Page 77 of Salty Pickle

“Now that’s an image.” He says it low and rumbly, like I was talking about sex.

I mean, maybe it’s a little sexy, licking jam off your fingers.

Then I picture Court licking jam off his fingers.

Then other things off his fingers.

He’d done that on New Year’s Eve.

My body flashes hot.

I press my hand to my chest.

“You okay?” he asks. “Are you in pain? Contractions?”

“No, no. I’m fine.” My cheeks heat up. “I’m pretty sturdy.”

“Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” He’s being very doting this morning.

“So, what do bearberries taste like?”

I’m relieved to get my mind off the dirty thoughts. “They look like blueberries, tiny ones, but they taste more like apples. Bears love them. You can eat them straight off the bush. They unfortunately look a lot like some of the poisonous berries out there. But BeeBee taught me how to find them. If bears can do it, surely humans can.”

“Did she have them on her farm?”

“In the woods beyond it.” I frown. “Those are probably mowed down too by now.”

He signals, and we shift from one highway to another. I turn to take a peek at Matilda. She’s standing in the back of the SUV, seeming to enjoy the height she has to easily look out the window. She’s more dog-like than I had imagined.

“We should get some hay for her,” I say. “If it’s okay to spread it on your balcony.”

“Sure.”

“Probably just a bale if I’m leaving Monday.”

“We’ll get a couple in case Devin has trouble finding you a place.”

“Will it be near the other farm? I picked that doctor because it was close.”

“We’ll have to figure that out as we go.”

Traffic suddenly picks up, which seems unexpected for a Saturday. As we exit again, this time for a smaller road, it’s jammed with trucks and trailers.

“I think we’ve found your people,” Court says.

A sign reads, “Farm Expo parking one mile ahead.”

“Ooooh.” I press my hands to the glass, looking out. There are too many trees to see anything.

But soon, we approach cleared land and miles of gravel. A man in an orange vest waves at us to park in a row.

Court pulls up to him. “Where’s VIP parking?”

“Keep going to the front. There’s a row of golf carts. You have your cart number?”

Court nods.

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