Adam's Daughter
Page 2
“What do you expect me to do?” she asked.
He dropped his eyes to his hands. “I’m sorry, Kellen,” he said. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.” He rose. “Good night.” He went to the door, closing it behind him.
She sat rigid, staring at her hands now clasped tightly before her on the desk. She noticed a photograph in a silver frame sitting off to one corner on the desk and picked it up. It was a sepia-toned remnant from another era, a picture of her father and mother. A tall, handsome man with a wicked smile and a beautiful young woman in an ivory-colored dress with sparkling eyes. Adam Bryant and his bride, Elizabeth Ingram. The woman he had pursued with relentless passion, the woman he had waited for through both their first marriages, the woman he finally married against all odds. The woman who died in a drug-induced delirium when Kellen was thirteen.
Kellen stared at her mother’s face, trying to connect the image to the memories in her head. Finally, she put the frame back in its place. She rose slowly, rubbing her neck, and walked to the door. Pausing, she looked around the room one more time then left the study, locking the door behind her.
Early the next morning, Kellen was awakened by a knock at her bedroom door. She opened it, blinking in the hallway light.
“Get dressed,” Josh said. “Hurry.”
The urgency in his voice was like a splash of ice water in her face. She threw on a robe and went quickly to her father’s room. Stephen and the doctor were bending over the bed. Adam’s breathing was labored, his eyes screwed shut with pain. She grabbed his hand and held it tightly.
“Kellen...”
His eyes fluttered open but did not focus on her face.
Kellen was aware of other people closing in around the bed, but she didn’t look up.
“I’m sorry...so sorry,” he said.
“So am I, Daddy...I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I hurt you —-”
“Daddy, don’t -—”
He closed his eyes. The room was quiet for a moment, except for the sound of muffled crying. She looked up. It was Tyler in his pajamas, leaning against a far wall. She saw Ian standing at the end of the bed, his face stony and pale.
“Kellen...”
She looked back at her father.
“Take care of it,” he whispered. “Take care of the newspapers.” He paused. “And Tyler...take care of your brother. Take care of it for me. Kellen? Promise me...”
“I will, Daddy. I promise.”
For several minutes, the room was quiet except for the sound of Adam’s labored breathing. Then, suddenly, he gripped Kellen’s hand, and his eyes opened wide.
“My wife,” he said.
Kellen felt someone press forward. "I’m here, Adam,” Lilith said.
He glanced up at her then slowly turned his head away on the pillow. “No,” he said, closing his eyes. “Elizabeth. Where’s Elizabeth?”
Lilith retreated to Ian’s side. When Kellen looked back at her father, she realized he had stopped breathing. His eyes were closed, but his face was still creased with pain.
Dry-eyed, Kellen stared at her father’s face then gently released his hand. She reached up and stroked his brow.
“It’s over, Daddy,” she whispered. “You’re all right now. It’s over.”
The funeral was held two days later. Grace Cathedral was filled with the rich, the powerful, and the curious. In the front pew was the vice president of the United States and in the back was a sixteen-year-old San Francisco Times copyboy. Neither had known Adam Bryant well, but each had come out of a sense of allegiance. Adam Bryant had helped both of them get their jobs.
The house on Divisadero Street was filled with cables, letters, flowers, and the constant ringing of the phone. In grief, everyone reverted to their usual behavior patterns. Josh, with his usual calm efficiency, took up the burden of dealing with the funeral aftermath. Tyler retreated to his room. Ian disappeared after the funeral, returning two days later with no explanation. Stephen sequestered himself at the newspaper office, his job as managing editor providing his solace. Kellen retrieved her Audi from the garage and took drives at all hours.
Josh finally called them all together for the reading of Adam’s will. Ian, Tyler, and Kellen took their seats in the study silently and in wary distances from one another. Josh sat in a chair at the side of the oak desk and glanced at each of the children. Ian, now thirty-five, sitting erect in a chair, calmly smoking a cigarette. Tyler, at eleven, fair-haired and thin, his blue eyes cautious. And Kellen, now a beautiful woman of twenty-five. Her face, always a mirror of her emotions, was drawn with despondency and fatigue.
