Page 23 of Salty Pickle

Matilda lowers her head and allows Penny to scratch between her ears.

“Lovely. Matilda likes you.”

“She’s adorable.”

“Thank you.”

A young man is next, all khakis and smiles. “Matilda! How’s it hanging?” He extends a fist for her to sniff like she’s a dog.

Matilda looks at him for a minute, then lowers her head. He pats her between the ears.

Then Court reappears.

Matilda rears back on her hind legs.

“Whoa!” everyone cries, and their sudden burst of noise startles her even more.

I sigh, wishing I had the lead with its neck loop with me. I wrap my arms around her, but the effort gets me a new round of darting pains. They won’t kill me or send me into labor. I know that. But it’s not fun to deal with.

Penny rushes forward to help. “You’re turning white,” she says. “Let me hold her.”

Matilda allows it.

One of the young men says, “I have a dog leash in my cube. Will that help?”

“Yes,” I tell him. I sit against the wall, holding my belly. This is the worst. I’ve always been so strong, but since the third trimester began, I’ve been as fragile as a tomato plant.

Court steps back into the crowd. Without him visible, Matilda settles down.

The man returns with a blue leash. “It’s an extra I bought and never took home,” he says. “You can keep it.”

“Thank you,” I tell him.

Penny releases Matilda once it’s fastened.

She darts forward as if to figure out if Court is back there.

Penny’s gaze meets mine. “She really doesn’t like Mr. Armstrong, does she?”

“They didn’t have a good introduction,” I say. “She’ll get used to him.”

The man reels Matilda back to us, and Penny kneels down to hold her.

“I think I forgot to say my name earlier. I’m Joe.” He extends a hand.

I reach forward to shake it, suppressing the grimace as another darting pain zigzags over my middle. “Nice to meet you, Joe. And Penny.”

“Are you new here?” Penny asks.

“Oh, no. I just know Court.”

Joe and Penny exchange a glance.

I’ve said the wrong thing. “I mean, Mr. Armstrong.”

“We know who you meant.” Joe glances back at the dispersing crowd. “You’re not the sort of person we would expect Mr. Armstrong to know.”

Matilda climbs onto my lap, what little there is, and rests her head on my thigh. I stroke her ears. “What sort of people does he know?”

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