Garrett nodded and went to the door. He paused, seeming to want to say something, but after a moment he simply turned and went back through the newsroom.
He went upstairs to the executive suite. Adele rose when she saw him and handed him some papers. “Here are those figures you wanted, Mr. Richardson,” she said. “The travel agent is sending over an itinerary for your visits to the other papers. And Mr. Bryant wants to see you.”
He took them absently, muttered his thanks and went toward his office.
“What about Mr. Bryant?” Adele called out.
“Tell him I’m busy.” He shut the door of his office behind him. The office still smelled of fresh paint. It had been outfitted with sleek furniture and touched by the hand of a tasteful decorator. When Ian had first shown it to him, he had announced, with perverse pleasure, that the office had belonged to Kellen.
It had seemed to Garrett, on first glance, an accommodating office. Yet now, as he looked at it, it felt too stark and impersonal, like a fine hotel suite primed for the next temporary visitor. He found himself trying to imagine what it had looked like when Kellen was there. She was never far from his mind, but today for some reason her presence was everywhere —- down in the newsroom and lingering now in the office.
He forced her from his mind and sat down behind the glass and chrome desk. The early editions of that day’s Times had been placed neatly on the corner and he reached for the San Mateo one. One of the front-page stories was about a bomb that exploded in the LaGuardia Airport terminal, killing fourteen holiday travelers. The story, by the San Francisco Times New York correspondent, was a well-reported, dispassionate account of the horror.
Garrett thought about how the Tattler had undoubtedly handled the same story: a screaming headline, a horrific picture, lurid quotes, all carefully choreographed to boost street sales.
The way the Times reporter had written the story, it was deprived of its dramatic human-interest edge. A lost opportunity to nab readers.
Shaking his head slightly, Garrett picked up a red marker and read other stories, stopping frequently to scribble remarks or cross out paragraphs. But after a while, he put the pen down and began simply to read.
He read a well-written analysis about what soaring real estate prices were doing to old downtown neighborhoods. He read a colorful feature about the last of the little jitney buses, doomed to the city’s history books. He read a news story about a conflict between a young Chinese architect who wanted Chinatown preserved as a landmark and Chinese residents who objected that the area was nothing more than an ethnic ghetto.
He read, with a smile, Clark Able’s “Of Cabbages and Kings” in which Clark opined that in the event of an earthquake, government would endure because the state is twenty miles thick “especially in the state capital.”
Then, he went back to the front page and reread the Times’ version of the New York bombing story, seeing it now in its context of the paper’s sedate, thoughtful format.
He had been ready to condemn the Times’ treatment as a lost opportunity but now he realized it was appropriate —- for the San Francisco Times.
Garrett stared at the red-marked pages before him. He had always read the Times before with a calculating eye to what he needed to change. But now, for the first time, he realized that he was reading it with the affection of someone who knew and loved the city.
He realized now that the Times accomplished its most important task better than any newspaper he had ever read. It reflected the city’s heart and soul.
And I’d be a fool to tamper with that, he thought.
He rose and went to the window, looking down at the people in the square, just spots of color diffused by a dissipating fog. The sight made him think, not for the first time lately, of how much he dreaded leaving San Francisco. Soon he had to return to New York and to the Tattler.
He could look ahead and see what his own life would become -— a transient existence, shuttling from coast to coast, diluting his time and energies.
He stared at the fog, an idea taking shape in his mind. Perhaps...
Perhaps I can just stay here. I could run the Times just as it is, keep its present format. Just because one type of journalism works well for one paper doesn’t mean I must impose it on another. I could run the Times as Kellen would have.
Perhaps she would even...
He paused. No, it wouldn’t work, he thought. His father would never allow it; he wanted the Times converted quickly to bring up the profit margin. Garrett knew he would do what he could to protect the Times’ essence. But in time, it would be sacrificed to the bottom line and lowest common denominator. Eventually all the other Bryant properties would evolve into efficient fiefdoms, in service to the Richardson Ltd. system of journalistic feudalism.
He knew he was thinking of more than just trying to preserve the Times’ identity. He was also trying to preserve his own chance for happiness.
I don’t want to be just a visitor here anymore, he thought.
He turned away from the window and stood for a moment, staring out at the sterile office.
And I still want Kellen, he thought. She’s lost to me and, God help me, I still want her.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
The house on Divisadero was brightly lit, its yellow windows beckoning through the foggy night to those who came up the long curved drive. Inside, the rooms were warm and filled with the smell of food and the sound of voices. There was a party, a reason to celebrate.
Josh Hillman was retiring, and Kellen was honoring him with a dinner party. People milled through the house, longtime friends and associates, those who had worked with Josh at the Times during his thirty-eight-year tenure.
The mood was merry, but almost forcibly so, like picnickers hell-bent on reveling beneath a thundercloud. Though Josh had often joked about retiring, everyone knew he didn’t really want to leave. But the sale of the Times had forced his hand and everyone present shared his sadness. Most also knew about Stephen and Kellen’s estrangement.
