Adam's Daughter Part 42

"That was eight years ago, Mr. Bryant. Surely you've had other offers since."

"Nothing that would have made it worthwhile."

"More like no one's interested anymore."

Ian just looked at Garrett.

Garrett smiled slightly. "That's really why you're here, isn't it, Mr. Bryant. You've stayed a little too long at the party. And now I'm the only boy left to take you home."

"It is still a good opportunity for the right person," Ian said.

"But I have the Tattler now. Why in the world would I be interested in your newspapers?"

Ian hesitated. He was prepared; if nothing else, that was what he was good at. "Because you haven't been able to do what you set out to do -- make the Tattler the most widely read paper in New York. Its circulation has stagnated at 628,000. That's still way behind the New York Times' and the Daily News. And you lack advertising. The Daily News has thirty-seven percent of the city's advertisers and the Times has fifty-six percent. You have only seven percent."

Garrett didn't blink. "That will change. In Britain, my newspapers attract millions of readers. It's working in Toronto and it can work here."

Ian shrugged. "Perhaps. But the people who read your sleazy stories aren't the upscale types advertisers want."

Garrett smiled. "You Americans are so preoccupied with advertising. In England, circulation is what really counts and I'll prove that's true here, too. When the Tattler reaches a million readers -- and it will -- advertisers will fall in line.

Ian gave him a stiff smile.

"Besides," Garrett went on, "I suspect many of those cherished New York Times readers are really closet Tattler readers. Americans are no different than the British really. They live on their little cul-de-sacs or in their tiny flats, looking for relief from their boring lives. That's what I try to give them."

Ian stared at him. "Maybe you underestimate us."

"I doubt it."

Ian rose and went to the window. Garrett's voice had s.h.i.+fted toward indifference and Ian knew the moment was slipping away. Perhaps he had been wrong and Garrett couldn't be enticed. He stared down at the gray stretch of the East River. He had one more card to play.

"You strike me as a man of vision, Mr. Richardson," Ian said. "Not one to be content with such a small arena."

"New York is scarcely a small market."

"But just one newspaper here in the United States?"

Garrett sat silent for moment. Then he rose and came over to the window to stand next to Ian, who now was making the pretense of looking at the gloomy view.

Ian, sensing the advantage, decided to let Garrett make the next move. "Which bridge is that?" Ian said, pointing to the left at a plain steel structure.

"The Manhattan. Pretty homely compared to the Brooklyn Bridge there," Garrett said, pointing right.

Ian waited, saying nothing.

"They're like two sisters, one plain and useful, the other beautiful and inspiring," Garrett said. "Rather like the two bridges in your town, I'd say." He paused. "There's something about beautiful bridges."

"Yes," Ian said, fighting his urge to steer the conversation back to business.

Garrett leaned against the window frame, hands in pockets. "How does your sister feel about your coming here?"

"She doesn't know. Frankly, she's not a factor in this deal. My brother Tyler will be twenty-one soon and will have a third vote in all company matters."

"And how does he feel about selling?"

"I can convince him of the wisdom behind it."

Garrett stared out the window for a moment then glanced at his watch. Ian noticed the gesture and sensing that he had at least piqued Garrett's interest decided to take the offensive.

"I know you're a busy man, Mr. Richardson," he said. "But nothing has to be decided right here and now. Perhaps we could have dinner tonight."

"All right, but it'll have to be now." He smiled. "How do you feel about pizza? I know a place nearby that serves the best pie in New York."

Ian forced himself to smile. "But only if you allow me to reciprocate when you come back to San Francisco."

Garrett pulled off his tie and took his gla.s.s of brandy into the bedroom. He had had only one beer at dinner, wanting to keep his head clear when he confronted Ian. While he was convinced Ian could be manipulated, he knew he wasn't a complete fool. He had come prepared to make a deal and had laid his criteria out plainly.

The asking price for all the Bryant properties was $400 million. And the figurehead t.i.tle of publisher, in perpetuity, for Ian and his heirs, with a $2 million annual salary. And no involvement at all for the other members of the family.

Garrett had been only mildly surprised at the first; the price was high but fair. But the second point had surprised him. He didn't think Ian cared about the family name being retained as a connection. Of course, that was no obstacle; a name on a masthead was only a sentimental gesture. The Bryant family would have no power if he took over.