“I knew your father for more than thirty years,” Josh began slowly. “There were a few times when I thought I maybe knew him well. As well as anyone could.” He paused. “He was a complex man. At times, difficult, stubborn, even hard.”
Kellen looked up at Josh.
“But I have no doubt that he loved you three,” he went on. “And he wanted you to love each other. That’s why three weeks ago he had me rewrite his will.”
Ian stared at Josh, his cigarette poised in midair. “He didn’t say anything to me about this,” he said.
“He wanted nothing known until after his death, Ian.” Josh put on his glasses and began to read. “‘I, Adam Bryant, domiciled in San Francisco County, California, do make, publish, and declare this to be my last will and testament...’”
Josh’s voice droned on through all the preliminary articles of the will. Kellen half listened, her eyes roaming over the photographs on the walls. She heard the names of several of her father’s favorite charities and servants. Generous bequests to Stanford University and the opera.
“‘Article six,’” Josh said. “‘I leave the house in Carmel to my daughter Kellen.’”
Kellen looked at Ian. He shrugged.
“It’s an ugly house,” he said. “You can have it. It’s your responsibility now.”
Josh cleared his throat and she turned back to him.
“‘Article seven.’” Josh paused. “‘I bequeath to my three children, Ian Thomas Bryant, Kellen Elizabeth Bryant, and Tyler Landon Bryant, the remainder of my estate, including all personal holdings and properties of the Bryant Newspaper Corporation, to be divided equally among them.’”
Ian glanced quickly at Kellen. She looked to Josh.
“‘This bequest is made,’” Josh went on, “‘with the provision that Ian and Kellen participate jointly in the management of the San Francisco Times and the chain holdings, with each having an equal-voting half interest.’”
“What?” Ian blurted out.
Josh looked at him then readjusted his glasses. “‘My son Tyler will obtain equal voting power at age twenty-one.’”
“I don’t believe this,” Ian said. “He said nothing to me--”
“Let me finish, Ian, please,” Josh said. “There is another provision. ‘Article eight: I hereby decree that Stephen Hillman be named editor in chief of the San Francisco Times, and retain said position for his lifetime or until he deems otherwise.’” Josh put down the paper and took off his glasses. “That’s the gist of it,” he said.
“I can’t believe he’d do this,” Ian said. “I’m the publisher. He didn’t tell me any of this.” He jumped up from his chair and began pacing.
“Ian -—” Josh said.
“I’ve been working my ass off,” Ian said, “and now I’m expected to run things with these two?” He waved a hand at Tyler and Kellen.
“Adam wanted you all to work together,” Josh said. “He knew the chain was in trouble and he knew it was too late for him to do anything. This was his way of telling you three to work together to save it.”
Ian laughed. “That’s a good one. Why in the hell didn’t he tell me? I’m his son, for crissake. He wouldn’t tell me this when he was alive, so he gets in the last word now.” He glared at Josh. “This is crazy. He was crazy. This family’s filled with crazy —-”
“Shut up, Ian!”
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Everyone turned toward Kellen. Her face was red with anger. “Don’t say that,” she said. “I told you a long time ago, don’t ever say that.”
“It’s the truth,” Ian said. “You know it is.”
“That’s enough,” Josh said sharply.
“No, it’s not,” Ian said. “I’m not going to put up with this.” He pointed at Tyler. “If you think I’m ever going to let this snot-nosed little shit have any say in the newspaper then you’re crazy, too, Josh.”
Tyler began to cry.
