Page 50 of Salty Pickle

When I arrive at the window, I pass the woman a credit card. She gives me a plastic bag full of loose lettuce and peers into the car. “Clarice, there sure is a goat in there!”

Several other faces appear in the glass.

Lucy rolls down her window. “Her name is Matilda! She loves lettuce! It’s like a cookie to her.”

“It’s like a cookie!” one of them repeats, as if it’s the wildest thing they ever heard.

I hand Lucy the bag of lettuce and watch in the rearview as she feeds a leaf of it to the goat.

“Look at her chomping it!” one of the women cries. They all lift their phones to record it. Great. Hopefully, they keep me out of it. Axel and Rhett will never let me live this down if it goes viral.

Another car pulls up behind us, but nobody pays any attention as they video the goat. Finally, the other driver honks.

“Oh, hush, Karen,” the woman says, but she runs my card through her reader and passes it back.

Eventually, we get our smoothie and sandwiches, and everyone waves and shouts, “Bye, Matilda the goat!” as I pull away.

Lucy sips her drink as the goat shoves her face into the lettuce bag. “That lifted my spirits. Thank you.”

I pass her the sandwiches. “I thought you might get hungry once you cooled off.”

“I’m starving. You’re good at this.” She unwraps one and takes a big bite.

“Good at what?” I glance at her reflection as I wait for a chance to pull out. Traffic is heavy.

“Taking care of a pregnant stranger.”

“Oh, I’ve done it before. Twice actually.”

“You have?” Her voice is incredulous. Then she smacks the back of my seat, choking with laughter. “It’s a joke! You can be funny! See, I never knew that about you!”

“Don’t get used to it.” There’s finally an opening, so I pull out.

Lucy shakes her head, merriment in her eyes. I can’t stop glancing between the road and the sight of her behind me. “Court Armstrong, there’s a lot more to you than meets the eye.”

Maybe there used to be. To be honest, it feels strange to laugh or smile.

It’s been a long, long time.

15

LUCY

Iexpect Court to take me back to his office, but instead we pull up to a stone building with a canopy in front of big wood doors.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“My apartment building.” He waits for a man in a maroon uniform to approach from the door.

“Oh, wait, I forgot about the goat.” He guns the motor and takes off, leaving the uniformed man confused, his arms out.

“What just happened?”

“Normally, I leave my car with Jerry, the valet for the building. But we’re not allowed pets without an addendum to our lease.”

“How long will that take?”

“For a goat? A day past never.”

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