LAVISH PRAISE FOR KRISTY DANIELS’
ADAM’S DAUGHTER
“For making the real world go away, it is bliss to turn to masters like Kristy Daniels.” -- Detroit News
“Keeps the art of the family saga alive. An engrossing rags-to-riches story. A superb read.” -- Kathryn Falk in Rave Reviews
“A glitzy, swiftly moving tale about a San Francisco newspaper dynasty gone awry.” -- Atlanta Journal & Constitution
“An engrossing tale with many gleaming facets. Among its well-drawn themes, Adam’s Daughter tackles the difference between passion and apathy in life and love.” -- Orlando Sentinel
“Power struggle stuff, spiced by high society notes and mad affairs.” -- New York Daily News
“A stirring yarn with emotion-filled subplots. The love affairs are tempestuous, the psychic warfare downright mean. Whether you are a soap opera fan, a news junkie, or both, you will find plenty to enjoy in this novel.” -- Columbia Missourian
“A strong, entertaining and well-told tale, with lots of heart.” -- South Florida Sun-Sentinel
“Well crafted, enjoyable. The action is fast-paced throughout.” -- Roanoke Times & World News
“An absorbing tale.” -- Publishers Weekly
“Keeps the reader enthralled.” -- Birmingham News
ADAM’S DAUGHTER
Kristy Daniels
Copyright © 2013 by Kristy Daniels
Grateful acknowledgment is made to New Directions Publishing Corporation for permission to reprint an excerpt from “Marriage” from THE HAPPY BIRTHDAY OF DEATH by Gregory Corso. Copyright © 1960 by New Directions Publishing Corporation. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.
To Kelly Elizabeth
“That which thy fathers have bequeathed to thee, earn it anew if thou wouldst possess it.”
-- Goethe, Faust
PROLOGUE
A spear of lightning cut across the black sky, and the jet began to shudder. The young woman opened her eyes in time to see her half-finished glass of wine skate across the tray. She grabbed it but a few drops splashed on the newspaper on her lap.
There was a sharp clap of thunder, and she leaned back in the seat, clutching the wineglass with one hand and the armrest with the other. A touch on her hand made her jump. She looked up into the face of a young flight attendant.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
She nodded but said nothing.
“Well, we’re almost home,” the attendant said, taking the glass.
She leaned back in her seat, listening to the strain of the jet’s engines. Gradually, the thunder and lightning lessened, leaving just rain beating against the window. She thought back several hours ago to when she had landed at Kennedy. The flight from Paris had been smooth, but the reservations clerk in New York had warned her about the bad Pacific storm and suggested she might stay in New York a night until the weather cleared. But something —- some feeling or instinct —- had told her she had to get on the plane to the coast. If she waited one more day, it might be too late.
A voice announced the plane was on its final descent to San Francisco, and from somewhere back in coach came the cry of a baby. Almost home...almost home.
She looked down at the newspaper in her lap. It was an old copy of the International Herald-Tribune. On the front page was a photograph of the first lady in a ball gown descending a staircase with the French prime minister. She started to put the paper away but stopped and opened it to the women’s page. There it was -- the interview with the first lady, with her byline -- Kellen Bryant.
She folded the paper and put it back in her bag. At the last minute in Paris, she had decided to bring it with her to show her father. He would be impressed that she had met the president. The house in which she had grown up had once been a gathering place for the powerful and famous. Her father would be impressed, too, she hoped, with the fact that she had written the story.
The plane landed hard in the driving rain. By the time she exited the terminal the rain had slowed, but the late afternoon sky was dark. She saw a black limousine parked nearby, and a man in uniform came toward her.
“Miss Bryant, this way please.” The driver put her bags in the trunk and held the door for her. Something caught her eye, standing out bright yellow in the rain. It was a news rack, with the familiar letters painted on the front: THE TIMES IS ON YOUR SIDE! She put some coins in the box, pulled out a newspaper, and got into the limo.
The car snaked through the traffic and onto the freeway. She opened the newspaper, and as she slowly turned the pages, she smiled slightly, a little sadly, feeling as if she were being greeted by an old friend who had remained untouched by the years. The San Francisco Times had not changed. It looked the same as it had the day she left five years ago.
She opened to the editorial page. Her smile faded. No, not exactly the same.
She stared at the masthead, the box in the upper left column of the page that named the newspaper’s executives. Her father’s name, Adam Bryant, was on top, followed by the title Publisher Emeritus. And just below that the name Ian Bryant, her half-brother, now with the title Publisher. It looked strange to see it that way.
She knew she had no right to feel jealous of Ian. After all, she was the one who had run off to Paris five years ago. But the feeling persisted, even after all this time. She looked out the window. The congested streets of the Mission district were now giving way to the familiar sights of her childhood as the limo made its way north toward Pacific Heights.
Ian dominated her thoughts. He was a hurtful part of her past, a past that she had tried to leave behind but which was now coming alive with every streetlight, every hedge, and every house she saw.
The limo stopped and Kellen got out. She stood for a moment, looking up at the white mansion on Divisadero Street. She was home.
