Page 29 of Salty Pickle

“They have vegan microfiber versions as well.” He lifts a gray pair.

“I need that kind.”

“We have the traditional style with the double strap, a thong, as well as a crisscross design.” He holds out each one.

The crisscross one is the most appealing, but probably Lucy is more practical.

Although she did say she went out drinking with friends.

“Do you have the crisscross ones in size seven?”

“Let me go look.” He takes off for the back of the store.

I walk around. The store is highly eclectic, selling everything from clothes to jewelry to hammocks.

Lucy only has one knapsack with her. Given how much feed is in it, she may not have even packed any other clothes.

There’s a yellow dress that I think would appeal to her. It’s a tank style and is flowing and loose. It should accommodate her belly. I pull one off the rack and check the fabric tag. Cotton. That will work.

Then there’s a T-shirt that reads, “My other dog is a goat,” and I can’t pass that up. I get a large one. Maybe she can wear it to sleep in. Then pink fuzzy socks with goats on them.

“We have them in both black and brown,” the man says, setting two boxes on the counter.

“Which do you think goes better with this dress?” I ask, holding it up.

“Brown, I’d say.”

I’d buy both colors, but I get the sense that Lucy has a limit to what she’ll accept. “Let’s go with brown, then. And these.” I set my pile by the register.

“I’ll ring them up.” He opens a sturdy paper bag and tucks the shoebox inside, then folds up the dress and shirt and socks to set inside.

“Did you see this?” He turns to the glass counter next to the register and opens the back. He pulls out a necklace that holds a locket shaped like a heart. A goat is etched into the front.

“I’ll take it, too,” I say, then wonder if I should have. It’s jewelry.

But I pay for all of it and head out.

As I walk back to the spa with my bag, I realize that everything I know about Lucy is in this bag. She’s pregnant. She likes goats. She’s all natural and vegetarian. Her shoe size is seven.

The necklace box sits on top. It suddenly seems too personal. Not cute and funny, but the wrong message. Like I’m reaching out to her.

And I’m not.

I remove the box from the bag and tuck it in my suit pocket.

The last thing I need is for that woman to think we’re anything but potential co-parents.

There were never two people more different than us.

9

LUCY

This is heaven.

The last time I got a pedicure, I was a teenager living at home with my parents.

Mom took me to a nail salon, aiming for mother-daughter bonding. It was tickly and a little embarrassing, my pants rolled up, my ugly feet exposed.

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