The Matchmaker's Sister. Karen Whittenburg Toller

he’d felt had been mutual. He knew that as well as he knew his name. It was the what-came-next that had him buffaloed.

      The toast popped up, nutty brown and crisp, and he gingerly snatched it out and dropped it onto the counter as he searched through the cabinets for a plate. He wasn’t exactly at home in the kitchen, even though he’d grown up in this house and ought, at least, to remember where Maggie kept the dishes. But he wasn’t accustomed to fixing his own toast. Or being alone in the kitchen. His mother had left early, off on another of the day-long antique hunts she loved, dragging Maggie, the live-in housekeeper and cook, who was more friend than employee, more companion than help, along with her. The two women had waved a cheery goodbye to Nate, who had been intrigued by the novelty of a little Sunday-morning silence. With luck, Kali and Kori might sleep until he’d finished the paper. Will and Cate, being teenagers, invariably slept through the morning hours whenever possible.

      Returning to the table with the toast, he took a sip of coffee and picked up the newspaper again. The coffee had cooled and he should have buttered the toast before sitting down again, but he was determined to read the newspaper before the children invaded his solitude. Even if he did find it difficult to concentrate.

      It was too damn quiet, that was the problem…and his mind was more interested in going over and over the few insignificant minutes he’d spent with Miranda Danville than in focusing on the world’s myriad problems.

      He needed noise, the shrill, rattling chaos his kids normally provided free of charge to keep his mind off an encounter that hadn’t amounted to much of anything. Miranda was too young and too beautiful to find him of interest. Unless he could manage to get a particularly heinous stain on his clothing just before he met up with her again.

      “Hi, Dad!”

      His wish for distraction was granted, the silence scuttled as Kali did the bunny hop past his chair, her dark brown ponytails—doggy ears?—he never could keep those straight—bouncing. Or maybe this was Kori. Even after seven years of practice, he still sometimes had trouble telling them apart. If they stood perfectly still, shoulder to shoulder, right in front of him, he could do it in a snap. But when in motion, as they usually were, or when he saw one without the other—like now—well, it wasn’t so easy. Since Angie died, they seemed to find comfort in looking as much alike as possible and Nate couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen them dressed in anything except matching outfits. He probably ought to do something about that. Suggest they wear matching outfits in different colors, maybe. Or stand still more often.

      “What’s for breakfast?” She braced her feet on the black-and-white tile and tugged at the refrigerator door, opening it with a tremendous—mainly unnecessary—show of effort. “How ’bout we have your famous pancakes?”

      Dad’s famous pancakes was family code for going out to breakfast. Angie had made a joke about the fact that anytime she suggested he cook, he suggested they go out to eat. The kids loved to tease him, made up all kinds of fictitious stories about his ineptitude in all matters domestic. He’d always played along because it made them laugh and he’d never felt any particular need to apologize for not knowing how to do the things Angie did so well. But suddenly he felt inadequate, as if his children might have to suffer through years on a psychiatrist’s couch because he didn’t know how to make pancakes. “I can fix you some toast,” he offered, taking a bite out of his own. “Pretty tasty.”

      Kali—he was almost positive it was Kali and not Kori—looked at him with eyes like his own, but set into her mother’s heart-shaped face, with a handful of Angie’s freckles scattered across her pert little nose. “No, thank you,” she said, and turned back to studying the contents of the fridge. “Can I have a Popsicle, please?”

      He knew sugar was probably the worst thing for a seven-year-old at this time of day. Or later, for that matter. On the other hand, she had said please. “Sure,” he answered, not seeing the harm. “Why not?”

      Her smile, too, reminded him of Angie, in all its crinkly cuteness. But then, except for their eyes, his little daughters were their mother made over. Dark, brown hair, rusty freckles, sassy attitude, all born in them as if Mother Nature had wanted to ensure Angie wouldn’t be forgotten.

      As if that were ever a possibility.

      He watched Angie’s child assess the problem of retrieving the requested Popsicle. Chin up, she reached for the handle of the side-by-side freezer, approaching it as if she’d need eighty pounds of heft in order to pry it open. Nate was tempted to get up to help, but knew from experience she’d rather do it on her own. The door popped open easily, obviously a pleasant surprise, and she smiled while plunging her hand into the box of Popsicles and coming out with the treat successfully in her grasp. She closed the freezer door with her hip and bounced happily over to the table, where she pulled out a chair and sat down, apparently unconcerned about having left the refrigerator door wide-open.

      He got up and closed it, warming up his coffee—again—before returning to his place at the table. He smiled across at her as she licked the orange ice and she smiled back. There was something different about her this morning. Her hair was pulled into two neat ponytails—doggy ears, he decided, was what Angie had called that particular hairstyle—which were each tied with two overlapping ribbons, one blue, one yellow. She was dressed in yellow shorts and a blue-and-yellow-striped T-shirt. A matching outfit. Hmm. “You look nice this morning,” he commented, wondering how she’d gotten her hair so neat.

      “Thanks,” she said, her mouth full of Popsicle. “Cate did it for me. She’s doing Kori’s now.”

      Aha. This was Kali. He should have trusted his instincts. But then the oddity of what she’d said registered. “Cate fixed your hair? This morning?”

      Kali nodded, apparently seeing nothing unusual in the idea that her sister was up before…he glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall…nine-thirty—a.m.

      “Did you wake her up?” he asked.

      “Nooooo.” Kali stretched out the word, turning it into an I’m-not-stupid, Dad statement. “She’s got a date.”

      “Oh,” Nate said, then frowned. “She isn’t old enough to date.”

      Kali shrugged and Kori came into the kitchen, identical to her twin in every detail, right down to the coordinating ribbons in her hair. Nate decided he would definitely give some thought to suggestions he could make about emphasizing their individuality. “Hey,” she said. “Where’d you get a Popsicle?”

      “From the freezer.”

      Kori looked expectantly at Nate. “She’s got a Popsicle.”

      “He said I could have it.” Kali gave the ice a smug swipe with her tongue.

      “Dad!” Kori’s tone was egregiously offended. “How come she gets a Popsicle?”

      “Because she asked?” Nate suggested, his mood perked by the level of distraction now percolating in the room.

      “Can I have one?”

      “Yes, you may have one.”

      Kori’s smile flashed like neon and he was suddenly aware of a strange mix of color on her teeth. “What’s wrong with your teeth?” he asked, leaning forward for a better look.

      “Don’t worry, Pops,” she said, sounding a lot like her older sister. “It’s just wax. Doesn’t it look like I have braces on?”

      Before he could comment that it looked like just what it was—thin strips of green and pink orthodontic wax stuck across her front teeth—Cate walked in. She’d gotten tall over the last few months, and looked older even than she had yesterday. That could, of course, be the punk-funk style she’d been perfecting over the past couple of years. Her hair—today—was cranberry red with banana and blueberry streaks. At least she was sticking with healthy-fruit colors, he thought. She had a ring—fake, thankfully, as Angie had established a firm rule about no permanent holes in places where nature hadn’t seen fit to put one in the first place—clipped on one eyebrow and a silver stud,