Adam's Daughter

by Kristy Daniels

  “What a strange photo,” Able said. “Look at the streets. They’re deserted, like a ghost town.”

  Adam stared at the mural but said nothing. They exited the restaurant into a heavy fog and walked slowly up the block toward the Mark Hopkins. The baritone foghorns played a doleful duet with the chimes from nearby Grace Cathedral. Just outside the courtyard of the hotel, Adam paused, staring at the entrance. A foursome of teenagers, dressed in rented tuxedos and pastel prom dresses, spilled out of a taxi. One boy paused to pick up the corsage that his date had dropped. He gently pinned it to the bodice of her white gown, and they fled giggling into the hotel lobby. Adam watched them until they were out of sight.

  Able waited, pulling up his collar against the chill.

  “Ghosts,” Adam said softly. “There are always a lot of ghosts up here on this hill.”

  After a moment, he turned to Able. “I think I’ll walk for a while,” he said. “Good night, Able.”

  He started down the hill and was soon lost in the fog.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Kellen set the needle down on the record and the bedroom filled up with the sound of Puccini.

  “What is this?” Stephen asked.

  “‘Madame Butterfly,’" Kellen said, sitting down on the bed next to Stephen. “My father would kill me if he knew I took it from his study. Do you like it?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  She leaned back on the pillows, raising her arms to prop up her head. “This is the love duet,” she said. “It’s very sad. Très triste, très romantique...”

  Stephen hid his smile. “I thought you liked Elvis.”

  “Sometimes. But not always.”

  They were quiet, listening to the music. Kellen glanced over at Stephen. He had been in the bedroom dozens of times yet now he was nervous, as if he expected someone to come bursting through the door. Kellen thought of telling him that he had nothing to worry about; no one was home. She had made sure of that before she invited him to her room tonight. It was part of the plan she had launched a month ago after Stephen had kissed her in the park.

  Since that day she had sensed a change in Stephen. He looked at her differently now, no longer as just a friend. Now he looked at her just like those other boys at school did. She had always ignored the boys. She had wanted to wait for Stephen to notice her.

  She had been waiting for a long time. She had waited while her friends started dating, waited while they went steady. And when they gathered in her bedroom to smoke cigarettes and talk about boys, she listened when they talked knowingly about sex.

  What it was like to have a boy touch you. How he expected you to touch him. Their bold talk shocked and intrigued her. But she waited —- for Stephen.

  She wanted him to be the first. And now, finally, the time had come. She turned toward him. He was looking at her. Then, he leaned over and kissed her, a tentative kiss. Then again, harder. His lips felt soft and good. She felt his fingers touch her neck then move down to the buttons of her blouse. She was dizzy with expectation as she waited for him to touch her breast. When he did, she felt as if her skin were suddenly on fire.

  He pressed his body against hers and she could feel his penis hard against her thigh. She wondered what she was supposed to do. She thought back to what the other girls had said. Was she supposed to touch it? She did, tentatively, and he moaned and began to kiss her neck and breasts.

  Slowly, she became aware of the power she had. With just her touch she could excite him so much. She began to move her own body now against his, and he responded. His hand moved down and slipped under her skirt, moving up over her bare thigh.

  Then, suddenly, he pulled back slightly.

  “Kellen, I’m sorry —-” He glanced at the closed door.

  “No one’s home,” she whispered. “I want you to, Stephen. I always wanted you to be first.”

  He kissed her and as slowly as his eagerness would allow he undressed her and then himself. He was kneeling above her on the bed, staring at her.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

  Beautiful? She had never thought she was beautiful. But something in the way he was looking at her made her feel very desirable. He lowered himself to her, trying to go slowly. She kept her eyes on his face and when he entered her there was a small sharp pain. She grimaced, and he stopped.

  “Do it, Stephen,” she whispered. “Do it.”

  The small pain gave way to a full one as he pushed against her and, an instant later she felt his body go rigid. Then he collapsed on top of her, breathing heavily.