If he took over...

Garrett sat down in a chair near his bed. Why had he even bothered to listen to Ian Bryant? He certainly didn't need the aggravation. The Toronto operation had survived the conversion, was gaining circulation every day. But the Tattler was a different story. It demanded every ounce of his energies.

Garrett set the brandy aside. It annoyed him that Ian had known the circulation and advertising figures, and that without really understanding the larger picture had managed to pinpoint the Tattler's problems.

Five years ago, when Garrett bought the Tattler, he had been convinced that with belt-tightening and a change of format it could succeed. His instincts told him that New Yorkers were ready for an alternative to the self-satisfied journalism of the New York Times and Daily News. And with his usual thoroughness, he had studied the market and found figures that seemed to back up his belief.

So Garrett had gone ahead with the Tattler purchase, even though his father cautioned against it. The transition had been rough. Many of the newspaper's reporters and editors had rebelled and quit; Garrett had fired others who could not be converted to the new philosophy and filled a few key positions with British editors. Garrett ordered the stories shortened and the headlines souped up.

He expanded and sensationalized the crime coverage and beefed up television and racetrack coverage. The Tattler doled out a daily diet of s.e.x, gore, gossip, and celebration of the nude female form. His efforts were rewarded with an immediate circulation gain of several hundred thousand readers.

But once the novelty wore off, circulation leveled off, and it had remained stagnant.

Garrett glanced at the clock by the bedside. It was nearly midnight and he was tired. He rose and went into the bathroom. He turned on the shower and got in, wincing but enjoying the p.r.i.c.k of the too-hot water on his body.

Emerging from the shower he wrapped a towel around his waist and went out onto the terrace. It was gusty and the rush of cold air on his bare chest made him pull in his breath.

He glanced south, across the dark expanse of Central Park to where the lights began again. He had bought the penthouse for its view. The rest of it, the white marble floors, the towering ceilings and the self-consciously austere decor he hardly ever noticed. He felt more at home in the plain dinginess of the Tattler office.

Leaving the door wide open -- he couldn't sleep unless the room was icy -- he got into bed. He brought his arms up to cradle his head and stared into the dark.

His thoughts turned to his father. Arthur had been disappointed that Garrett had lost the San Francisco deal. But at least he was keeping out of the New York business, absorbing the losses, allowing Garrett free rein. Not once had he said, I told you so. He simply ignored it.

To Garrett, his indifference was worse than outright censure. It was almost as if Arthur were tolerating the Tattler as his son's plaything.

Garrett closed his eyes. Eight years of hard work. And the grand plan was still just that -- nothing but a plan, an unrealized dream.

Ian had been right about one thing at least: Success in America had to be on an oversized scale, preferably in a glaring spotlight. Ian was right about the Tattler, too. It wasn't big enough. But a string of newspapers -- no one could ignore that.

And now Ian had reopened the door to the Bryant empire, this time with an a.s.surance the deal could be struck. All Garrett had to do was walk through.

But what about Kellen? Her face came back to him, how she had looked the last time he saw her -- so angry.

Kellen...He could see her so clearly. He could hear her laugh and feel her vibrancy. Suddenly, the sensation of her body next to his own was so powerful that he glanced over to see if she were there.

Only in his mind. She was always there, in his mind. In eight years he had not stopped thinking about her. Sometimes, preoccupied with work, he would go for weeks without seeing her face. But then, always, inevitably, she returned.

Eight years. There had been other women in that time; he was never at a loss for companions.h.i.+p or s.e.x or even love if he wanted it. But always, after an amount of time, months, sometimes just moments, he would find himself comparing a woman to Kellen. There were times he hated her for the pull she still exerted over his life, or maybe he just hated himself for giving in to it.

Eight years. He had done what he could to exorcise her memory. He had a photograph of her but he had thrown it away. After he heard that she had married he had made it a point to know nothing else about her, though he could have easily found out every detail of her life. Though she was only six hours away she might as well have been on the moon.

But tonight...she was as vivid now in his mind as the last day he saw her, a time-frozen memory more enticing than any image on a photograph.

