Adam's Daughter

by Kristy Daniels

His mind began to drift, and he saw himself standing atop the cliff in Hana overlooking the beach, breathing in the ripe humid air.

  “You know, I think Clarisse is right,” Lilith said. “We really must have a new house. And I know the perfect place. The Critchon house on Broadway is coming on the market soon. The asking price is ten million. Can you imagine? And it needs so much work.” She paused. “I’m sure we could get it for eight. Did you hear me, Ian?”

  “We can’t afford it.”

  She sighed. “But we can’t stay in this place. It’s too small. When the baby comes, we’ll have to get a nanny. Robert’s governess has no experience with infants.”

  Ian closed his eyes.

  “You know I’d give you some of my money, Ian,” Lilith said softly. “But it’s tied up. If I liquidated now I’d lose everything.”

  Ian looked at Lilith. He had no idea how much money she had of her own. Adam’s payments to buy out her share of the Times had ended years ago. She refused to disclose anything to Ian, telling him she had a banker who managed her investments. Ian guessed that she had simply squandered most of her money. Perhaps it was more than loneliness that had driven her into his house.

  “I know we need a bigger house, Mother,” he said wearily. “But we haven’t got the cash right now.”

  “We could have it in a moment, you know,” she said.

  He closed his eyes. “How?” he asked, more to humor her than anything.

  “Sell the company,” she said.

  He looked at her.

  “The newspapers, the station in Oakland, the printing facilities, the mill,” she said. “Sell it all.”

  He shook his head slowly. “Don’t you think I’ve thought of that? The company is financially unstable right now and no buyer’s going to pay enough to make it worth our while.”

  “Garrett Richardson would buy it,” she said.

  Ian laughed. “Over Kellen’s dead body.”

  “Well, the pie has three slices now. She’s only got one. One slice, one vote.”

  “So what? What makes you think Tyler would side with me against her?”

  Lilith shrugged. “He might. God knows we’ve invested enough time with him in the last couple of years. I think he could be convinced that his big brother knows what’s best. And from what I can tell, he could care less about the newspapers themselves. He’d just as soon be rid of them.”

  “I don’t know, Mother,” he said slowly. “I agree we should sell, but I hate giving up something that...” He paused. “Something we could hand on to Robert someday.”

  Lilith sighed in exasperation. “But we don’t have to really give it up. Perhaps Richardson can be persuaded to keep a Bryant as publisher in name. Of course, that duty would fall to you and eventually to Robert. We would have the money and the family connection could go on.” She smiled. “And you could stop worrying about it and get some sleep.”

  He stared at Lilith. “You’ve thought this all through, haven’t you.”

  “Yes. I’m convinced it’s the best way. We might sacrifice complete ownership but look what we’d gain. It would force Kellen out of the picture permanently. Her husband and children would have no part in it. It would be only you and Robert.”

  Ian stared at the glass in his hands. He raised it slowly and drained the last of the scotch. He looked at Lilith. “I’ll call Richardson as soon as I get into the office.”

  Lilith smiled. “Good. Now, why don’t you get some sleep? You do look so tired, dear.”

  Ian rose, setting the empty glass on a table. He paused then bent over to kiss Lilith’s cool cheek. “Good night. Mother,” he said.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  The cab made its way down Fifth Avenue from Central Park, its progress slowed by afternoon traffic and a raging thunderstorm. Ian stared out the window at all the people hidden under umbrellas, scuttling along the sidewalk like shiny black beetles.

  Around 40th Street, the marble facades of the fashionable stores gave way to the seedy storefronts of the garment district. Then abruptly, fortunes changed again and the sedate gray apartment buildings of Washington Square appeared, their awnings reaching out to the curbside like arms ready to enfold the privileged.

  The cab jogged around the Square, down McDougal Street and into the rabbit warren of the Village. Ian glanced uneasily at the boutiques and ethnic restaurants. He had been to New York often enough, but he seldom strayed below Central Park. The abrupt juxtaposition of the city’s poor and rich neighborhoods made him uncomfortable, as if he were crossing foreign borders without knowing where he was going.

