The Secret Twin

by Catherine Mann

  Pushing her lips into a sad kind of smile, Naomi gathered her dark hair into a ponytail, changing the waterfall effect it had while cascading onto her cashmere sweater. “In the interest of honesty, the counselor the family and I have been talking with made it clear that expectation management is important.”

  “The family counselor,” Brea repeated, making sure she understood that correctly. “You’re all seeing a therapist?” She blinked, surprise circulating through her.

  “Felicity suggested it, and we all agreed it was a good idea. We want what’s best for you. And...” Naomi paused to swallow heavily, the mug of coffee untouched in her hand. “Dad’s been struggling with renewed grief over Mom. We all want to be there for him.”

  Her sister’s shoulders slumped. It might have been a long time since they’d lived together as sisters, but Brea could still read the hurt and pain in Naomi’s eyes. Brea stood up on shaky legs. Willed them to move across the small distance to her sister. Settling onto the leather couch next to Naomi, Brea gulped down air.

  “She’s been gone so long.” Brea twisted her hands in her lap.

  “But you still miss her too, right?”

  Brea looked up sharply, hoping the answer was already plain in her eyes. “Of course.” Their mother had died in fear for Brea, holding her in her arms until Brea blacked out, surrounding her with a mother’s love. That loss had been the toughest of all those Brea had sustained. “It couldn’t have been easy for you, losing Mom, then you getting cancer.”

  It really hit her then that her sister could have died. That she could have missed the opportunity to see Naomi again. Her throat clogged. Why hadn’t the twin connection worked to alert her? Brea pressed two fingers to a headache that was suddenly blooming.

  “It was a difficult time after you were gone. I missed Mom. I missed you. I missed my hair,” Naomi said with a wry grin that slowly faded. “And I was terrified of what it would do to Dad if he lost me, too.”

  A sharp pain pierced Brea’s chest. Her twin’s pain.

  “I wish I could have been there for you.” Brea touched her sister’s hand lightly.

  “Thank you.” Naomi clasped Brea’s hand tightly. “I have my husband and my twins. And now I have my sister back... At least I hope I do.”

  “I’m trying,” Brea admitted, although she felt twitchy and wanted to pull her hand back. Instead she carefully eased it away. The quick flash of disappointment on Naomi’s face made Brea feel petty and small.

  “Well,” Naomi said in a lowered voice, “remember when we sisters all wanted to be mermaids, and I made us stay at the pool, working on our synchronized mermaid dives until our fingers wrinkled from being in the water so long?”

  Brea laughed, her smile lighting up her face. “I do. And after our swims, Mom would braid our hair while it was still wet so we would have waves the next day.”

  A memory chased through Brea’s mind, one of those that she couldn’t quite tell if it was real or something she’d just dreamed in those first months at the Joneses’ house. “Did she braid our hair for—” she searched for a way to ask the question while still leaving part of it unsaid, to see if Naomi’s story matched Brea’s recollection “—special events?”

  “Yes,” Naomi said excitedly. “Mom loved going to The Nutcracker at Christmas. She would always braid our hair prior, and then put matching red plaid bows in yours and mine.”

  Her words matched what was in Brea’s mind so perfectly, down to the bows. “Could you tell me more?”

  “I would like that,” Naomi answered without hesitation. “The Christmas before your accident, we’d both decided we were too old for braids, but Delaney wanted them, and Dad told us to make her and Mom happy...”

  * * *

  Naomi huffed with an angry sigh, crossing her arms over her chest stubbornly. She wasn’t giving in without a fight. “I don’t want go to a play. I want to go sledding.”

  Their mother nodded, though Mary pointed for Brea to sit, a vintage brush in her hands. “We’ll do that, too. Tomorrow.”

  Sledding sounded more fun than a play they’d already seen every year of their lives. She was getting too old for kid stuff. She just had to convince her mom, although it would be nice if her sisters would chime in and help.

  “We should skip the ballet and go to bed early so we won’t be tired.”

