Chapter 9

Tawnia examined the fever strip in her hand, the one her mother had packed in her emergency kit when she had first left Kansas. It read 100. Too high to be normal, but not so high as to elicit immediate worry. Then again, since it was on the forehead and not internal, you had to add a degree. Or was it two? She couldn’t remember. Either way it wasn’t horribly high, and Autumn wasn’t exhibiting any other signs.

In fact, she was sleeping peacefully, still snuggled in Tawnia’s bed wearing her red robe. She appeared young and vulnerable in her sleep, and Tawnia wondered if she looked the same way. For though it was morning and plenty of light spilled in from the window, the face on her pillow was still hers. A slightly undernourished version perhaps, but hers all the same. The upturned nose covered by a scattering of persistent freckles, the high cheek bones, the shape of her cheek, and the dimple in her chin. And don’t forget the wide-set, mismatched eyes. Those were the most notable of their similarities. Only the scar near Autumn’s left eye and her short, red-dyed hair was different, though the under color, a medium brown, was the same as Tawnia’s.

The resemblance in their faces might be explained away, but heterochromia was rare, and to have both the looks and the eyes . . . well, she wasn’t a geneticist, but that couldn’t happen often. Or maybe ever.

Even with a sibling?

Tawnia’s heart thudded in her chest, almost too slowly. She could feel the pounding in her ears. Thud-thud, thud-thud.

What had bothered her most in her teen years about being adopted wasn’t that her mother had given her up—she figured there were extenuating circumstances of some sort, be it a drug addiction or a teen pregnancy—but that somewhere out there she might have relatives, close ones that were living without her, never knowing she existed. Going along their merry lives loving each other. A grandmother, a brother, an aunt, a cousin. But she didn’t even know if these mythical people existed, and they would never know about her. Neither felt the loss of the other. It just wasn’t right.

Or was it? Didn’t the new family make up for everything? The new family that wouldn’t have been complete without the adopted child? Yes, it made up for an awful lot. It made up for everything else.

Tawnia guessed it was simply not knowing that bothered her. She liked everything in its place. She was like her mother in that—her adoptive mother.

Autumn had been adopted, too. What could that mean? Could she be a little cousin, born shortly after her own self? Yet to look so much like Tawnia. Surely even half siblings wouldn’t resemble each other so much. It was ludicrous. Wasn’t it?

Well, she wasn’t going to learn anything staring at Autumn all morning. If she didn’t leave soon, she’d be late to work. She’d leave a note for when her guest awoke, telling her to help herself to anything in the kitchen.

What if she helped herself to more than just food? Tawnia decided to take her most valuable papers and belongings and leave them in her car trunk. That was who she was. Careful. Most everything could be replaced, except her identity and her jewelry.

A shiver ran through her. This woman could easily steal her identity. The thought made her question for the hundredth time if she was doing the right thing by letting Autumn stay at the bungalow. But what else could she do? Kick her out with a fever, dressed in nothing but that red robe? She felt a small comfort in knowing that at least Bret knew about the two of them. He should be able to tell them apart.

Sighing, Tawnia went to the minuscule closet and found a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. To this pile, she added underwear but no bra since Autumn hadn’t been wearing one. These clothes seemed about Autumn’s style, and at least she’d have something clean to wear when she awoke. In fact, if she threw Autumn’s clothes in the washer right now, they’d be finished tonight and Autumn wouldn’t have to borrow anything more. Tawnia wasn’t good at sharing her clothes. That hadn’t been something her mother had smiled upon, and since she didn’t have a sister . . .

A sister.

Longing swift and deep sprang from somewhere inside her. It had been a long time since she’d dwelt upon her youthful desire for a sister. No, not a desire. A need. A deep, soul-shattering need.

Yet how could she feel such a deep longing for something she had never known? Unless she actually had a sister somewhere. One she didn’t remember.

No. The idea was too preposterous. Just her imagination going wild again.

Automatically checking the pockets of Autumn’s jeans before throwing them in the washer, she found a few crumpled bills—twenties—a set of keys, and nothing more. Not a shred of ID. Of course not. If Autumn’s story, and Bret’s, was true, her ID was at the bottom of the Willamette River. Slamming the washer shut, Tawnia hurried around the bungalow, throwing papers and valuables into a plastic crate.

She was hurrying down her sidewalk with the crate when her landlady, Mrs. Gerbert made an appearance. Today the rotund figure was wearing all red, from the flattering wide-legged dress pants to the shirt that hung halfway to her knees. As on the first day they’d met, she wore a copious amount of eye shadow and gobs of mascara. Her cheeks and lips were painted red to match her outfit. Even her pointy flat shoes were red.

“Hi,” Tawnia called. “Sorry, I can’t talk now. I’m going to be late to work.”

“No worries. Just came to water the flowers.” She was peering over Tawnia’s shoulder at the house.