Still, the determinedly upbeat mood prevailed, helped along in no small part by Clark and by Tyler, who had taken over the party planning from Kellen and orchestrated it into a diverting wine tasting. Kellen knew it was Tyler’s way of trying to get into her good graces.
By midnight, most of the guests had left but a core of Josh’s oldest friends remained, clustered around the fireplace, smoking cigars, talking about bygone days.
Kellen sat off in a corner, half listening. Occasionally, hearing her father’s name mentioned amid the reminiscing, she would listen then drift away again.
Her eyes traveled over the room, to the large Christmas tree standing in one corner and the menorah on the mantel. She lingered over the familiar faces.
Tyler sitting along on the sofa, drinking a cup of tea. Josh laughing at some remark with Anna sitting quietly nearby. And Stephen sitting on the edge of his mother’s chair, unsmiling, lost in his own thoughts. She watched Stephen until he looked up and met her gaze.
She saw many things in that one moment. Hurt, confusion and anger. But also an emotion new to the catalogue of their estrangement —- resignation. She sensed in that moment that Stephen, like she, had finally admitted that their marriage was finished.
Perhaps it had been dying for a long time and her affair with Garrett had just finished it. She didn’t know. The only thing she knew for sure was that the only thing left was the pain of the final ending blow. With a deep stab of sadness, she looked away.
She felt someone at her side and looked up to see Clark.
“Listen to those guys,” he said with a smile. “They’re having the time of their lives dredging up old ghosts.” He paused, studying her pale face. “Is something wrong?”
She shook her head, her eyes on the others. “I was just thinking, remembering. This house holds so many memories.”
“Good memories,” Clark said.
She looked up at him and smiled slightly. “Remember the solstice? What a go
od time we all had together?”
He nodded. “The Summer of Love. A hundred years ago.”
Kellen’s eyes welled. “Excuse me, Clark,” she said, rising before he could see.
She went into the foyer and paused by the staircase to collect herself. Then she went into the study, closing the door behind her.
She had wanted so much to be cheerful for Josh tonight but the front was finally cracking. She went to the desk and sat down wearily. She had not shed one tear over the loss of the newspapers or over the failure of her marriage. She had not allowed herself to even think about Garrett. But now, it all closed in on her, and she began to cry. She gave in to it, her body shaking with great waves of sobs. Slowly, it subsided, and she laid down her head on her folded arms and closed her eyes.
She heard a knock on the door. A moment later, Josh poked his head in.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure, Josh.”
Josh came to the desk. He hesitated then pulled out his handkerchief, holding it out to Kellen. She took it and wiped her eyes.
“You always did it this way,” Josh said softly. “In private. Even when you were a girl you hated to let anyone see you cry.”
He sat down in the chair opposite the desk. “I saw you with tears in your eyes only once,” he said. “The day you went off to boarding school. You were only eleven, trying so hard to be brave.”
“I was scared,” Kellen said.
“And angry, too.”
“Yes, I was.” She looked away. “I’ve been thinking about my father a lot lately,” she said.
“It’s only natural, with what’s happened,” Josh said.
“You know, he never told me why he sent me away, Josh,” she said. “I thought I was being punished but I never knew what for.”
“Oh, Kellen,” he said. “He didn’t do it to punish you. He just...”
Her eyes came back to him and he drew in a deep slow breath. “He sent you away because you reminded him so much of Elizabeth,” he said. “After she died he fell apart. Just the sight of you deepened his grief. He finally realized he needed you near him and brought you home. But for a while, he was a drowning man.”
“Then he really loved her,” she whispered.
"What?” Josh asked.
“He really loved my mother.” Her eyes brimmed. “Didn’t he?”
“He loved Elizabeth with all his heart and soul,” Josh said. “Whatever made you believe otherwise?”
“How did she really die, Josh?” Kellen asked.
In that instant, all the events surrounding Elizabeth’s death came back in a flash of memories for Josh. The awful sickness, the funeral, the lurid stories in the newspaper about the will, the police investigation, the relentless gossip.
Then in rapid-fire sequence, his mind tripped back in time to his first meeting with the young Adam Bryant, and of their friendship built over the decades, of favors asked in friendship and promises given. The memories came to a halt on one drizzly cold night in May, 1952.
Adam had called him to the house, as he had so many times before and asked for his counsel. Josh gave it and then at Adam’s bidding vowed an oath of silence. It had held for twenty-three years. Josh looked into Kellen’s eyes and knew now he had to break it.
“Elizabeth wanted to die,” Josh said. “Your father helped her to do it.”
He watched Kellen’s face for a reaction but nothing seemed to register. Then she whispered, “Go on.”
“Your mother was gravely ill,” he said. “For a long time, we didn’t know what it was. The doctors said it was depression, and they gave her drugs. The drugs caused other depressive reactions, and she was given more drugs. One doctor diagnosed her as manic-depressive, another said she was schizophrenic. Another all but accused her of being an addict. It got progressively worse and your father kept bringing in more doctors. Finally, he was told the only thing he could do was have her committed.”