  Mom didn’t miss a beat brushing through Brea’s hair, working out the tangles before starting the French braid. “We could skip sledding altogether if it’s too tiring for you.”

  “Fine,” Naomi sighed, wishing Brea would have helped her fight the battle. “I’ll get ready for the ballet.”

  “This is about making memories,” Mom said, crossing clusters of hair, one over the other. “Someday you’ll all be grown-up, and you’ll do this with your kids.”

  Delaney looked up from her book in the corner of the room. Her braids were already completed and tied with a bow. These braids were special, Mom had told them. She’d been taught by her Native Alaskan grandmother. Part of keeping the tribal traditions alive, even as Alaska modernized.

  Closing her book, Delaney asked, “But there are so many of us. When we grow up, how will you and Dad be able to pick which one of our houses to go to?”

  Brea looked at her reflection in a handheld mirror. “Mom could come to one. Dad could go to another. And Delaney will get Uncle Conrad.”

  Delaney’s bottom lip trembled, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

  Mom gently cooed, still brushing Brea’s hair. “We’ll fly everyone home, and we’ll all go to the ballet together.”

  But Naomi’s brows furrowed. All together? Something seemed off in that statement.

  She imagined traveling faraway sometimes, where no one could find her while she wrote a book and became a famous author. You had to be a hermit to be an author. That’s what her favorite television character had said, and she seemed glamorous enough for anything she said to be true.

  Mom’s fingers moved quickly, expertly. “How about I tell the story you always ask your grandmother to tell at bedtime? You always say it gets better each time. Maybe The Nutcracker could be like that.”

  Naomi knew when she was beaten. And truth be told, she liked the story. “Okay, since we’ve got time to kill while you finish our hair. Tell us ‘The Legend of...’”

  * * *

  Brea soaked in her sister’s words, finding that each one opened a doorway to her memories that matched perfectly. So poignant. And sad.

  They’d been so unaware of the pain ahead of them.

  She wished she’d paid more attention to the moment, enjoyed the feel of her mother brushing her hair. Or the oral tradition her mother instilled in them. The stories of her mother’s tribe. The way she’d wake them with songs.

  Brea hadn’t thought about that time in years. How much else had she lost of her childhood? She wanted to remember. She tried...but she couldn’t quite grab it; the memories too elusive.

  Something that chilled her until she realized the men had returned and the door was open.

  Her gaze collided with Ward’s.

  Ice flecked his hair and brows, making him look like some elemental prince of winter come home at last. His wind-chapped, chiseled face was somehow made more handsome from the environment. It brought out the deep blue of his eyes. Awareness tingled over her in the way she was beginning to learn was standard around this man.

  “Everything okay?” His question was clearly only directed at her.

  But rather than making Brea feel weak or pressured, she felt...protected. And not in a smothering way. He looked like he cared, but he hadn’t swept her out of the room.

  “I’m fine, thank you.” She smiled at him. “We’re sharing childhood stories. I’m remembering things. It’s okay.”

  The truth of that simple statement warmed her inside, while his hand on her shou
lder stirred a different kind of heat.

  Remembering a sweetness in her past that she’d forgotten made her want to celebrate this momentary pocket of joy and peace in the most elemental way. She knew too well the pain of loss, how quickly life could change for the worse. Spurred by her memories and the loss of her mother, all her reasons for not sleeping with him seemed to evaporate.

  Wise or not, she knew when they got back to their hotel room, she and Ward would be sharing a bed.

  * * *

  Shaking the ice off his coat, Ward’s hand went to the back of his neck as he took in the surprise of seeing Brea and Naomi sitting close to each other.

  “Sorry to have interrupted,” he said.

  Brea’s eyes danced. “Naomi was going to tell me ‘The Legend of Qalupalik.’ It was a favorite for most of us when we were kids, but it’s been so long since I heard it...” She bit her bottom lip for a moment before continuing, “I’m not sure I remember it correctly.”

  Ward waved toward the door. “We can go if you want to be alone.”