At the front door, Kellen was met by a maid she did not recognize. The woman took her coat and disappeared, leaving Kellen standing alone in the foyer. The house was quiet, so quiet that Kellen could hear the ticking of the old clock on the mantel in the study off to her left.
Kellen looked toward the living room and beyond to the dining room. She half expected to smell minted roast lamb and hear the sigh of champagne being uncorked. She half expected to hear voices, all talking at once, or music, perhaps the Puccini her father so loved. But now there was nothing but quiet and a scent of must in the cool still air.
She went to the staircase and looked up. Voices, soft and low, coming from upstairs. That was where he had to be. That was where her father was, in his bedroom, dying.
Upstairs, she paused at the open door of her father’s bedroom. The room was dim and filled with a sickly sweet smell that made her recoil. Flowers and disinfectant. It was a moment before she saw the figure lying in the bed far across the room. In the corner of her vision, she saw shadows of others.
“Kellen...”
Someone took her hand. Warm fingers.
She forced her eyes from the bed and looked up into a familiar face.
“Josh.”
He embraced her, holding her tight. Finally, she pulled away. She had known Josh Hillman all her life. He was her father’s lawyer and his only trusted friend, like a member of the family. But she had never seen him as he looked now. His face was old, eroded by sadness.
“How is he?” she asked, looking to the bed.
“The doctor said —-” Josh coughed slightly. “He said that with this kind of cancer, at this stage, it’s relentless. He said he should have been dead by now but —-” Josh saw Kellen’s face and stopped. “I’m sorry, Kellen. It’s just that, and now you —-”
“Josh, it’s all right.” She moved past him, toward the bed. Gradually the faces of the ot
her shadowy figures in the room came into focus. Josh’s son Stephen, standing near the window. Her younger brother Tyler slumped in a chair. Her father’s first wife Lilith sitting erect on a lounge in the corner. And standing behind Lilith, Ian.
Another figure in white hovered near the bed, a doctor, who moved aside as Kellen approached. Kellen stared down at the figure in the bed. Skin like faded parchment stretched over the bones of the face, sunken eyes, mercifully closed, mouth open, pulling in air in short gasps. And strands of lank gray hair spread on the pillow.
Kellen picked up her father’s hand. Next to her own, so pink with health, it looked pale and childish.
“What happened to his hair?” she whispered. “It was full and beautiful. What happened to his hair?”
Josh came over and put his arms around her shoulders.
Her father’s fingers moved suddenly, curling themselves around hers. “Kellen...”
She quickly dropped to her knees beside the bed, straining to hear. “Daddy? Daddy? I’m here, Daddy.”
He opened his eyes. “Kellen,” he whispered. “I knew you’d come home.”
Kellen felt his grip loosen. For a moment, she thought he was dead. Then she saw the hollow rise and fall of his chest beneath the sheet. Josh pulled gently on her shoulders.
“It’s the painkillers. He drifts in and out. Come with me, Kellen. Let him sleep.”
Slowly, she let go of her father’s hand and Josh led her away from the bed. She looked up to see Stephen Hillman standing nearby. Time continued to play its tricks. While Josh Hillman had aged terribly, his son still looked the same. He came forward to greet her with a soft kiss on the cheek.
“Stephen, why don’t you take Kellen to her room,” Josh said. When she started to protest, he added, “I’ll call you if there’s any change.”
Kellen glanced at the bed. “How long does he have, Josh?”
“Hours, a day maybe. When it started to get really bad last week he said he wanted no artificial means. No tubes, no water, no food. Just the morphine.” Josh glanced toward the bed. “I don’t know what’s keeping him alive.”
Kellen looked back at Josh. “He’s stubborn, Josh. You know that. He’ll do it his way.”
Josh nodded and went over to talk to the doctor. Stephen led Kellen out of the bedroom and down the hall. Outside the door to her room, they paused. Kellen leaned against the open door, staring into the room. It was exactly the same as she had left it.
“I feel like I never left,” she whispered.
“You’ve been gone a long time. Too long,” Stephen said. “I’m glad you’re home, Kellen.”
She realized now that his face had changed a little, becoming leaner, more handsome than she remembered it. The unruly brown hair and serious hazel eyes, however, still belonged to the boy who had once fashioned a bowling alley for her in the hallway with silver candle holders. The memory made her smile slightly.
“I missed you, Stephen,” she said. She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder.
The gesture surprised him so much it was a moment before he returned her embrace. They pulled apart awkwardly.
“I’ll come and get you for dinner,” Stephen said. He turned and disappeared down the hall.
She closed the door, went to the bed and lay down, staring at the ceiling. It was blue, dotted with little painted clouds. Her father had it done for her tenth birthday. “Always blue skies for my Lil’bit,” he had said.
Strange that she should remember her old nickname now. She hadn’t heard it since she was ten. It was a mispronunciation of her middle name, Elizabeth, which she had never been able to say when she was little. Her father had called her that for all her childhood.
Lil’bit...Lil’bit.
She curled her legs to her chest and cried.
