesn’t matter what everyone else thought. The important opinion is hers, and we’re fine.

On Saturday morning, we tackle assembling the bassinet and baby swing. We keep the goat close by until we can fortify the balcony. Lucy has to stop her from eating the colorfully printed cardboard.

“Too many dyes, baby girl,” she says. “I’ll get a carrot in a minute.”

When we’ve made a big enough dent for the day, we head to the living room to rest and go over the hospital plan. With only eight days until her due date, we are, as they say, in the “zone.”

“Come, Matilda,” Lucy says, patting the sofa beside her.

But the goat circles the coffee table, lifting and lowering her head like she’s upset.

Lucy sits up. “What’s wrong, baby girl?”

Matilda prances back and forth, so Lucy gets closer. “Are you hungry? Need more forage?” She turns to me. “Is there a shrub out there, or did she finish it off?”

“Still half of one when I went out this morning. You want me to go check?”

“And we’re sure it was a safe one? No boxwood or Chinaberry?”

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