Duplicate Daughter. Alice Sharpe

cheeks rosy, fair hair glistening in the subdued bedside light, smelling of soap, eyes sleepy but resolute, small arms anxious to wrap around his neck, voice soft and sweet as she asked him to read her a story.

      His Lily, a small carbon copy of her mother except for the color of her eyes, which mirrored his own, and the stubborn streak she’d picked up from his side of the family, as well. Patricia had called Lily the perfect combination of the two of them, and they had spent hours musing over who their future children would look like, be like.

      Fate had snatched away the possibility of future children. Fate in the form of his father.

      He read Lily a story about a bird that lived on top of a palm tree on the island of Maui. As Lily had been born right here in Frostbite and hadn’t left the state of Alaska once in her three years, he often wondered how she could relate to palm trees and grass skirts, green and yellow birds and brilliant flowers. When she was old enough, he’d recently decided, he’d take her to Hawaii and show her all the things the book promised, from luaus to warm ocean water.

      For now, he finished the story by gently tickling her, which was part of the ritual, and then he kissed her warm forehead and held her hand as she drifted off to sleep.

      And tried not to think about the redheaded problem in his kitchen.

      The wind had come up while he’d been busy with Lily, and he returned to the kitchen to find the lights flickering and Helen absent. He could hear naked limbs scratching against the tin roof and the sound of an unclosed gate from out near the pier.

      Had Helen been walking out there earlier today?

      After stoking the living-room fireplace, he lit a couple of kerosene lanterns in anticipation of losing the lights. His was the last house connected to Frostbite’s power lines and the first to lose electricity during bad weather. He’d start the generator if it looked like the electricity loss was going to go beyond a few hours.

      He found Katie in the kitchen standing at the sink, draining a pot, steam billowing around her flushed face. She looked over her shoulder as he came into the room.

      “Where’s Helen?” he said.

      “She showed me which bedroom to take then pleaded a headache,” Katie said, turning to face him. She held a pot of boiled potatoes in one hand and the masher in the other. “How do you feel about kitchen duties?”

      “No problem,” he said, still puzzling over Helen’s odd behavior. “She just left?”

      “She just left.” Katie leaned against the counter as he retrieved butter and milk from the refrigerator and added, “Frankly, I don’t think she likes me.”

      He crashed the masher into the pot. He found Katie’s tendency to blurt out exactly what was on her mind a little disconcerting.

      “She’s choosy,” he said.

      Katie laughed. “Thanks a lot.”

      “Don’t take me wrong,” he said, adding butter and seasonings to the pot. “Your coming to Frostbite is a reminder of a lot of things Helen would like to forget, all revolving around my dear old dad. Your coming into this house is like rubbing salt in an old wound.”

      “I’ve never even met your father!”

      “Doesn’t matter,” he said.

      “For heaven’s sake. How about you? You’d like to forget a lot of things about your father, too, right?”

      “Like the fact he ever existed? Yeah, you’re right,” he said, whipping in the milk, his mind closing against the pain Katie’s probing caused. “I would.”

      Except for the sound of the wind howling outside, dinner was a more or less silent affair. Katie swirled mashed potatoes into her gravy, casting him occasional wary glances as though trying to gauge if she could trust him.

      The answer was yes. And no.

      It all depended.

      She could trust him to put up with her until he could get rid of her, to try to answer a few questions, but she couldn’t trust him to spring into action and solve all her problems. Since Patricia’s death, he had one blinding obligation and that was his daughter. Period.

      Besides, his action days were behind him, lost now in the haze of his Army Ranger years, his stealth and manual-combat skills as rusty as his aim though he still maintained a closetful of weapons. Hell, every man, woman and child in Frostbite, Alaska, knew how to shoot a gun. It went with the territory.

      All this justification made him uneasy, especially when he glanced at his dinner guest and met her troubled blue gaze. If her mother was half as innocent as her daughter, the poor woman was in for a lot of trouble.

      Though he tried to dissuade her, Katie helped him clear the table and wash the dishes. He wasn’t crazy about standing so close to her in the kitchen. The room had always been the warm, comforting heart of the house. Katie brought a level of tension with her that ruined this ambience and he resented her intrusion. The thought flitted through his mind that things were soon going to go from bad to worse. His level of uneasiness began to creep up off the charts.

      The electricity went out as he put the last plate on the open shelf.

      He stacked more wood on the fire and lit another lantern, which he used to go check on Lily who was sound asleep. He replaced her kicked-off covers. As he walked back down the dark hallway, he noticed a light on under the door of Helen’s room.

      He raised his hand to knock to make sure she was okay, to try to cajole her back into the kitchen so she could get herself something to eat. Before his knuckles touched the wood, the door swung open.

      Helen faced him, carrying a small backpack in her hand. She’d changed into her snow clothes—thermal, watertight overalls and a blue jacket with a hood. A pair of heavily insulated gloves dangled around her neck on a tether. Her feet were clad in thick socks, awaiting boots, he supposed.

      He said, “Helen?”

      “I’m going to my sister’s house,” she said.

      He stared at her a second. She’d been part of his household for years and to say her current behavior was out of character was like saying if an elephant took a hankering to sit down, he’d need more than one chair.

      Nick shook his head.

      “I can’t stay here. I can’t bear to hear talk about him. Why did she come here? She’s going to make things worse—”

      She stopped abruptly and met his gaze, her large dark eyes swimming in pain. He knew exactly what she was thinking, because he’d been thinking it himself. By coming to this house, Katie Fields had unintentionally brought the past alive. He said, “Is your sister expecting you?”

      “None of the phones work.”

      “Damn, we lost the phone line already? I’m going to have to break down and get a cell phone one of these days.”

      “It doesn’t mater. My sister will be home. I’m sorry, Mr. Nick, to abandon you—”

      “I’ll drive you—”

      “The snow’s too deep. Even if you got me there, you’d never get back. I’ll take one of the snowmobiles.”

      “Helen—”

      “It’s not far. And you have Lily to watch.”

      She sidled past him and he made no move to stop her, but he didn’t like her going off into a storm by herself. On the other hand, he couldn’t take Lily out into this weather. Well, well, his visitor might come in handy after all. “Wait,” he called, approaching Helen. He spoke fast and low. She shook her head, but he ignored her and went looking for Katie.

      This time he found her in the living room, seated in a big red chair pulled up close to the fire, and for a second, his breath caught.

      Firelight danced across her face,