Adam's Daughter Part 41

Tyler realized suddenly he could invite Mike to move in with him. He had always been wary about making commitments to other lovers. But now, well, things were different. Mike was different.

Tyler picked up the phone and dialed the studio but the line was busy. It usually was; Mike often took the phone off the hook when he worked. Tyler grabbed his coat and started for the door. Then he paused and went to his desk. He found an extra apartment key and stuck it in his pocket.

He pulled up in front of the warehouse near the docks. A light was on in the studio, on the top floor. To surprise Mike, he decided to bypa.s.s the creaky freight elevator in favor of the stairs, taking them two at a time. His heart was beating from exertion and excitement as he paused outside the studio. He opened the door and went in.

The dark loft was as messy as usual, and a towering half-finished bronze dominated the clutter. Mike was nowhere to be seen. Tyler glanced to the far corner, where a part.i.tion hid Mike's bed. Tyler quietly picked his way through the discarded clothes, pizza boxes, chicken bones, and barbells on the floor. His fingers found the key in his pocket, and he held it tight.

He heard Mike's low laugh. Then another laugh he didn't recognize. Tyler froze, flattening himself against the wall.

"I could get used to that." A man's voice, a strange voice.

"I'll bet."

Tyler shut his eyes at the sound of Mike's voice. There was a rustle of sheets.

"What about Tyler?" the other man said. "What's with you two?"

"He pays the bills. That's all."

"He doesn't think so."

"I know," Mike said. "He's like a G.o.dd.a.m.n puppy dog sometimes." The light went off, leaving the loft dark except for the white glare of the streetlight just outside the window.

"Don't worry." Mike said. "He's nothing to me. Now that the gallery's open and I'm getting some exposure I can back off from him."

"What about this place?"

"The deed's in my name, free and clear. The kid gave it to me." There was a silence. "I don't need him anymore."

Tyler's head was spinning, and the blood from his hammering heart pounded against his temples. He stared down at the floor to steady himself. He felt something wet on his face and realized that he was crying.

He waited, his ears attuned to sounds, but he could hear only Mike's breathing. Finally, with great effort, he silently made his way back across the loft's debris and out the door.

Ian went to the door of the bedroom, glancing back to the bed where Clarisse lay sleeping soundly. He pulled the belt of his robe tighter and went out of the room and down the stairs. He heard a clock strike three.

d.a.m.n Clarisse. She never had trouble sleeping after they fought.

Tonight, the bickering had started right after they left Tyler's gallery. Finally, thankfully, Clarisse had gone to bed. An argument always seemed to give her more impetus to sleep, whereas it inevitably left him keyed up.

Ian went down to the living room and over to the bar. He poured a scotch and took it over to the picture window. He drank it slowly as he stared out at the lights in the bay below.

He thought about all the fights he and Clarisse had lately, mostly about her desire to move to a bigger house. This place is so dowdy, she would say, we need to move to a better address. And the real stinger: Why aren't we living in your family's mansion instead of your sister?

It didn't seem to matter to her that they had four other homes -- the condo in Aspen, the apartment in New York City, the pied a terre in Paris, and a hilltop retreat near Hana on the island of Maui. Actually, the last one he had bought for himself. Clarisse, who hated hot weather, never went there.

Which was fine with Ian, who recently had started an affair with a secretary he met in Honolulu. But more than anything, he preferred being there alone. The remote area of the island was the one place in the world he felt truly comfortable.

"Ian, why aren't you in bed?"

Ian didn't bother to turn around at the sound of Lilith's voice.

"I can't sleep," he said.

He glanced at her as she sat down in a chair near the window. She was wearing an elegant silk robe and her hair, thanks to the constant attention of her stylist, was almost as dark as it had ever been. Now seventy-three, she was also still as thin as ever but her insistence on a perpetual tan and three facelifts had given her skin the translucent look of old parchment.

"Would you like a drink, Mother?" he asked, going to the bar.

"You know I can't."

A year ago, Lilith had suffered a heart attack. It had been a mild episode and the doctors told Ian she had recovered completely and would probably outlive them all. But Lilith had used her protracted convalescence as an excuse to move in with Ian. Her presence in the house had exacerbated the strain between him and Clarisse, but he couldn't bring himself to ask her to leave. His mother was old, he thought, and lonely.

The house was filled with tension. Clarisse and Lilith were constantly sniping at each other.

It bothered Ian that he had allowed Lilith to pressure him into the marriage. It bothered him even more that he had married a woman so like his mother, as if he were some absurd case study out of a college psychology textbook.

But what bothered him most was the fact that he was so impotent to change his life. He had too many responsibilities now. He had a son and another child on the way. He had to run the newspaper chain and make money, always make more money.

