Tiger Lillie by Lisa Samson

the side. According to the sizable mound of her stomach and her obstetrician’s calculations, Tacy will deliver their first child any day. Maybe the sauerkraut will help get things going.
    I kiss the beautiful curve of her cheek, her long, soft blond hair brushing against my forehead. Tacy inherited all the looks and talent, while I received all the athletic ability and business sense. Genetics just aren’t fair. We both possess Daddy’s love for books and God though. She’s an artist. Her framed artwork hangs on all the walls of my house. She hasn’t done much since she married Rawlins though. And he ushered her right up the aisle the day after she graduated from high school. My parents wanted them to wait, but Rawlins, being Rawlins, gets whatever the heck he wants, pardon my French. He always claims that what he wants is God’s will too, which really bugs me. I mean, does he have a direct line we mere mortals don’t? Does God walk with him in the cool of the day? Do the stars align themselves into words that tell him what God is thinking?
    Obviously, Rawlins isn’t Episcopalian the way he throws around the name of God with nary so much as a thought. It’s like God’s there to suit him and not the other way around. Tacy isn’t Episcopalian anymore either. It’s another subject we Bauers don’t discuss.
    I’m very proud of my baby sister though. At twenty-five she blooms with a womanhood I guess I’ll never know myself. A very small part of me relishes in her water-logged ankles.
    “You look ready to explode!”
    “I know. But Rawlins says the Lord will see fit to let me go on time and not late like Mom did with me.”
    “Well, you’re the sweetest pregnant lady I’ve ever seen.”
    “I waited long enough.” She tucks wisps of blond hair behind her ear and looks back through the door. “Rawlins, honey, you got that barrel okay?”
    “Of course I do, Anastasia. Stop worrying. You know how it affects the child.”
    Oh please.
    Seven years ago, when Tacy married Rawlins, she would have rolled her eyes at that.
    Rawlins McGovern is easily one of the best-looking men I’ve ever seen. He keeps fit after he arrives home from his father’s advertising agency by caring for the horses on their small horse farm in Phoenix, Maryland. So he possesses those natural muscles developed by raking hay and baling it and slinging those bales around, by golly. He mostly works without machines because Rawlins is Rawlins.
    I watch as he hoists the barrel on one shoulder and scoops the strap of Tacy’s “big bag” onto his other shoulder. Until I met Pleasance, I thought Tacy carried the biggest purse in the world.
    “You sure you got that okay, Rolly?” I ask.
    He hates being called that. I try to say it as much as possible.
    He bestows a closed-mouthed smile and nods his thanks as I hold the door. “You want this in the kitchen, Lillian?”
    I nod, returning the tight smile, remembering my sister in the tenth grade, before she met Rawlins McGovern. Tacy made honor roll every year, headed up the school newspaper, won writing contests year after year, even that Teen Talk magazine one. She entered the Towson Art Festival and won second place against a lot of teachers and college students from Towson State and Maryland Institute. Her shirts flowed and fluttered above either army boots or gladiator sandals. She wanted to be an artist and a writer and a movie star and a chef. Tacy wanted it all.
    But I can’t blame everything on Rawlins and his hypnotic charm. Tacy chose. And with the McGoverns’ wealth, at least her cage glimmers golden.
    My heart breaks every time she comes to mind, and sometimes I wonder if my criticism of the entire matter stems from the fact that my plans for a young marriage and a fresh life disappeared with Teddy. Tacy even said as much once.
    I trek back to the kitchen, following Mr. Control Freak. I’m telling you, Teddy or no Teddy, this guy stands up as a creep all on his own. “So, have you