“And as for my little sister,” Ian went on, “You’re all so ready to welcome her home with open arms. Well, I’ll be damned if I will. What does she know about newspapers? Where was she when Father needed her? I’ll tell you. While he was lying up there wasting away, the beloved prodigal daughter here was fucking her way across France —-”
“Stop!” Josh shouted. Everyone froze out of sheer shock at hearing Josh raise his voice. He rose and stared at Ian. “I won’t let you make this something dirty, Ian,” Josh said, straining to keep his voice even. “And I won’t stand back and see you three tear each another apart and what your father worked his entire life to build.”
Ian stared at him for a moment. “Forgive me, Josh,” he said, “but you really have nothing to say about this. This is none of your damn business. You are not family.”
Ian turned to Kellen and Tyler. The boy was whimpering. Kellen was ashen.
“I’m the only one who can run the newspaper,” Ian said. "And I’m the only one who will.” He stalked out of the room.
Josh gathered up his briefcase and a small box. He went to Tyler and bent down before him. He handed the boy his handkerchief. Tyler took it and wiped his eyes. “It will be all right, Tyler,” Josh said.
“He hated me,” Tyler said quietly.
“Your father loved you, Tyler.”
Tyler’s pale blue eyes looked up at Josh. “He hated me because I was his bastard. A will doesn’t change that.” He began to cry again. “I’m alone. I’m all alone.”
He got up off the sofa and ran out of the room. Kellen rose quickly to go after him but Josh grabbed her arm.
“Let him go for now, Kellen,” he said. He handed Kellen the box he had been holding. “Adam wanted you to have these,” he said. He looked at her for a long moment. “Think about what I told you,” he said, “about the newspaper.”
He left her alone in the study, holding the box. It was an old cigar box, its paper edges worn, its colors faded.
Inside were photographs, yellowed and tattered with age. She sifted slowly through them. They were mostly of her mother, in a variety of poses and dress. From the bottom, she pulled out a small creased photo. It was of a very young man on a dock. His expression was serious, but despite the slight shabbiness of his tweed suit he looked dashing. She turned it over and read the feminine script: “Adam, Berkeley Pier, 1925.”
As she was slipping the photograph back in the box, she noticed an envelope. Inside was a key and the number of a safe-deposit box in Adam’s bank. She would worry later about what was in it. She put the box in a drawer of the desk and stood there, her eyes taking in study.
The stunning contents of the will had still not completely registered. She felt a vague sadness that her dream of being involved in the family business had come only through her father’s death. All those times she had begged to be included and he had insisted that his daughter had no place in the newspaper. Now, she had what she had always wanted but had no idea what she was going to do with it.
She ran her hands over the worn leather of her father’s chair, her throat constricting. Finally, she left the study.
In the foyer she paused, staring at the pattern in the marble floor. She felt a sudden, pressing need to get out for a while and walked quickly out the front door, not pausing for a coat. Outside, the late afternoon air was cool and moist. She got in her car and raced out of the driveway. Driving aimlessly, she thought about many things, but kept coming back to Tyler and how he had looked when he said, “I'm all alone.”
It was exactly how she now felt. She had no one.
The car screeched to a stop. She turned off the motor. Without thinking, she had driven out to Fort Point, below the Golden Gate Bridge. It was a spot she had often sought out when she was younger, when she needed to get away and think. She got out of the car and walked out onto the concrete abutment along the rocks.
The waves crashed against the rocks and the wind blowing in from the bay was chilly. The sun was nearly gone, its last light casting the city in an ochre glow. She watched as the fog moved in from the ocean, curling up over the orange spans of the bridge.
The fog spread slowly eastward over the bay. She looked toward Berkeley and thought of the photograph of her father standing on the dock. She tried to imagine how he had felt that day, waiting for the ferry that would take him across. He had told her the story, told her of growing up with nothing, always dreaming of someday living on the west side of the bay.
But he never had told her how he felt that day.
Had he been afraid, she thought, like I am now?
The yellow lights of the East Bay glimmered through the fog. In her mind she could see her father clearly now, standing on the dock waiting for the ferry. Just dreams, that was all he had had forty years ago, dreams he had now passed on to her. Dreams he had made her promise to protect.
