Breaking Josephine (27 page)

I walked up
quietly and saw Dex slumped over the desk, his dark hair catching the afternoon
sun. His eyes were closed, his black lashes fanning out and framing his
sleeping face. His striking shoulders hunched forward and his arms sprawled out
on the desk, his biceps stretching the black fabric of his t-shirt. His left
hand still gripped an empty glass, his fingers clutching it as if his life
depended on it. A bottle of scotch sat on the desk, practically empty. My heart
pounded in my chest as I looked at the man I loved and walked out on a week
before. Obviously, he’d taken my leaving as hard as Eileen suggested, and went
down a dark road, wet with alcohol and grief.

I whispered his
name and crept up to him, but he stayed still. I took a deep breath and crept
closer, reaching out my fingers and touching his shoulder gently. He moved
slightly, and I jumped back, letting out a trapped breath. At least he was
alive. I inched closer and placed my fingers gently on his neck and felt his
pulse, felt his blood, racing through his veins. The touch sent shockwaves
through me and I pulled my fingers back as if I’d been burned. Dex was
definitely alive, just passed out drunk. Despite my still simmering anger at
him, my body longed to touch him, longed to be near him, feeling the connection
between us. I felt a rush of desire as I looked at Dex, sprawled out on his
desk, and I instinctively reached out to run my fingers through his hair,
stopping just before I touched him.

I stood there, my
fingers outstretched, within a breath of him, unsure what to do. He laid there
hurting and in pain—pain I caused by walking out on him and abandoning
him. It hurt me to see him like that, emotionally battered and bruised. But I
felt the same way and I didn’t know if I could be strong enough to let him back
into my life. Not at least until I knew the truth about my mother.

I took a deep
breath and stepped back, willing myself away from Dex and his pain. I backed up
to the bookcase wall, crossed my legs, and sat down, trying to think. He seemed
virtually unconscious, so much so I could probably root through the study and
not wake him at all. But I didn’t trust myself to face him when he woke up,
didn’t trust myself to look into his blue eyes and not melt like ice exposed to
a flame. I wrung my hands in my lap, staring at his sleeping body and I let my
eyes drift down his slumped shoulders, to his sculpted back, his worn jeans,
his powerful legs, and his bare feet. Sitting next to him on the floor was an
old, faded banker’s box full of files. I scooted myself closer on the floor,
reading “Hartley Industries” on the side. I crawled over to the box, and looked
at the label on the front: “Office of Declan Hartley, Box 88 of 93.”

I leaned back and
sat on my heels. Dex must have pulled his dad’s files from storage at Hartley
Industries, I thought to myself, and from what it appeared, had been through
eighty-seven of the boxes. I inhaled sharply and leaned forward again over the
box. It appeared the files were a hodge-podge of various items, some containing
Declan’s calendar for the months before he died, some business related. I
rifled through them, pulling out each file and flipping through the pages. Nothing
looked even remotely helpful. Dex must have grown discouraged after finding
nothing, I thought, putting the files back and standing up.

I looked down at
Dex’s mussed hair and noticed an open file resting on the table underneath his
head. I eased myself closer to Dex, feeling his heat, hearing his shallow
breathing. I shuddered as my arm accidentally brushed his shoulder and I froze,
closing my eyes and calming myself down. After counting to ten, I opened my
eyes and peered over his sleeping shoulder. Sitting on top of the file appeared
to be a letter on Hartley Industries letterhead. I leaned in closer, and by
craning my neck around Dex’s arm, I could read the date, “March 27, 2003.” I
thought back. My mother died April 5, 2003, so this letter was written just
over a week before she died, while we were on vacation here, in Cannon Beach. I
moved in closer, holding my shirt close to my body to keep from touching Dex
and kept reading, “Dear Henry: I am writing regarding a matter of utmost
importance. As you know, almost thirteen years ago we ….” The rest was obscured
by Dex’s looming figure. I stepped back and cursed silently to myself. Here sat
a letter, dated a week before my mother’s death to a Henry, who may very well
be Henry Blackstone, William and Colin’s father. To read the rest of the letter
I’d have to somehow move Dex out of the way, and based on what I’d seen so far,
I wasn’t leaving until I could.

