Adam's Daughter (39 page)

That’s what North America was. A
big bright light.

He picked up the poke
r and prodded the fire again.

But now he was being summoned home
, back to the red brick Georgian mansion in Surrey. He could picture his father, standing in the drive, and he felt the usual mix of emotions -—love, loyalty, and anger.

Why can’t he just leave me alone to make my own way? he thought.

“Garrett?”

Kellen was
awake, propped on one elbow. “I’m sorry. I must have dozed off.”

She came over to sit next to him on the floor
, fitting herself against him. The press of her warm body immediately made him forget about his father and about going home.

He closed his eyes, riding alternating waves of comfort and arousal.

I’m getting in too deep, he thought. I’ve got to stay focused on my plan. I can’t afford to get too involved with her right now.

He rested his chin on her head, and he could smell her hair.

Who are you kidding? he thought. The work is an excuse. You’re just afraid. Afraid to take a chance again. Afraid you’ll lose everything all over again.

It was quiet, the only sound
s were the crackle of the fire and the breaking of the surf on the beach far below.

“We have to go back to San Francisco in the morning
,” he said.

“Let’s stay one more day
,” she said.

“I can’t. There are some things I have to tend to. The closing on the house in Tiburon for one. Then I have to go back to London.”

She picked up her head. “When will you be back?”

“As soon as I can.”

She reached up to the back of his neck and pulled him down to her lips. Her tongue teased him, and the memory of her body, taking him in and holding him, so warm and moist, was overwhelming. The blanket slipped away and his fingers moved down to her bare breast. Her nipple hardened under his touch.

She untied his robe and her hands slid over his chest. He gently guided her down to the floor.

Her face glowed gold beneath him.

“We’re too close,” she whispered, trying to edge away
from the fire.

He
lowered himself to her. “I don’t care,” he said.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

The lane wended its way beneath a canopy of ancient trees then rose gently onto a grassy knoll. Suddenly, Durdans rose before him, like something emerging from the mist of Brigadoon.

Garrett pulled the car to a stop in the drive and got out, standing for a moment to look at the house in which he had grown up. He had not been back to Durdans in years, even though it was only an hour’s drive from his flat in London. What business he had with his father was always conducted at the
London office. And despite his mother’s pleas, Garrett avoided coming home.

This time, h
is father had insisted he come home instead of meeting him at the London office.

“Your mother wants to see you, Garrett,” he had said.

Inside, a maid greeted him, taking his bag and raincoat and telling him his parents were in the drawing room.

He straightened his tie and went to the drawing room
.

His father and mother were sitting in chairs across from each other before the fireplace. They both turned, and his father got to his feet and came forward, extending his arm.

It was always an awkward moment, neither man knowing whether to hug or shake hands.

Arthur Richardson broke the stalemate with a firm handshake and clasp on Garrett’s back.

“Good to have you home, son,” he said briskly.

As usual, Arthur Richardson was the picture of virile health, his dark hair now almost entirely gray, but his gray-blue eyes still steely with resolve. He always dominated a room, his presence seeming to suck the life-force out of other people.

Garrett looked at his mother, who sat in a chair, her demure flowered dress blending into the chintz. She had always been a quiet woman, monochromatic in her emotions and appearance. She had learned how to live in Arthur’s shadow, much as a fern survives in the shade of a giant tree.

Helen
—- Garrett had ceased thinking of her as “Mother” when he was fifteen —- came from a good family but had taken a social step down in marrying Arthur because he had money. She had devoted her marriage to remaking her husband into a paragon of respectability and to all appearances she had succeeded.

Sir Arthur Richardson, standing in his elegant drawing room, seemed every bit the country squire.
Certainly not the publisher of a chain of vulgar newspapers.

Garrett bent over to kiss Helen’s soft cheek. “You’re looking well, Mother,” he said.

Her hand, as it came up to cup Garrett’s cheek, was cold.

“You look thin, Garrett,” she said.

“I’m fine, really,” he said, taking a seat.

“It’s nearly teatime.” She pushed a table buzzer. “I’ll have
something brought in for you.”

B
efore Garrett could protest, the maid wheeled in a cart bearing an ornate tea service and tiny white sandwiches.

His mother poured his tea, and he was vaguely touched that she remembered he liked it with
extra milk.

“So tell us about what you’ve been doing in the States, dear,” Helen said.

Garrett glanced at his father, who was standing by the fireplace, his face blank. Most likely, Helen had no idea about the expansion plan; Arthur never told her anything about the newspapers, and she never asked.

Garrett told her about his travels to Toronto and California, describing in general terms his purchase of the Canadian paper. His words took on more life when he described the beauty of San Francisco and when he mentioned his house in Tiburon Arthur looked at him in surprise.

“You bought a place? Well, I suppose it could be a good investment,” he said.

“But surely you don’t intend to live there,” Helen said.

“I may,” Garrett said. “I like San Francisco. I feel comfortable there.” He had almost said “at home” but he caught himself.

