His Family

He found Cordie and Sophie at the table in the kitchen poring over a baby-furniture catalog. Kezia stood behind them. All three looked up expectantly as he walked in.

Dressed for shopping in the city, his brothers’ ladies were quite a picture. There had always been women around the house, but with Cordie and Sophie, Shepherd’s Knoll had a whole new atmosphere, one that included feminine giggling, too-loud rhythm and blues on the sound system, and more trails of perfume.

“Did she talk you into staying?” Sophie asked hopefully.

“He has to go,” Cordie replied before he could, the words intended to convey support for his stand on self-discovery. But he knew she wanted him to stay as much as Killian did. “He needs more scope than we provide,” she went on with a graceful wave of her hand. “Life on a bigger canvas, more depth and drama…”

He crossed to the table, caught the hand with which she gestured and kissed her knuckles. “There is no more drama anywhere, Cordelia,” he said, “than that which you provide.” She’d been a model, done marketing for her father’s furniture-manufacturing company, and buying for Abbott Mills. She was red-haired and unflaggingly cheerful, and had driven Killian to distraction.

But now, with twins on the way, she and Killian were ecstatically happy.

“Why are you looking at baby furniture?” he asked, going to the refrigerator. “I thought you were wedding-dress shopping.”

“We’re going to do both.”

He wondered why China wasn’t with them. The women had done a lot together since Cordie and Killian had come home from Europe, where they’d had a second honeymoon and checked on the Abbott Mills London office.

“We invited China,” Sophie said, “but she insisted she had work to do.”

“I think she’s going to try to keep her distance until her sister comes.” Cordie weighed in with that opinion. “She thinks because she isn’t an Abbott, she’s lost the right to hang around with us. You could explain to her that that isn’t true.”

He turned away from the open refrigerator. “Why don’t you explain it to her? You’re the ones she isn’t hanging around with.”

“Whose arms did she run into when she learned she wasn’t an Abbott?” Cordie asked significantly.

He turned back to the refrigerator. “I was closest.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“What are you looking for?” Kezia came to peer over his shoulder. “I can make you bacon and eggs, an omelet, French toast.”

“I was looking for the leftover peach pie from last night.”

“For breakfast?”

“Peach is a fruit,” he said, spotting the pie in the back on the bottom shelf and reaching in for it. “Crust is flour and water and butter. It’s just like having toast, only better-tasting.”

Kezia made a sound that suggested pain. “Please let me make you something nourishing.”

“This’ll be great.” He took the fairly large slice left on the pie tin, wrapped one end in a paper towel and took off for the orchard with a parting wave for the women, encouraging them to have fun.

He heard Cordie say feelingly, “That’s one bad Abbott.”

FROM BETWEEN the apple-laden branches of the Duchess, China saw Campbell striding toward the orchard. The Duchess was a large, old tree, part of a group of vintage trees at the end of the orchard. They were the legacy of a colonist who’d owned the property just after the American Revolution. According to local lore, he’d visited his friend, Thomas Jefferson, and brought home thirty-five Esopus Spitzenburg apple trees because he’d so enjoyed the fruit at Jefferson’s table.

Twenty-six of the trees had survived thanks to the tireless efforts of the Abbotts.

The family’s larger, commercial orchard was populated with Northern Spy apples, but family and friends preferred the “Spitz” for its crisp, sweet taste.

She’d come out this morning to continue to thin the developing crop so that the remaining fruit would have the chance to develop more fully, a process she’d been helping Campbell with for several days. Because of the age of the trees, he preferred to do the work himself, rather than leave it to the occasional staff that helped with the big orchard.

It amazed her to think that just a month ago she hadn’t even thought about apples having a history, and now she was blown away by the notion that Thomas Jefferson has probably touched this tree.