  After a moment, he slid to one side. His eyes were closed. When he opened them he saw her staring at him.

  “Kellen, I’m sorry,” he said softly. “It was too fast.”

  She raised her head to look at him.

  “I couldn’t help it,” he said. “If only you knew how much I’ve wanted you. It’ll be better next time, I promise.”

  She waited, hoping he would kiss her as he had before. The kissing had been so good. And she liked the feel of his body against hers. The rest had been...well, nothing special. She felt a sticky wetness and a dull ache between her legs. She brushed her lips slowly across Stephen’s but he didn’t respond. His eyes were closed.

  It will get better, she thought.

  The Puccini recording had ended, and the bedroom was quiet. She laid her head against Stephen’s chest. She could hear his heart beat and the soft hiss of the phonograph needle stuck in its groove.

  Just as Stephen had promised, it did get better. The part before, when he touched her and kissed her tenderly, was wonderful. And the part after, when he held her, made her feel loved and secure. Still, the actual sex part, she thought, was really overrated, and she couldn’t understand what her girlfriends thought was so great about it.

  One of them had talked rapturously about having an orgasm, how it made her feel like dying. That seemed strange, indeed. Kellen never felt anything like that. What she and Stephen did made her feel very much alive, certainly not like dying.

  Kellen’s bedroom was the only place they could be together. Stephen was living at home, getting adjusted to his new job at the Times. He was working on the city desk, on an early morning shift so he usually came over to the house about four and they would sneak upstairs and lock the bedroom door.

  Kellen didn’t worry about getting caught. Only the servants were home during the day, and Adam never returned home from the office before seven. But Ian’s schedule was less predictable. Several times he had come home in the middle of the day when she and Stephen were there. Once, Ian had paused for several minutes outside Kellen’s bedroom door. Kellen had waited, holding her breath.

  “Why do you get so nervous about him?” Stephen asked after Ian had gone. “He doesn’t know about us.”

  “He has a way of finding out things and using them against you,” Kellen said. “When I was thirteen, he caught me smoking a cigarette and told Daddy. I got grounded.”

  “Kellen, stop worrying.” Stephen ran his finger lightly across her breast, making her draw in her breath. “You’re not a kid anymore.”

  The Ferrari roared into the driveway and screeched to a stop. The door popped open and Ian got out then froze. There was a foot-long gash in the black paint of the front fender.

  The scratch had not been there that morning when he left the office. It had to have happened when he parked the car at Joyce’s apartment. He was only there an hour, just enough time for a nice “nooner” —- or so he had anticipated.

  That bitch, he thought, gets me all hot then she tells me she has a manicure appointment. Ian ran his finger along the scratch, deciding suddenly he would drop Joyce. He was getting bored with her. He didn’t care that her father owned the biggest bank in town. She wasn’t that great in the sack and her tits were too small.

  He went into the house, his foul mood rising as he thought about how badly the day had gone. It had begun with that scene with Stephen in the newsroom. A reporter h
ad done a mildly critical story about a department store that the advertising director had been trying to lure into a long-term contract. Ian had taken it upon himself to chastise the reporter, and Stephen, who had just been promoted to an assistant city editor, had stepped in to defend the story.

  Ian went up the staircase, tugging at his tie. He hated the way Stephen Hillman had ingratiated himself with Adam. He figured Adam had hired Stephen as a favor to Josh, but Stephen had, in less than a year, firmly entrenched himself in Adam’s favor. Stephen has a real feel for the business, Adam had told Ian recently.

  Stephen had also captivated Kellen. She had always worshiped him, but lately Ian sensed that it had developed into something beyond that. And Stephen’s interest in Kellen seemed suddenly more than brotherly.

  In his room, looking for the papers he had come home to get, Ian’s thoughts turned to his mother. After the episode with Stephen he had gone back up to his office and found Lilith waiting for him. He had been surprised to see her. She had been in Europe for a year and had not called or written.

