Adam's Daughter (50 page)

Kellen leaned back in her chair. Since her return
a month ago she had made it a point to stay out of the newsroom. Ian had not helped matters. Sensing Stephen’s vulnerability, he tried to use Kellen’s return to antagonize him.

T
he first challenge came when Ian appeared unexpectedly at an editorial board meeting. The debate was over who to endorse in a local election. Ian had lobbied strongly for one candidate but the board, led by Stephen, outvoted him and endorsed the other.

L
ate that night Ian wrote an editorial endorsing his candidate and ordered it to replace the board’s endorsement. The fearful news editor complied, but a composing room foreman called Stephen at home and tipped him off. Stephen raced down to the office and he and Ian got into a fierce argument in the composing room. It was only when Kellen finally interceded that Ian backed down.

Kellen
picked up a memo Ian had sent to her that morning.  Ian had found a new way to get at Stephen. He wanted to hire a general manager who would report directly to him, undercutting Stephen’s power. She would have to veto the move, once again forced into the role as Stephen’s savior.

The secretary buzzed and
announced Stephen was on his way up.

When Stephen came in, Ian was close behind.

“We’re busy, Ian,” Kellen said. “Whatever it is, it can wait.”

“
This can’t wait,” he said, tossing a report on the desk. “The verdict’s in on the suburban plant.” He held out a second copy to Stephen. “You aren’t going to like this.”

Stephen and Kellen began to read.

“Let me save you some time,” Ian said. “What your feasibility study has taken four weeks to conclude is exactly what I said in the beginning. We can’t afford it. See you at the meeting Monday.”

He left but n
either Stephen nor Kellen looked up from their reading. After a few moments, she put the report down. “He’s right,” she said. “Twelve million. I never thought the estimate would come in so high. I’m sorry, Stephen.”

He glanced up at her then went back to the report, flipping through the pages slowly as if in disbelief.

“I wish there were some way to swing this,” she said.

Stephen looked up. “There is a way,” he said. “You didn’t read far enough. It’s mentioned on page eighteen.”

“What is it?”

“Liquidate an asset or company holding.”

Kellen stared at him. “You mean, sell one of the other newspapers?”

Stephen closed the report. “Yes,” he said.

“Stephen, I couldn’t do that,” she said.

“Kellen, we have to do something, and we have to do it soon or we’ll never be able to fix the problem,” he said. “You might have to sacrifice one of the other papers in the chain to save the
Times
.”

She thought suddenly of the paper mill in Canada, but she calculated quickly that selling off the chain’s paper source would be a foolish move. Paper was the single biggest expense for the corporation and having its own mill had kept that expense in line. She thought also of the television station in
Oakland, but she knew Ian would never consent to its sale. The station was a low-cost moneymaker that Ian had always considered his personal cash cow. Stephen was right; the only way to get enough capital to finance the plant was through selling a newspaper.

Her eyes went to the stack of newspapers on a nearby credenza. Every day, copies of each of the fifteen papers in the chain were sent to her. She scarcely had time to glance at them, but she always knew the papers were there, and their presence fortified her. They represented a continuum to the past, to her father.

Stephen saw her looking at the newspapers. “Kellen, you can’t afford to be sentimental,” he said.

“I’m not being sentimental. I just can’t stand the thought of losing one of those papers.” She picked up the Lifestyle section. “
Selling one newspaper might seem like a good sacrifice but it’s a loss we can never make back. Once a newspaper is gone, it’s gone forever.” She shook her head. “I can’t do it.”

“Kellen,” he said, “you know you let your heart rule your head. Well, you can’t this time.”

“No,” she said quickly. “Sometimes you have to use both.”

S
tephen looked at her for a moment then ran a hand over his eyes. “All right, Kellen,” he said. “I don’t want to fight you on this. Or your father either.”

He
went to the door.

“Stephen
,” she called out.

He turned, waiting for her to say something.

“We’ll find another way,” she said.

CHAPTER SIXTY

Kellen sat at her dressing table, finishing her hair. “Stephen, you’d better hurry,” she called out. “We’re already an hour late.”

“I don’t see why I have to go to this,” he said, putting on his tie as he came out of the bathroom.

“It’s for Tyler’s sake,” she replied. “He asked me to invite you and I didn’t want to disappoint him. How often does someone open his own art gallery?”

She turned her attention back to the mirror. An art gallery. She still couldn’t believe it. She had been so surprised last week when Tyler called to tell her about it. She had not talked to him in two months, since that night in the bar.

She figur
ed he was upset over her reaction to his announcement about being gay. But when he had called, he was friendly and excited about the gallery. He told her he had a business partner, a brilliant young sculptor named Michael Bierce.

“I wonder where he got the money?” Stephen said.

“His trust fund payments are pretty generous,” Kellen said. “And I’m sure his partner put up something.”

Sh
e finished the tie. “Thanks for coming with me.”

He smiled slightly. “We’d better get
going. The sooner we get there the sooner we can leave.”

They drove down toward Fisherman’s Wharf, to the foot of Hyde Street near the cable car turnaround in Victorian Park. Stylish silver lettering on the window of the brick storefront announced the Landon Gallery. Kellen noted that Tyler had chosen to use his middle name instead of Bryant.

Inside, the room was crowded, the people fighting for space with the sculptures —- colossal-sized bronzes of nude men. There was soft jazz playing, barely audible over the loud buzz of conversation. Kellen paused at the door, looking for Tyler. The gallery was tastefully done in soft cream and mauve, with spotlights over each sculpture.

She turned her attention to the nearest bronze. The ten-foot figure was poised, as if hurling an imaginary spear, its muscles over
ly defined to the point of grotesqueness, its teeth bared in an agonized grimace. The sheer size of it was oppressive. There were six others in similar poses stationed around the room, and nothing else.

Kellen searched again for Tyler, f
inally spotting him in a far corner. She and Stephen made their way over.

Tyler’s face lit up when he saw her. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

She kissed his cheek. “I told you I would,” she said.

“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,” Kel
len 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?”