Ian topped off his drink and slumped down onto the sofa. Good Lord, his annual income from the newspapers was more than three million, and it never seemed to be enough. Of course, it would soon be diminished when Tyler came of age. Then whatever revenue the Bryant newspaper chain made would be split three ways.

There never seemed to be anything left over, especially for his own needs. He had paid too much for the property and house in Hawaii. And he paid all his mistress's bills. But they were the only things he seemed to care about anymore.

No, that wasn't true. He cared about his son, Robert, although he had trouble showing it. He was an undemonstrative father, finding he had no idea how to show affection. But that wasn't so important, he thought, as long as the boy felt secure.

Soon, Robert would be six. Clarisse, who had begun charting Robert's social course before he was born, had already enrolled him in the Town School. More than thirty years ago, Ian's own application to the exclusive primary school had been rejected until Adam pulled political strings to get him admitted. The same thing happened when Ian tried to get into the University School.

But now, Robert Bryant was already a.s.sured a place in both, although Clarisse was leaning toward sending the boy to boarding school, probably Cate in Santa Barbara. Boarding school, she claimed, prepared a child to perform. In addition, Robert would be subjected to all the obligatory rites of initiation -- sailing and riding lessons, invitations to the right parties, and trips abroad to the cultural capitals. And when he turned eighteen, a spot awaited him in the 1987 freshman cla.s.s at Princeton, thanks to Ian's alumni donations.

Ian often thought that Clarisse and Lilith were trying to climb up the social ranks on Robert's back, much as his own parents had tried to do with him. But he knew it couldn't really be avoided; Robert had to be a.s.sured the best. And Clarisse, whose own insufferable family made up in pre-Revolutionary lineage what it lacked in cash, told him that it took more than years to convert new money to old.

Money...it was going to take a lot of money to give Robert what he deserved. And now, Clarisse was pregnant again. She had informed Ian she wanted at least five children. It was the only thing she and Lilith seemed to agree on -- the need for Ian to produce a large family. A long line of Bryants to stretch into the future. A long, never-ending line of responsibilities and expenses.

"Ian, you aren't ill, are you?" Lilith asked.

He glanced at her. "No, Mother. I'm just tired."

His mind began to drift, and he saw himself standing atop the cliff in Hana overlooking the beach, breathing in the ripe humid air.

"You know, I think Clarisse is right," Lilith said. "We really must have a new house. And I know the perfect place. The Critchon house on Broadway is coming on the market soon. The asking price is ten million. Can you imagine? And it needs so much work." She paused. "I'm sure we could get it for eight. Did you hear me, Ian?"

"We can't afford it."

She sighed. "But we can't stay in this place. It's too small. When the baby comes, we'll have to get a nanny. Robert's governess has no experience with infants."

Ian closed his eyes.

"You know I'd give you some of my money, Ian," Lilith said softly. "But it's tied up. If I liquidated now I'd lose everything."

Ian looked at Lilith. He had no idea how much money she had of her own. Adam's payments to buy out her share of the Times had ended years ago. She refused to disclose anything to Ian, telling him she had a banker who managed her investments. Ian guessed that she had simply squandered most of her money. Perhaps it was more than loneliness that had driven her into his house.

"I know we need a bigger house, Mother," he said wearily. "But we haven't got the cash right now."

"We could have it in a moment, you know," she said.

He closed his eyes. "How?" he asked, more to humor her than anything.

"Sell the company," she said.

He looked at her.

"The newspapers, the station in Oakland, the printing facilities, the mill," she said. "Sell it all."

He shook his head slowly. "Don't you think I've thought of that? The company is financially unstable right now and no buyer's going to pay enough to make it worth our while."

"Garrett Richardson would buy it," she said.

Ian laughed. "Over Kellen's dead body."

"Well, the pie has three slices now. She's only got one. One slice, one vote."

"So what? What makes you think Tyler would side with me against her?"

Lilith shrugged. "He might. G.o.d knows we've invested enough time with him in the last couple of years. I think he could be convinced that his big brother knows what's best. And from what I can tell, he could care less about the newspapers themselves. He'd just as soon be rid of them."

"I don't know, Mother," he said slowly. "I agree we should sell, but I hate giving up something that..." He paused. "Something we could hand on to Robert someday."

Lilith sighed in exasperation. "But we don't have to really give it up. Perhaps Richardson can be persuaded to keep a Bryant as publisher in name. Of course, that duty would fall to you and eventually to Robert. We would have the money and the family connection could go on." She smiled. "And you could stop worrying about it and get some sleep."

He stared at Lilith. "You've thought this all through, haven't you."

