Adam's Daughter (35 page)

Kellen nodded woodenly.

“As I said, your father was confident that what he had built would continue after he died,” Josh said. “He told me that Ian would take care of the business. But Ian just doesn’t have Adam’s talent or inclination. He’s more interested in increasing his own personal fortune than maintaining the business. And I can't seem to convince him that, in the long run, they are one and the same.”

“What exactly has Ian been doing, Josh?”

“During your father’s illness, Ian started financially draining the
Times
. He has been redirecting profits away from the corporation and into his own pocket. He has a pretty extravagant lifestyle to maintain. He’s frozen budgets on some newspapers and ordered cutbacks on the
Times
, which he says is overstaffed. What’s bad is that Ian is pulling back just when the
Journal
is coming alive.”

“What do you mean exactly?”

“In the last quarter, the
Journal
showed a circulation gain for the first time in ten years,” Josh said. “Ian doesn’t care but I think he’s being short-sighted. And now that Adam’s gone, I think he’s going to cut back the suburban operation. He and Stephen are at each other’s throats about it.”

Kellen ran her hand through her hair. The gesture made Josh realize he was probably overloading her with information
.

“These suburban editions,” she said. “
You said they are expensive to run.”

Josh nodded.

“But they’re important?” she asked.

“Your father thought so. He was a visionary, Kellen.
He could see things others couldn’t.”

“I wanted to help,” Kellen said. “Why couldn’t he have seen that?”

“When it came to the newspapers, your father looked to the future. But with his own family, he looked to the past. And in that world daughters had a certain role to fulfill.”

Kellen was quiet.

“But I think if he could see you now, he’d be very proud at what you’re trying to do,” Josh said.

Kellen stared at the newspapers spread out on the conference table and at the mass of financial reports. The confidence she had felt only hours ago when she walked out of Ian’s office was dissipating. The task now before her was
overwhelming. How could she possibly learn enough to run the newspapers? And how could she learn enough to counter Ian? She thought suddenly of Ian and how he had looked sitting behind her father’s desk.

“I have to do it,” she said. “I owe it to my father.”

The next night, Kellen accepted Stephen’s invitation to dinner. It was the first time they had had a chance to be alone together since Kellen’s return from Carmel. The conversation was polite and filled with strange pauses. Finally, Stephen reached over and took her hand.

“Why are we acting like this?” he asked.

“Like what?”

“Like strangers. It’s me, Stephen.” He smiled and maneuvered their fingers into a grasp that ended with him tickling her palm. It was the secret handshake of their childhood.

Kellen laughed, and suddenly the ice was broken.

“I missed you, Kellen.”

She felt the years slip away and a feeling of security washed over her. “I missed you, too, Stephen,” she said softly.

Over dinner, they talked. Kellen told him about Paris and the Trib but sketched over her personal life. Stephen talked eagerly about the suburban coverage but glossed over his problems with Ian.

“We have our differences,” he said simply.

“Ian doesn’t really care about the newspaper, not the way Daddy did,” Kellen said. “Or the way I do.”

Stephen looked at her strangely. “How involved with the
Times
do you intend to get?”

“I’m going to run it. The way my father wanted it run.”

Stephen sat back in his chair. “Your father had very strong ideas about newspapers. He taught me all that I know. I respected him very much, and I’ve tried to carry on as he would have wanted.”

Kellen realized she had hurt Stephen’s feelings. “I know that, Stephen,” she said. “So did my father. That’s why he made you editor. And that’s why I will need your help.” She paused. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”

After a moment, Stephen smiled. He leaned forward, took her hand and kissed it lightly. “I’ll help you,” he said.

For a moment, her thoughts flitted to Garrett, but she pushed them aside. It had been fantastic but it had been just one moment, and she wasn’t going back to Paris. Her future was here now, with the newspaper.

She stared into Stephen’s eyes and didn’t pull her hand away.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

For the next month, Kellen immersed herself in trying to lea
rn how the financial, production, advertising, marketing, and circulation divisions of the newspaper worked. She tackled the reports that Josh sent to her. At first, the reports made no sense but she persevered. She pestered Josh and the vice presidents with her questions. She attended department meetings where she drew stares from the men.

Her schedule
prevented her from dwelling on Adam’s death. It also gave her little time to think about Garrett. She knew she would never see him again.

T
hen, one morning late in September, he called. She was shocked when Adele told her who was on the phone. The connection was poor but his voice immediately brought him back, as if he were right there in her office.

“You remember me, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes.” Her heart was pounding. “How did you know to call me here?”

“I called the Trib. They told me who you are. Why didn’t you tell me yourself when we met?”

“It didn’t seem necessary,” she said, knowing how weak it sounded. “I thought it was only going to be one night.”

He was silent. The line crackled with static. “I heard about your father’s death,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

The line hummed, and Kellen could hear the ghostly voices of another conversation. The connection was terrible.

“I want to see you again,” Garrett said.

Kellen closed her eyes. She could see his face and feel the touch of his hand
s on her body. “I’m not going back to Paris,” she said.

“Then I’ll come to you.”

