Adam's Daughter (48 page)

Ian looked around. “Well, I see that we have nothing more to say. I have a dinner engagement.” He rose and walked out of the conference room.

For a moment no one said anything. Then Stephen
said, “Maybe we should call it a day.”

“Just a moment, Stephen,” Kellen
said.

All eyes turned to her.

“I want all of you to know,” she said, “that no matter what my brother says I will never sell these newspapers. That was my position eight years ago and that is my position now. I give you my word.”

She looked at each of the men. “We have problems right now, but I’m confident we can find the answers. We have to keep looking.”

There were a few nervous glances and a couple of weak nods of acknowledgment. Then, with a rustling of papers and stilted goodbyes, the vice presidents filed out leaving Stephen and Kellen alone.

“They didn’t look very confident about what I said,” Kellen said.

“They know Ian and they’re afraid of him. You’re more of an unknown to them.”

“That’s going to change,” she said quietly.

Stephen, lost in his own thoughts, let the remark pass. They went to the elevator and were silent until the door opened onto the bright lights of the newsroom. Stephen held the door open.

“You look tired,” she said. “Why don’t you go home early for a
change?”

“As soon as I clear a few things off my desk.” He smiled slightly. “You, on the other hand, look like you’re off to a party.”

She smiled back. “I’m meeting Tyler and Clark for dinner.” She leaned over and kissed Stephen’s cheek. “I won’t be late.”

He seemed embarrassed, but then he had always been sensitive to such displays in front of his employees. She wondered if it would get worse once she was
back in the office all the time. She had to confront him with her intention soon, perhaps tomorrow. He seemed more optimistic today than he had Friday night, undoubtedly because of his idea about the new plant. Maybe now he would be more supportive of her need.

“I wish you had told me about your idea beforehand,” she said. “I could have been more of a help up there.”

“You were,” Stephen said. “You let me have my say.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-
EIGHT

Kellen paused just inside the restaurant’s entrance, looking for Clark and Tyler. The Washington Square Bar and Grill was crowded, filled with smoke and the cacophony of clattering dishes and conversation. The wooden bar was nearly obscured by people waiting for tables while on the television above them the Golden State Warriors were soundlessly dribbling up and down the basketball court.

The burgundy walls were dotted by old photographs of cable cars, and on the coat rack two old wooden coat hangers
hung forlornly next to a man’s dusty raincoat. In the back, a man was playing languorous jazz on the battered upright piano.

A man asked Kellen if she wanted a table, and Kellen smiled, her ego slightly wounded over the fact that he didn’t recognize her. Despite its homely appearance, the “Washbag” was a popular hangout for journalists and celebrities.

“I’m with Clark Able,” Kellen said.

The man smiled broadly and led her through the bar. He held back the heavy burgundy draperies that divided the bar from the main dining
room and Kellen saw Clark and Tyler at a premiere table. Clark held out a chair for her as heads turned in their direction. A few people stared at Kellen, knowing who she was. Others just wondered who Clark Able’s latest dining companion was.

“Sorry I’m late,” Kellen said. “The meeting ran long.”

She noticed that Clark had replaced his old horn-rimmed glasses with snappy wire aviator frames. Coupled with his impeccably tailored glen-plaid sport coat and tan slacks, he looked wonderfully debonair. At forty-six, he had that special aura so many successful men strive for but seldom achieve —- the look of being splendidly at ease with the world around him.

“I had forgotten what a fishbowl this place is,” Kellen said as she slipped out of her fur coat.

“Well, do you expect not to be stared at wearing half the Russian sable population on your back?” Clark said, picking up a sleeve. “Where’d you get this?”

“It was my mother’s. I had it restyled,” Kellen said. “I thought it was a shame to just let it sit in storage.”

Clark poured her a glass of wine. “It doesn’t really suit you.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s so matronly.”

“Why, thank you, Clark
.”

“Oh, don’t get huffy. We’ve known each other too long. It’s too late for tact.”

She took a generous drink of her wine. “Sometimes a little tact would be welcome.”

Clark sighed. “All right, I’m sorry. It’s just that you know I hate to see you dress like this. I know you think you have some corporate image to maintain at those meetings but it’s starting to carry over into your real life. Those sweet little Ferragamo pumps, that dear little Herm
es bag, that precious Chanel suit. Your hair pinned up and sprayed like Queen Elizabeth. Kel, dear, you’re getting ossified.”

“Ossified?” Tyler
said.

Kellen sighed. “Clark and I have had this conversation before. He thinks I should be wearing gold lam
e jumpsuits.”

“I’d settle for a Halston halter dress at this point,” Clark said.

“Well, you are looking a little uptight,” Tyler said.

Kellen stared at him then picked up her menu. “Let’s order,” she said curtly.

While they ate, the conversation caromed between art, which was Tyler’s favorite topic, and French movies, which had been Clark’s preferred subject ever since his first trip to the Cannes Film Festival several years ago. Kellen poked at her pasta and tried to keep up her end of the small talk. But her mind kept drifting back to Clark’s remarks about her appearance. He hadn’t meant to be cruel but his words had hurt.

Matronly? She didn’t consider it matronly. Hadn’t she, after all, been named to the city’s best-dressed list three years running now?