I walked around to
the front of the desk and carefully picked up the glass still clutched in Dex’s
fingers and pulled, trying to dislodge it from his grip. But his hand only
clutched it tighter. I groaned quietly. If I couldn’t get Dex to release the
glass, maybe I could move it enough to lift his arm out of the way and slide
the paper out. I picked up the glass again, and lifted Dex’s arm along with it,
grabbing the letter at the same time. I pulled the letter slowly, sliding it a
half an inch at a time. I kept pulling the paper slowly until at last it came
free. As I pulled it off the table, Dex’s hand released its grip on the glass
and his arm slammed onto the table. I jumped back as he moaned and rubbed his
face with his now-free hand. Not ready to see Dex awake and confront my
feelings for him, I backed out of the study and quietly ran down both sets of
stairs. I stuffed the letter in my bag, set the glass I still carried on the
kitchen counter, and walked out the front door.

I ran quickly down
the street to the public beach behind the Seaside Inn and found an empty area
of beach, free from tourists watching the sun as it set over the ocean. I sat
down and pulled the letter out of my bag, spread it out, and started to read:

March 27, 2003

Dear Henry:

I am writing regarding a matter of utmost
importance. As you know, almost thirteen years ago we consummated the
acquisition by Hartley Industries of the assets of the Blackstone Group,
including but not limited to, the Group’s vast holdings of undeveloped old
growth forest in northwest Oregon. At the time of the asset purchase agreement,
you desired to rid yourself of the burdens of your father’s real estate
development company and free yourself to pursue your film production career. And
Hartley Industries desired to increase its timberland holdings in the Pacific
Northwest. Now that many years have passed, it appears this was a mutually
beneficial transaction.

As you remember, the board of Hartley
Industries at the time had considerable misgivings about your character and
trustworthiness. Not understanding your desire to sell a land holding worth so
much with its pristine forest for the shot at a career in Hollywood, the board
required a thorough background check and character evaluation. Any adverse
findings in that investigation would have resulted in a no vote by the board. At
the time you were an unknown, and the board was extremely reluctant to approve
any new acquisitions. It was with that knowledge in the forefront of my mind
that I agreed to help you clean up the “Becca problem.” I have regretted that
decision every day of my life. I never should have attempted to convince Becca
to have an abortion, and I never should have helped her leave Cannon Beach,
change her name, and deny that you were the father of her unborn child.

I am writing to inform you that contrary to
what I told you almost thirteen years ago, Becca did not suffer a miscarriage
and move to New York. Instead, I helped her legally change her name and hide,
setting her up in a small apartment, and helping her get a job as a waitress in
Portland. She gave birth to a daughter—your daughter—Josephine, on
December 8, 1990. Becca has kept the birth of her daughter and the true
identity of her father a secret for all these years. However, she has recently
returned to Cannon Beach and has finally decided to do the right thing for both
herself and her daughter by identifying you as the father of her child.

Enclosed with this letter is a court order for
a paternity test. As you can see, in an effort to appeal to your sensibilities
and in hope that you will handle this matter expeditiously, I requested and
Becca agreed to only refer to you by your initials at this time. I urge you to
take the test as mandated by the court as quickly as possible, and admit that
Josephine is your child. If you choose not to do so, be advised that I am fully
funding Becca’s legal pursuits regarding the paternity of Josephine. And I will
demand that the records, including the use of your full name in any legal
proceeding, be made public. I never should have hidden Becca away all those
years ago just for the sake of Hartley Industries, and I am correcting that
mistake now.

Rest assured I will not stop until this wrong
has been righted.

Yours truly,

Declan Hartley

I looked at the
letter, stunned. Henry Blackstone was my father. I was William and Colin’s half
sister. The letter was dated March 27, 2003, a week before my mother died, when
we were in Cannon Beach for vacation. My mother hadn’t brought me to Cannon
Beach to see the ocean for the first time, she came to meet with Dex’s father
and enlist his help in confronting my father—my real father—about
my existence.

