Adam's Daughter

by Kristy Daniels

  “Sorry we’re late,” Stephen said. “It’s my fault.”

  Tyler was holding a glass of champagne, his face flushed with excitement. “So, what do you think of the place?”

  “It’s beautiful, Tyler,” Kellen said. “Who did your decorating?”

  “I did. I hired people to do the work, of course, but I thought of everything.” He nodded toward the sculpture. “The lights really set Mike’s work off nicely, don’t you think?”

  “Where’s your stuff?” Stephen asked.

  Tyler shrugged. “Didn’t get anything finished in time.” He smiled. “Besides, Mike’s the real talent. I’m the brains behind him.”

  Kellen and Stephen exchanged a subtle look that was lost on Tyler. “I want you to meet him,” Tyler said. “Wait here.” He took off through the crowd and returned with a tall man in a tweed jacket. Tyler introduced Mike Bierce and passed out glasses of champagne.

  Kellen sipped hers as she listened to Bierce talk, with much bravado, about his sculpture. She watched Tyler, who was in turn watching Bierce worshipfully. She wondered if Tyler and Bierce were lovers.

  “There’s the critic from Art Digest,” Tyler said suddenly. “Come on, Mike, I’ll introduce you. Excuse us.”

  Kellen and Stephen stood there, staring up at one of the bronzes. “This is creepy stuff,” Stephen said finally.

  Tyler was across the room, standing in a semicircle of people, next to Bierce. He was laughing and talking animatedly. She had never seen him looking so happy.

  “Whatever you do,” she said, “don’t tell Tyler that. He needs a success right now.”

  Stephen shrugged. “Well, I’m no expert. It’s probably a lot better than I think.” He put down his champagne glass. “I’m going to get a scotch and water,” he said. “You want something else?”

  Kellen shook her head and watched Stephen make his way to the bar. She turned toward the nearest sculpture and circled it slowly. Stephen was right. There was something disturbingly macabre about the bronzes. She didn’t like them either. They were like Bierce himself –- something she didn’t like but couldn’t exactly say why.

  “I’ve never seen such garbage.”

  “It’s strictly derivative.”

  Two men were standing nearby, staring up at one of the bronzes. Kellen recognized them as the art critics for the Times and the Journal. She moved so she could eavesdrop without being seen.

  “So what are you going to write about this?” the Times critic asked the other.

  “That the guy’s a no-talent who certainly doesn’t deserve his own gallery showing. Looks like he found a good thing, and now he’s sucking it dry, so to speak.”

  Both men laughed. “You’re sick, Harris, you know that?” the Times critic said.

  “I have no qualms about slamming people who really deserve it. Especially some rich little gaybo who thinks he can buy success for his boyfriend.”

  “At least you can call it like you see it,” the Times critic said. “I don’t have that luxury. Tyler Bryant decided to open a gallery and I damn well better say something nice about it.”

  “You get pressure from the family?”

  The man shrugged. “I can’t take the chance these days. Ian Bryant interferes in everything, always sending down memos to the editors about coverage on his sacred cows.” The critic sighed. “At least when the old man was around you could always count on the paper having integrity. Now, the daughter’s back upstairs and who knows what she’s going to do or how much say she has over her husband. We’re a bunch of nervous cats that don’t know which way to jump. So I pull my punches. I’m too old to start biting the hand that feeds me.”

  Kellen eased away from the two men. She had always suspected that some people in the newsroom felt the way the critic did, but it was Tyler she was really concerned about.

  She saw him in the crowd and her heart went out to him. He was riding so high, and she didn’t want to see him get hurt. She went across the room to him. He was struggling to open a bottle of champagne.

  “Need some help?” she asked.

  The cork gave way with a loud pop, and Tyler laughed. “No, I’m doing fine!” He began to fill some glasses.

  “Tyler, there’s something I want to say to you.”

  He held out a glass. “First, a toast. To me,” he said with a broad smile.

  Kellen clinked her glass against his. “To you,” she said softly. She set the glass aside. “Tyler, remember that night you took me to that bar?”

