Kathryn Shay - The Unknown Twin

“Thanks is enough.” But the scared look on her face made him add, “Or maybe offer him a cup of coffee. Us smoke eaters really need our caffeine, ma’am.”

Laughing, she stepped inside. “That’s the least I can do.”

She led him into her home. Studying the room, he let on a low whistle. It literally took his breath away. He’d never seen such a wide array of colors, textures and unusual furnishings. The living-room rug was raspberry and so thick that his sandals sank into it.

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll fix the coffee.” Before she left, she opened two huge windows. The tinkle of wind chimes drifted in. Then, she disappeared into the kitchen.

He bypassed the off-white, nubby couch and sat on a long chaiselike thing that conformed to his body when he stretched out. Plump rose-colored cushions enveloped him. Picking up one of the several geometric-patterned pillows that accented the blues, grays and pinks in the room, he scanned the rest of the place.

Jeez, look at that. In the corner was a full-size hammock. He got up and crossed to it. He’d never seen one indoors. The wall behind it was decorated with an array of mesmerizing paintings. He circled around the hammock to examine them closely. The artist’s signature read “LAC.” Delicate, wispy strokes etched out the water, the mountains, the forest. They were abstract, but he knew for certain what each painting portrayed.

“What do you think?” He turned to see her holding a small tabby kitten. As he watched, she rubbed her cheek on the animal’s furry little head. Another kitten scurried at her feet.

“Are you kidding?” He pointed to a small picture. “It feels like I’m wading in that lake. I can smell those flowers.”

Her smile was broad. “I’m glad you like them.” She set the kitten on the floor—it stayed at her feet like a toddler would its mother—and, crossing to the wall, reached up and took a painting down. “Here, as a thank-you for saving my life.”

“You don’t have to do that. Just tell me who the artist is and I’ll look him up.”

“The artist is a she.”

He cocked his head. She seemed…proud. “You, Lauren?”

She nodded.

“They’re wonderful. They should be in a gallery. For sale.”

Her frown was instantaneous. “No. I wouldn’t want to do that.” She fingered the delicate teak frame. “It would be like selling a child.” She handed him the canvas. “You can adopt it. It’ll be safe with you.”

Grinning, he took the painting. She was downright charming.

“Who’s this little guy?” he asked, squatting to scratch one kitten’s head. Both sidled against his legs, making him smile.

“Butterscotch. The other’s Caramel.”

He chuckled at the names.

When the coffee finished dripping, they sat together on the couch, sinking deep into the overstuffed cushions. Over the rim of his mug, also one of her works of art, he watched her drink. She’d made herself tea—Dana preferred it over coffee, too—and she inhaled the scent first, then sipped. She closed her eyes when she swallowed. Smiled. When she finally licked her lips, he felt his body respond. He had to look away.

“I hope you like hazelnut.”

“Hazelnut?”

“The coffee’s flavored.”

“Um, sure. I do.” He had no idea what he was drinking.

He searched the room for something to focus on instead of her mouth. A picture sat on the odd-shaped end table next to the couch. It was an eight-by-ten close-up of two older people and Lauren. He slid over so he could see it better. The couple was attractive; both had vibrant blue eyes, thick gray hair and they were smiling. In the photo, Lauren was laughing, too, her brown eyes sparkling. He stared at it for a minute, then glanced at her.

“Your parents?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You were adopted.” It wasn’t a question.

“What?” She grinned. “Oh, no. I wasn’t. I know I don’t look like them, but I wasn’t adopted.”

This was odd. “Lauren, you had to be adopted. Two blue-eyed parents can’t have a brown-eyed child.”

“That’s what they say. I studied eye-color genes in biology class. When I asked Mom and Dad about it, they said I must be some kind of mutation because she saw me come out of her body and Dad cut the umbilical cord. Actually, I saw it on the home video they took.”

Alex shook his head. “This goes against everything I know. I studied genetics—my mother’s a geneticist—before I decided to follow in Dad’s footsteps. From what I learned in my courses, this is a scientific impossibility.”

She shrugged. “I guess I’m a rare breed.”

He scanned her place again. He didn’t doubt that. But something wasn’t adding up. And it bothered him. What about her similarity to Dana? What were the chances of someone looking almost exactly like his friend? Slim. What were the chances of a genetic abnormality—impossibility, really—with that same person? Nonexistent, in his mind. But he said only, “Well, I’ll ask Mom about it to be sure.”

Her look was indulgent. “Don’t bother. I know who I am.”

Suddenly he hoped—for her sake—that was true.

THE FIREHOUSE WAS a kaleidoscope of sights, sounds and textures. As Lauren stepped through the open door into one of four bays and onto the cold concrete floor, she ran her free hand over the rough wall. And sniffed. Gasoline. Oil. The faint acrid smell. The bays were full. Huge red trucks towered over her; they were different sizes and shapes and, she assumed, performed different tasks, as one had ladders, the other hoses. Another was the medical truck she’d ridden in. Walking up to it, she ran her hand over the cold steel surface, sensing the strength emanating from it. Everything here was so big and powerful. Intimidating. Still, she had a delivery to make. She crossed to the station house and entered the building proper. She found the kitchen by scent. It was noontime, and somebody was making lunch. The aroma of cooking beef, French fries and coffee made her stomach growl.

The kitchen area was mammoth. A hulk of a guy bent over the stove against the far wall; he was humming off-key as he mixed food in a huge frying pan. Another man prepared salad at the counter. He was also big. Two more men and a woman were seated by the window at the long oak table, which Lauren knew would be smooth and cool to the touch. It overlooked the rec area, where, from her own office window, she’d watched the firefighters play basketball and sometimes grill outside. Today, they were dressed in the dark blue uniform of Courage Bay firefighters, complete with badges on their chest pockets, a Maltese cross patch on their short sleeves, and name tags.

“Hello,” she said softly.

They peered over at her. “Dana?” the woman asked. She was more diminutive than the rest, but well-defined muscles stood out beneath her short sleeves. Briefly Lauren wondered what it would be like to be brave enough, strong enough to do what this woman did.

A woman like Dee.

“No. I’m Lauren Conway. I was at the newspaper’s offices when they caught fire last week.”

“Hey.” The man at the table stood. “I’m Mick Ramirez. Now I recognize you.”

“They said you were a carbon copy of Dana, but wow.” This from the woman again. “It’s hard to believe you could look so much alike and not be related. You sure you’re not?”

Lauren shook her head. “I’m sure.” She held up a huge shopping bag. “I brought you all something by way of thank you.”

“Something to eat?” the chef asked. “I’m Nick LaSpino, by the way.”

Everybody else gave names Lauren knew she’d never remember.

“Cookies. I made them myself.” She glanced around. “I particularly wanted to thank Alex Shields. He, um, carried me out.”