  Brea’s laugh electrified the room. “You have icicles on you. I wouldn’t send you back out there. You should have some more coffee.”

  She scooted over, allowing Royce to take a seat next to his wife. Brea patted the spot next to her on the leather couch. Ward shrugged out of his coat and took a seat next to her. The light scent of pine and cold wind still clung to her. Awakened his senses. As did the heat in their locked gazes.

  Shana brought out a tray of Danish pastries and small dessert plates, setting them on the coffee table. Chuck shoveled one of the cheese-and-berry Danish pastries onto his plate, and then sat across from Shana at the small table.

  Naomi took a sip of coffee before clearing her throat. “Our mom’s parents made sure we heard local legends directly from them, not from a book. To keep our heritage alive.”

  Ward was surprised for a moment. While he recalled reading that the Steele kids had Native Alaskan relatives on their mother’s side, he hadn’t given it any thought. Hearing this now, from Naomi, showed him more facets of Brea’s childhood. “What was your favorite story?”

  “‘The Legend of the Qalupalik,’” Brea said softly, then glanced at Naomi for her to confirm.

  “Yes,” Naomi answered. “Qalupalik was green and slimy and lived in the water. She hummed and would draw bad children to the waves. If you wandered away from your parents, she would slip you in a pouch on her back and take you to her watery home to live with her other kids. You would never see your family again. Our grandmother used to tell us that one, and I think it was to get us to behave.”

  Had Brea thought something like that had happened to her? In a way, it had—except she wasn’t bad. No one should endure what she had.

  Naomi looked at everyone over the top of her cup. “The story scared us when we were younger, and then once Brea taught us how to be mermaids, we girls embraced the story. We also liked the werewolf legend about the Adlet. They had the lower body of a wolf and the upper body of a human, like a centaur. After Brea was...gone...Broderick and Marshall tried to hunt one once. They had to turn back, though, because I tagged along, and Aiden followed me...”

  Ward was only half listening as he registered the warm press of Brea’s leg against his own. He could feel her nerves calming as they touched. How was it that he’d developed that ability to read her so clearly? The knowledge knocked him off-balance a bit, though he was only too glad for the excuse to drape his arm around her shoulders.

  Shana leaned forward. “What happened?”

  Naomi tore off a piece of the pastry. “I took the little twerp home. I was worried about Marshall being so sad and didn’t want him to lose out on something fun, so I had to be the grown-up and take Aiden back.”

  Brea stood, glancing through her thick hair at him. Gave him a wink. An ease rested on her lips. He smiled up at her, enjoying the lightness in the air in this RV. “Can I get refills for anyone?”

  No one took her up on the offer.

  Brea opened the refrigerator for the creamer since she’d used all the rest set out. Ward’s eyes followed her curves. The real, genuine smile that reached her eyes.

  She closed the door, then frowned. She stared at a framed photo tucked into a shelf near the refrigerator, her expression frozen, other than furrowing her brow. Then her hand lifted and she touched one picture, her face paling.

  Worried, Ward stood and walked the two steps to her, protectiveness surging. “Is something wrong?”

  Brea’s hand shook and she set the creamer on the counter. “Chuck, I recognize you four Mikkelson kids in this photo. That’s you, Glenna, Trystan and Alayna. That’s your mom and that must be your father. But who are the other two?”

  Chuck rose to join them. “Actually, that’s not my mom. That’s Trystan’s mom—who gave him up to Jeannie to adopt not too long after that.” He pointed to the other blonde woman, whose face had been in the shadows. “That’s Mom. And this—” he pointed to the other man “—that’s Uncle Lyle.”

  Brea’s face paled, and she wavered on her feet. “He was there at the airport that day, and so was...” Her finger wavered over the photo, back and forth between the two women. “One of them.”

  Eight

  Brea felt dizzy, her brain awash with fragmented memories that she couldn’t seem to blend into a whole image because of the jagged edges. She recalled seeing the couple at the airport, the man and a woman.