  “Of course.”

  She paused. “I may not understand what you’re doing but I want you to know I love you.”

  Tyler sobered. “That’s a good start.”

  “I just want you to be happy, Tyler.”

  “But I am happy,” he said. “I finally feel like I’m doing something, Kellen. Something of my own. It feels good.” He paused. “How about you. Are you happy?”

  The question caught her off guard. She thought about it for a moment but found she couldn’t think of an answer that didn’t sound falsely upbeat. Before she could answer, she saw Ian coming across the room. Lilith and Clarisse were trailing behind. At the same moment, Stephen came up to Kellen’s side.

  “What are they doing here?” Stephen said.

  “I invited them,” Tyler said. “But I never thought they’d show up.”

  Ian approached with a grin and thumped Tyler on the back. “Tyler, old man. Looks like you have a success on your hands here.”

  “Thanks, Ian. Hello, Lilith, Clarisse.”

  Lilith gave him a tight smile. Clarisse was preoccupied with checking out the crowd. Ian’s eyes traveled around the room, taking in the people and the strange sculptures. “Quite a night for the Bryant family,” he said to Kellen. “We should be proud of our little brother here.”

  “I’m not so little anymore, Ian,” Tyler said.

  “No, I suppose not,” Ian said. “Soon you’ll be twenty-one and your name will go on the Times masthead, right below mine and Kellen’s.” He smiled at Kellen. “Hard to believe, isn’t it. The three of us, running the paper together. Just like Father wanted.”

  Kellen stayed silent.

  Ian turned to Stephen. “We have a vice presidents’ meeting next week, don’t we?” he said. “Should I expect any surprises from editorial? Or should I ask Kellen?”

  “No, nothing,” Stephen said tersely.

  Tyler picked up on the tension and quickly offered a tray of fluted glasses. “How about some champagne?”

  For a moment everyone just stood there, holding their glasses, staring at one other, saying nothing.

  “Well, someone make a toast, for heaven’s sake,” Clarisse said.

  “But not to the gallery,” Tyler said. “If I hear one more of those, I’ll start thinking jinx.”

  There was a long pause. Kellen cleared her throat. “The San Francisco Times turns one hundred next month,” she said.

  Everyone looked at her in surprise, except Clarisse, who looked just bored. “So I’ll make a toast,” Kellen said. She raised her glass. “To my father.”

  Lilith raised her glass higher. “To my father.”

  For a moment, no one took a drink. Then finally Tyler did, and everyone followed. Ian drained his glass with a quick gulp and set it down. “Well, Tyler, we have to be going,” he said. “We’re on our way to the club for dinner, but we just wanted to stop by. Are you ready, Mother? Clarisse?”

  “I’m famished,” Clarisse said and started toward the door without saying good-bye.

  Lilith brushed Tyler’s cheek with her own. “A marvelous opening, dear.” With a final look at Kellen, she swept off toward the door.

  Ian shook Tyler’s hand and was gone. Kellen, Stephen, and Tyler stood there for a moment without saying a word. Stephen finally let out a long breath, so empty sounding that she turned to look at him. He looked tired.

  “I think we’d better get going, too,” she said to Tyler.

  They said their good nigh
ts and left the gallery. As the drove, Stephen was very quiet. At home he went right up to the bedroom but Kellen detoured to the children’s rooms.

  Ben was sleeping soundly, and she bent low to kiss his warm cheek. In Sara’s room Kellen stood over the bed staring down at her daughter’s face. Her brows were knit in a small frown, as if she were in the middle of a bad dream. Kellen gently caressed her forehead until the small lines of tension were gone.

  As Kellen stared down at Sara she thought how much the child reminded her of Garrett. Sometimes, it pained her even to look at her daughter, because her resemblance to Garrett was becoming stronger with each passing day. Finally, Kellen crept out of the room.

  Stephen was lying in bed, arms raised up to cradle his head, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t even look at her when she came in. She undressed and slipped into bed beside him.