Josh’s shoulders caved inward. “Your father couldn’t bear the thought of Elizabeth locked away somewhere. So he kept her at home, trying to help her as best he could. It was very hard on him. He literally watched her go slowly out of her mind, helpless to do anything. Sometimes, she would be lucid. He lived for those moments. They gave him hope that she’d recover. But they grew rare and then stopped. Two days before Elizabeth’s death I remember Adam telling me that the woman he loved was already dead.”
Again, Josh paused. His eyes drifted over to the photograph, then out over the study, focusing on nothing in particular.
“The next night he called me to the house,” he went on, his voice cracking. “He was sitting in this room, alone. He was calm but I could see he had been crying. He told me that Elizabeth had one of her good moments, that she told him she wanted to die and begged him to help. Until that point, he had believed Elizabeth had no conception of her condition. But that night, he was convinced she knew. She was suffering. He couldn’t stand that.”
He looked back at Kellen, tears in his eyes. “He asked me to help find a doctor who would grant her wish. He was distraught but had obviously given it great thought. We found a doctor who supplied the drugs for an overdose. Adam gave them to her himself. Elizabeth went into a coma and died quietly while Adam held her. I was there. I saw them.”
Kellen continued to stare at Josh, as if in a trance.
“The drugs showed up in autopsy, of course,” Josh said. “But Adam was able to keep it quiet. Especially since the autopsy revealed that the true cause of Elizabeth’s illness was pre-senile dementia. It’s rare in a young person and it’s often misdiagnosed as mental illness. It can be caused by a number of underlying things. In Elizabeth it was an undetected brain tumor.”
He sighed. “By then, Adam was so angry about all the publicity that he demanded the autopsy results be kept secret. I advised him to make it public, to clear his name if nothing else but he refused. I remember what he said: ‘No more newspaper stories. I just want her left alone.’”
He glanced at Kellen. She still had the same blank expression on her face.
“I thought then,” he went on, “that after they’d put a name to her illness Adam would cope with Elizabeth’s death better. But he didn’t. He blamed himself for the misdiagnoses, saying he should have found her better care. He was never the same man. I think he blamed himself until the day he died.”
Kellen looked up at him suddenly, and the opaque veil lifted from her eyes. Josh’s heart ached when he saw her pain.
“He may have blamed himself,” he said. “But I don’t think he ever regretted his decision. He loved your mother more than he loved life itself and he couldn’t stand to see her suffering. I watched what he did that night and I can only say it was an act of utterly selfless love.”
Tears fell slowly down Kellen’s cheeks. She was holding the picture frame and now she set it down carefully on the desk, tilting her head slightly as she looked at it.
“Oh, Josh,” she said. “Why didn’t he tell me?”
“He couldn’t, Kellen. After the scandal died down, he just wanted to put it behind him.”
Kellen continued to stare at the picture. “All those stories I heard when I was growing up.”
Josh’s eyes returned to the picture of the young Adam. “I was closer to your father than any man, Kellen, but I don’t think even I really knew him. He was a very private man. But I saw him with your mother and I know for their short time together they had a great love. A wonderful, rare, grand passion. Isn’t that all that matters really?”
Kellen closed her eyes. “Perhaps.”
The room was quiet, and from out in the foyer came the sounds of the last guests gathering to leave.
“You’ve always been so good to me, Josh,” Kellen said finally.
“I’ve always thought of you as part of my family, Kellen.”
“I hope you won’t hate me for what’s happening with Stephen and me.”
“He’s my only son,” Josh said. “It’s hard to see him
hurting.” He paused. “But I’m trying to get him to talk about it. He’ll be all right. He’s a strong man.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt him. Or you and Anna.”
Josh saw the guilt in her eyes. “Perhaps just as some things are not meant to be, some people are not meant to be together.” He shrugged, a bit sadly. “You and Stephen have been together your whole lives. Like brother and sister. Maybe that is your special bond.”
He paused. “The idea of family is a strange thing. Most people think of a family as a solid never-changing thing, but it’s not. It’s always expanding, shrinking, changing shape to make room for the needs of everyone in it.”
Kellen wound her fingers through his.
He smiled slightly. “You are still part of my family, Kellen. And so are Benjamin and Sara, I hope. Anna and I rather like this grandparent bit. You’ll make sure we see them from time to time, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Kellen said.
They embraced. "Good,” he said softly when they pulled apart. “And you’ll do something else for me?”
“Anything.”
“Try not to dwell on the newspapers. You did your best. I’d say you gave it a hell of a shot.”
“I’ll try. Thanks...for everything, Josh.”
The door opened and Kellen and Josh both looked over to see Stephen standing there. He looked at them with curiosity. “Everyone’s leaving. Dad,” he said. “I thought you’d want to say good-bye.”
“Yes, of course,” Josh said, rising. He gave Kellen a final smile and followed Stephen out of the room.
Kellen was sitting alone by the fire when Tyler came in from the foyer. He was holding his coat.
“Is everyone gone?” he asked.
Kellen nodded.
“I didn’t get a chance to say good night to Josh.” He glanced around the living room, littered with half-filled glasses and empty plates before his eyes came back to Kellen.
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