Northern Girl

Chapter 1

Kate's breath came in white puffs that crystallized instantly on the fleece neck gaiter she'd pulled up over her nose.

Twenty-two degrees, no wind. Perfect. She wore her usual layers: merino wool base, fleece middle, the old Grundéns parka on top that had been Pop's back when he could still make the walk onto the ice.

Her Baffin boots, rated to minus forty, were overkill for today, but out here you didn't take chances.

The auger broke through and water gurgled up, dark against the white ice.

Kate cleared the slush with her skimmer, the metal mesh already growing ice crystals where the water clung.

This was the only place her mind could properly settle, out here where the only sounds were the ice's deep groans and the distant cry of a gull.

No guests asking about breakfast. No Pop forgetting his medications.

No bills stacked on the desk she'd inherited along with everything else.

Just the ice, the fish below, and the rhythm of winter as it should be.

She drilled her second hole twenty feet down the drop-off line, her movements automatic. Thirty-five years old, and she could set a tip-up in her sleep. The inn might be falling apart, Pop might be getting worse, but this, this she could do right.

The orange flag of the tip-up stood bright against the white expanse as she adjusted the spool tension.

Too tight and the fish would feel the resistance and spit the hook.

Too loose and they'd run with it, swallow it deep.

Pop had taught her the sweet spot when she was seven, his massive hands guiding her small ones on a tip-up he'd built himself in the garage.

Everything's about balance, Katie-girl. Fish know when something's not right.

Her phone buzzed against her ribs, underneath all the layers.

Kate ignored it, moving to drill the third hole.

Dani could wait. Whatever crisis had driven her sister to that three-sentence email could wait another hour.

Out here, Kate had learned to parcel out her worries like she rationed heating oil at the inn, only what was absolutely necessary.

The email had come last night, just as Kate was turning off the lights in the guest lounge. Three sentences, typical Dani:

Coming home next week. Need to talk to you and Pop. Don't worry.—D

Don't worry. As if those words from Dani had ever meant anything but trouble. The last time Dani said don't worry, she'd been leaving her third job in six months. The time before that, she'd maxed out her credit cards on some sure-thing business venture involving essential oils.

Kate set her third tip-up and stood back, surveying her line of flags. The ice made a long, low moan beneath her, the sound of pressure ridges adjusting, nothing dangerous. But she felt it in her chest anyway, that shifting, that warning.

“Your lines are crooked.”

Kate turned to find Charlie Brennan had walked over, his own bucket in hand. His face was a map of seventy Maine winters, ice fishing every one of them.

“They're on the drop-off,” Kate said.

“I know where they are. I'm saying they're crooked. Your mind's not on the fish.”

Kate almost smiled. Charlie had been reading her since she was a kid out here with Pop. “Dani's coming home.”

Charlie grunted. “The pretty one who can't sit still?”

“That's her.”

“Saw her at the Portland Jetport yesterday.”

Kate's stomach tightened. “Must've been someone else. Dani's in New York.”

Charlie shrugged, the gesture barely visible through his bulky Carhartt. “Could be. Sure looked like her, though. That red hair? Getting into one of those black SUVs. Don't see much of that around here. Looked like money.”

Kate's first tip-up flag popped, the orange square snapping upright in the still air.

She moved fast but steady, no point running on ice, no matter how thick.

She knelt beside the hole, watching the spool spin out line.

Patient. Let them take it. The line stopped, reversed direction.

The fish was turning the baitfish, getting it head-first for the swallow.

Now.

She set the hook with a quick lift, felt the weight on the other end. Not huge, but decent. The pickerel fought in short runs, each one a little weaker. She worked it up through the hole, grabbed it behind the gills. Maybe two pounds. Perfect eating size.

“You want these?” Charlie held up his bucket. “Couple decent perch. The wife's tired of fish anyway.”

“Pop would love them,” Kate said. “Thanks, Charlie.”

He handed over the bucket, then looked at her straight on. “Your father still know who you are most days?”

“Most days.”

“That's good, then. My uncle went that way. Near the end, he thought I was his brother come back from Korea.” Charlie picked up his gear. “You're a good girl, Katie. Always have been.”

Kate watched him trudge back toward his truck, his ice cleats scratching with each step. A good girl. The one who stayed. The one who couldn't imagine leaving.

Her phone buzzed again. Then again. Kate pulled off her mittens with her teeth, fumbling for it. Three texts from Marcy at the inn.

That contractor is here early. Says he can look at the roof now if you want. Also someone's pulling up with NY plates.

Kate's blood chilled. New York plates. Dani wasn’t supposed to be here until next week.

She looked at her tip-ups, the flags standing sentinel over their holes, then at the horizon where dark clouds formed.

Looks like a storm’s coming, probably tonight.

She quickly pulled her lines, dumped the bait, and loaded her gear. The truck started on the second try, heater blasting cold air that would take five minutes to warm.

The drive back to town took fifteen minutes, winding through the bare trees and past summer houses buttoned up tight for winter.

Whaler’s Landing sat on a rise above the harbor, three stories of weathered shingles that needed painting.

The inn had been beautiful once; Kate had seen the photos from the fifties and early sixties, when wealthy families from Philadelphia and New York booked rooms a year in advance.

Now she was lucky to fill half her twelve rooms in peak season.

Two vehicles sat in the curved drive. Ben Calloway's truck, a newish Silverado with Calloway Construction—Restoration Specialists on the door, and Dani’s Subaru Outback.

Kate parked and sat for a moment, watching. Through the side window, she could see Ben on an extension ladder propped against the north wall, one hand writing while the other held on to the gutter. But her attention was on the Subaru.

Dani climbed out of the driver's seat, and Kate's breath caught. Two years since she'd seen her sister, and the transformation was startling. The Dani she knew wore thrift store finds and borrowed clothes, her red hair usually pulled back in a messy bun, her face bare of makeup.

This Dani looked like she'd stepped out of a Manhattan boutique.

Designer jeans that fit perfectly. Leather boots that probably cost more than Kate made in a month.

Her hair had been professionally styled, subtle lowlights mixing with her natural red, falling in waves that looked effortless but weren't. She moved differently too, confident, assured, like someone who'd figured out her place in the world.

Dani pulled a Louis Vuitton suitcase from the trunk, the kind with wheels that were meant for airport terminals, not Maine driveways.

She struggled with it on the gravel, the wheels catching on every stone, and in that moment Kate saw a flash of the old Dani, the one who never quite thought things through.

Kate got out of her truck, still in her ice fishing gear, Pop's old parka, thermal pants, boots caked with fish scales and ice.

“You said next week,” Kate said.

Dani looked up, and for a moment, her composed mask slipped. Underneath was the same Dani: uncertain, defensive, trying too hard.

“I lied,” Dani said.

They stood there, sisters separated by ten feet of driveway and two years of distance, while March wind cut between them, carrying the salt smell of the harbor and the faint promise of snow.