“You must get up early.” Then Tawnia realized her new neighbors had probably reported her late night activities to Mrs. Gerbert. She hoped they’d at least seen Bret leave. She’d signed a contract stating that aside from the occasional visitor, she’d be living alone. “I do have a girl who stayed the night with me,” she hurried to say. “She wasn’t feeling well, so I brought her here to look after her. In fact, she’s still got a fever. I’m wondering if maybe I should take her to the doctor.”

Mrs. Gerbert appeared relieved, and now that she could rest assured her house was not being used as a den of iniquity, she seemed eager to help. Or did she want to make sure Tawnia was telling the truth? “You go along, dear. I’ll see to your friend. I raised two children. I know all about fevers. They’re mostly just the body’s way of helping you heal. As long as it’s not too hot or doesn’t go on too long, fevers aren’t usually dangerous.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.” At least Autumn wouldn’t be able to walk off with much under the eye of this careful lady. “I was worried about leaving her alone.”

“Well, go along now. You really don’t want to be late your first week.”

Tawnia balanced the crate on her hip and dug into her purse. “Look, here’s my cell phone. I’ll call in a bit to see how she is.” There was no phone at the bungalow; she hadn’t seen a reason to install a land line as long as she had a cell. If Autumn took off with it, she could always buy a new one.

With this unpleasant thought, she hurried to her car. She’d better not get lost, or she would most certainly be late. She hated not having enough time. When you were directionally challenged, you always made sure to leave plenty of time for mistakes, a buffer for wrong turns or road construction.

Worse than having no buffer, her stomach was terribly, achingly empty.

• • •

Autumn awoke to the glorious smell of something cooking. She couldn’t tell what, but the smell was enough to rip her from the fevered dream in which she had been with her parents at the fair. That she was only eight or so and holding both their hands didn’t bother her at all. She gladly would have stayed forever.

The food forced her back to a reality she wished she could avoid.

She wasn’t at the store or at her apartment, but she wasn’t sure exactly where she’d ended up. She remembered being with Bret. Was this his place? But no, she was wearing a woman’s red robe—not her own—and she seemed to remember a woman. A woman with her face.

No, that had been part of the dream. Yet she was in the dream bed, wearing the dream woman’s clothing. How much was real?

She should feel hot with the robe and blanket, but she was comfortable. Her arm wasn’t even aching that much, though the medicine had worn off. Just as well, she thought. Hydrocodone was dangerous. First it made her giggle like an idiot and think about kissing Bret, and then it made her so depressed she wanted to throw herself off what remained of the Hawthorne Bridge. It made her ask a total stranger not to leave her alone but to hold her hand until she fell asleep. Or had that part been the dream? Obviously, she shouldn’t use the medication, except perhaps right before bedtime. That was when her arm hurt the worst anyway.

She stretched her legs out languorously, looking at her surroundings. There was a dresser, a plain, straight-backed chair, and flowery curtains that matched the bedspread. Pictures in mismatched frames covered much of the space on every wall, some looking very ancient, though absolutely clean. It was a tiny room but seemed larger because it was absolutely uncluttered. Autumn felt a rush of longing for the apartment she shared with Winter, packed with memorabilia from their lives and the many antiques she couldn’t bear to sell.

The aroma wafting in from the kitchen made her stomach growl. When was the last time she’d eaten? Memory eluded her.

Movement outside the door, and a heavyset woman dressed in red entered, looking flushed under the short, dark blonde, tightly curled hair. Certainly not the face from her dreams. “Oh, thank heaven,” the woman exclaimed. “You’re finally awake. Feeling better? I hope so. You’ve nearly slept the day away.”

“I have?” Autumn tried to rise on one hand. The light coming from the window was slanted too low to be morning. Just how late was it?

“Don’t look alarmed, dear. It’s okay to sleep when you’re ill.”

“My father. I should be at the river.” She started to throw back the covers, but the woman clicked her tongue and drew them back over her.

“Not in your condition, young lady. I don’t know who your father is, but he wouldn’t want that.”

“But—”

“No buts. For now, you need to eat.”

Autumn’s stomach was going crazy.

“I’ll bring you a bowl of stew. Stew is just the thing for a fever.”

Autumn had to take her word for that. She could never remember if she was supposed to starve a fever and feed a cold, or feed a fever and starve a cold, so she always fed everything. Her stomach liked it that way.

Before the woman completely disappeared, Autumn called out. “Wait. Did you hear if they found anyone else? From the Willamette, I mean. The bridge.” The words felt like sawdust in her throat.

The woman returned to the room, her gaze resting gently on Autumn, who sat on the bed, her knees pulled to her chest. “The news said the Navy Seals found another body this morning.”

“Who?”

“They didn’t say. Except it’s a woman. Poor thing.”

Autumn sighed with relief. Until she realized that meant Winter was still under the water somewhere, trapped, with all sorts of river life swimming by or even crawling on his face. She let her head drop to her knees, not meaning to cry, but unable to help herself.

