BROCK (7 Brides for 7 Blackthornes Book 5)

by St. Claire, Roxanne

  “That’s not why I quit today. The floorboards…” At her look, he had to laugh. “Okay, it’s partially why I quit.”

  “Trust me, I get fears. Any deep-seated reason like I have?”

  “No,” he admitted as they reached the top of the steps. “Just your garden-variety irrational fear.” He ducked into the massive storage area, hot from the summer sun already beating through the roof and rafters.

  The place was about forty feet long and twenty feet wide, spanning most of this wing of the house. Pinpoints of light streamed in through thin vents and one long, skinny window, the sunbeams highlighting a bit of dust dancing as they moved through and disturbed the peace.

  For an attic, it was fairly organized, considering his aunt Claire had long ago transported the family memorabilia to Maine, claiming the attic in the Weston house was too small. The estate housekeeper kept this one clean, and her husband, Joe, had built shelves to hold stacked plastic storage bins. The middle of the room was filled with a smattering of holiday decorations, retired lamps, and some furniture. And seven well-defined bins and paraphernalia that didn’t need a label for Brock to know which one belonged to which Blackthorne.

  The model boats and yacht-racing trophies were Devlin’s. The ridiculous collection of Hot Wheels and other toy race cars had Ross’s fingerprints all over it. The row of binders was Trey’s coin collection, and about a hundred VHS tapes of old movies had once been Jason’s pride and joy.

  He turned to Jenna, about to tell her where he guessed his father’s files would be, but stopped at the sight of her eyes bright, her head swiveling, a smile threatening to stretch across her face as she reached to a clothing rack sagging under the weight of dozens of Halloween costumes.

  “Remind me later that you’re happier in attics than basements,” he teased.

  “I wasn’t…unhappy in that basement.” She lifted a Power Rangers cape and fluttered the corner of a SpongeBob SquarePants shirt he’d rocked one chilly October. “It’s just that this is…” She swept one hand to the left and one to the right. “Like a gold mine for me.”

  He got that. “Blackthorne family history central,” he agreed. “And you’re welcome to peruse our diplomas and christening gowns and that whole bank of yacht-racing trophies. But now we’re looking for legal files.”

  It didn’t take long to locate the blue-topped containers labeled simply MB. Jenna settled on an old chair while Brock pulled the bins down, one at a time, scanning the shelf. “I’m counting seven. No, eight. Is it too hot up here for you? I can carry them down.”

  “Let’s just start looking. Anything that says the name Platt.”

  “Yep.” He plopped on the wooden floor next to her and opened the first lid, which revealed nothing but long brown case files full of legal-sized documents. He let out a grunt. “This could be tedious.”

  “Or the most fun I’ve had in…” She lifted a file and winked at him. “Hours.”

  “We’ll get back to that,” he murmured, putting his hand on hers. “Assuming you don’t find out some dirty truth and tear off to write it and publish it.”

  “Brock.” She angled her head, a little sadness in her eyes. “I know what this means to you.”

  “And I know what it could mean to a book about my family.”

  She didn’t answer, slowly opening a file.

  “You did come digging for dirt,” he said.

  “I told you what I want. Color. Depth. Truth. None of that has to reflect poorly on this family.”

  “What if it does?” he asked, still holding her gaze.

  “We’ll cross that bridge,” she said, fluttering the first page. “This is a patent filing.”

  “So’s this,” he said, taking the next file. “Maybe we can skip this box.”

  “Maybe we should check to see if Platt filed a patent.”

  He let out a breath. “Of course. You’re brilliant.”

  “Trained by the best.”

  The best? He snorted as he took the next file, unable to hide what he thought of parents who let her be taken care of by an abusive nanny.

  “They aren’t monsters,” she whispered, as if she’d read the thought behind his derisive noise.

  “Your nanny was. And you were…” He closed that file and took the next. “Lonely.”

  “Says the man who longed for solitude.”

