Page 35 of Salty Pickle

“What would change your mind?”

Her chin wobbles. Is she going to cry again?

“I’ll have to be at my last resort.”

“I thought that was me.”

She turns her attention to the goat, stroking the fuzzy white head. I’m beginning to see that it serves as a support animal. “If you throw me out, I’ll be forced to go to them.”

“I wouldn’t—” I cut myself off. The baby might not be mine. What will I do then? Pay for her to return to Colorado, I guess. Or her parents. Or maybe send her to whoever the real father might be.

“Oh, look!” She leans toward the door. “The goats!”

I bend down to peer outside. “Those are bigger than yours.”

“They’re Nubians! You can tell by their long, floppy ears.”

I see that. “Are they friendly?”

“Oh, very. They’re commonly pets, like the Nigerian Dwarf.”

The van slows down as we approach a large farmhouse. Behind it, an expansive barn is surrounded by fenced pens.

I turn to the driver. “I’ll pay for you to wait while I get her settled. Then we can return to Manhattan.”

The man taps his phone. “All right. I’ll adjust the trip.” He opens his door, but I stop him. “I’ve got it. Take a moment to relax after that drive.”

“You sure?” He peers into the rear-view mirror at Lucy.

Maybe I shouldn’t have said it, but I didn’t want him noticing we brought a goat.

I tug on the sliding door. It takes a moment to figure out how to shift the seat forward to let Lucy out. I wish it were darker, so maybe the goat wouldn’t be so obvious. Not that it matters. If he ditches me over it, I’ll call another car.

But he’s back on his phone, and he doesn’t pay us much mind as we unload the goat, Lucy’s knapsack, her new clothes, and the lunch coolers.

A woman appears from the barn, a bucket in her hands, and waves. “Bring that sweet girl over here!” she calls. I’m assuming she means the goat.

Lucy has found her people.

We walk in that direction. I cast a glance back at the van, but the driver is having an animated conversation with someone.

“Are you Lucy?” the woman asks.

“I am.”

She fills a trough with her bucket, and the goats inside the pen come running. “You’re gonna pop any day. When’s your due date?”

“September 20.”

“That’s coming fast.” The woman hangs the bucket on a nail and deftly hops over the fence. “I’m Caroline Halson. My husband Tom and I run the goat farm.”

“Do you teach the yoga? I was an instructor in Colorado until I got too far along.”

“Did you really? No, I’m not much into yoga myself. But we have two instructors who take turns teaching our goat yoga. It’s great fun. You can come to any class you like while you’re staying.”

“That’s wonderful. Where should Matilda go? She hasn’t been in a herd since I got her shortly after she kidded about a year ago.”

“We can test her out with the pygmies, see how it goes.”

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