Page 4 of Sunday Morning

Dad parked in our usual spot beside the detached two-car garage, and the five of us spilled out of our light-blue Ford Crown Victoria. He popped the trunk, and we loaded our arms with pies and dinner rolls that Mom contributed to Violet’s Easter ham dinner.

As we trekked up the dirt path toward the screened-in porch, gravel crunched beneath the tires of Matt’s red 1972 El Camino, stopping in front of the garage. The car was an early graduation present from his grandparents.

Matt jumped out and jogged toward us. “Let me get that,” he said, taking the rhubarb pie from my mom just in time to open the screen door for us.

Matt grinned when I stepped past him, bringing up the rear with the basket of dinner rolls I helped form into knots. “You look pretty, Sarah,” he said with a generous smile.

“She really does,” Isaac chimed.

“Shut up,” Matt mumbled.

“What?” Isaac held open the door while Matt led me into the house. “P.Y.T.,” he murmured behind me so only I could hear him.

Pretty Young Thing.

My father disapproved of Michael Jackson’s music, but I loved every song, including P.Y.T.'s sultry lyrics and catchy tempo.

Did I like Isaac breathing those three letters behind me like a dirty secret? Let’s just say I didn’t hate it.

“Janet, you baked up a storm,” Violet gushed over my mom’s pies and rolls as we set them on the antique buffet in the dining room, which was adjacent to the livingroom with a wood-burning stove. The staircase to the second floor separated the spacious kitchen from the living and dining room.

“My girls helped me,” Mom said, giving us a proud nod of approval as we sat on the sofa like three life-sized dolls—two brunettes and a blonde with smiles on our makeup-less faces, hands folded in our laps.

“Sarah, do you want to help me with the deviled eggs?” Violet asked. She always asked me to help in the kitchen. “Matthew loves deviled eggs.”

Violet seized every opportunity to teach me things she thought would please her youngest son. I wasn’t stupid. I knew everyone was grooming me to be his wife—the next matron of the Cory Ranch. However, that didn’t change the fact that Matt wanted to attend college and play baseball. He had no interest in ranching cattle, raising hogs, or growing corn and hay. And while I had been in 4-H as long as I can remember—sewing, canning, and showing livestock for the Corys—my heart belonged to Pat Benatar, Whitney Houston, and Laura Branigan more than it did to Matthew Cory.

Our families were too intertwined to see that Matt and I had no intention of starting the next chapters of our lives as each other’s betrothed.

The problem was that Matt and I had been each other’s security blankets, and we didn’t know how to let go even when holding on felt too suffocating—at least, that was my perception. Matt was indifferent to everything. He seemed equally willing to marry me or break up, as long as it didn’t affect his baseball plans. I had plans, too, but nobody cared about them.

“Janet, have you seen my newest quilt?” Violet nodded for my mom to follow her upstairs asI finished halving the peeled eggs and scooped the yolks into abowl.

“Sarah, do you want a Coke?” Matt asked, retrieving a bottle opener to remove the cap from the sixteen-ounce glass bottle.

“No. I’m good. But thanks.”

“I’ll take the rest,” Isaac said, filling a glass with ice before pouring the rest of the Coke into it.

“I’ll be outside with our dads,” Matt said before opening the squeaky screen door to the porch.

“The preacher’s daughter making deviled eggs for Easter dinner.” Isaac chuckled, shaking his head. “Why do you suppose they’re called deviled eggs?”

I parted my lips to speak, but nothing came out because I was too distracted by the flask in Isaac’s hand. He unscrewed the cap and poured a generous amount into his Coke.

When I lifted my gaze from the flask to his face, he smirked. “I like the way you look at me.”

I swallowed hard and focused on the eggs, as Isaac stood uncomfortably close to me, his backside against the counter. “How do I look at you?”

“Like you’re thirsty.” He lifted his glass, offering it to me.

I smooshed the yolks with the back of the spoon. “I said no when Matt offered. What makes you think I’m suddenly thirsty?”

“Your cheeks are red.”

I rolled my head between my shoulders, dismissing him without a verbal response. Isaac was goading me. He still thought of me asMatty’sinnocent twelve-year-old crush. And that irked me. “Smoking will kill you,” I mumbled.

That was it—my best comeback.

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