"Yes. I'm convinced it's the best way. We might sacrifice complete ownership but look what we'd gain. It would force Kellen out of the picture permanently. Her husband and children would have no part in it. It would be only you and Robert."

Ian stared at the gla.s.s in his hands. He raised it slowly and drained the last of the scotch. He looked at Lilith. "I'll call Richardson as soon as I get into the office."

Lilith smiled. "Good. Now, why don't you get some sleep? You do look so tired, dear."

Ian rose, setting the empty gla.s.s on a table. He paused then bent over to kiss Lilith's cool cheek. "Good night. Mother," he said.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO.

The cab made its way down Fifth Avenue from Central Park, its progress slowed by afternoon traffic and a raging thunderstorm. Ian stared out the window at all the people hidden under umbrellas, scuttling along the sidewalk like shiny black beetles.

Around 40th Street, the marble facades of the fashionable stores gave way to the seedy storefronts of the garment district. Then abruptly, fortunes changed again and the sedate gray apartment buildings of Washington Square appeared, their awnings reaching out to the curbside like arms ready to enfold the privileged.

The cab jogged around the Square, down McDougal Street and into the rabbit warren of the Village. Ian glanced uneasily at the boutiques and ethnic restaurants. He had been to New York often enough, but he seldom strayed below Central Park. The abrupt juxtaposition of the city's poor and rich neighborhoods made him uncomfortable, as if he were crossing foreign borders without knowing where he was going.

When the cab turned east, toward more dingy buildings, Ian tapped the plastic divider to get the driver's attention.

"Say, if I want a tour, I'll take the Gray Line," he said, with what he hoped sounded like the authority of a native.

"You said South Street, buddy. This is the shortest way this time of day. Or maybe you wanna walk."

Ian leaned back in the seat. He hated New York. He hated everything about it, the gray weather, the gray people, the gray buildings, the feelings of claustrophobia he got every time he had to come here. Though his apartment was up on the East Side, out of harm's way, he regretted having allowed Clarisse to talk him into buying it. She said she enjoyed coming to the city for cultural events but she never used the apartment as anything more than a closet for her shopping excursions.

Finally, the cab came to a stop. "This is it," the driver said. "Seven fifty."

Ian paid him and the cab sped off in the rain. Ian looked up at the ugly squat building and then down at the only entrance, a steel door with a buzzer. There was no sign, nothing to identify the place as a newspaper office. A man in ink-stained overalls came out and Ian grabbed the door.

He was in a grimy vestibule and the glare of the fluorescent lights off the glossy yellow walls was blinding. He went to a window and a woman directed him to an elevator.

Ian rode the elevator to the third floor. It opened onto a newsroom, or at least some h.e.l.lish parallel-universe version of one. The small room was crammed with mismatched beat-up desks, chairs and file cabinets, and it smelled of dust, oil and body odor.

Ian stood there, the smells triggering a flashback memory of the first time his father had taken him to see the Times newsroom. He felt the same revulsion and fascination now that he had then.

He approached the nearest man. "Could you direct me to Mr. Richardson's office, please?" Without looking up, the man pointed to the corner.

A secretary ushered Ian into Garrett's office. Ian had expected to see an office that proclaimed executive status, a counterpoint to the dinginess outside. But Richardson's office was small, unadorned, and outfitted with functional furniture. It was, however, thankfully, clean.

Richardson came out from behind his desk, hand extended. "You made it," he said. "The traffic's bad this time of day."

Ian shook his hand, taking stock of Richardson's appearance -- a plain white shirt, its sleeves rolled, and no tie -- and allowed himself a feeling of superiority about his own custom-tailored gray suit and Burberry trench coat.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Ian said. He took off his coat and sat down in the chair Garrett offered.

"It's just as well," Garrett said. "A big story broke and I was tied up in the newsroom."

"Oh? What happened?" Ian could care less about the news, but Richardson obviously wanted to tell his story.

"A group of j.a.panese tourists was walking across the Brooklyn Bridge this morning. One fellow stopped to take photos of his friends and a cable snapped and killed him. A freak accident, poor bloke."

He held out a tabloid. It was that day's Tattler. The photograph showed a sheeted body, dwarfed by one of the limestone towers. The huge headline said SNAP ZAPS j.a.p.

"That's quite a headline," Ian said.

"Too much so, I fear," Garrett said. "I had them change it to KILLER BRIDGE. I encourage creativity among my people but sometimes they get a little overzealous."

Ian nodded as if in understanding. Garrett leaned back in his chair. "So, Mr. Bryant," he said. "You said you wanted to talk to me and you've come a long way to do it. What can I help you with?"

"I'm here to find a buyer for my newspapers," Ian said.

"And you think I might be interested?"

"You were once."