  When the cab turned east, toward more dingy buildings, Ian tapped the plastic divider to get the driver’s attention.

  “Say, if I want a tour, I’ll take the Gray Line,” he said, with what he hoped sounded like the authority of a native.

  “You said South Street, buddy. This is the shortest way this time of day. Or maybe you wanna walk.”

  Ian leaned back in the seat. He hated New York. He hated everything about it, the gray weather, the gray people, the gray buildings, the feelings of claustrophobia he got every time he had to come here. Though his apartment was up on the East Side, out of harm’s way, he regretted having allowed Clarisse to talk him into buying it. She said she enjoyed coming to the city for cultural events but she never used the apartment as anything more than a closet for her shopping excursions.

  Finally, the cab came to a stop. “This is it,” the driver said. “Seven fifty.”

  Ian paid him and the cab sped off in the rain. Ian looked up at the ugly squat building and then down at the only entrance, a steel door with a buzzer. There was no sign, nothing to identify the place as a newspaper office. A man in ink-stained overalls came out and Ian grabbed the door.

  He was in a grimy vestibule and the glare of the fluorescent lights off the glossy yellow walls was blinding. He went to a window and a woman directed him to an elevator.

  Ian rode the elevator to the third floor. It opened onto a newsroom, or at least some hellish parallel-universe version of one. The small room was crammed with mismatched beat-up desks, chairs and file cabinets, and it smelled of dust, oil and body odor.

  Ian stood there, the smells triggering a flashback memory of the first time his father had taken him to see the Times newsroom. He felt the same revulsion and fascination now that he had then.

  He approached the nearest man. “Could you direct me to Mr. Richardson’s office, please?” Without looking up, the man pointed to the corner.

  A secretary ushered Ian into Garrett’s office. Ian had expected to see an office that proclaimed executive status, a counterpoint to the dinginess outside. But Richardson’s office was small, unadorned, and outfitted with functional furniture. It was, however, thankfully, clean.

  Richardson came out from behind his desk, hand extended. “You made it,” he said. “The traffic’s bad this time of day.”

  Ian shook his hand, taking stock of Richardson’s appearance —- a plain white shirt, its sleeves rolled, and no tie -— and allowed himself a feeling of superiority about his own custom-tailored gray suit and Burberry trench coat.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” Ian said. He took off his coat and sat down in the chair Garrett offered.

  “It’s just as well,” Garrett said. “A big story broke and I was tied up in the newsroom.”

  “Oh? What happened?” Ian could care less about the news, but Richardson obviously wanted to tell his story.

  “A group of Japanese tourists was walking across the Brooklyn Bridge this morning. One fellow stopped to take photos of his friends and a cable snapped and killed him. A freak accident, poor bloke.”

  He held out a tabloid. It was that day’s Tattler. The photograph showed a sheeted body, dwarfed by one of the limestone towers. The huge headline said SNAP ZAPS JAP.

  “That’s quite a headline,” Ian said.

  “Too much so, I fear,” Garrett said. “I had them change it to KILLER BRIDGE. I encourage creati
vity among my people but sometimes they get a little overzealous.”

  Ian nodded as if in understanding. Garrett leaned back in his chair. “So, Mr. Bryant,” he said. "You said you wanted to talk to me and you’ve come a long way to do it. What can I help you with?”

  “I’m here to find a buyer for my newspapers,” Ian said.

  “And you think I might be interested?”

  “You were once.”

  “That was eight years ago, Mr. Bryant. Surely you’ve had other offers since.”

  “Nothing that would have made it worthwhile.”

  “More like no one’s interested anymore.”

  Ian just looked at Garrett.

  Garrett smiled slightly. “That’s really why you’re here, isn’t it, Mr. Bryant. You’ve stayed a little too long at the party. And now I’m the only boy left to take you home.”

  “It is still a good opportunity for the right person,” Ian said.

