Cara Colter - Husband By Inheritance

“Is there a problem?” Abby asked. She looked wistfully at the door, sorry she’d been tempted to come here, sorry she’d accepted this odd invitation, knowing somehow her life was about to take an unexpected turn. Why now, when what she wanted most was a life without unexpected turns? A life of stability for her baby, Belle.

But that is why she had come here, too. Yes she was skeptical, but some small part of her hoped the gift would be something that would enable her to give her daughter exactly the life she wanted for her. A little house of their own, instead of the apartment. A nicer neighborhood, closer to a park. A new sewing machine so Abby could take in more work.

Counting her chickens before they hatched, she reprimanded herself. Still, she had been sent a plane ticket worth several hundred dollars. She had been picked up in Portland by a limo and deposited at Miracle Harbor’s most luxurious hotel. And the letter had promised the “gift” was substantial.

Hope was what had made her cross the continent, from Illinois to this small hamlet in Oregon. Miracle Harbor. The town, built in a half moon on the hills surrounding a bay, was a place of postcard prettiness—neat rows of beautiful old shingle-sided houses behind white picket fences, rhododendrons growing wild, the air delightfully warm and scented of the sea.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, again.

“No, of course not. We’re just waiting for the arrival of the other parties.”

“The other parties?” Abby asked, baffled. This was the first she had heard of other parties.

The receptionist suddenly was the one who looked uncomfortable, as if she had revealed more than was professionally acceptable.

So when the door swung open, both she and Abby looked to it with relief.

A woman stepped into the office, in dark glasses and a short fur jacket. A long skirt, shimmering jade-colored silk, swirled around her slender legs as she moved with a breezy self-confidence into the room. Her hair was beautifully coiffed, and yet a hint of something wild remained in the way it swung, electric, around her shoulders.

There was something so familiar about her, Abby thought, frowning, and then realized the woman must be almost exactly her own size and height. Even her hair color was familiar, tones of wheat mixed with honey.

“Hi. I’m Brittany Patterson. I—”

As she caught sight of Abby out of the corner of her eye, her voice froze. She swung around and stared. Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. Slowly, she lifted the sunglasses off her eyes, and Abby felt the blood drain from her face, thought for an awful moment that she was going to faint.

Because the face she was looking at was the very same face she looked at in the mirror each day.

The makeup was bolder, the eyebrows more carefully shaped, this woman lovelier somehow, and yet identical to her in every way.

The door swung open again, and Abby turned to it in relief, needing a distraction from the intensity of emotion, the confusion welling up within her.

Another woman entered the office, breathless, as different from the woman in the fur jacket as night from day. She was in jeans and a jean jacket, both faded nearly white, her long hair swept back off her face in a careless ponytail.

Different from the other woman, except in one way.

Her face was identical. And so was her shade of hair. And the striking hazel of eyes nearly blue, except for a star of brown around the pupil.

As if in a dream, Abby got up from the deep sofa. Moved toward the other women, and then began to shake. She sat back down. Silently, the other women came and sat down, too, looking at each other with an astonishment deeper than words.

The receptionist was bringing them all coffee now. Abby might have laughed to see each of the other women get their coffee ready just as she did—a tiny splash of cream, three sugars, and then a soft blow on the hot liquid—except that it was too bizarre to be funny.

“Well,” said the one in the fur, finally breaking the stunned silence, “unless we’re on Candid Camera, I’d guess we’re related.”

“More like The Twilight Zone,” the one in the jean jacket said, and then all three of them laughed. The two young women’s voices, though they had different regional accents, were identical in tone and pitch. Abby recognized her own voice when they spoke.

And then they were all talking at once.

“Did you have any idea? I knew I was adopted but—” Abby’s voice was shaking.

“I knew I was adopted,” the one in the fur coat said, “but I didn’t know I had sisters.”

“I was never adopted,” the jean-clad woman said, her voice hesitant. “I lived with my Aunt Ella until I was ten. She said my parents—our parents?—were killed in a car crash.”

“It’s clear we are more than sisters. We must be triplets,” the one in the fur coat announced, and they stared at each other, thrilled and shocked and astonished. “I’m Brittany.”

“Abigail. Abby.” She could hear the catch of emotion in her voice.

“Corrine. Corrie.”

The receptionist interrupted. “Mr. Hamilton will see you now.”

They followed her down the hall into an office, glancing at each other with speculative delight, with wonder.

Mr. Hamilton was a dignified man, his manner and dress authoritative. Silver hair and deep wrinkles around his eyes made him look as if he should be retired. He looked genuinely amazed as the three identical young women entered his office and took seats across from him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Pardon me for staring. I—I didn’t know. You all had different last names. I had no idea—”

He looked down at the papers in front of him, struggling for composure. When he looked up he studied them each in turn.

“Triplets,” he finally concluded. “Had you ever met each other?”

When they shook their heads, he looked very grave. “I’m sorry. I would have never popped this kind of surprise on you without warning you. I can’t imagine what she was—” His voice faded, and then he cleared his throat. “As you know from the letter you received, I have asked you here because my client wishes to bestow a gift on each of you.”

“Who is your client?” Brittany asked, and Abby noted she seemed far more comfortable in the rich surroundings than either of her sisters.

“I’m not at liberty to say. I have been given a letter to read to you.” He took a paper off his desk, held the letter way back and squinted at it.

“Dear Abigail, Brittany and Corrine,” he read in a rich baritone, “Many years ago, I made a promise to your mother. She died within minutes of extracting that promise from me. To my shame, it was a promise I was unable to keep. I have reunited you with your sisters in the hope this gesture will begin to make the amends I owe your mother and each of you. I have also given you each a gift that I hope will turn out to be the very thing you most need in your lives. My attorney, Mr. Jordan Hamilton, will outline the nature of each gift, and the conditions I have attached to it. My wish is for your every happiness.”

“What was the promise she made to our mother?” Abby asked, hungry to know any detail that would help her come to grips with this overwhelming set of circumstances.

“I’m afraid, aside from the gifts, and the attached conditions, I don’t know any more than what is in the letter,” Mr. Hamilton said.

“Conditions?” Brittany asked skeptically. “You might as well get to that first.”

“All right. In order for you to receive your gifts, permanently, you must remain here in Miracle Harbor for a period of one year.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “And you must marry within that year.”