Kellen woke after nine, washed her face and changed clothes. Downstairs, she heard the murmur of voices coming from behind the closed doors of the dining room and went toward them.
The door opened suddenly and Ian stood there. He smiled slightly, shutting the door behind him.
“We missed you at dinner,” he said. “It was good, fresh trout. I had them make it just for you.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted you to feel welcome,” he said. “A shame you missed it. Stephen said you were asleep.”
When Ian put his arms around her she stiffened. “It’s so good to have you home again,” he whispered. “I’m sorry our reunion couldn’t happen under happier circumstances.”
“You should have gotten in touch with me sooner,” Kellen said, pulling away. “I would have come if I had known.”
“I didn’t think you wanted anything to do with any of us. Besides, at first Father didn’t want anyone to know he had cancer.”
“You should have told me.”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Don’t lie to me, Ian. If Josh hadn’t finally called, I never would have known.”
“Well, if you care so much why’d you leave in the first place?” Ian said. “That really hurt him.” He paused, offering a small smile. “Listen to us, Kellen,” he said. “He’s lying up there dying and here we are fighting again.”
Like the house, Ian had remained eerily unchanged. At thirty-five, he still carried his tall, slender body with insolent grace. His face was still handsome almost to the point of beauty. And his brown eyes, so dark they seemed black, could still switch from soft to hard with any mood swing.
“Ian, it’s been a long time,” she said. “Don’t expect too much from me.”
“I understand.” He kissed her cheek again. “Good night, little sister.” He turned and went up the staircase.
She stood for a moment listening to the voices in the dining room but did not really want to face anyone. She glanced toward the study and went to the door. The study had a humility that the rest of the eccentrically grand rooms lacked. It was the only room in the house that Adam Bryant had decorated himself. It was his retreat.
The room was dark and stale smelling. She turned on the light. It looked the same. The overstuffed furniture in slightly mismatched shades of blue. The old oak desk, a homely monster standing amid the antiques. The photographs covering every inch of wall and tabletop. It was all there, exactly as it had stayed in her memory.
She went to the nearest shelf and slowly scanned the titles. There was no logic to the shelves’ contents. The collection was simply a testament to one man's voracious appetite for belated self-education. Guy de Maupassant. Thurber. Voltaire. Biographies of Lincoln and Einstein. A copy of The San Francisco Giants by Joe King, a local sportswriter. A scientific tome about the demise of the dinosaur. And next to a first edition of Leaves of Grass were several tattered paperbacks, mostly Old West novels.
She walked slowly around the room, examining the plaques and awards, given by the countless charities that had come to depend on Adam Bryant’s largess. Then there were the framed photographs, all variations on the same theme: her father, smiling with some celebrity. Governor Culbert Olsen in 1939, Madame Chiang Kai-shek during her visit to Chinatown. Harry Truman. Soprano Renata Tebaldi backstage after her debut at the San Francisco Opera House. A young Joe DiMaggio, when he was with the minor-league San Francisco Seals.
The tour brought her full circle back to the desk. On it were other photographs. A formal prep school portrait of Ian. Tyler, when he was a gap-toothed seven-year-old. And Kellen at fourteen in riding clothes, caught in a pensive moment.
Kellen sat down in the leather chair behind the desk and withdrew a cigar from the humidor. H. Upmann’s No. 4, always in plentiful surreptitious supply from Havana. She brought the cigar up to her nose and inhaled, closing her eyes. The cigar, now stale, crumpled between her fingers.
“Kellen?”
Josh was standing at the door. “I saw the light on,” he said. "I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“It’s all right. Come in. Josh.” She tossed the cigar i
n a waste basket.
Josh took a chair across from her. He looked slowly around the room. “Funny,” he said. “I haven’t been in this room for months. No one has, I think.”
“Something’s missing. Didn’t you notice?”
Josh looked around again, frowning slightly.
“Newspapers,” Kellen said. “Not one newspaper in this entire room. There used to be stacks and stacks of them. Papers from all over the world. And every day, every edition of the Times."
“The maid must have cleared them all out,” Josh said.
“All these things in here from his life. No one touched a thing. But the most important thing is missing. The thing he poured his life into is gone.”
Josh cleared his throat. “Kellen, about the newspapers,” he began. “Maybe this isn’t the time to talk about it, but...”
She looked at him vacantly.
“Well, I think someone should know,” Josh said, sitting forward in the chair. “I can’t seem to get through to Ian, and Tyler’s too young.” Josh closed his eyes wearily.
“Josh, what is it?”
“I feel like I have no right to impose on you at a time like this. But you should know what’s happening.” He drew in a slow breath. “There are some problems with the paper, Kellen.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Ian has made some bad moves while your father’s been sick.”
“What do you mean? Josh? Is it losing money?”
“Not exactly. But I’m afraid about the direction Ian is leading things. He doesn’t care about it the way your father did. He hasn’t the heart to run it the way Adam did.”
“Why are you telling me, Josh?”
“I thought someone...” He sighed. “I don’t know, Kellen. I just think if Adam were able, he would ask you to step in and help somehow.” He stopped when he saw the sudden glacial expression on her face.
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