  “But I have the Tattler now. Why in the world would I be interested in your newspapers?”

  Ian hesitated. He was prepared; if nothing else, that was what he was good at. “Because you haven’t been able to do what you set out to do —- make the Tattler the most widely read paper in New York. Its circulation has stagnated at 628,000. That’s still way behind the New York Times’ and the Daily News. And you lack advertising. The Daily News has thirty-seven percent of the city’s advertisers and the Times has fifty-six percent. You have only seven percent.”

  Garrett didn’t blink. “That will change. In Britain, my newspapers attract millions of readers. It’s working in Toronto and it can work here.”

  Ian shrugged. “Perhaps. But the people who read your sleazy stories aren’t the upscale types advertisers want.”

  Garrett smiled. “You Americans are so preoccupied with advertising. In England, circulation is what really counts and I’ll prove that’s true here, too. When the Tattler reaches a million readers —- and it will —- advertisers will fall in line.

  Ian gave him a stiff smile.

  “Besides,” Garrett went on, “I suspect many of those cherished New York Times readers are really closet Tattler readers. Americans are no different than the British really. They live on their little cul-de-sacs or in their tiny flats, looking for relief from their boring lives. That’s what I try to give them.”

  Ian stared at him. “Maybe you underestimate us.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Ian rose and went to the window. Garrett’s voice had shifted toward indifference and Ian knew the moment was slipping away. Perhaps he had been wrong and Garrett couldn’t be enticed. He stared down at the gray stretch of the East River. He had one more card to play.

  “You strike me as a man of vision, Mr. Richardson,” Ian said. “Not one to be content with such a small arena.”

  “New York is scarcely a small market.”

  “But just one newspaper here in the United States?”

  Garrett sat silent for moment. Then he rose and came over to the window to stand next to Ian, who now was making the pretense of looking at the gloomy view.

  Ian, sensing the advantage, decided to let Garrett make the next move. “Which bridge is that?” Ian said, pointing to the left at a plain steel structure.

  “The Manhattan. Pretty homely compared to the Brooklyn Bridge there,” Garrett said, pointing right.

  Ian waited, saying nothing.

  “They’re like two sisters, one plain and useful, the other beautiful and inspiring,” Garrett said. “Rather like the two bridges in your town, I’d say.” He paused. “There’s something about beautiful bridges.”

  “Yes,” Ian said, fighting his urge to steer the conversation back to business.

  Garrett leaned against the window frame, hands in pockets. “How does your sister feel about your coming here?”

  “She doesn’t know. Frankly, she’s not a factor in this deal. My brother Tyler will be twenty-one soon and will have a third vote in all company matters.”

  “And how does he feel about selling?”

  “I can convince him of the wisdom behind it.”

  Garrett stared out the window for a moment then glanced at his watch. Ian noticed the gesture and sensing that he had at least piqued Garrett’s interest decided to take the offensive.

  “I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Richardson,” he said. “But nothing has to be decided right here and now. Perhaps we could have dinner tonight.”

  “All right, but it’ll have to be now.” He smiled. “How do you feel about pizza? I know a place nearby that serves the best pie in New York.”

  Ian forced himself to smile. “But only if you allow me to reciprocate when you come back to San Francisco.”

  Garrett pulled off his tie and took his glass of brandy into the bedroom. He had had only one beer at dinner, wanting to keep his head clear when he confronted Ian. While he was convinced Ian could be manipulated, he knew he wasn’t a complete fool. He had come prepared to make a deal and had laid his criteria out plainly.

  The asking price for all the Bryant properties was $400 million. And the figurehead title of publisher, in perpetuity, for Ian and his heirs, with a $2 million annual salary. And no involvement at all for the other members of the family.

  Garrett had been only mildly surprised at the first; the price was high but fair. But the second point had surprised him. He didn’t think Ian cared about the family name being retained as a connection. Of course, that was no obstacle; a name on a masthead was only a sentimental gesture. The Bryant family would have no power if he took over.