  Lilith got quickly to the point of her visit. She needed money. She simply wasn’t able, she explained, to live on the small income that her forty-nine percent interest in the Times provided.

  Ian had heard Lilith’s complaint before many times. Since the breakup of her second marriage to the Italian count, Lilith was constantly strapped for money. So she often asked Ian for loans. He gave her money, when he had it.

  “Maybe you should just sell your share of the Times to Father,” he told her once. “You know he’d buy it in a second.”

  “Listen to you,” Lilith said. “By right that newspaper belongs to me. It was my father’s. And it should be yours.”

  “It will be,” Ian said, with an impatient sigh.

  “The Times makes so much money, and he has all those other papers now,” Lilith said. “I don’t see why your father can’t be more generous. How does he expect us to live?”

  “I can’t give you any money right now, Mother,” he had said. “Maybe next month.”

  Ian found the papers he had come for and started out the door, now thinking about his own financial problems. Thanks to some gambling debts, the new car, and the South American vacation he had taken Joyce on last month, he didn’t have much cash himself.

  He thought about asking Adam for a raise, but he knew he wouldn’t get it. The circulation drive in the suburbs didn’t leave any fat in the budget right now.

  Ian went down the hallway, thinking about money, his mother, Stephen, the scratch in the Ferrari, and Joyce, who had fondled him to arousal, glanced at her watch, and sent him on his way with a patronizing pat on the crotch. He decided suddenly to go to the club rather than back to the office. He had had enough of the damn newspaper for one day.

  Outside Kellen’s room, he paused. The door was half-open, which was odd, considering she kept it locked lately. He pushed the door open and stood taking in every detail with intense curiosity.

  He went over to the bed, which was a tangle of sheets and blankets.

  Strange, Ian thought, the maid didn’t make up the bed. He turned to the closet and opened the doors. It was filled with clothes of every kind and color...and with Kellen’s smell. He slowly drew in a breath and idly fingered the hem of a white chiffon dress.

  He went to the dressing table and stared down at the jumble of perfume and makeup bottles, cast-off jewelry, and snapshots of grinning girlfriends, which were lying in a snowfall of spilled white dusting powder. He picked up a schoolbook. American Journalism: A History 1690-1950. He tossed it on the floor.

  He turned to the large bureau and stood in front of it for a moment. Then he opened the top drawer. The contents were an intriguing tangle of soft pale things. Edges of white lace, glimpses of pink silk, filigreed little straps and tiny rosette buttons. Strange, mysterious things. And the scent... musky, sweet, and clean. He picked up a swatch of white. Silk panties, so soft beneath his fingertips. He brought them up to his nose. The scent was intoxicating.

  Slowly, he put the panties back. He was about to close the drawer when something caught his eye, a blue plastic container, hidden under the lingerie. He pulled it out and popped it open.

  He held up the round rubber device and grinned. “Why, little sister,” he said, “you’ve been fucking around.”

  He put the diaphragm back in its case and stuck it back under the lingerie. He had just closed the drawer when Kellen appeared at the door.

  “What the hell are you doing in here?” she said.

  Ian shrugged. “Killing time.”

  She glanced at the bureau. “Get out,” she said. “I don’t allow anyone in my room.”

  “Oh, really?” Ian said, arching an eyebrow toward the rumpled bed. “Someone’s been in here. Are you humping Stephen Hillman?”

  Kellen’s face went white. “None of your business.”

  Ian leaned against the bureau, smiling. “You know, Kellen, you don’t have to be so secretive with me. I’m your brother. We should share things. You could tell me all about your boy problems.”

  Kellen tossed her purse and books on the bed. “I don’t want to share anything with you,” she said.

  “Well, you don’t have a choice. We share the same father. That should count for something.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  Ian laughed. “God, don’t let Father hear you say that. To him, this is one big happy family. He thinks that his son, his little princess, and his little bastard should love each other. A regular Pacific Heights ‘Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet.’ And here we are. We can’t stand each other. And you’re fucking the hired help, a Jew, no less. We’d better not let Father know the truth. Poor, deluded schmuck.”