It saddened her to know that her days here were numbered, but she’d awakened today, determined to make the most of whatever time she had left at Shepherd’s Knoll. She’d also resolved to stop fighting with Campbell. She’d thought about it most of the sleepless night, and couldn’t imagine why she’d run into his arms last night after reading the DNA lab report. She could still see everyone’s shocked faces. Curiously, Campbell had been the only one who hadn’t seemed surprised.

She didn’t like him. He didn’t like her. Possibly he was willing to offer comfort because he was relieved she wasn’t his sister; he felt he could afford to be generous.

But what had prompted her to go to him? Some need to resolve things with him, maybe, because she knew her little fantasy of being an Abbott was over?

It didn’t really matter, she thought, working the shears carefully. She was going to be polite and productive, and pretty soon she would hear from Janet, tell her to come to Losthampton on the next available flight, and then when she was sure Janet was Abigail Abbott, she, China, would be free to go.

She didn’t want to infringe upon Janet’s right to assume her real life, nor on the Abbotts’ hospitality. They might try to talk her into staying, and Janet would probably remind her of their vow that they were sisters no matter what and that gave China some right to be here, but she wouldn’t stay. For she was part of whatever life Janet was discovering at this very moment somewhere in the northern Canadian wilderness. Poor shopping there, she imagined.

Campbell, in jeans and a dark blue T-shirt, came to stand under the Duchess. She smiled pleasantly at him to implement her new plan. Unfortunately she wasn’t watching what she was doing and dropped a small, hard-culled apple on his head. Or she would have if he hadn’t dodged it.

“You don’t have to do this today,” he said, steadying the ladder as she reached for a cull.

“This is your last chance to have someone else help you with the picking,” she said. “You should take advantage of it.”

“I’m leaving before you are. In a few days this is going to be someone else’s responsibility.”

She glanced down at him in surprise. “You’re leaving before Janet comes?”

“I had promised to report for work at the end of the week. And right now, you’re not sure where your sister is. I’ll come back to meet her when she arrives.”

“Who’s going to replace you?”

“Everyone’s hoping you are.”

Distracted again, she chipped her fingernail with the shears.

“It wouldn’t be fair,” she said. “This is another woman’s life. Maybe Janet’s.”

“Don’t we all live in each other’s lives?”

It was interesting, she thought, that though they didn’t get along at all, he was able to pinpoint the one thing in all this she was having difficulty letting go. When she’d set out on this journey to find out if she was Abigail Abbott, it was because she’d wanted to find the life that was really hers. True, she’d loved her adopted parents, and Janet couldn’t be more her sister than if they’d been born twins. But since she’d been aware of what adoption meant, she’d felt a burning desire, if not a desperate need, to know about her past. She couldn’t explain it.

And whoever had given her life had bequeathed her a possessiveness and a single-mindedness that often made her difficult to live with.

“Come down from there,” he said, tugging at her pant leg, “before you cut off your finger.”

Even she thought stopping was a good idea. She handed down the shears. “You’re right about living in each other’s lives,” she said when she had reached solid ground. She helped him fold the ladder. “But aren’t you the one who has to leave here to find the place where you belong? And you were born to Chloe. Your brothers are your blood. What is it you need to know?”

He laughed lightly, self-effacingly. “I guess I’m proof that blood isn’t always what it’s all about. It’s about feeling that you fit in, that you do your share, that your contributions are valuable and significant.” He grinned now, his expression ripe with all the unpleasant words that had passed between them since her arrival. “Much as it pains me to admit it,” he conceded grudgingly, “your time spent here has been all that.”

She couldn’t believe her ears, and made a production of slapping a hand against the side of her head as though something obstructed her hearing. “You didn’t just say I’ve worked hard and well?” she asked in a theatrically shocked voice as they picked up opposite ends of the ladder and carried it to the toolshed. “Because I don’t think I could survive a compliment from you. I’ve been so changed by all your criticisms and complaints that I survive on them. A kind word would—”

“Give it a rest,” he advised, pointing to the shed’s closed door. “Would you open it, please?”