  Tension mounted, making her grind her teeth down so hard, her jaw ached. But she couldn’t unlock the pressure. Couldn’t stop the submerged, underwater sounds in her ears as panic and anxiety took root. All the research she’d done on the Mikkelsons had involved their finances. Their business. She hadn’t looked at pictures.

  It was the visuals that unlocked the memory.

  “Which woman?” Shana asked Brea while resting a comforting hand on Chuck’s shoulder.

  The spacious luxury RV suddenly seemed to crumple in around her. Air tasted heavy as the hint of knowledge danced in her memory.

  Silence wouldn’t help her, though. Willing her jaw open and fighting past the panic in her chest, Brea stared at the photo. “I’m pretty sure it’s the other one and not your mom, but I can’t be certain.”

  Brea tried to bring the image from the day of the crash into better focus in her mind’s eye.

  Chuck strode closer to the shelves to look at the photograph, his face somber. “What reason would my uncle and aunt have to harm your family?”

  Royce leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he addressed Chuck. “To make your dad’s company have less competition so he could make more money?”

  Ward put a protective arm around Brea’s shoulders. “That’s farfetched. What kind of people were they?”

  Chuck let out a sigh. He crossed his arms, crumpling his plaid shirt. “We didn’t know them well. And when my aunt gave up Trystan for adoption to Mom, our connections with my aunt and uncle faded away.”

  Shana touched his arm. “Alayna said she thought she overheard something suspicious about your uncle, but was too young to understand. And she thought she saw him at the rodeo a couple of month ago.”

  Brea sagged to sit. She’d been searching for answers, and now that it seemed she might have them, it overwhelmed her as she realized how much pain could ripple out from this discovery. “Chuck, I’m so sorry. I know this can’t be easy for you.”

  Her heartbeat hammered in her ears. For years she’d thought about this kind of clue. Fantasized about finding a lead to what had caused the event that was the dividing line in her life—the point of turmoil that had sent her spinning for years afterward. Yet in all of her imaginings, this had been a triumphant moment.

  In the abstract, the idea of foul play from anyone on the Mikkelsons’ side had seemed like an easy answer. But now? Sitting in Chuck’s RV, watching his face turn from shock to
something like rage and pain...now it was real.

  And she wasn’t sure of anything.

  Not that she had much to stand on in terms of things she was sure of, or solid evidence to pursue. She took a deep breath, catching the aroma of leather, coffee and Ward’s aftershave. She anchored herself with Ward’s comforting touch.

  Chuck cleared his throat. “Whatever the truth is about my mother’s family, I want to know the full extent.”

  “And if that hurts the rest of the family? Your mom? My dad? The business?” She took another breath. “I thought learning the truth would make me happy, but now that I know you all better, it’s so much more confusing than it felt when I came back the first time...” Heat rushed to her face, embarrassment over how she’d snuck into their lives with a fake identity. “I’m sorry for the whole Milla Jones deceit.”

  Shana looked at Brea with concerned eyes and genuine compassion. “I’ve had amnesia. I understand how difficult it is to put the pieces together when you don’t even know who you can trust.” She reached to squeeze her hand. “The best thing to do—truly, the only thing to do—is live in the moment.”

  Could it be that simple? In a life so very complicated, she desperately wanted something that simple. To be able to grasp joy with both hands. With Ward sitting next to her, his aftershave in her every breath and the memory of his touch so tempting in her memory, she found herself grateful for Shana’s advice. For her understanding.

  Because right now, Brea couldn’t imagine recovering from this day anywhere else but in Ward’s arms. So she planned to seize the moment and act on her impulse to be with Ward, whatever that meant for the future, as she learned who was responsible for her mother’s death.

  * * *

  In the hotel bar two hours later, Ward leaned forward, palms pressing into the rose-quartz bar countertop. He ordered two drinks—a winter ice-cap ale for him and a glass of sparkling rosé wine for Brea. The bartender smiled as he handed the beverages over to him.