  “Stephen, don’t let Ian get to you,” she said softly. “That’s what he does, plays these little mind games.”

  He said nothing for a moment then leaned over and kissed her. “Good night, Kellen,” he said. He turned away from her.

  She switched off the light and lay there, listening to Stephen’s even breathing. It mixed with the foghorns and familiar soft noises of the house as it settled into night. Usually, the sounds lulled her to sleep. But tonight, she could find no comfort in them.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  It was nearly one in the morning, and Tyler was pacing the floor of his apartment, still riding an adrenaline high. He had left the gallery only a half hour ago, after ushering out the last guests. He was so euphoric that he didn’t even mind when Mike announced he wanted to go home alone to his studio to do some work. Mike often worked best during the early morning hours.

  But now, Tyler couldn’t sleep. He wanted to do something special for Mike. But what? He had already done so much —- bought him the studio in the Embarcadero and supported him so he could concentrate on his art. And he had given him the gallery showing that would launch his career. What else was left?

  Tyler realized suddenly he could invite Mike to move in with him. He had always been wary about making commitments to other lovers. But now, well, things were different. Mike was different.

  Tyler picked up the phone and dialed the studio but the line was busy. It usually was; Mike often took the phone off the hook when he worked. Tyler grabbed his coat and started for the door. Then he paused and went to his desk. He found an extra apartment key and stuck it in his pocket.

  He pulled up in front of the warehouse near the docks. A light was on in the studio, on the top floor. To surprise Mike, he decided to bypass the creaky freight elevator in favor of the stairs, taking them two at a time. His heart was beating from exertion and excitement as he paused outside the studio. He opened the door and went in.

  The dark loft was as messy as usual, and a towering half-finished bronze dominated the clutter. Mike was nowhere to be seen. Tyler glanced to the far corner, where a partition hid Mike’s bed. Tyler quietly picked his way through the discarded clothes, pizza boxes, chicken bones, and barbells on the floor. His fingers found the key in his pocket, and he held it tight.

  He heard Mike’s low laugh. Then another laugh he didn’t recognize. Tyler froze, flattening himself against the wall.

  “I could get used to that.” A man’s voice, a strange voice.

  “I’ll bet.”

  Tyler shut his eyes at the sound of Mike’s voice. There was a rustle of sheets.

  “What about Tyler?” the other man said. “What’s with you two?”

  “He pays the bills. That’s all.”

  “He doesn’t think so.”

  “I know,” Mike said. “He’s like a goddamn puppy dog sometimes.” The light went off, leaving the loft dark except for the white glare of the streetlight just outside the window.

  “Don’t worry.” Mike said. “He’s nothing to me. Now that the gallery’s open and I’m getting some exposure I can back off from him.”

  “What about this place?”

  “The deed’s in my name, free and clear. The kid gave it to me.” There was a silence. “I don’t need him anymore.”

  Tyler’s head was spinning, and the blood from his hammering heart pounded against his temples. He stared down at the floor to steady himself. He felt something wet on his face and realized that he was crying.

  He waited, his ears attuned to sounds, but he could hear only Mike’s breathing. Finally, with great effort, he silently made his way back across the loft’s debris and out the door.

  Ian went to the door of the bedroom, glancing back to the bed where Clarisse lay sleeping soundly. He pulled the belt of his robe tighter and went out of the room and down the stairs. He heard a clock strike three.

  Damn Clarisse. She never had trouble sleeping after they fought.

  Tonight, the bickering had started right after they left Tyler’s gallery. Finally, thankfully, Clarisse had gone to bed. An argument always seemed to give her more impetus to sleep, whereas it inevitably left him keyed up.

  Ian went down to the living room and over to the bar. He poured a scotch and took it over to the picture window. He drank it slowly as he stared out at the lights in the bay below.

  He thought about all the fights he and Clarisse had lately, mostly about her desire to move to a bigger house. This place is so dowdy, she would say, we need to move to a better address. And the real stinger: Why aren’t we living in your family’s mansion instead of your sister?