Matronly...that described old women like Enid Atherton, in gray chiffon with billowing sleeves to hide flaccid arms and choker pearls to disguise a crepey neck. Matronly was not Kellen Bryant Hillman.

It was true she had developed a taste for couture clothes. One day about five years ago, she had gone through her closet and given away the collection of
vintage clothes she had accumulated over the years. She knew that Stephen had never really cared for them. He liked her best when she dressed in understated classic clothes.

Kellen was struck with a sudden curious thought. In a perverse sort of way, Stephen was treating her just as her father had, imposing on her the same misguided sense of feminine duty. And she had been accepting it, as if she were trying to be her mother.

She felt a chill and drew the fur up over her shoulders. She realized suddenly that it smelled slightly musty.

“You’re completely wrong,” Clark said. “Don’t you think he’s wrong, Kel?”

“Hmm?”

“About Alain Delon! Haven’t you been listening? Tyler thinks he was sexier than Belmondo in
Borsalino
. My God, man, Belmondo is sex!”

“Sex is more than looks,” Tyler countered.

“Of course it is!” Clark said. “It’s chemistry. It’s Seberg and Belmondo. It’s Lana Turner and John Garfield. It’s Lady and Tramp. Sex is the right man and woman together at the right moment.”

Kellen took another sip of wine, letting the conversation recede again.
Her mind drifted back to Friday night when she and Stephen had made love. As usual, it had been pleasantly satisfying. Certainly nothing earth-shattering, but then it never had been between them. And what could you expect after nearly eight years? Yet lately, sex also left her with an odd emptiness that she tried to vanquish by doing everything she could to please Stephen. But it didn’t go away, and their lovemaking remained a tender ritual that gave her only the relief of physical release.

She wondered if Stephen felt the same, but he gave no indication. Perhaps it didn’t matter to him.
And there were more important things that made a marriage work.

Kellen took another sip of wine and closed her eyes. The wine had relaxed her, opening the door of her memory just wide enough for Garrett to slip through. She pushed the thought back
and forced herself to pick up the thread of conversation. Now Clark and Tyler were arguing about art.

“Conceptual art is garbage,” Clark said.

“You shouldn’t criticize what you don’t know about,” Tyler said.

“I’ve been to these so-called shows. One was called Newt Ascends Fred Astaire’s Face. Frankly, he’s had better partners.
”

Kellen laughed, but Tyler’s look of frustration made her sober quickly in sympathy. “I thought you were studying painting,” she said to him, to neutralize Clark’s needling.

“I switched to sculpture,” Tyler said tersely.

“I’d like to see your work sometime,” Kellen said.

Tyler took a drink of his club soda. “Well, I don’t have anything personally. I belong to an art collective. We have a studio in the Embarcadero. We’re called the Ant Farm.”

“I had an ant farm when I was a boy,” Clark offered, pouring more wine. “Very industrious little creatures. Fun to watch.”

“Ant Farm,” Kellen repeated. “Aren’t they the ones who planted all those cars in Texas?”

Tyler brightened. “Yes, they took these old Caddies and half buried them in a line. It’s called Cadillac Ranch. I went out there and helped dig the holes. A great example of environmental sculpture
.”

Clark sighed. “My idea of great environmental sculpture is the Golden Gate Bridge. Or the Ferry Building tower. And now that’s hidden by a freeway ramp
.”

Before
Kellen could reply, a man came up to speak to Clark. Clark turned to Kellen and said that he had to talk to someone at another table for a column item. He excused himself, leaving Tyler and Kellen alone.

Tyler watched him go, shaking his head. “Brother,” he
said. “He calls you ossified? He’s the one turning into a fossil.”

Kellen waited a moment. “Am I?”

“What?”

“You know. Too set in my ways.” She shrugged off the fur coat. “What do you think of this coat, for instance? Does it make me look too old?”

“This is a first. My sister asking me for fashion advice.”

Tyler’s pale eyes were lit with amusement. Now twenty, he had grown into a tall handsome young man
. Several of her friends had asked Kellen to fix their daughters up with him. But she always declined, having learned years ago that telling Tyler what to do with his life was impossible. She realized suddenly that she actually knew very little about his life lately. She knew that he had been taking art classes at Berkeley but she had the feeling that he was just floating, looking for something to latch on to.

“Well, I’m asking your opinion,” she said. “Do I look matronly to you?”

He picked up her wine and took a big drink. “You look like you need to get laid,” he said.

“Tyler!”

“You know, there was a time when you would have hit me for saying that. Or at least laughed.”

“We’re not kids anymore. Or at least I’m not
.” She took the wineglass from him. “Give me that. You’re still underage, you know.”

Tyler shook his head. “You’ll never stop treating me like a child, will you? I’ll be twenty-one soon, for god’s sake. I have my own life now.”

“But what kind of life is it? I worry about you.”

“Well, don’t.”

Kellen frowned. “But I do. You never tell me anything about yourself. I worry about your finding someone you care about, finding work you care about.” She paused. “Why don’t you come work at the newspaper? Stephen can —-”

“I’ve told you before I don’t want to
work there,” Tyler said.

“But you could
—-”

“I want my own dreams, dammit, not Father’s hand-me- downs
.”