  He glanced around the attic, practically smelling moments from his childhood. “But I had constant support. Someone—usually three or four or five someones—always had my back. In a game, at school, at home, through…the worst times.” He ran a finger over the words Mark David Blackthorne, Attorney at Law at the top of a page.

  “You have the same middle name as your father,” she said, staring at his hand.

  He looked up. “You know, he was a lot more like David than Brock.”

  “Tell me what you remember most about him.”

  He thought about that for a while, finishing with the last file in this bin, another patent registration, then closing the lid to move on to the next one.

  “He loved my mom a lot.” The admission surprised him, but it was what came out first. “I never really thought about them as…a couple. They were just Mom and Dad, a unit. But…” They laughed a lot. Had inside jokes. Probably found ways to escape and be alone and… “I’m glad they died together.”

  She sucked in a breath, her eyes wide. “You are?”

  “Not glad they died, or that I lost both parents in one accident. But I like thinking that they’re…” He shook his head, suddenly realizing how he sounded. “Anyway, he was a good guy, and they had a great marriage, I think.” One exactly like he’d want if he…

  At the thought, he froze with his hand on a file. Why was he thinking about that? “What about your dad? What’s he like?” he asked quickly.

  “Distant. Distracted.” She lifted the top page of a file. “Why is this blank? And this? And this? Why file a bunch of blank pages?”

  “Try another one.” He looked at the next file. “These are my dad’s personal taxes from thirty years ago. You were saying?”

  “I was saying…” She smacked her hand on the armrest of her chair and slid onto the floor next to him to show him the file. “Holy crap, Brock. Look at this.”

  He squinted at the paper, one page with photocopied images of checks all written to “PFT.” Each one in the amount of one million dollars. He just stared at the four on one page, unable to speak.

  Very slowly, she lifted the page to show four more check images. And the next page, and the next.

  “Look at the dates,” she said. “One every January, all from a personal MD Blackthorne account.”

  At the bottom of the stack of what had to be well over twenty million dollars’ worth of checks, all signed by his father—until the dates hit the 1960s, and those checks were signed by Graham Blackthorne, Brock’s grandfather.

  The pages of check images ended, then he spied a handwritten ledger that looked like it predated those. Down one column, the letters PFT. Then the amount of one million and a check number, going back decades, all the way to… He flipped the last page and finally reached the end.

  “The first check was written on January 1, 1934.” Brock shook his head, doing the incredible math.

  “The month after Prohibition ended,” Jenna said quietly, reaching into the bin to pull out a very thin leather folder that was tucked into the side of the bin. Holding it gingerly, she set it on her lap and placed a tender hand on it, as if respecting its age and history. “Can I open it?”

  “Of course,” he said, scooting to get even closer. “Let’s see what it is.”

  She slid the book onto his lap and slowly lifted the aged cover.

  The first page was yellowed stationery, the edges curled by time, with the embossed heading The Honorable Justice Martin J. Harkham, York County Court at the top.

  His gaze skimmed the letter, landing on one line…

  The legal formation of The Platt Family Trust (PFT
) for the purpose of financial transaction…

  “We found the Platts,” she whispered.

  The Platts, who’d been paid more than seventy million dollars by his family.

  “What do you think?” she asked. “Hush money or blackmail?”

  He let out a sigh. “Either way, I think I’m staring at a big, ugly, permanent stain on my family name.”

  * * *

  To his credit, Brock had no interest in hiding the truth or burying the past. He seemed to want to get to the bottom of the Platt situation as much as Jenna did, but only because, as he’d said repeatedly, he didn’t believe the recipe had been stolen.

  Well, if someone had paid more than seventy million for it, then, no. Not stolen. But that meant Blackthorne Gold wasn’t Blackthorne at all. And that was just as bad to Brock.

  After searching the rest of the boxes and finding nothing else related to the Platt family, they packed up the folder and ledger and headed to the one person nearby who could shed some light on what they’d discovered.

  Fiona was in her garden, humming while she pruned, delighted to see them.

