Page 48 of Salty Pickle

“Cancel it. I’m returning to Warwick.”

“Something wrong with Lucy?”

“Did you know they sold goat meat on the property? They raise the goats and do the butchering?”

“I did not.”

I can hear him tapping. I dodge in and out of traffic to push the limit of how fast I can get back to her.

Devin says, “There’s no mention of this anywhere on their site, but now that I have specifically looked for it, I do see that they sell goat meat wholesale from another building. It’s a good quarter-mile back on the property on the other side of a forest. She found it?”

“Apparently so.”

“Poor thing. That must have been hard on someone with her sensibilities.”

“She’s sitting by the side of the road, waiting for me to get her.”

“You’re going to put the goat in your Ferrari?”

Right. I glance in the back. Will it even fit back there? Plus, this car had been hard for Lucy to ride in. And she hadn’t even complained about the leather seats.

“What can I rent between here and Warwick?”

More tapping. “I see three car rental places.”

“Call them. Get me an SUV with the keys in it, ready to go. I’ll park the Ferrari in their lot until I can come back for it.”

“I can make that happen.”

He better.

I pass a semi to gain some ground. “Let me know when you have it booked. No leather seats if you can help it.”

“Roger that.”

I weave between lanes, roaring past anyone who slows me down. By the time I’m approaching Warwick, Devin has dropped a pin where the car is.

Good man.

Five minutes later, I’ve parked my Ferrari in a lot and switched to a sporty SUV. This is better. I only lost three minutes on this maneuver but gained a lot of space and probably saved my Ferrari.

This one has cloth seats and an artic-level air conditioner. I crank it, knowing I’ll need to cool her down. As I approach the goat farm, I see Lucy in her yellow dress, sitting in the grass under a tree, her goat eating leaves off a bush.

I pull over onto the shoulder and shove the car into park.

It takes her a second to realize it’s me. She stands, shielding her eyes.

I wait for traffic to pass, then jump out and hurry to her.

“What’s this car?” she asks. Her cheeks are flush, and her arm, as I pull her up, is hot to the touch.

“A rental so we could fit the goat.”

“Her name is Matilda.”

“Right, right.” I help her to the car and open the passenger door. “You sit in the AC. I’ll load the goat into the back.”

“No, no, I’ll sit in the backseat with her.”

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