Helen gave Arthur one of her looks, her mouth straightening into a line, a signal of disapproval that she usually reserved for Arthur when his behavior lapsed.

“Mother,” Garrett said quickly, “I see you’ve redone the house. Why don’t you show me the other rooms?”

Helen brightened. “Why, yes, I have. Come along
, dear. I’ll show you.”

Garrett glanced over his shoulder as he was led out of the drawing room. His father had
opened the liquor cabinet and was pouring himself a tumbler of whiskey.

After dinner, Helen excused herself and went up to bed, saying she felt tired. Garrett followed his father into the library, where his father poured himself and Garrett a drink. Garrett waited for Arthur to bring up the expansion plan, ready to spring to its defense. But Arthur merely went on with small talk about his horses. He lit a cigarette and took a chair behind his desk.

“So,” Arthur said
finally, “tell me about Toronto.”

As Garrett talked about the
purchase aftermath, Arthur listened intently, giving his usual strong opinions and suggestions. When Garrett was finished, Arthur leaned back in his chair, smiling slightly.

“
When you came to me with this expansion plan I thought it was a harebrained idea,” Arthur said. “I thought it was just your excuse to loll around the States for a while.”

Garrett said nothing.

“But I’ve been giving it some thought,” Arthur said. “If our brand of newspaper can catch hold in the States, this could be a huge moneymaker for us.”

Garrett could not hide his surprise. “I’m glad you see it that way, Father.”

Arthur lit another cigarette. “In fact, things are going so well I’m convinced we should step up our plans to find properties in the States.”

“I’m checking out several possibilities,” Garrett said. “Getting some market surveys done, demographic studies of
—-”

Arthur interrupted with a chuckle. “Studies are for schoolboys
. Instinct is what counts! What about this chain of papers in Los Angeles?”

Garrett fought back his embarrassment. “The Rotham chain,” he said slowly. “I’ve had several talks with the owner. He’s very interested in selling, and the price is right, but
...”

“
But what?” Arthur prodded.

“I think it’s too small for our needs. And the
Los Angeles Times
is solidly entrenched.”

“What about that San Francisco-based chain you told me about? That didn’t sound too small.”

“It’s not,” Garrett answered. “Fifteen dailies in four western states and other properties. Generally healthy, but several of the papers have revenue problems, including the flagship paper in San Francisco. During the last couple years, since the father Adam Bryant died the papers have been stagnant. The family has been taking money out of its investment rather than putting it back in. And the San Francisco paper is an afternoon publication. Which, in the States at least, is bucking readership trends.”

Arthur was quiet for a moment. “You’ve spent a lot of time looking into this,
I take it.”

Garrett finished
his scotch and set the glass down on a side table. “Two years ago, when I first started searching for buy-out properties, this was the one I thought would be the best target. I had heard that Bryant’s oldest son was mismanaging the corporation and that the three children did not get along. I thought they would be open to offers.”

“So you went to San Francisco to study the situation,” Arthur said.

“Yes.”

“So? What have you found out?”

“That I was wrong,” Garrett said. “The oldest son is willing, even eager to sell. But the daughter isn’t. And one cannot make a move without the other legally. The third son has no say until he’s twenty-one, about eight years from now.”

Arthur frowned. “You’re sure about the daughter?”

“I’ve talked to her,” Garrett said. “I think she’d let the papers go to hell before she’d sell them.”

“Not a good businesswoman.”

“Business has nothing to do with it. She’s a very sentimental woman. She believes the newspapers should remain a family concern, despite the fact that her brother is running them into the ground and she’s too inexperienced to know how to stop him.” He paused. “Despite the illogic of it, part of me understands her point.”

Arthur took a gulp of his drink
, studying Garrett. Garrett used the moment to take a drink.

“She believes that the newspapers we publish are no better than pornographic rags
,” he said finally.

Arthur didn’t blink at the insult, but Garrett saw the spots of color come to his cheeks. Arthur took another swig of whiskey. “So what do you propose to do now?” he asked.

“Keep looking for the right property,” Garrett said. “There’s a daily in New York —-”

“New York? Good
Lord, no. I can’t stand that city. Unpredictable, uncivilized.”

Garrett waited, sensing that Arthur was edging too close to inebriation
. He knew there was no point in discussing anything with Arthur when he had had too many whiskeys.

“San Francisco,” Arthur said. “That’s where we must focus our energy.”

“It won’t do any good,” Garrett said slowly.

“Everyone has a price, Garrett,” Arthur said. “All you have to do is find it. Talk to the son. I’m sure there’s a way to bring the girl down from her lofty little perch. ‘Pornographic,’ indeed.”

Garrett was silent.

Arthur yawned suddenly. “The Bryant chain is our best bet, Garrett, a ready-made little western empire. A
ll those studies of yours say so, right? And so do my instincts. I want those newspapers.” He got to his feet, a bit unsteadily. “Well, I think I’ll go on up to bed now.”