Page 37 of Salty Pickle

We stand there a moment, looking at each other.

She extends a hand. “Thank you, Court.”

It feels strange to shake it after this wild, unexpected day. “We’ll be in touch.”

I don’t look back as I head out the front door, past Caroline and the goat chomping on the leaves of the shrub.

I almost skid in the mud again but make it back to the van in one piece.

“Ready?” the driver says.

“Yes. Thank you.”

He backs up to the narrow lane.

I’ve gotten through the first phase of this strange new world. It feels like a year since Lucy showed up in my office, barefoot and pregnant.

But it’s only been one day.

There are miles to go in this conundrum before I see it through.

A month at least.

And maybe, a whole lot more.

11

LUCY

By the time I’ve put away the food and my meager things, I’m shot. Thankfully, Caroline is well versed in introducing a new goat to a herd. She returns and reports that Matilda is settled in perfectly.

I’m relieved and fall asleep the moment my head hits the pillow, curled up in the big T-shirt Court got me.

I wake up to the wonderful sounds of meh eh eh and the unique ring of grain being poured into a metal trough.

I get up, eat some of my leftovers, and put on the first new outfit since I left Colorado, the yellow sundress.

I find some duct tape in a drawer and mend my old shoes since I’ll probably get muddy. I don’t want to ruin my new ones.

The day is bright and warm. Some of the goats approach me as I walk out. Others are kept in the pens.

I reach down to pet their heads. “You must be the good goats.”

A man in his early fifties waves from the barn. “You must be Lucy!”

I head over. “Is Matilda in there with you?”

“She sure is! She’s a sweetheart!” He walks over to the gate and swings it open for me.

I spot Matilda standing on a rough-hewn wood platform. There are several of them scattered around for this purpose. Other goats have taken up the rest.

“She’s been chill, just observing.” The man extends a hand. “I’m Tom, Caroline’s husband. Glad to have you.”

When Matilda spots me, she jumps down and dashes over in her funny, loping gait. I pet her head. “This is a wonderful farm.”

“We have lots of goats,” Tom says. “Goat yoga will be starting soon, so the ones that participate in that will be heading to their duties. The rest stay inside the pen. You going to do it?”

“I’m going to rest another day before jumping into exercise,” I say, running my hand over my belly as if it isn’t wildly obvious.

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