“That’s a resume, not a life,” Kellen said.
“So you want details.” He leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “I play the piano. I’m quite good. I wanted once to be a jazz pianist. I live alone in a town house in Redcliff Gardens, and my one regret in life is that when I was a boy I never had a dog. I like historical biographies, American football, Haute Brion wine, and older women who can make me laugh.”
“But I’m a younger woman,” Kellen said.
“I try to keep myself open to new experiences.”
Kellen shook her head. “Why do I feel like I know you so well without really knowing anything about you?”
“I tend to hold people at arm’s length.”
“You haven’t mentioned anything about being married,” she said. “For all I know, you could have a wife or two stuck away somewhere.”
He toyed with the stem of his glass. “I was married,” he said, without looking at her. “When I was twenty. She was a presenter for the BBC, an anchorwoman, you’d call it.” His face was curiously neutral. “We were married for two years. We had twins...boys.”
Kellen’s imagination conjured up a portrait of a pretty young woman on a television screen and two miniature dark-haired replicas of Garrett. She felt a pang of envy.
“She was killed in a car accident in Wales,” Garrett said. “We were going on a holiday. I was delayed in London, so she went on ahead with the boys. They were killed, too. Hit by a drunken lorry driver.” He paused. “They told me they were killed instantly, that no one suffered. I’ve never been able to figure out how in the world anyone ever knows that.”
Kellen sat in silent shock. “Garrett, I’m so sorry,” she said finally.
A small, distant smile came to his face, and he reached out and took her hand. “A long time ago,” he said.
A log fell into the fireplace, echoing in the quiet room and making Kellen jump, but she kept her eyes on Garrett’s face.
“Well, I’ve certainly thrown a blanket over things,” he said, his smile growing warmer. “Tell me something about yourself.”
“You know all there is to know. I’m an open book.”
“That I’ll read, and reread and read again and never understand. Tell me a dirty little secret about your past.”
She sensed his need for lightness. “Well,” she began, “once, in Paris, I agreed to a blind date with this British fellow, a member of Parliament no less. The man turned out to be a grade-A stuffed shirt.” She playfully intertwined her fingers in Garrett’s. “You know how Brits can be.”
“Indeed.”
“When he came to pick me up, his first words to me were that I could expect no commitment from him. He was absolutely devoted to the wife, of course.”
“Of course.”
“But then he asked me to change into something sexier so he could parade me in front of his friends. So I changed, put on my leather coat, and off we went. When we got to the Lipp and he offered to take my coat, I told him I had nothing on underneath it. All night, he sat there staring at me, his face beet red, sweat dripping down his face. His friends thought he was having a heart attack.”
Garrett laughed. “The French have a nasty word for your kind of woman...une allumeuse.”
Kellen smiled. “Now it’s your turn. Tell me something no one else knows about you.”
“Let’s go in to the fire first.” They moved to the sofa near the fire.
“True confessions,” she prodded.
He hesitated. “I’m adopted,” he said. “That’s the secret no one is supposed to know, not even me.”
When he saw her puzzled expression, he decided to go on. “My parents never told me,” he said. “I found out the truth by accident when I was fifteen. I found some papers in my father’s desk.”
“And you never asked them about it?”
“I wanted to. But as I grew older, I realized they had some peculiar need to pretend it was otherwise. My mother was very concerned with appearances. I suppose she wanted to project the image of a perfect family and I was needed to complete the picture. Even as young as I was, I somehow understood how important it was to her.” He paused. “So I acted out my part, as they did theirs. It was, for all appearances, a perfect family.”
He smiled suddenly. “What would your born-and-raised think if they knew the descendant of their precious seaman, William Richardson, was actually of unknown lineage?”
“I don’t care what any of them think,” Kellen said. She settled back into the crook of his arm.
The fire was burning low and the house was growing cold. Garrett looked over at the sofa where Kellen lay. She hadn’t wanted to admit how tired she was but finally she had just drifted off. He had covered her with a blanket, poured himself a brandy and sat down in a chair across from her.
As he watched her sleep, he wondered why in the world he had told her about his adoption.
He had never revealed it to anyone. Neither had he planned to tell her about Susan and the twins. He had not intended to give her more than the usual flippant answers he gave women when they began to probe. But something had made him want to tell her about himself and it had all simply come out.
The urge, he was sure, had risen only from the alchemy of the moment, the tangy night air, the wine, the lingering sexual aura, the lulling sense of comfort.
Giving away his secret, letting a woman venture close. He had not done that since Susan’s death. It had been impetuous and for a moment liberating. But now he felt unprotected and the urge to withdraw was strong. He could see himself falling in love with Kellen. And couldn’t afford to get too close to any woman right now.
Not now, he thought. There’s too much to do.
The room was growing cold. He got up, put two logs on the fire and prodded the blaze back to life. He felt chilled so he pulled his robe tighter, and sat down on the floor in front of hearth.
His thoughts drifted to his most recent conversation with his father. Even over the telephone, Garrett had heard the impatience in his father’s voice. How are things going in Toronto? What are you doing in San Francisco? And, I think you should come home for a while so we can discuss this plan of yours. He was yanking his leash, and Garrett knew he’d have to go home to defend his plan anew.
His father was sixty-four and stubbornly refused to relinquish any real power to Garrett. And he obviously still did not trust him when it came to business.
Garrett thought back to two years ago, when he had first proposed to his father that they buy the Toronto newspaper. His father dismissed the idea, but Garrett had argued that a Canadian paper would establish a North American foothold from which the Richardson Newspapers could expand. His father reluctantly allowed Garrett to proceed.
Garrett had moved ahead quickly and confidently. Before even approaching his father, he had studied the Canadian market and readership habits. Then, he had researched the ailing Toronto paper and determined it would be the prime place to start. It was Arthur Richardson’s money that had made the Toronto purchase possible, but it was Garrett’s ideas and ambition that had put it into action.
It was as if he had spent his life preparing for such an opportunity. He had made it a point to observe the people on the street and learn what they liked to read about. He watched them on buses and listened to them in pubs. He knew what titillated and moved them. Garrett loved the newspapers, all the more so because he believed that Arthur Richardson had ceased to truly care about them except for what profit they could bring.
Over the years, his father had developed a strangely schizophrenic attitude toward his newspapers. On one hand, he ruled over them like a dictator. But influenced by his wife, he was also increasingly embarrassed that his fortune had come from such a tawdry source.
But Garrett loved the tabloids precisely because of their negative status. To him, within the tabloids pulsed the passions and lifeblood of regular, everyday people.
A college friend, a psychologist, had once told Garrett hi
s love of the tabloids was a symbolic rebellion against his father’s gentry airs. Garrett guessed the reason probably had more to do with his deep-seated curiosity about his true parentage.
Plucked out of an orphanage at age two by Arthur and Helen Richardson, he had no idea who his real parents were and never would. Helen was as colorless as crystal, and it had always been easy for Garrett to fill in the void by conjuring up dreams of his real mother.
She was, he was sure, just a shop girl —- young, beautiful, passionate, and desperate enough to give up her infant boy so he might have a better life.
But somehow, he had never been able to imagine his real father. Unlike Helen, Arthur was too real, too big, and he overshadowed everything, even daydreams.
Which was why the North American expansion plan had to work. Garrett knew that the only way he could get out from under his father’s shadow was to find his own sunlight.
That’s what North America was. A big bright light.
He picked up the poker 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 sounds 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, his 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.”
Before 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 lea
ned 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.”
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