There was a hand on her head, stroking it comfortingly, just as her mother had done many years ago when she was sad or sick. Autumn took a deep, slow breath.

“What is it?”

“My father and I were on the bridge,” Autumn said, her face still buried in the blanket over her knees. “He’s one of the five that’s still missing—or four, I mean, now that they found that woman.”

“Oh, no.” Other sounds of sympathy followed. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry, dear. I don’t know quite what to say. It was a horrible, horrible accident.”

Autumn nodded. Her tears had dried as suddenly as they’d started, and now she was feeling numb again. And hungry.

The hand left her head. “You’ll feel better after you eat. My stew is pretty good, if I do say so myself. My husband said it was the best he ever tasted, but I never did know if he said it just to please me.”

She didn’t seem to expect an answer, and Autumn was relieved when she left the room. She put the pillows behind her and settled back, wondering how she would make it to the river. She could call Jake. Or maybe Bret. Or even Orion. She had other friends, of course, but they seemed so removed from everything that had happened to her. She didn’t want to explain to anyone else why she needed to be there.

The woman came into the room, carrying a bed tray with a large, steaming bowl of chunky stew. Beef, Autumn guessed. Baking powder biscuits sat on a small plate, and she was disappointed to see only two. She loved baking powder biscuits and could eat a half dozen at a single sitting, even if they were made of white flour. The woman placed the tray on her lap before sitting in the chair. The smell of the food was so wonderful that Autumn actually felt dizzy with anticipation. She didn’t care that the meat probably contained hormones and that the vegetables weren’t organically grown.

“I’m Mrs. Gerbert, by the way,” the woman said. “You don’t need help, do you? I can feed you, if you want.”

Autumn wondered how long it had been since this woman had felt needed. “Thanks, I can manage.”

Poorly, as it turned out, since her right arm was immobilized in the brace, but the robe could certainly be washed. The chunks of meat and potatoes and carrots and onions were so good that Autumn nearly forgot Mrs. Gerbert in her eager attack on the food.

“Tawnia didn’t tell me you were her sister,” Mrs. Gerbert said suddenly. “But I can clearly tell the family resemblance. You are definitely sisters. Twins, I’ll bet.”

Autumn choked on a piece of meat. Her dream had been real!

“Sorry, dear. Is it too hot?” Mrs. Gerbert jumped up from the chair and hovered by the bed.

“No, I’m fine. It’s just that I don’t remember what happened last night.” And should she admit that she didn’t have a sister, much less a twin?

“Well, that’s natural when you’re sick, but it’s good you have a sister to take care of you. Do you live in the area?”

“Yes. I own an antiques shop in the Hawthorne district.” How weird to say the words when she felt so far removed from them, almost as though that life belonged to another person altogether. Her store had been so important to her, but suddenly she’d realized how meaningless it was. All the traveling, the objects, the research. None of it really mattered without Winter.

I should be at the bottom of that river, not him. Not gentle Winter, who didn’t even use a car for fear of what it would do to the environment.

She was crying again, but she quickly shoveled in several spoonfuls of stew to hide that fact. It was hot enough to burn her mouth, and soon she was blinking with that discomfort instead of the other pain.

“Go slowly. There’s more. I’m making a cake too. German chocolate. Do you like German chocolate?”

Autumn nodded vigorously, her mouth too full to speak. This stew was the most wonderful thing she’d ever eaten. Of course, her perception after enduring the past week wasn’t completely accurate.

“Anyway, your sister has already called once. She left her cell phone and number if you want to call her again. I’ll go get it.” Mrs. Gerbert left the room.

Autumn didn’t want it. What would she say to this woman she didn’t know?

Yet the connection she’d felt was still in her mind or heart or wherever it was. To this woman who looked like her, not to Winter. It didn’t make sense. Nothing did—especially why this woman had her face. No wonder Bret had been so confused.

A piece of sky blue stationery on the floor by the chair caught her eye. Gingerly, she dropped her spoon and set the tray aside, swinging her feet over the edge of the bed. Her head whirled at the movement, but she bent down for the paper anyway, shivering by the time she returned to the covers. Stupid fever, she thought.

I’ve left clothes for you on the dresser, if you need them. Help yourself to any food you find. I’ll be home around six or so with dinner. I hope you’re still here. We need to talk. We’re both adopted, you know. Could there be a connection?

I’ll take you to the river later if you want. And I’ll call immediately if I hear any news about your father.

Tawnia McKnight

There was something more after the name, but it was crossed out. Perhaps something Tawnia had decided was too personal? Or maybe it had warned Autumn not to make off with the china—if she had any.

She re-read the note. Nothing personal, though there was at least curiosity. That makes two of us. Autumn was adopted, that much was true, but Winter and Summer had known her birth mother. They’d told stories about her and had even given Autumn a picture of her. Wouldn’t they have told her more if there had been anything to tell?