His Family. Muriel Jensen
smiled at him and shook her head at the same time, negating whatever happy message had been in the smile. “In some ways, you are the most talented of my children. Killian is brilliant in business, and Sawyer can make money dance. But you know so much about so many things, and yet you know so little about yourself.”
“That’s why I’m going away,” he said emphatically, thrilled to finally be able to make his point.
She sighed and shook her head again, as though he was a particularly thickheaded child. “You don’t even know where to find yourself.”
That cryptic message delivered, she shooed him toward the door. “Go. Cordie and Sophie and I are going shopping for wedding dresses.” At the door, she caught his arm. “You will find time to come home for your brother’s wedding?”
He remembered Sophie saying something about Labor Day nuptials. “I will.”
“Good. If all goes well, Abigail will be home for it, too. Perhaps you can stay long enough to apologize for not letting her play with your dump truck.” She pushed him out into the hall and closed the door on him.
He let his forehead fall against it. This family was hopeless. They loved you with a loyalty that was ferocious, but if you didn’t adhere completely to the family line, you were badgered until you came “to your senses.”
He headed for the stairs, intending to grab something to eat in the kitchen and head for the orchard. Maybe the physical labor of apple-picking would help clear his head.
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