By Martha Amore The day Maura arrived it was cold in the way Fairbanks often is in January, fragile with frost, when it seems that even blowing on the trees will crack them to the ground. Every breath burns your lungs like smoke, and your Snowpacs squeak in the bright white snow. Ann was quiet the whole way to the airport, and I knew she was nervous by the way she kept taking her mittens off and then tugging them back on. “A whole week isn’t going to be easy,” I said. We lived in a one-room cabin with a loft, and having a guest meant setting up a bed…