  “Can I get you a drink, dear?” She slid an arm around Jenna’s as if they were fast friends.

  “I don’t think—”

  “We need help, Nana,” Brock said, no time for niceties. “And it’s serious.”

  She turned her lips down and leaned into Jenna. “He was more fun when he was little,” she said on a loud whisper.

  “Nana.” Brock was having none of her chatter. As soon as he settled her in her favorite chair, he told her everything that had happened, from the sugar gold cornfields, to the discovery of the barrel—thankfully leaving out how Jenna had spotted it—and the million-dollar checks that had been drafted and mysteriously stopped thirteen years ago.

  She listened without a question, her aging eyes remarkably clear as she processed the news and studied the evidence. Finally, she leaned back and let out a shuddering sigh.

  “I always suspected there was…something.”

  Neither of them spoke, waiting for more.

  “A few times, during an occasional lean year, I heard my husband fighting with a lawyer he only spoke to by phone. He wouldn’t ever take or make those calls at the company, but in his private office at home. I never knew what or who he was talking about, but there was one line item that got paid, no matter how thin profits might be.”

  “Do you know the name of the lawyer?” Jenna asked.

  “Most likely Bill Whitlock.”

  “Is he…available?” Jenna braced for the news that this lead was long dead.

  “Oh my, yes. He was a very young man back then, and now he lives right here in King Harbor.”

  Brock leaned forward, frowning. “Why have I never heard of this guy? A lawyer who did work for Blackthorne Enterprises?”

  “Because he didn’t do work for Blackthorne Enterprises,” she said. “He did work for your grandfather, privately. Then, once your father became an attorney, he took over.”

  “We should talk to him,” Jenna said to Brock.

  He nodded, but his gaze was intent on his grandmother. “Anyone else? Any other ideas, Nana?”

  She took a long, deep breath and shifted all her attention to Jenna. “I’ve been thinking about you,” she said, surprising them with the switch of topics.

  “That’s…nice,” Jenna said with an uncertain smile.

  “I am wondering if you’re worthy…” She glanced at Brock, and instantly a slow heat crawled up Jenna’s chest, no doubt deepening the color in her cheeks. Was she worthy of Brock? Is that what—

  “Not of my grandson!” Fiona said with a soft cackle of laughter. “He’d be damn lucky to have you.”

  Jenna didn’t quite know what to say, but felt better when she saw Brock’s amused smile, the first since they’d left the attic.

  “I’m wondering if you’re worthy of knowing…the past.” Fiona gripped the armrests of her chair and pushed herself to her feet. “I think you are.”

  Jenna looked up at her, confused.

  “Come,” Fiona said, flicking her fingers, then turned that hand to point to her grandson. “Just Jenna. Alone.”

  He didn’t argue as Fiona guided Jenna back into the house. As they walked through the living area to the back bedrooms, the older woman put a hand on Jenna’s back and led her to a small guest room full of classic antique furniture and dizzying flowered wallpaper.

  “This is where I keep Meredith’s journals.”

  Jenna’s jaw unhinged. “Meredith Blackthorne? Alistair’s wife? She had journals?”

  “Three of them.” She ambled to a closet and opened the door, pointing to a top shelf. “The leather books, up there.”

  When she nodded her permission, Jenna reached up to get them, her heart racing a little at what incredible insights she might find on the pages.

  “Does anyone know you have these?” she asked as she drew three thick, ancient journals from the shelf, holding them as if they were literal gold, not just literary gold.

  “Graham—my husband, not my son—gave them to me before he died,” she said. “I’ve read some, but mostly I…” She perched her narrow frame on the edge of the bed. “It’s not all pretty, our old history. It’s not all bad, either.”

  Jenna gripped the journals, rubbing her palm over the top one, knowing that whatever was in here, it would likely make the basis for at least the first third of a book, giving her an unprecedented insider’s view into this family’s deep roots. This little pile of the past could essentially guarantee a book proposal that would be accepted and a book that would be published. In here, she could find the good, the bad, and the…buried.