He felt himself sinking into a sad reverie, replaying scenes with Kellen in his head, thinking about what could have happened if he had been honest with her from the start, if he had realized sooner how much he loved her.

The scenes played on, all leading back to the one with her standing there, her face filled with anger over his betrayal.

Had she changed? Did she still hate him?

Garrett stared into the darkness. He hadn't given Ian an answer or even an indication that he was interested in buying the newspapers. He wasn't. He would never do anything to hurt Kellen again. But it gave him pleasure knowing he could just let the b.a.s.t.a.r.d twist in the wind for a while.

And yet, Ian had forced him to think about something that he had long put aside -- the idea of going back. All the memories had been stirred up, along with something he could only identify as hope.

But for what? She was married. She had a life without him. What could he possibly expect from her? What was he looking for after all these years?

He didn't know. But he did know that he wouldn't be able to put her out of his mind until he went back one last time.

Suddenly, his mind was made up, and he relaxed his tense muscles slightly, as he always did once he had finally reached a decision.

As soon as possible, he would be on a plane to San Francisco. And no matter how Kellen felt about him, he would see her. He had to.

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE.

Kellen and Stephen waited silently while the maid cleared the breakfast dishes and left. "It was just a suggestion, Stephen," Kellen said, her voice low.

"But it won't work," Stephen said. "Other afternoon newspapers have already tried it. It just won't work." He picked up his coffee, as if to shut her off.

She had offered her idea, thinking it was a sound one -- give the news a feature slant, go with a more in-depth a.n.a.lytical style instead of trying to compete with the morning Journal's fresher news. She had curbed her instinct to argue, not wanting to antagonize Stephen. Ever since his suburban plant idea hadn't worked out, he had been depressed.

"Stephen, what's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"Don't tell me that," she said. "Stop shutting me out."

He looked up.

"I can't even make the most innocent suggestion about the paper without you taking it wrong," she said.

He set down his coffee. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's this d.a.m.n plan. I know I should forget it but I can't. I know it would work, Kellen. If there were just a way to give it a chance."

Kellen didn't reply. It was still there between them, her refusal to sacrifice a newspaper for his plan. It had come to epitomize all the tensions surrounding their positions at the Times. A subtle power struggle had developed between them. She loved Stephen and wanted to support him but she would not sacrifice what she thought was right just to appease him.

A sudden thought took shape in her head. "Stephen, I have an idea," she said. "What about the Napa land? Would that bring in enough to finance the plant?"

"You mean you'd be willing to sell it?"

"It's just sitting there, for heaven's sake," she said. "I don't know why I didn't think of it before. We lease it to an adjoining vineyard and the lease expires soon. The real estate agent sent me a new one last week. Ian and I have always just renewed and forgotten about it because it's such a small parcel. But the land has to have appreciated over the years."

Stephen brightened slightly. "It's worth exploring."

"Tomorrow's Sat.u.r.day," Kellen said quickly. "Let's go up there and talk to a realtor."

"I can't. I've got a speech to give at the press club."

"Maybe Tyler will go with me. It will do him good. He's been depressed lately."

She looked at Stephen over the rim of her cup. "So have you," she said softly. "Don't worry. Maybe we can trade a bunch of old vines for a new plant."

Finally, he smiled. "Maybe," he said.

He finished his coffee quickly and rose. She could tell from his expression that his mind was already back on the plan, but now in a positive way.

"You want me to wait for you?" he asked.

They rarely drove to the office together, and his offer this morning was obviously a conciliatory gesture.

"No, you go on ahead," she said. "But don't forget, you have a tux fitting later."

He smiled wanly. "No way out of it?"

"This is the last one, I promise. No more charity committees. The Black and White Ball is my swan song."

Stephen left, and she sat at the table, finis.h.i.+ng her coffee. He hadn't been so eager to get to work in a quite a while. She wished she felt the same enthusiasm. She had been struggling to clarify her role without posing a threat to Stephen.

She sipped her coffee, thinking of all the newspapers that were delivered to her office every day -- one from each of the other cities in the chain. She had tried once to read them all, but it really gave her no sense of what they were like. So the papers just piled up in her office, every day faithfully coming to her.

What if I went to them? she thought.

She remembered what Stephen had told her once, how her father regularly visited each newspaper to keep in touch and provide a Bryant presence.