Adam's Daughter (70 page)

“Is he...?”

Helen rose slowly and came over to the door. In the harsh light from the hallway, she looked ghastly, as if the last of her muted color had drained from her skin, her eyes and hair. 

Without thinking, he gathered her in an embrace, and for a moment she leaned heavily against him. When she pulled away, she wavered.

“He had another stroke early this morning,” she said. “There’s been no response since. Nothing.” She looked up at Garrett. “He wanted to talk to you. He...”

Garrett glanced at the bed then back at Helen. “Have you been here since yesterday?”

She nodded wearily.

“I’m here now,” he said softly. “Why don’t you at least go get a cup of
tea?” When she started to protest, Garrett interrupted. “I’ll stay here with him,” he said.

With a deep sigh, Helen nodded and left the room. Garrett stood motionless staring at Arthur then he made a slow half circle around the bed, keeping as far away as he could. Being in a hospital, with the smells, sounds and ugly machines had brought back all the bad memories of Susan’s and the twins’ deaths. He forced himself to approach the bed and look down at the man lying there.

He was shocked by Arthur’s appearance. He had expected that he would be wasted looking, but he wasn’t. Arthur was pale and his eyes were closed but he looked as if he were simply asleep. Garrett stood over the bed, staring at Arthur.

“Can you hear me?” he said.

There was no response.

“Can you hear me?” he repeated, more loudly.

A nurse came in at that moment. “He can’t answer,” she said. “His brain is functionally dead.” She went to the monitor to check something then turned to Garrett with a frown.

“No one’s supposed to be in here,” she said. “Who are you anyway?”

“I’m his son,” Garrett said, staring at the figure in the bed.

The nurse pursed her lips. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, her tone softer. She left, closing the door behind her.

The room was dark, except for one small bedside light, and quiet except for the gentle blip of the machines. Garrett drew a chair close to the bed and sat down. For several minutes, he just stared at the man in the bed.

“I know you can hear me,” he said.

Silence.

“I hate you,” he
said.

Suddenly,
Garrett’s eyes filled with tears. They poured down his face. He picked up Arthur’s hand.

“I love you,” he said, gripping his father’s hand between his own.

Garrett was standing at the mantel in the drawing room of Durdans. Helen sat in a chair nearby. Four days had passed since Arthur’s death and cremation. Helen had retreated immediately to Durdans but Garrett had stayed in London to assure that business went on as usual at the newspaper. He had returned only that mo
rning and now they were waiting for Arthur’s lawyer, Charles Lassiter.

Garrett looked at Helen. She was pale but composed. “I hope you don’t mind my asking Lassiter to come today,” he said. “But I have to get back to the States soon. And I thought you’d want me here to handle the will.”

She smiled wanly. “I understand, Garrett. And I appreciate it.”

The silence between them was strained. “It’s all happened so quickly,” Helen said quietly. She looked up at Garrett. “I’m most sorry that you didn’t have a chance to talk to him. He wanted to talk to you so badly.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Garrett said. He went to the window and pulled aside the drape to look out.

“It mattered to
—-” Helen began.

“He’s here,” Garrett said, letting the drape fall. “Now we can get this over with.”

He went out to the foyer to greet the lawyer and escort him in. Garrett introduced his mother and Lassiter took a seat, placing his briefcase on the floor beside him. Garrett returned to his spot at the mantel.

“I’m sorry we’ve never met before, Mrs. Richardson,” Lassiter said. “I was your husband’s solicitor for years but I guess I never had the chance to come out to the country.” He glanced around the room. “Lovely home you have here, by the way.”

Helen nodded cordially. Garrett sensed her strength had been taxed and he wanted to hurry business along. “I don’t mean to be abrupt, Mr. Lassiter,” Garrett said. “But we’d really like to get on with the matter of my father’s will.”

Lassiter gave a strange little sh
rug. “There is no will,” he said.

Garrett looked at him in disbelief. “That can’t be,” he said. “My father would never have been so careless. He was very meticulous about his business affairs.”

Lassiter nodded. “Yes, I know. I was constantly after Mr. Richardson about drawing up a will. He kept saying he’d get to it but he didn’t.” Lassiter shook his head. “To be honest, I think he didn’t do it because he sincerely believed he was going to live forever.”

“So what does this mean legally?” Garrett asked. “That the estate will be tied up in courts for years?”

Lassiter shook his head. “No, not at all. It’s quite simple, really. In these cases, the spouse inherits everything. I’ll have it worked out for you by week’s end.”

Helen looked up first at Lassiter then at Garrett.

The lawyer pulled a sheaf of papers out of his briefcase. “It’s all delineated here for you, Mrs. Richardson. All the property and corporation holdings in this country, France, Canada, and the United States.” He gave her a smile. “Your husband left you an exceedingly wealthy woman.”

Tears formed in Helen’s eyes. Seeing her distress, Lassiter set the papers down on the table and closed his briefcase. “I’ll just leave this with you,” he said, rising. “I’ll be back in touch in a few days.”

“I’ll show you out,” Garrett said.