I thought back to
that week when my mother must have met with Declan Hartley. I remembered one
day my mother saying she was going shopping in town in the morning, and I could
sleep in. That must have been when she met with him. I was almost a teenager
then, and I slept the morning away whenever I had the chance. I wouldn’t have
thought anything of my mother going off on her own while I snored in the hotel
bed.

I
folded the letter and put it in my bag. I felt nauseous and couldn’t look at
the words I’d been reading over and over and over. It felt like someone had
punched me in the stomach. How could Henry Blackstone ask Dex’s father for help
getting rid of my mother, and getting rid of her unborn child? The thought made
me sick, that he would discard her like trash, cast her out of his life like
she meant nothing. And why? Why would admitting to having a relationship with
my mother and having a child with her be something that would hurt his sale to
Hartley Industries?

I thought back to
what I’d read about Henry in his biography and what Colin had told me: Henry had
attended college at USC and opened a film studio in Los Angeles, trying to make
a go of it in Hollywood, where he lived with his college sweetheart and two children.
And then it hit me—William was at least three years older than me and
Colin and I were almost the same age. Henry had been having an affair with my
mother in Cannon Beach with a toddler and pregnant wife back home in Los
Angeles. I felt a wave of disgust wash over me and I understood why Declan
Hartley helped Henry Blackstone cover up his affair. Finding out the seller in
an enormous real estate deal was cheating on his pregnant wife with a much younger
local waitress would be a definite negative to an already reluctant board.

But it didn’t make
the pain any less. Why did my mother agree to disappear? And why did she hide
me for twelve years? And what made her change her mind and go to Dex’s father
for help? If anything, the letter left me even more lost and confused. From
what Colin had said, his father had died of cancer a few years ago. If he had
received a copy of the letter, then he knew for years that I was his daughter. But
still he did nothing. I spent almost half of my childhood in an orphanage while
William and Colin, his other children, attended fancy schools and colleges, and
lived off trust funds. William was pursing a water polo career and taking over
the film studio. Meanwhile, I could barely afford rent, didn’t have a cell
phone or a car, and Colin was cursing out his lawyer because he didn’t have
access to enough of his money.

I inhaled deeply
and thought about the Blackstone fortune. If I was Henry Blackstone’s daughter,
then a third of that estate might belong to me. I sat on the beach, hugging my
knees to my chest, watching the sun disappear over the edge of the ocean,
thinking about the implications of my new-found knowledge.

My thoughts
drifted to Colin and how he had grown progressively more hostile to me since
we’d met. He was always telling me to leave, to move back to Portland, to break
up with Dex, and to start new somewhere else. He’d even tried to poison Dex
against me. I thought back to his violent outburst in front of the library. He
was talking to his lawyer about his father’s money and his will. I closed my
eyes and saw him punch the car, saw him yelling at me, “Go back to Portland,
Josephine, go back and stay there.” A chill coursed through me as I opened my
eyes. I’d never told anyone except Dex my full name. Not even Eileen, my
landlady, knew Josephine was my given name. I was sure I’d only ever used Jo in
Cannon Beach. Did Colin know who I was? Did he know I was his sister? Is that
why he was trying to get me to leave?

As the last of the
sun’s rays disappeared, I grasped what I needed to do. I needed to find out
what, if anything, the Blackstone men knew about me and my identity, and what
if anything Henry Blackstone had said in his will.

Crouching at the edge
of the sand where it met the brush line, I watched the back of the Blackstone
house from the darkness of the beach. From what Macy had said yesterday, the
whole family should have flown to Los Angeles, leaving the beach house deserted.
I couldn’t see any lights on, but it wasn’t completely dark outside so I
shifted my weight and kneeled down, getting more comfortable. Although I could
have just walked up to the front door and knocked, I didn’t want to
unexpectedly find someone home.