  It didn’t seem to matter to her that they had four other homes -- the condo in Aspen, the apartment in New York City, the pied à terre in Paris, and a hilltop retreat near Hana on the island of Maui. Actually, the last one he had bought for himself. Clarisse, who hated hot weather, never went there.

  Which was fine with Ian, who recently had started an affair with a secretary he met in Honolulu. But more than anything, he preferred being there alone. The remote area of the island was the one place in the world he felt truly comfortable.

  “Ian, why aren’t you in bed?”

  Ian didn’t bother to turn around at the sound of Lilith’s voice.

  “I can’t sleep,” he said.

  He glanced at her as she sat down in a chair near the window. She was wearing an elegant silk robe and her hair, thanks to the constant attention of her stylist, was almost as dark as it had ever been. Now seventy-three, she was also still as thin as ever but her insistence on a perpetual tan and three facelifts had given her skin the translucent look of old parchment.

  “Would you like a drink, Mother?” he asked, going to the bar.

  “You know I can’t.”

  A year ago, Lilith had suffered a heart attack. It had been a mild episode and the doctors told Ian she had recovered completely and would probably outlive them all. But Lilith had used her protracted convalescence as an excuse to move in with Ian. Her presence in the house had exacerbated the strain between him and Clarisse, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask her to leave. His mother was old, he thought, and lonely.

  The house was filled with tension. Clarisse and Lilith were constantly sniping at each other.

  It bothered Ian that he had allowed Lilith to pressure him into the marriage. It bothered him even more that he had married a woman so like his mother, as if he were some absurd case study out of a college psychology textbook.

  But what bothered him most was the fact that he was so impotent to change his life. He had too many responsibilities now. He had a son and another child on the way. He had to run the newspaper chain and make money, always make more money.

  Ian topped off his drink and slumped down onto the sofa. Good Lord, his annual income from the newspapers was more than three million, and it never seemed to be enough. Of course, it would soon be diminished when Tyler came of age. Then whatever revenue the Bryant newspaper chain made would be split three ways.

  There never seemed to be anything left over, especially for his own needs. He had paid too much for the property and house in
Hawaii. And he paid all his mistress’s bills. But they were the only things he seemed to care about anymore.

  No, that wasn’t true. He cared about his son, Robert, although he had trouble showing it. He was an undemonstrative father, finding he had no idea how to show affection. But that wasn’t so important, he thought, as long as the boy felt secure.

  Soon, Robert would be six. Clarisse, who had begun charting Robert’s social course before he was born, had already enrolled him in the Town School. More than thirty years ago, Ian’s own application to the exclusive primary school had been rejected until Adam pulled political strings to get him admitted. The same thing happened when Ian tried to get into the University School.

  But now, Robert Bryant was already assured a place in both, although Clarisse was leaning toward sending the boy to boarding school, probably Cate in Santa Barbara. Boarding school, she claimed, prepared a child to perform. In addition, Robert would be subjected to all the obligatory rites of initiation —- sailing and riding lessons, invitations to the right parties, and trips abroad to the cultural capitals. And when he turned eighteen, a spot awaited him in the 1987 freshman class at Princeton, thanks to Ian’s alumni donations.

  Ian often thought that Clarisse and Lilith were trying to climb up the social ranks on Robert’s back, much as his own parents had tried to do with him. But he knew it couldn’t really be avoided; Robert had to be assured the best. And Clarisse, whose own insufferable family made up in pre-Revolutionary lineage what it lacked in cash, told him that it took more than years to convert new money to old.

  Money...it was going to take a lot of money to give Robert what he deserved. And now, Clarisse was pregnant again. She had informed Ian she wanted at least five children. It was the only thing she and Lilith seemed to agree on —- the need for Ian to produce a large family. A long line of Bryants to stretch into the future. A long, never-ending line of responsibilities and expenses.

  “Ian, you aren’t ill, are you?” Lilith asked.

  He glanced at her. “No, Mother. I’m just tired.”