Adam's Daughter Part 54

"It's a big house," she said softly, "and there's plenty of room."

PART FIVE.

GARRETT.

CHAPTER EIGHTY.

It was Christmas week and a scrawny tree had been set up near the copy desk, decorated with strung-together paper clips. But the atmosphere in the newsroom was glum as everyone went about the routine of putting the Times together. For two months now, ever since the sale had been announced, there had been a cloud over the city room.

Although Garrett had made no changes and had kept an extremely low profile, everyone was nervously awaiting his first move as new owner. A few people had already quit, vowing they would not work for a s.m.u.t tabloid, and the talk in bars after work invariably escalated into bravado declarations to follow suit. Many of the best reporters and editors already had begun sending out resumes, but mostly everyone was simply laying low, waiting.

Now, two days before Christmas, Garrett was making his first appearance in the city room, stepping off the elevator with Ian at his side. They walked through the newsroom, two dark-haired men in business suits, Garrett drawing stares of intense curiosity and hostility.

Ian led Garrett to Stephen's office at the far end of the city room. Stephen's secretary, staring at Garrett, informed Ian that Stephen was expected back soon from a meeting.

"Tell him we were here," Ian said. He and Garrett went to see Ray, who rose in astonishment from his desk when he saw them.

"Mr. Richardson has asked for a tour before he settles in upstairs," Ian announced. "Apparently, Stephen's busy, so I thought you could help him."

"Sure," Ray said, stunned.

Ian left, leaving Ray and Garrett staring at each other. Ray's eyes traveled over Garrett's suit and he nervously adjusted his loosened tie. "Where would you like to start?"

"How about the city desk?" Garrett said.

Out at the desk, everyone tried to look busy.

"We're just starting work on the first city edition now," Ray began. "We have six editions -- "

"San Mateo, South County, and Marin for the suburbs," Garrett said. "And two for the city. And, of course, the token afternoon run." He saw the surprised look on Ray's face and added, "Printed in that order, right?"

"Yeah," Ray said. "That's right."

They continued through the newsroom, stopping at the business department, where Garrett surprised the financial editor by suggesting that the business coverage should be expanded. In sports, Ray introduced Garrett to the football writer.

"Another bad year for the Niners," Garrett said to the man. "Any chance they can turn it around next year?"

The man looked at Garrett. "I doubt it. Three losing seasons in a row," he grunted. "You like football?"

"Yes, but the Niners are making it tough for me."

"Welcome to the club," the writer muttered but his animosity showed through the attempt at banter.

Ray and Garrett went down a hallway toward the features department, Garrett drawing stares from pa.s.sersby. Those who recognized him deferred to him as they might a foreign conqueror, almost flattening themselves against the wall to allow him to pa.s.s. In features, Garrett introduced himself to editors and reporters, making knowledgeable comments about their sections.

The tour over, they paused outside the newsroom entrance. "That's about it," Ray said.

"You've been a great help," Garrett said. "I'll need to call on you again until I can find my way around."

"You seem to know a lot about this place already."

Garrett looked at the city room. "I'm an outsider, Mr. Coffey. I have a great deal to learn." He glanced toward Stephen's office. "If you'll excuse me, I see Mr. Hillman is back in his office now. It's been a pleasure meeting you."

Garrett went across the newsroom. Stephen saw him coming and came out from behind his desk, setting his face in a stony mask.

"If you have a moment," Garrett said, "I'd like to talk." Stephen motioned Garrett in and shut the door. Out in the newsroom, necks craned to see what was happening behind the gla.s.s part.i.tion.

"I'll get right to the point," Garrett said. "Ian told me this morning that you're resigning."

"That's right," Stephen said.

"I'd like you to reconsider. The change of owners.h.i.+p has been traumatic, and your presence here --"

"I can give you two weeks," Stephen interrupted. "That will give you plenty of time to bring in your own man."

Garrett paused. "I have no right to ask anything of you -"

"No, you don't," Stephen said.

The two men stared at each other.

"I'd like you to stay for a while to ease the transition," Garrett said. "I don't plan to make any big changes with the Times, at least not initially. Your presence here would rea.s.sure the staff."

"They're not stupid, Richardson," Stephen said. "They know what kind of newspapers you run in England and in New York, and they know what you are going to do here. You may look like some squire fresh from the fox hunt but they know you're a s.m.u.t slinger. Nearly all of them are looking for jobs. In a couple of months, you won't have anyone worthwhile left out in that newsroom."

He paused. "Of course, that's probably what you want. Clear the place out and bring in your own mercenaries."

Garrett looked at Stephen evenly. "This company has had some grave problems," he said. "Because of some recent good moves, it now could possibly turn around. The conversion to morning has already brought about a circulation gain and the suburban plant was a good investment."

Stephen looked at him, waiting.

"But this is a crucial turning point," Garrett went on. "Any sudden changes or instability could hurt the Times' recovery. I have no plans to do anything that could jeopardize it. But you, the example you set with your staff, could. Your support -- or desertion -- of the Times right now will send out a powerful message to those people out there."

Stephen was silent, his eyes s.h.i.+fting from Garrett out to the newsroom.

"You have reasons to hate me," Garrett said. "I'm asking you to put that aside for the time being."

The office was silent. Only a few muted sounds from the newsroom could be heard. The soft rasp of the wire machines, the ring of a telephone, and a random bolt of laughter.

"I would think you'd like me out of your hair," Stephen said. "It would make everything a lot easier."

"So your answer is no, I take it?"

Stephen let a beat go by. "I'll stay. For two months," he said. "But not because of anything you've said. I'm staying here because I care about the people here." He paused. "I care about Kellen, too. I don't have to tell you what this has done to her. She's worked very hard in the past year. And she's worried about what is going to happen to everyone who works here. And to the Times itself."

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 gla.s.s 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, dispa.s.sionate 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 ch.o.r.eographed 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 a.n.a.lysis 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' ident.i.ty. 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, G.o.d 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 a.s.sociates, 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 h.e.l.l-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, cl.u.s.tered 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 good 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.