  “Stop it,” Kellen said sharply. “Don’t talk about Daddy like that.”

  “Why not?” Ian grinned. “Haven’t you figured out yet, princess? Daddy isn’t perfect, either. That great perfect hero who buys you a sports car and sends you to Paris on vacation is a very ordinary man. A very selfish man.”

  “Shut up, Ian!”

  “He doesn’t give a fuck about anybody.” Ian’s voice rose. “Why do you think he stole my mother’s newspaper then divorced her? Why do you think he let your mother die, grabbed her money, and took up with that whore? He doesn’t love me, or Tyler, or you for that matter. He just loves himself.”

  Kellen grabbed a book and threw it at Ian. It caught him just below his eye. He raised his hand to cover the gash on his cheekbone.

  “You’re crazy,” he hissed, backing away toward the door. “You’re crazy, just like your mother was.”

  “Get out!” Kellen screamed. She lunged to the door and slammed it just as Ian got out.

  She leaned against the door, trying to get her anger under control. Her eyes traveled to her bureau. She went to it and opened the top drawer. Her things, which she usually kept in such perfect order, had been rearranged.

  He touched them, she thought. She felt nauseated, as if his fingers were touching her skin. Then, she remembered the diaphragm and searched through the lingerie. It was still there. But it, too, had been touched.

  She yanked the drawer out of the bureau and overturned its contents on the bed. Enraged, she scooped up the lingerie, carried it to the bathroom, and flung it into a trash can. She went back to get the diaphragm case. She picked it up and sank down on the bed, staring at it in her hands.

  She lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about what Ian had said about her father letting her mother die, and about Stephen. She glanced toward the window where the sunset was coming to a murky close.

  What she and Stephen did was not dirty or bad. It was good and tender. She touched her fingers to her lips, trying to recapture the feeling of Stephen’s kiss earlier that afternoon when they had lay naked in each other’s arms in her bed.

  She stayed in her room for a long time. Finally, she got up and went downstairs.

  A light was on in the study and she went to the d
oor. Her father was sitting at his desk, surrounded by newspapers. A tray of uneaten food sat at his elbow and a half-smoked cigar was perched in an ashtray.

  “You’re home early,” she said, coming into the room.

  He looked up and took a moment to focus on her face. “I thought you had gone out,” he said. “What’s the matter, no big date tonight?”

  She shook her head and sat down on the sofa. She thought he looked tired. “What are you doing in here all alone?” she asked.

  “Thinking. Just thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “The past.”

  “About mother?”

  “Yes.”

  Kellen watched her father’s face, thinking again about what Ian had said. A question, buried deep in her psyche, suddenly pushed its way forward.

  “Did you love her?” Kellen asked.

  Adam stared at her. “Kellen, what a thing to ask,” he said. “Of course I loved her. What makes you ask that?”

  She looked away. He came over to the sofa and sat down beside her. “I loved your mother with all my heart,” Adam said. “We had something very special together. Very special.”

  Kellen looked up at him. “Did you have passion?”

  Adam started to smile but then he stopped. She realized suddenly he seemed a little embarrassed. They had never spoken of anything remotely intimate before.

  “Yes, we did,” he said.

  “How did you know?”

  “You don’t know it. You feel it.”

  “It’s important, isn’t it,” she said, “to feel it.”

  He paused. “People need passion in their lives. It can be someone...or something, like work, something you can give yourself over to completely. Now I have my work. But for a short time, I had your mother.”

  Kellen looked down at her hands. She was thinking about what Ian had said, thinking about all the gossip she had heard about her mother’s death when she was growing up. She wanted to believe what her father said. She felt the small familiar ache that always came back to her when she thought of how much she missed her mother. Then she thought of Stephen and how it felt to lie in his arms, warm and safe. Was that passion? Was he someone she could give herself to completely?