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The vehicle that pulls up is a black Suburban.
My heart beats faster. There are a million black Suburbans in the city, though most of them belong to limo companies and Ubers. But they rarely come here. I don’t really run a black Uber kind of establishment. My customers take subways, if they must. Most of them walk.
My sisters ride in a black Suburban.
It’s too late for Lydia. Pembroke is too far away, and she can’t be late. Not after she got caught smoking weed by the football stadium. They’ll have stricter rules for her now, despite letting the familydeal with the situation privately.
Catherine’s schedule is relatively free, though. She graduated in the spring and is taking a gap year for what my mother callscareer exploration.My middle sister got accepted to plenty of private colleges, but Mom thought she should spend some timegetting a firm grasp on what she wanted to do with her life. Or getting a firm grasp on a husband.
Catherine is the one who steps out of the car, her auburn hair in a twist at the back of her head. She wears deep purple and orange. Fall colors.
She peers up at the bakery like it might have betrayed her. It’s me she’s looking at that way, and she’s not wrong. I left her behind, along with Lydia.
A small voice in my head points out that it might have been for nothing. I couldn’t get away.
With a grim set to her face, she steps forward and pulls open the door. Catherine lets it close gently behind her, the bell letting out a soft, ladylike chime. Then she faces me. “Hi.”
“Hey.” I set down my phone and try for a casual smile. “I haven’t seen you here in a while.”
Catherine glances down at the case, her body settling into an attitude of disgust. Her shoulders curl, and the corners of her mouth fall. She doesn’t eat carbs or sugar or dairy—three things in heavy supply inside a bakery.
Except it’s not really disgust. I know my sister. What I’m looking at is longing. And frustration. She tells herself she feels disgusted because that feels better than denying herself something she wants.
Then she looks up at me, biting her lip.
“Catherine, what’s wrong?”
She wrings her hands. “I don’t know if I should be here, Lise. I don’t even know if…”
Screw the counter. I go around it and give her a hug. Catherine is my sister. She doesn’t have to stand in the shop like some random stranger. She doesn’t let go for several beats. When she does, I reach around and flip the sign to CLOSED. Lock it, too. Catherine’shere.I can take the time to talk to her. I’ll lose a few sales for her. I’ll make them up. I always do.
“Come in.” I put a hand on her arm and guide her to the kitchen. A couple of stools have made their way back here over the course of my baking projects. I take her to one of them. “Do you want something to drink? I have espresso.”
A line appears in her forehead. “That sounds really good, actually.”
I pull her a couple of shots, put them in a tiny mug I keep for the purpose, and press it into her hands. Then I take the stool across from her. “What’s bothering you?”
Because she does look worried. Her bright clothes set off her hair, but her eyes are uncertain. Catherine has always been the happy one. The compliant one. She went along with whatever my parents wanted, even during the years she came to my bedroom and told me she wanted more.
“Something’s going on at home.” She glances toward the front. “You’re sure nobody’s going to come in?”
“I locked the main door. And I keep the back one locked most of the time. We’re good. What’s going on at home?”
Maybe I wasn’t too sensitive this morning. Maybe something reallyisgoing on. Something I didn’t notice.
Catherine looks down into her espresso, then back at me. “Your name keeps coming up. Mom and Dad are arguing about you.”
I don’t love that, but I give her a nonchalant shrug. My parents have argued about me for as long as I can remember. They’ve argued about all kinds of things for as long as I can remember. “You don’t have to worry about me. But Catherine…is there something else?”
She’s pale. Tense. Her jaw is tight in a way it almost never is.
“Yes.” Catherine lets out a heavy sigh, her shoulders rolling forward. She puts down the espresso cup on the counter and rubs both hands over her face.
I scoot closer and put my arm around her. “What’s going on?”
She looks at me, expression solemn. “Dad says I have to marry him.”
“Marry who?”
