"Pickle emergencies are real, Maggie."
"If you say so." She hands me coffee—decaf, automatically—and a stack of files. "Sarah and Tom arrive at nine. I've preparedorientation packets. Your first training session is the Henderson contract review."
"You're a miracle worker."
"I'm aware." She pauses. "How are you feeling?"
I'm twenty weeks pregnant, finally past the constant nausea phase, and actually capable of eating food that isn't pickles or plain toast. My stomach is starting to show—not obviously pregnant yet, more like "did she have a big lunch?" territory. I'm wearing looser blouses and hoping nobody notices.
"Better," I tell her. "The nausea finally eased up around eighteen weeks."
"Thank god. You were green for months."
"I was not green."
"You were absolutely green. I have photographic evidence from the Celtic Knot exhibition."
"Delete it immediately."
"Never." She grins. "But seriously—you look better. Healthier."
I do feel better. The merger was the right call. The support staff, the resources, the actual work-life balance—it's revolutionary. I'm working normal hours. Sleeping at night. Not having panic attacks over case deadlines.
And today, Miles and I have our twenty-week ultrasound. The big one. Where we find out if our blueberry-turned-raspberry is a boy or girl.
My phone buzzes. Miles.
Miles:Ready for today?
Me:Terrified.
Miles:Same. But excited terrified.
Me:Is that a thing?
Miles:It is now.
Sarah and Tom arrive at exactly nine AM, both looking eager and slightly nervous. Sarah's in her late twenties, sharp eyes, impressive résumé from a corporate firm in Miami. Tom's early thirties, methodical, came from Preston's litigation department.
"Emma." Sarah extends her hand professionally. "Thank you for this opportunity. I'm excited to learn from you."
"Same," Tom adds. "Your reputation precedes you."
I'm not sure if that's good or terrifying.
"Welcome to the team," I say, gesturing them into my office. "Maggie will get you set up with access credentials, case files, everything you need. Today we're reviewing the Henderson contract—it's complex but straightforward once you understand the structure."
They settle into the chairs across from my desk, notebooks out, ready to absorb information like legal sponges.
That's when Sarah notices the pickle jar.
On my desk. Open. Half-empty from this morning's "emergency."
She stares at it. Looks at me. Back at the jar.
"Is that..." she starts carefully.
"Pickles," I confirm. "Would you like one?"