  “Do they say anything about the Platt family?” she asked.

  “I haven’t read them all. The first one covers Alistair’s decision to leave Scotland and start a new life in America, and I’ve skimmed it. It’s romantic, to be honest. He left to keep Meredith happy. The third one is the last part of her life and includes her thoughts about her son and me, which is all that I ever was interested in.” She added a soft chuckle. “She hated me at first. By the time she made her last entry, she’d have picked me over him.”

  Jenna smiled back, having no doubt this spry, colorful woman had won over many hearts in her lifetime.

  “The second one is the thick of the business, after the bootlegging days, into the 1930s and ’40s. That wasn’t so interesting to me.”

  Jenna nodded, her heart rate ratcheting up at how interesting it would be to her. “Do I have your permission to reprint and quote from these?”

  Fiona stood slowly and took a step closer, placing her cool, parchment-smooth hands on either side of Jenna’s face. “You may read them, and use them, on one condition.”

  With the next breath trapped in her chest, Jenna waited, a little afraid of Fiona’s price. “Which is?”

  “Don’t hurt him.”

  “You mean…Brock?”

  “Well, I sure as hell am not worried about you hurting Alistair,” she joked.

  But Jenna didn’t laugh. “Why would you think I’d hurt him?”

  “Because you can’t love Brock Blackthorne casually or temporarily.”

  Love? “Fiona, we’ve only just met.”

  “Please, dear. I’m damn near ninety years old. I know what I see between you two.”

  “That’s just…” Lust. “A warm friendship.”

  Fiona rolled her eyes with the finesse of a teenager. “Call it what you want, dear, but I’ve never seen Brock look at anyone quite the way he looks at you.”

  The words had an unexpected effect, nearly weakening Jenna’s knees. “He’s probably…worried I’ll tarnish the brand.”

  “If he’s worried, it’s because that man knows what it feels like to lose someone you love and doesn’t want to go through it again.”

  Jenna blinked in surprise at this new psychological profile of Brock. “Because of his parents?” she guessed.

  “Oh yes. H
e’s buried that pain for years, covering it with all his flag-waving over all things Blackthorne. And, yes, his aunt and uncle took care of him—as did I, I might add—but I think, deep inside, he believes that love means loss.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Jenna said softly, pulling the journals to her chest.

  Fiona put her hand on the journals and eased them away from her. “You’ll do more than that,” she said. “You will give me a promise, swearing on whatever it is that matters to you, that you will not let my grandson fall in love with you only to lose you.”

  Jenna just stared at her.

  In the moment of silence, those gnarled fingers closed around the leather-bound books, and Fiona managed to slide them free of Jenna’s hands. “If you can’t make that promise, you can’t have these journals.”

  Could she promise that? Or that if he did, she’d never leave him?

  Fiona fluttered a few pages, enough that Jenna could see the handwriting inside. Meredith’s handwriting. As good as having the long-dead woman in front of her for an interview. Everything in her itched to get her hands on them again. But…

  “Fiona,” she whispered. “I just met him a few days ago. I can’t, in good conscience, tell you I can stop him if…if…” She swallowed, knowing better than to use a euphemism with this woman. “If he falls in love with me.”

  “Then don’t let him fall in love with you.” She held the books out to Jenna, tempting her and adding a lifted brow. “But if he does, you can’t hurt him.”

  “What if I can’t keep that promise?” she asked.

  “Then your book will never see the light of day.”

  Jenna knew better than anyone how easily—and how late in the game—that could happen.

  “So, yes or no for Meredith’s journals, dear?” she asked sweetly, as if she hadn’t just negotiated Jenna right down to the mat.

  She wet her lips, closed her eyes, and reached for the books. “I promise,” she whispered.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Brock whipped the dart through the air with what felt like master precision, watching it twirl, spin, and hit the edge of the board and fall to the floor of the private game room in the Vault.