Page 90 of Salty Pickle

“Everything. Tables. Chairs. Chests. Beds.”

“What was the first thing you made?”

“A music box. We wired a spring inside, and it would play the Blue Danube Waltz.”

“I bet it was lovely. Did you make it for your mother?”

“My grandmother. For Mother’s Day.”

She sighs. “Isn’t it nice, the legacy family can leave us?”

I don’t answer that. My legacy was shuttered with my grandfather’s death. Uncle Sherman handed me a new one. I wasn’t even out of high school when it was all decided.

I change the subject. “You think you might name the baby Julian?”

“I like it. And Julia, too. Maybe it’s all set.” She snuggles her head next to mine.

I draw her close. I’m glad she’s content. It will have to be enough for both of us.

27

LUCY

Life becomes a weird, happy dream.

Court and I decide Matilda is happy enough between her time in the apartment and on the balcony. He sets up a service to have a new shrub delivered every few days for her to eat, and we replace the diaper contraption’s liners with proper compostable bags.

So, he tells Devin not to worry about finding another farm.

On Monday, Court goes to work. I take care of Matilda, milk her, and make goat cheese and soap. It’s an easy walk to the spa to give it to Kaliyah.

I take Court a homemade lunch most days since the office is close enough to walk if I’m feeling good, or an inexpensive Uber if I’m feeling tired.

I get to know Joe and Penny from I.T. and Dawn from merchandizing. I take them cookies for their departments and make sure Court comes around and smiles once in a while. We organize a company pizza lunch for Friday, and I set to making dozens of cookies for the desserts.

Our nights are filled with leisurely dinners and long nights of learning all the ways a pregnant woman can comfortably have sex.

There are many.

I’ve never known anything like this.

When I’m home alone, I let April and Summer know things are going well. They’re excited for me and glad Court is so much less salty than before.

I know it can last. I’m sure of it.

I hear from Stanley at his emporium, and he also places an order for goat cheese. He’s uptown, so Court goes with me on Wednesday afternoon to deliver it.

His emporium is a glorified tourist trap near Times Square, full of kitschy objects like a bedazzled Statue of Liberty and foam fingers that read USA.

He sits behind the register in a funny red-striped apron with his emporium logo emblazoned on it. His face lights up when he sees me.

“Lucy and her goat! Where’s your goat?”

We head to the counter. “She’s in her happy place at the moment,” I say, setting down the waxy paper package. “But I have her cheese!”

Stanley presses both hands on it. “Oooh, I can’t wait to tear into this. When did you make it?”

“Milked her this morning and made the cheese a few hours ago.”

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