  If he took over...

  Garrett sat down in a chair near his bed. Why had he even bothered to listen to Ian Bryant? He certainly didn’t need the aggravation. The Toronto operation had survived the conversion, was gaining circulation every day. But the Tattler was a different story. It demanded every ounce of his energies.

  Garrett set the brandy aside. It annoyed him that Ian had known the circulation and advertising figures, and that without really understanding the larger picture had managed to pinpoint the Tattler's problems.

  Five years ago, when Garrett bought the Tattler, he had been convinced that with belt-tightening and a change of format it could succeed. His instincts told him that New Yorkers were ready for an alternative to the self-satisfied journalism of the New York Times and Daily News. And with his usual thoroughness, he had studied the market and found figures that seemed to back up his belief.

  So Garrett had gone ahead with the Tattler purchase, even though his father cautioned against it. The transition had been rough. Many of the newspaper’s reporters and editors had rebelled and quit; Garrett had fired others who could not be converted to the new philosophy and filled a few key positions with British editors. Garrett ordered the stories shortened and the headlines souped up.

  He expanded and sensationalized the crime coverage and beefed up television and racetrack coverage. The Tattler doled out a daily diet of sex, gore, gossip, and celebration of the nude female form. His efforts were rewarded with an immediate circulation gain of several hundred thousand readers.

  But once the novelty wore off, circulation leveled off, and it had remained stagnant.

  Garrett glanced at the clock by the bedside. It was nearly midnight and he was tired. He rose and went into the bathroom. He turned on the shower and got in, wincing but enjoying the prick of the too-hot water on his body.

  Emerging from the shower he wrapped a towel around his waist and went out onto the terrace. It was gusty and the rush of cold air on his bare chest made him pull in his breath.

  He glanced south, across the dark expanse of Central Park to where the lights began again. He had bought the penthouse for its view. The rest of it, the white marble floors, the towering ceilings and the self-consciously austere decor he hardly ever noticed. He felt more at home in the plain dinginess of the Tattler office.

  Leaving the door wide open -- he couldn’t sleep unless the room was icy -- he got into bed. He brough
t his arms up to cradle his head and stared into the dark.

  His thoughts turned to his father. Arthur had been disappointed that Garrett had lost the San Francisco deal. But at least he was keeping out of the New York business, absorbing the losses, allowing Garrett free rein. Not once had he said, I told you so. He simply ignored it.

  To Garrett, his indifference was worse than outright censure. It was almost as if Arthur were tolerating the Tattler as his son’s plaything.

  Garrett closed his eyes. Eight years of hard work. And the grand plan was still just that —- nothing but a plan, an unrealized dream.

  Ian had been right about one thing at least: Success in America had to be on an oversized scale, preferably in a glaring spotlight. Ian was right about the Tattler, too. It wasn’t big enough. But a string of newspapers —- no one could ignore that.

  And now Ian had reopened the door to the Bryant empire, this time with an assurance the deal could be struck. All Garrett had to do was walk through.

  But what about Kellen? Her face came back to him, how she had looked the last time he saw her —- so angry.

  Kellen...He could see her so clearly. He could hear her laugh and feel her vibrancy. Suddenly, the sensation of her body next to his own was so powerful that he glanced over to see if she were there.

  Only in his mind. She was always there, in his mind. In eight years he had not stopped thinking about her. Sometimes, preoccupied with work, he would go for weeks without seeing her face. But then, always, inevitably, she returned.

  Eight years. There had been other women in that time; he was never at a loss for companionship or sex or even love if he wanted it. But always, after an amount of time, months, sometimes just moments, he would find himself comparing a woman to Kellen. There were times he hated her for the pull she still exerted over his life, or maybe he just hated himself for giving in to it.

  Eight years. He had done what he could to exorcise her memory. He had a photograph of her but he had thrown it away. After he heard that she had married he had made it a point to know nothing else about her, though he could have easily found out every detail of her life. Though she was only six hours away she might as well have been on the moon.