Page 93 of Salty Pickle

“Jerry makes no judgments,” Court says. “I’m sure he’s seen everything.”

“We’ll get a gender tomorrow,” I tell him. “We’ll know whether to call him Julian or Julia.”

His brow pinches, and I wonder if he’s thinking about how strange it will be to name a boy Julian if it’s not his.

But he simply says, “Big day.”

When we get inside his apartment, I check on Matilda, who is sleeping on her balcony.

“You want to see the room?” he asks.

“I do.”

We head to the door. My heart hammers as he turns the knob.

When he flips on the light, I know exactly what I’m seeing. The room is serene in pale green. The bedposts are made of pine, intricately carved with vines of flowers up the poles. A matching dresser has flower drawer pulls and a mirror surrounded by a floral vine made entirely of wood.

On top of the dresser is a burnished, glossy box with inlaid woods in many different grains and color tones.

I walk up to it and open the lid, listening to the sounds of “Blue Danube Waltz” in a bright, tinkly tune.

“You made all this?” I ask.

“With my grandfather.”

“It’s beautiful.”

He runs his hand along the dresser top. “It’s out of fashion. The decorator wouldn’t even work with it.”

“I love it.”

I hope this will be the baby’s room. I can’t say it right now. I couldn’t deal with his doubt about paternity in this emotional moment.

And it’s perfect. The day has been a dream. The whole week. And now, I get to see a part of Court no one else gets.

My yurt was enough. I was enough. I know that.

But this is more. This is safety. Security. It’s a home.

28

COURT

Devin stands in the doorway as I shut down my computer to leave. It’s sonogram day, so I’m only working in the morning so I can pick Lucy up and drive out to the Warwick clinic.

We discussed moving to a New York doctor, but initial calls showed no one was accepting new patients, not even on a cash basis. So, we’re staying with Warwick, knowing it’s a risk if she goes into labor, and it’s too intense to drive out of the city for the hospital where her OB/GYN delivers.

Devin retrieves a set of signed documents from my desk. “Lucy sure lights up the place. Everything is set up for the pizza party tomorrow.”

“Good. Lucy’s been baking all week.”

“She’s an energy ball, even this far along.”

My mind flashes to last night and the things that happened on my grandfather’s old bed. “She is.”

“We look forward to finding out what you’re having.” He emphasizes the you’re to make a point.

It’s moot. I can’t imagine sending Lucy away if the baby isn’t mine, although we’d have to figure out how to handle the actual paternity.

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