“I can’t do it,” she whispered. “I can’t do it alone, Daddy.”
PART ONE
ADAM, 1925
CHAPTER ONE
The bay waters churned, green-gray and white, and the flat, slate sky was broken only by a flock of gulls straining against the wind. Adam Bryant pulled up his lapels to protect his neck, so nakedly exposed by the fresh haircut, and tucked his hands into his armpits. He watched the last car roll onto the ferry.
The men on the pier began to cast off the lines. The ferry was behind schedule. He glanced at his wristwatch. Still plenty of time. But he did not want to be late, not this morning.
Finally, the ferry sputtered away from the pier and although his teeth were chattering, Adam stayed on the stern and watched the slow retreat of the East Bay waterfront.
He had lived across the bay from San Francisco nearly all his life yet he had never really looked at his East Bay home from this vantage point. On the few times he had been on the ferry he had always looked at the San Francisco side, where the view was so enticing.
Now he searched for landmarks, anything that would pinpoint Ocean View, the west Berkeley community where he had grown up. He was surprised, and slightly amused, by the nostalgic pull he felt. For the last ten years, he had done nothing but talk about leaving, and now he was feeling...what?
He wasn’t sure. Not sad, certainly. He had no regrets about leaving the blue-collar Irish neighborhood. Still, there was something bittersweet about the part of his life that was coming to an end with this ride across the bay.
Adam thought again of the scene in the Oakland Tribune office yesterday. He had gone in to pick up his final pay and the city editor, Joe Davenport, had pressed him again about why he was quitting. Adam told him it was just for the bigger salary.
He didn’t have the heart to tell Joe the truth. Joe had, after all, taken him on at the Tribune six years ago when Adam was twenty, and he had taught him everything he knew about newspapers. And now Adam was repaying him by jumping across the bay to the San Francisco Times.
Adam shivered, watching the Oakland shoreline shrink away, thinking about the scene in Joe’s office.
I’m sorry, Joe. But the truth is, I have a future, a big future. And big futures sure as hell don’t happen in places like Oakland.
Adam turned and made his way through the parked cars. He stopped abruptly. Even in the sunless morning light, one car stood out, a gleaming vision of black, yellow, and chrome. It was a Wills Sainte Claire, the latest toy of rich auto enthusiasts. Adam touched the fender.
“Nice, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” Adam said, taking his hand off the car. “The most beautiful machine I’ve ever seen.”
“Could have gotten a Duesenberg,” the man said, “but the Wills here has much more style, right?”
Adam nodded, trying to decide if the man was patronizing him. “A superior choice,” Adam said, with a smile.
The man smiled back. Adam walked away, thinking about the automobile. Ever since the new machines had begun appearing on the city’s streets when he was a boy, he had longed to own one. He had always envied the things money could buy but automobiles especially fired his imagination. He resolved he would someday own a machine as splendid as the Wills. And fine clothes. He was thinking now about the man’s clothes. Clothes had never really mattered to Adam. The tweed suit he was wearing had served his needs for years. But now, for the first time, Adam felt shabby, and he realized the old suit was far too small and out of fashion.
Adam went up to the bow, bending slightly in the wind. He gripped the rail and stared at the city spread before him.
San Francisco. Its waters marked with the crosscutting wakes of dozens of ferries. The approaching waterfront, the tower of the Ferry Building extending like a welcoming salute, and beyond the undulating sprawl of the city’s pale buildings.
Adam’s pulse quickened. He was by nature an emotionally reserved young man. But now he felt himself smiling, and, in a sudden, uncharacteristic burst of expectant joy, he threw back his head and laughed.
CHAPTER TWO
He was the first one off the ferry, and he went swiftly through the terminal, carrying his small suitcase. As he went up Market Street, his head filled with a dizzying array of images. Everywhere he looked were people, of all means and descriptions, all intent on some purposeful venture. Men in fine lounge suits with flowers in their lapels. Day laborers in dirty overalls. Chinese in both Oriental and western dress.