When he returned, Helen was still sitting in the chair, a vacant stare on her face. Garrett picked up the papers Lassiter had left and thumbed through them slowly. It was all there
—- and more. The eight newspapers in Britain, the Toronto paper, the
New York Tattler
, the fifteen Bryant newspapers, and other holdings. An apartment in London, property in France, the bank accounts and insurance policies, the healthy portfolio of incredibly diverse investments —- and Durdans, of course. Arthur Richardson had left an estate worth more than £250,200,000. About $600 million, almost half of it the Bryant holdings, Garrett estimated.

He shook his head in sad wonderment. No will...

He could claim nothing as his. Even in his death, Arthur cast a shadow.

Garrett set the papers down in front of Helen. After a moment, she picked them up and began to turn the pages.

He wondered what she was thinking. All during her marriage to Arthur she hated the newspapers. It seemed logical that she would now sell them, wash her hands of the grimy endeavor forever.

He stared at her
, knowing he couldn’t let that happen. He would do whatever he had to —- beg, plead, or steal enough to buy them back from her —- anything to prevent them from slipping through his grasp.

“I don’t want any of this,”
Helen said softly, holding the papers. She looked up at Garrett. “It’s yours,” she said. “He always meant it to be.”

He stared at Helen. “What?”

“It may not be in any will, but he told me he wanted you to have everything when he was gone,” she said.

“When?” Garrett asked.

“About three months ago. He had never said one word about it before, but one day, out of nowhere, he just said, ‘I did it all for my son, and when I’m gone it will be his.’”

Garrett went to the sofa and sat down beside her.
“It was the day I came here, wasn’t it,” he said. “That morning we had the fight in the sun room.”

The memory seemed to distress Helen. “Yes,” she said softly. “Your father was very upset by the whole thing. He kept saying that he only did what he did for your sake and that he was sorry he hurt you. He said that often in the last few months.”

“I wish he had told me that,” Garrett said quietly. His eyes traveled around the room and he could see Arthur standing by the fireplace, one arm propped on the mantel, a tumbler in his hand, playing the role of a country squire. He closed his eyes and could see Arthur in the dirty newsroom of the
Sun,
shirt smudged with newsprint, baying at some unfortunate wretch, playing the role of publishing titan. He could see him walking down the lane to the races, shortening his stride to match that of a little boy’s, playing the role of father.

“I wish,” Garrett said, “I had talked to him more.”

They were both quiet for a long time.

“All I really want is enough to live decently on
– and Durdans,” Helen said. She held the papers out to Garrett. “The rest is yours. I know you’ll care for it the way he wanted.”

He nodded and took the papers. There was a
nother long silence.

“You’ll be going back to the States soon?” Helen asked.

“Yes, but I don’t know when. There will be a lot for me to do here, I suspect.” He stared at the papers in his hand. “Then I’ll go on to New York.”

“What about San Francisco? I thought that’s where you live now.”

He let out a breath. “It wouldn’t really be practical anymore. I need to be able to get back here quickly to watch over things. New York will be a better base for me, I think.” He smiled ruefully. “The empire is suddenly too big.”

“What about that woman in San Francisco?” Helen said. “I thought you were in love with her.”

It seemed strange to hear such a direct and personal statement from Helen, and Garrett looked up in surprise.

“It didn’t work out,” he said.

Helen hesitated. “I know what you and your father were arguing about that morning. I heard everything.” She sighed. “I don’t expect you to ever forgive us for what happened to Susan. In a way, you are right. It was our fault. We did push you two apart.”

Garrett was surprised to see tears form in her eyes.

“I don’t want to see you unhappy like that again. It broke my heart,” she said. She reached out and took his hand. “If there’s any chance you could get this woman back then do it. If you love someone that much, don’t give up. With love, one must never give up and just make do.”

Garrett
was stunned. Was this Helen talking like this? This cool pale woman whom he had always assumed to be so passionless? He suddenly wanted to ask her questions. Why had she married Arthur? Had she loved him? Why had she chosen him to be her son when it could have been anyone? Who was she, this woman who had been his mother?

Her fingers were cool and soft on his, and he looked into her
gray eyes, knowing there was no way he could ask her any of these questions. Not now, at least. Perhaps later.

He embraced her. Surprised, she resisted at first, but then returned the embrace. They pulled apart, with an awkwardness.

“I think some tea would be nice,” Helen said.

“Yes, it would.”

She rang for the maid. While they waited for the tea, the room fell silent again.

“It’s gotten chilly,” Helen said, pulling her sweater over her shoulders.

“I’ll get the fire going again.” Garrett rose and went to the hearth to put a new log on the fire. He stood there, feeling the warmth of the flames on his face. He turned back to Helen.

“I have to leave tomorrow for Paris,” he said. “I have some important business to take care of.”

She nodded, looking away.

“But I’d like to come back for a visit,” Garrett said, “Maybe in spring when everything’s green. Would that be all right with you, Mother?”

When she looked back up at him a smile spread slowly across her face. “I’d like that very much, Garrett,” she said softly.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-
FOUR

Garrett went quickly down the rue St-Andres des Arts. It was a cold overcast day, and the gray opalescent light made the streets and buildings look like a smudged charcoal drawing.

The cafe was open and its yellow lights beckoned warmly, and he went quickly toward it. He searched the terrace but it was empty, except for a large tan dog sleeping in the doorway. He peered in the window but there were only a few workmen standing at the bar. He was about to turn away when he saw her.