“When?”

“Soon. As soon as I can.”

There was a loud burst of static, and she lifted the receiver away from her ear. When she tried to listen again, she realized the line was dead. He didn’t call back, and she somehow didn’t expect him to. But she was left with the same rush of anticipation she had felt that first night in Paris.

Three weeks went by and Kellen did not hear from Garrett.
Every time the phone rang she expected it to be him. Finally, she was left with only a simmering anger that he had injected himself into her life and then just left her hanging.

She immersed herself in work.

In just one month, she had learned much about the company, but her enthusiasm was buckling under the reams of information still to be digested.

She picked up a report
from her desk, but the figures began to run together in a blur.

“Damn,” she
said, tossing it down. “There’s got to be more to it than this.”

She jumped up and went to the door. “I’m going down to the newsroom,” she told Adele.

Downstairs, she went through the city room. Heads swiveled. Necks craned. Many of the employees stared because they knew who she was. Those who didn’t simply gawked at the sight of a tall, beautiful redhead in a black suit making her way through the newsroom.

Stephen looked up in surprise when he saw her. He motioned her in
side his glass office. “What are you doing down here?” he asked.

“I’m tired of sitting upstairs reading reports,” she said, sitting down. “I needed a dose of reality.”

Before Stephen could say anything there was a rap on the door and two men came in. Kellen waited while they conferred with Stephen about a potentially libelous quote in a story. Kellen watched Stephen carefully. She had never actually watched him at work before and now, as she listened to him referee the debate between the reporter and editor it was as if she were seeing him in a totally new light. His calm nature, something she had been so quick to make light of when she was young, now seemed like a shining asset. Stephen brought the discussion to an end, and the men left.

“Sorry,” Stephen said. “What were you saying?”

“I was saying that if I intend to really run the
Times
then I need to understand how the editorial side works,” Kellen said. “You said you’d help me. Where do we start?”

“Well, what do you want to do exactly?”

“Help you run the newsroom.”

Stephen smiled. “I have a managing editor for that.”

“Stephen, it’s not like I don’t have some experience. I worked in Paris and —-”

“You wrote a weekly column, Kellen.” He paused, seeing the defensive look creep into her eyes. “Now, don’t go getting angry with me. Look at it from my perspective. If you suddenly showed up down here at my side trying to
run things, how would it look?”

“I don’t care how things look, Stephen.”

“I know. You never did. But think about this. It would look like the owner’s daughter suddenly decided to do a little slumming. To the staff, I’d look like a puppet and you’d look like a debutante trying out the new toy.”

“You’re treating me like a child. Just like you used to.”

Stephen shrugged. “All right, it’s your paper. Do what you want. But I’m going to give you some advice whether you want it or not. Don’t make the same mistake Ian made. Twenty years ago, your father brought him in to learn the business. My father once told me that the employees hated Ian because he never made any honest attempt to learn. He just came in and started playing heir apparent.” He nodded toward the city room. “The people out there still hate him. Even the new ones who’ve never even seen him.”

Kellen stared at Stephen. She was angry and embarrassed, but she understood what he was trying to tell her. “I want to run this paper the way my father did,” she said. “What do you suggest I do?”

“Learn the way everyone learns -- from the bottom up. You can start on the copy desk Monday morning.”

She nodded. “
What time do you want me in —- eight?”

“Nope. The shift runs three
a.m. to nine a.m.”

Kellen stared at Stephen. He was not smiling, but she could tell he was enjoying this,
retribution maybe for all the times she had teased him when they were growing up. He was throwing out a challenge, thinking she wouldn’t be up to it.

“Fine,” she said.

“Good. Chauncey needs some help with the bulldog edition. He’s the morning desk editor, over there.” Stephen pointed to a man out in the newsroom. “See him. And be here on time. Chauncey won’t cut you any slack.”

“I don’t expect any.”

Kellen said good-bye and left Stephen’s office. As she headed to the elevator she spotted Clark Able and went over to his desk. He was hunched over his typewriter, pecking at the keys with two fingers. An unlit brown Gauloise cigarette was clamped between his lips and his straight brown hair hung down over his glasses. He wore a spotless white shirt with French cuffs and small antique gold cuff links. A silk tie was knotted at his throat.

“H
ey, Clark.”

His head jerked up and he squinted at her. “Kellen! Sit down. I’ll be done in a minute.” He tore the paper out of the typewriter with a flourish. “Elliot! To the desk!”

His young assistant sprang up from his desk, grabbed the paper and marched off down the aisle. Clark leaned back in his chair and looked at his watch. “A new record —- twenty-two minutes, forty-five seconds. I’m a genius. But tomorrow, column number two thousand five hundred forty-five will be kitty-litter liner.” He sighed. “No one appreciates me, Kellen.”

She glanced at the stacks of mail and phone messages on Clark’s desk and at the photographs on the wall of Clark posing with various celebrities. Clark had been writing his column for nearly nine years and in that time had become the most
recognizable man in San Francisco. Everyone, from the mayor to Market Street cabbies wanted to be mentioned in “Of Cabbages and Kings.”